After Bell Hill

by Robin Tompkins

  ‘Nuncle Gorg here wouldn’t be able to move fast enough for one and then there’s Bobdan and his nevvy who run the boat, what of them? They were brave enough to carry us, knowing full well who we were and I’ll not leave them to it,’ he said.

  Tamarin reflected on the contradictions in King Billy, he was fiercely protective of anyone he considered to be ‘his people,’ he clearly felt for them, as he had for her when he learnt of Ullie’s death but all empathy deserted him if you were an enemy. The Father/Sons were just as trees, to be cut down to make a path. The thing that she found chilling, was that their treatment of Gorg, and what she had seen at the inn, meant that the Father/Sons felt the same way. How could there be peace, she wondered, when neither side fought against people.

  It was true that the Father/Sons felt themselves to be superior and did not want to be seen as human beings but as a divine force. With their uniforms and masks and there clergy always two by two and hand in hand, it was all too easy to believe them but it was dead people, she had seen at the inn, dead boys, not divine avatars.

  She kept her own mask in place, as she had been taught but as she watched Gorg suffering and saw the eagerness for battle in King Billy, as she pictured Saradev and Jasadir amongst the trees, tense and predatory with anticipation, something began to well up deep inside, something like a scream of pain.

  ‘The wind being naturally faster than a horse, they’ll be on us in minutes now... Make ready!’ Billy said, drawing his sword and pistol.

  Avaric was stringing a longbow and laying out heavy, barbed arrows, face expressionless. From below, the balding bargee Bobdan emerged with an old musket in his hands and a grim expression on his face, his nephew Dan trailed after him with powder and shot.

  Gorg reached out and squeezed Tamarin’s hand, he looked concerned, he could sense what the others could not. Tamarin began to take deep slow breaths, she thought of Ullie, of happier times and pushed that scream like sensation back down, like swallowing bile and it was just as bitter. Still it quivered there, deep inside her, like the vibration of some great bell, shaking her to the core. Gorg looked at her strangely, his grip tightened.

  The sailing barge approached in eerie, dreamlike silence, the soldiers of the Father/Sons packed the deck, drawn swords across their shields, sunlight glinting on the blades. On a raised platform at the front of the barge, a pair of Witchbinders sat upon their mounts. The horses were restive, pawing and stamping, tossing their heads, sending their funereal plumes nodding and waving. They whinnied and snorted, breaking the quiet.

  As if this were a signal, the Witchbinders turned their gleaming masks to look behind them. A cadre of musketeers rose silently from below decks in single file and knelt at the edge of the platform. They sighted their weapons and waited for the command to fire.

  They were so close now; it was possible to see the eyes behind the shimmering masks that smiled incongruously at them across the cold, dark, slow water.

  Tamarin drew in another deep, deep breath and summoned up an image of Ullie in her mind’s eye, so calm, so strong... even so, her teeth began to chatter, as if she were chilled to the bone.

  The Witchbinders joined hands and raised them, it was said no Father/Son ever took a decision alone, or blame unshared. The Musketeers watched for the hands to fall.

  ‘Come on now my good girls...,’ Billy muttered to himself.

  There was a sound like a swarm of angry bees, a deep, vicious thrumming and a hundred flickering shadows crossed the sun. The soldiers of the Father/Sons fell right and left clutching at thick arrow shafts that suddenly appeared in their bodies, almost as if they had grown there from the inside out. The Witchbinders dropped their hands and the muskets fired a volley with a sound like rolling thunder.

  On the barge, wood splintered and flew in shards, Gorg let go her hand and clutched at his leg screaming in pain as a bloody flower blossomed on his thigh. Bobdan’s nephew screamed in pure terror and agony, as he flew backwards across the deck, clutching at his bloody stomach.

  Inside Tamarin, the calming picture of Ullie had changed; she too screamed, screamed and burnt in Elder cottage. All self-control collapsed. That terrible vibration that colossal scream that she had been suppressing burst through Tamarin’s body, as if she were about to give birth to some demonic beast...

  ‘STOP!’ She cried, just that one single, simple word and such was the force of that shout that every eye turned toward her and it did seem for an instant as if the world did stop. As she shrieked out that word, she pushed out both hands before her, as if trying to halt something physically... and then it happened.

