by Mark Stay
* * *
It was past midnight when the three of them gathered at Charlotte’s cobwood cottage. Faye arrived red-cheeked and breathless from cycling, then trudged through the undergrowth down the narrow woodland path. She had her satchel strapped over her shoulder, her mother’s book safely tucked inside.
As Bertie promised, Mrs Teach was already at the cottage, teacup and saucer held daintily.
Charlotte offered Faye a cup of elderflower gin and a chair by the stone fireplace. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames. Faye took the gin and gulped it down. She was so knackered she reckoned if she took a seat she might never get up again, so she stayed standing, arms folded.
‘You’re both looking very chummy,’ she started. ‘I thought you two couldn’t bear the sight of each other?’
‘Needs must when the Devil drives,’ Charlotte said, stirring the pot.
‘The Devil?’ Mrs Teach chortled. ‘Oh, hardly. One of his minions, at the very best.’
‘Right.’ Faye’s pointing finger swept across the room from one woman to the other. The gin had put a fire in her belly. ‘You two had better start giving me some blimmin’ answers right now. Who are these scarecrows? Why are they named after dead people in Saint Irene’s graveyard? Why have they taken my dad? And why did they specifically ask for you?’ This last was aimed at Mrs Teach, who choked on her tea. She placed the cup and saucer down with a clatter as she cleared her throat, waving Faye away.
Faye turned on Charlotte. ‘And why didn’t you help with the fire?’
‘I told you not to go,’ Charlotte said, stuffing her pipe with tobacco. Faye tensed, wondering what strange smoke would come from it. ‘It was clearly a trap.’ Charlotte struck a match and puffed on the pipe. The tobacco was a regular blend from the smell of it, and Faye allowed herself to relax a little.
‘Why? Why was it clearly a trap? What are you seeing that I ain’t?’ Faye snapped. ‘And will you just stop it with the mysterious witchy woman act. Speak plainly and truthfully, or I swear I shall empty that pot of stew over your blimmin’ head.’
‘Young lady,’ Charlotte said between puffs as she lit her pipe, ‘have you ever considered not flying off the handle at the slightest provocation?’
Mrs Teach brushed her skirt. ‘Now, now, Miss Charlotte, she’s still a tyke. Let her have her little tantrum.’
Faye ground her teeth and balled her fists. ‘Perhaps, ladies,’ she chose her words carefully, ‘the two of you should stop being so snooty and treat me like a grown-up?’
‘We will when you act like one.’ Mrs Teach’s smile fell short of her eyes as she poured herself another cup of tea.
Faye took a step forward, but a smoke ring got in her face and Charlotte followed in its path.
‘We will solve nothing if we continue like this,’ Charlotte said. ‘To answer your question and to speak plainly and truthfully, when the alarm was raised for the barn fire, I saw no value in walking into a confrontation of the crow folk’s devising. Instead, I sought counsel with Mrs Teach. We have agreed to put aside our differences for the moment and solve our little problem. And yes, Faye, I am a witch. I have never pretended otherwise.’
‘And I’ve been practising the craft since I was a child,’ Mrs Teach said, adding a splash of milk and two lumps of sugar before stirring them into her tea. ‘My nana said I had the gift and showed me a few things, though I rarely dabble these days.’
‘What did I say about lying?’
‘I’m telling the truth, Faye, though I must confess this past week has been rather extraordinary. And finally, young lady, we come to you.’
Both heads turned to Faye.
‘What? I ain’t no witch,’ Faye protested.
‘You brought the book?’ Charlotte asked, reaching out.
Faye glanced down at the satchel hanging at her waist. ‘It was my mum’s.’
‘We thought it was lost,’ Charlotte said.
‘She told us she was going to burn it,’ Mrs Teach added.
‘Who did?’
‘Your mother.’
‘You knew my mother?’ Faye tried to imagine the three of them together and a little of the old anger flared. Then she wondered how Mum had put up with the pair of them. ‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not nearly well enough, it seems,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘She promised us she would get rid of the book, a promise she clearly broke.’
‘But we’ll use it, right?’ Faye looked from witch to witch. ‘We’ll open it up, find a spell to send these crow folk on their way and get my dad back, yes?’
Charlotte and Mrs Teach shared shifty glances.
‘Then what are you planning to do with it?’ Faye asked, her eyes darting from the satchel to the fireplace. Charlotte and Mrs Teach said nothing in such a way that it confirmed Faye’s worst fears. She clutched the satchel tighter. ‘You are not flippin’ well burning it.’
‘Faye, petal, calm down,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘You have to understand who we’re dealing with here and why we must defeat him.’
‘Him?’ Faye asked. ‘That pumpkin-headed one? Is he… is he the Devil?’
‘Hardly.’ Charlotte hefted a leather-bound book from a shelf onto a trunk in the middle of the room. ‘He takes the form of a scarecrow to fool farmers.’ Kneeling, she flicked through a number of pages with old woodcut illustrations of demons, gods and monsters until she came to one of Pumpkinhead and the falling birds. She spun the book for Faye to see. ‘A trickster, from a lower order of demons. Ambitious, cunning, very dangerous, and his like has not been seen in this realm for at least three hundred years.’
‘A demon?’ Faye asked with a squint.
‘One who takes the souls of the dead and resurrects them in effigies of straw. He bends them to his will and draws his power from their devotion.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘You were ready to believe in the Devil a moment ago.’
‘That’s different.’ Faye thought back to her candle magic and trying to locate Craddock. ‘There ain’t no such thing as magic.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I tried it and it didn’t work.’
There followed a harmonic groan of comprehension from Charlotte and Mrs Teach.
‘What?’ Faye asked.
‘So it was you,’ Mrs Teach said, pursing her lips in disapproval.
‘What was me?’
‘Someone has been dabbling in magic,’ Charlotte said.
‘Someone who hadn’t the first clue what they were dabbling in,’ added Mrs Teach.
‘The power of magic is like a candle in the dark,’ Charlotte said. ‘As well as showing the way, it can also draw moths to the flame.’
‘And this demon is one big bugger of a moth,’ Mrs Teach added.
‘That weren’t me,’ Faye said. ‘I didn’t summon no demon. He turned up before I—’
‘Before you what?’ Mrs Teach asked.
‘Before I dabbled. You can’t blame him on me,’ Faye said, splaying fingers across her chest. ‘Someone else must be doing magic and I’m wondering which one of you it is.’
‘Neither of us are fools who summon demons.’ Charlotte arched an eyebrow. ‘Tell us everything, and we shall tell you where you went wrong.’
‘I tried to talk to you the other day, y’know,’ Faye said, all defensive. ‘I came here and told you I found a book, but you were all asleep in the nuddy with a frog on your belly and your goat scared me off.’
‘It was a toad, and he’s not my goat.’
‘You miss your mother, don’t you, petal?’ Mrs Teach pouted in sympathy. ‘Were you trying to make contact?’
‘No, I was trying to find Craddock, if you must know. Candle magic, and I didn’t summon any demons.’
‘Not intentionally, perhaps,’ Charlotte said.
‘Yes, it’s easy to make a mistake when you’re dabbling, poppet,’ Mrs Teach said, then held out her hand. ‘May I see the book?’
‘Not until
I get some answers,’ Faye said. ‘Pumpkinhead mentioned you by name at the barn fire, Mrs Teach. He gave you a nod when he first came to the village. What was all that about, eh?’
Charlotte turned to Mrs Teach and tilted her head. ‘Oh, really?’
Mrs Teach shifted in her armchair, finding herself outflanked by Charlotte and Faye. ‘How should I know what he’s on about?’ she said.
‘Maybe we should ask your Ernie?’ Faye said, hands on hips. ‘After all, he’s the one who had a scarecrow on his allotment that looked just like old Pumpkinhead, and your Ernie is the one who mysteriously came back from the dead.’
‘That was not my Ernie.’
‘Then what was he?’
‘I have no idea.’ Mrs Teach produced a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed the theatrical tears glistening in her eyes, her voice trembling. ‘It was your magic, young lady. A demon would not risk crossing over unless he got a whiff of something special, and that would be your mother’s book. As soon as you started reciting its magic, you drew his attention and he took the form of a scarecrow and now he’s created his own army and the only thing keeping him out is us.’