  For Tamarin it happened in slow motion, to everyone else, it was like a lightning strike. A strange, pale and fierce fire emerged from the air itself, just ahead of her hands. It grew rapidly into a burning wall that spanned the canal. The water boiled and bubbled and a great cloud of steam rose up like a fog bank. The fire rolled across the water and burst upon the sailing barge like a storm. Screaming people threw themselves into the water. The horses panicked and rolled their eyes in terror, the Witchbinders hung on for their lives as the beasts galloped away from the flames and flung themselves off the deck.

  The sail caught fire, flame racing up it like some bizarre burning animal, clawing the sail into blackened shreds as it ran. The paint blistered, the gunnels charred and the pale fire rolled on, through the door the musketeers had left open and down below decks. With a thunderous booming, the magazine exploded, the planks burst and with a groan, the boat heeled over.

  Partly from some kind of instinct and partly from panic, Tamarin suddenly clenched her fists tightly together... and the flame was snuffed out.

  She came out of her trancelike state, to find that their own horse had bolted in terror and was dragging their barge away at what seemed like improbable speed. The water was full of bobbing heads and debris and the air with screams and shouts.

  ‘It’s the Flame... It’s the Righteous bloody Flame... after all these years, the Righteous Flame!’ Billy Bracken was yelling, he appeared to be doing some kind of awkward little jig of joy.

  Tamarin fell backwards, great horrified sobs racking her slight body.

  ‘What have I done, what have I done? I’ve killed them! What have I done!’ she shouted over and over hysterically. Gorg started dragging himself across the deck; his eyes mirrored her own distress, hand reaching out to her. It was Avaric who reached her first and gathered her up in his arms. She twisted and turned but he pressed her head firmly into his shoulder.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ he said, with a quiet strength. ‘You killed no one, do you hear? No one! I watched, carefully, there will be burns and broken bones but you killed no one!’ And he squeezed her tightly to him as she continued to sob. With the thick stench of burning in the air, she could not believe him, though she wanted to very much.

  ‘Now we have them! Now we have them!’ Billy bellowed, seemingly oblivious to Tamarin’s distress. ‘They will rally to us from far and wide, every man and woman with a sword or a gun...’ His round face beamed like the moon and his eyes glittered and sparked.

  ‘Tamarin o’Goodford, Defender of the Faith, Mistress of the Righteous Flame... I will have them dress you all in white, like a banner you’ll be, a flag of hope and they will flock to you!’

  Gorg hauled himself up on some sacks stacked on the deck and slipped his hand in hers, he squeezed tightly. They exchanged a look of sadness.

  ‘The Cunning Folk do no harm...’ she muttered, so softly, that even Avaric wasn’t sure what she said and her head was on his shoulder.

  ‘Why, even your very name is a drumbeat girl!’ Billy carried on joyously. ‘Tam-a-rin!’ he said, beating out a tattoo on the boats rail, with happy hands.

  ∆∆∆

  Oroc extended his long neck, muscles taut, great, wedge shaped head shining golden in the sunlight, attention rapt on the chaos below, where the sailing barge still burned and flamed. Black smoke spiralled up into the sky like squid ink dripped
into water.

  ‘For better, or for worse, the gift is given,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pivy said simply. With all the turmoil and the conflict, he felt within, he could not trust his voice with more than that one word.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Coven of the Stricken Alder

  Esmaelia punched the water, shattering the images, and sending her own reflection, that abruptly replaced them, flying out in ripples to the pond’s edge. A turgid stench rose from the boggy water. She sat back on her haunches glowering into the middle distance, the cold wind biting her wet hand.

  ‘Zsu-Zsu,’ she said, ‘Zsu-Zsu, come to mummy, mummy needs love.’

  The vulture looked up from grooming its plumage, focussed on her, blinked, then waddled awkwardly over. It pushed its head in under her chin and rubbed its bulky body against her. She stroked its neck and back.

  ‘They shouldn’t have the Flame, Zsu-Zsu… no, no they shouldn’t, beautiful boy… if they have the Flame, someone is helping them… hmm? Yes, yes, they are…’ she tickled the bird under its beak and rubbed its chest.