‘If he gets the book and uses its rituals, then there would be no stopping him,’ Charlotte agreed.
‘That’s why we’re forbidden from writing any of this down,’ Mrs Teach said.
‘You’ve got a book.’ Faye jabbed an accusing finger at Charlotte’s leather-bound volume on the trunk.
‘Prints and woodcuts, darling,’ Charlotte said. ‘Reference only. No spells, no rituals, no secrets. It’s all up here.’ She tapped the side of her head with the bit of her pipe.
‘We swore an oath to prevent our knowledge from getting into the wrong hands,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘Never mind the Nazis, just you wait till a demon starts sharing our secrets with the whole underworld. There’ll be no stopping the scaly-backed buggers.’
‘Could you imagine if Vera got wind of this?’ Charlotte muttered as an aside.
‘Gods forbid.’ Mrs Teach rested a hand on her chest.
‘Who’s Vera?’
‘Never you mind,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘Give us the book.’
‘Why would my mother do it?’ Faye asked. ‘If she knew it was forbidden, then why would she put it all in a book?’
‘Because she was like you.’ Mrs Teach clasped her hands between her belly and her bosom. ‘Never did as she was bloody told, was too curious by half and she never knew when to be quiet.’
‘She was, however, an excellent witch,’ Charlotte added.
‘A powerful practitioner,’ Mrs Teach agreed. ‘With great foresight. I half wonder if she knew she wouldn’t live long enough to train you and that’s why she put all of her knowledge into a book.’
Faye looked from Charlotte to Mrs Teach and allowed herself to flop down in an armchair. She thought about the mother she barely knew. The woman who had known and practised magic with these two. An excellent witch. A powerful witch. Faye had so many questions. She wished she could have just five minutes with Mum to…
Faye’s thoughts trailed off. She realised it was the first time she had thought of her mother without that familiar flash of anger. There was something else instead. Something that might be described as a tiny flurry of happiness.
‘You’re witches?’ she asked and they nodded. ‘And my mum was a witch?’ More nods. ‘And I’m a witch?’ The nods became maybe side-to-side shakes. ‘And this Pumpkinhead fella—’
‘Kefapepo,’ Charlotte interrupted.
Faye’s heart nearly stopped. ‘W-wot?’
‘That’s the demon’s name,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘Though I prefer Devious Bugger.’
‘Kefa… Kefapepo,’ Faye said, nodding like it was the most normal thing in the world to discover your mother had named a bell-ringing method after a demon. ‘That’s… that’s a funny name.’ She was torn between wanting to tell Charlotte and Mrs Teach everything and listening to the alarm bell at the back of her brain warning her this would be a very bad thing indeed. She heaved herself out of the armchair. ‘You know, I’ve come over all peculiar and I’ve had a really long day and I’m tired. I think I’ll go home now.’
‘Leave the book,’ Charlotte said.
‘No.’ Faye shook her head. ‘I ain’t leaving it, and you ain’t burning it.’
‘If we are to defeat Kefapepo…’ Mrs Teach trailed off as Faye let out a little sob. ‘Oh, petal, don’t make this harder than it already is.’
Charlotte was less moved. ‘To defeat the demon, we start by destroying that book before he gets his hands on it.’
‘No you bloody don’t.’ Faye backed away from them, gripping her satchel tight.
‘It’s what he wants, Faye,’ Charlotte said, closing in on her.
‘It will give him more power than any demon has had in hundreds of years,’ Mrs Teach added.
‘If we destroy it, what will he do to my dad? He’ll hurt him, maybe kill him.’
‘He might be doing that anyway,’ Charlotte said.
‘What?’ Faye wailed. ‘No. You don’t know that.’
‘We know demons,’ Mrs Teach said, ‘and all they want is power. The power in that book.’
‘I won’t give it to him, I promise,’ Faye said, bumping into an armchair. She looked around for the way out. The door she came in through was behind Charlotte and Mrs Teach. She was going the wrong way. Trapped.
‘I doubt he’ll ask for it politely,’ Charlotte said. ‘He’ll take it by whatever means necessary.’
Faye spotted another door to the kitchen. She turned to make a dash for it.
And promptly tripped over the trunk with Charlotte’s book and Mrs Teach’s teapot and cups. They clattered to the floor and Faye landed flat on top of Charlotte’s old leather-bound book.
‘Faye.’ Mrs Teach came towards her, arms outstretched. Faye couldn’t be sure if she was going to help her up or make a grab for her. She didn’t wait to find out. Faye kicked her legs like a toddler having a tantrum to scare the woman off. She scrabbled to her feet, dashed through to the kitchen, out the back door and into the wood.
30 A MOST ANNOYING HOSTAGE
‘You can think, even though your brains are all stuffed with straw?’
The old man was getting on Suky’s nerves.
‘Only, what happens when you get field mice crawling up your skirts? You don’t have to answer that, of course. A bit too personal, I understand, but it makes you wonder, don’t it? I mean, what with you being living, breathing scarecrows and all.’
Suky had not heard from the birds for hours, and she wanted to know if the girl with the glasses was safe, but they no longer flew to the abbey. Scared, Suky reckoned. They had fled the moment Suky and her siblings arrived at the burning barn. No. Sooner than that. They scattered when they caught sight of Pumpkinhead. He was the one who scared them.
‘It’s marvellous, simply marvellous. Of course, I say living and breathing… You’re clearly living, but does you have lungs for breathing, eh? Take a breath, go on. What does it feel like? No? Fair enough, you ain’t a performing monkey, are ya? I know I shouldn’t go on, but I can’t help myself.’
Whenever Suky looked at Pumpkinhead now, she felt a tightness where her heart used to be. His smile was fixed in place, though he was quick to anger now. He would rage, then catch himself and stop.
‘Do you sneeze? And what do you eat? Ooh, and – bit personal this – but do you need to go the khazi? No, fair enough, I’ve crossed a line in the sand there. Don’t answer. Unless you want to?’
This old man simply had not stopped talking all night and all morning, and Suky was trying to think.
‘What happens when it rains? Do you have to wring yourselves out?’
Suky didn’t even want him here. She was cross Pumpkinhead had given the order to take him, and now the old man was driving her potty. Oh, she wished the birds were here, she missed their song.
‘Do you have to keep yourselves stuffed on a regular basis?’
; ‘Silence!’ Pumpkinhead snapped at him.
Terrence – they all knew his name as he insisted on introducing himself to everyone: ‘Hello, I’m Terrence. How d’you do? Luvverly to meet ya’ – was tied to a stake in the middle of the ruins of Therfield Abbey. He sat on his backside, wrists bound, legs splayed out, cheerily chatting away to no one in particular. Suky was sure he was only doing it to antagonise Pumpkinhead.
‘Fair enough, guv,’ Terrence said. ‘I am goin’ on a bit, there’s no denying that. I used to get like this when I was first stepping out with the young lady who would eventually deign to become my missus. She used to say, “Terrence, my love, what on earth are you wittering about now?” She reckoned it was – now what did she call it? – a nervous reaction. Yeah, that was it. When I get nervous I start to waffle on about precisely bugger all till the cows come home. Which is peculiar cos I’m more of a listener by nature. Comes from being a landlord. You have to be a good listener, too. Punters come in after a hard day’s toil and they need to let off a bit of steam, so you listen to whatever it is they have to say. And it’s not a question of just nodding while you clean a pint glass. Oh no. You have to pay attention, cos sooner or later they’ll say, “What do you think of that then, Terrence?” and you’ll have to give ’em your twopenn’orth, though of course you don’t want to get too involved, so generally you tell ’em what they want to hear…’
Pumpkinhead paced around the jabbering man, stopping every now and then to look up into the dimming daylight as if waiting for some kind of signal. The other crow folk languished around the abbey, mindless, floppy, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
‘That’s the secret to being a landlord, you’re everyone’s best friend. Agree with every word they say so long as they keep a civil tongue and buy a round occasionally. I love my job, I really do.’