  Esmaelia stood and walked the few paces over to the little fire she had lit in anticipation of cooking a spitted rabbit, the vulture went with her, walking to heel like a well-trained dog.

  She stood looking down into the fire for a long time, lost in thought. She tipped back her leather hood, feeling the icy wind cut her cheeks. Abruptly, she plunged a hand into the fire, grabbing a handful of cinders. The vulture jumped back in alarm and squawked.

  ‘Call them, call them all…’ she rasped at her closed fist, then opened it, throwing the glowing cinders into the air. The sparks hovered on the wind for a moment, then darted purposefully away, like strange fireflies.

  Esmaelia snatched the rabbit from the spit and threw it to the vulture.

  ‘Eat up Zsu-Zsu… then follow me when you are done, dear…’ she said.

  She scuttled up the narrow ladder and into her hut. After a moment, her head emerged briefly, she spoke a strange, unsettling word and clicked her tongue. She disappeared back inside. A moment later, the ladder rolled up, like the tongue of some strange insect and into the doorway, as if into a mouth.

  After a short time, the hut shook and shuddered. A tremor ran down the three slender, carved legs. Then, one by one, they pulled up, out of the cold, frost rimed, sucking mud. Three great, carved, wooden talloned feet were now revealed, black and petrified from the bog, like the claws of some huge prehistoric bird.

  The hut began to stalk away, deeper into the marsh, towards the swamps at its heart, at a good pace, moving like some monstrous wading bird.

  The Great East Marsh was a vast, wetlands of marsh, bog, fen and swamp that covered all of the East of the country. Beyond it, lay a narrow, habitable strip besides the wild East coast, where lived the small, secretive, coffee coloured Fisher Folk, who according to legend, arrived there from the sea on great rafts long ago. It was to here in the marsh, that the witches of the West and the Mid-Lands had fled, when the cunning folk drove them out. It was here that they were trapped, trapped between the charms and wards of the cunning folk on one side and those of the Fisher Folk on the other.

  The Father/Sons did not come here. It was impossible to march an army into the lethal maze of quick sands and quaking bogs. The Great East Marsh was just passible to small numbers, if you knew your business and if you did not fear the witches. Few folk ventured here and none lived here but out of necessity.

  At length, as the sun began to dip towards the western horizon, where thick, grey bolsters of cloud gathered, the hut emerged into a gloomy space. An inky black tarn, surrounded by stunted trees, reflected in its still waters, the muddy margins of which were frozen solid. At the centre was a little islet of dark, tussocky earth. Here a bone white alder stood, fossil dead, struck and petrified long ago by lightning.

  For those with the right senses, this was not the sombre, static place it seemed to be, it swirled with a dark, tidal flow of energy.

  One by one, the others came.

  Soon, the shore was ringed with tall, ramshackle, stilted huts. Not one of these esoteric dwellings had the same design.

  Doors opened, curtains parted and the occupants stood forth. Each wore a costume as curious and unique as their home, each had a companion. Here a snake coiled along an arm, there a great, black spider as big as a dinner plate sat on a shoulder, and there a lizard with its flicking, tasting tongue worn like a living hat.

  With a thud and a clatter, Zsu-Zsu landed on the roof of Esmaelia’s hut.

  ‘Here you all are… my sweet, dark things, my beautiful monsters, my loves…’ Esmaelia said smiling, looking around the circle.

  There was something strange about each visage but not an obvious ugliness or deformity. No, it was just that each apparently normal face, was unsettling, disquieting. They all smiled and nodded. It was like something you might half remember as you woke sweating and thrashing from a dream.

  ‘How can they have the flame?’ said a tiny, spare woman, whose incredibly long hair was knotted around her waist and seemed to be supporting her skirts.

  ‘Claudelia, straight to the business as usual hmm?’ Esmaelia said.

  ‘It is a disaster Esmaelia… a disaster,’ said an impossibly tall, skeletally thin man, who’s hollow, hooting voice resembled that of the great, pale, ghost eyed owl that perched on his wrist.

  ‘Korvin, sweet man… Disaster? That’s too loud a word, that’s a shout of a word,’ Esmaelia said, pouting.

  ‘It’s the end of it, we live in mud forever,’ rasped a stout, round woman, nursing an alligator like a baby, her mud spiked hair standing up like a crown.

  ‘Bulindella, don’t make Esmaelia sad…’ Esmaelia said dangerously. Bulindella stopped fussing the alligator, shuffled awkwardly and dropped her eyes.

  The circle fell silent for a very long moment.

  ‘If they have the flame, they have a dragon.’ Esmaelia said. ‘Well then, if they have a dragon…’

  Bulindella opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it.

  ‘Oh, Esmaelia…’ Claudelia said cautiously.

  ‘What?’ Esmaelia said. ‘If they can have a dragon, we can have something of our own. Something biting, snapping, rending and tearing. Something old and huge, with its own flame…’ The darkly gleeful expression on her face even scared the other witches.

  ‘Vulroth…’ Korvin said and he dropped his voice to a whisper when he said it. ‘But to summon… to summon him,’ it was as if Korvin did not want to say the name out loud again. ‘A witch must be sacrificed.’

  Everyone in the circle shifted and fidgeted, such was their agitation that it communicated itself to their huts. The dwellings shuffled their big, wooden feet. All the familiars gave voice, a squawk, a rasp, a croak, a hiss…

  ‘Esmaelia, Esmaelia, it’s unthinkable that one of us…’ Korvin said cautiously, diffidently, knowing that saying it, was the sort of thing that was apt to make Esmaelia choose you for the sacrifice.

  She stared at him for a long time with her big, darkly luminous eyes.

  ‘Well, if it’s not going to be one of us… then we need more witches, don’t we?’ She said eventually.

  ‘But that’s…’ Bulindella blurted out, before reigning in her tongue.

  ‘Impossible?’ Esmaelia said. ‘Well not for much longer…’ she added with relish.

  ‘We’re really so close?’ Claudelia said. The scrawny yellow dog at her feet gave an excited yap.

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes my beautifuls, we are so very close now,’ Esmaelia said. ‘Has anyone else got anything to say? Well then, I think it’s time for us all to part,’ Esmaelia added, with elaborate, mock sadness.

  Everyone turned to go back into their huts.

  ‘Not you Korvin!’ Esmaelia said, loudly.

  They all stopped and looked at Korvin.

  Korvin turned and looked across at Esmaelia, his already pallid face had turned paper white. Despite himself, a
little tremor of fear shook his hands.

  ‘Come to my hut Korvin,’ Esmaelia said.

  Korvin took a hesitant step forward, the hut lurched and swayed as if it couldn’t quite decide if Korvin really wanted it to move forward toward Esmaelia or not.

  Esmaelia smiled wickedly.

  ‘Hurry up Korvin my handsome,’ she said. ‘Why, Esmaelia has such a great ball of anger and frustration welling up inside her like a boil… it needs to be pricked, so I can think straight…’ she said. ‘You can help me prick it, can’t you Korvin?

  ‘Yes, why yes of course Esmaelia,’ Korvin said, the expression of fear on his long, cadaverous face was replaced by a lascivious smile. Without meaning to his hips twitched and his hand began to stray toward his groin.

  Korvin’s hut took two or three quick strides until it bumped up against Esmaelia’s

  She reached out, grabbed him by the robes and hauled him fiercely through the doorway of her hut. The curtain flopped down, hiding them from view.

  ∆∆∆

  The darkness was absolute. The air smelled of damp stone and of people… frightened people. Ameliam could hear the slow drip of water, breathing and a quiet, restless, uncertain shuffling.

  She brought her shaking hands up to her mouth, cupped them and tried to breathe a little witch light into them but she couldn’t.

  In a little while she tried again and failed.

  She was not calm enough, her heart was beating like a hawk’s wing, her breath was coming in short spasms, as if she had just run a race.

  When they had come for her, they had cast the iron net over her and the weight of it had felled the little woman like a falling tree. She was covered in bruises, from the net, from the fall, from the fists and feet of the Father/Sons.

  A jouncing ride in a closed wagon through the cold, early morning followed, with silent, masked guards all around her. Finally, came a confrontation with a pair of Witchbinders, who looked at her coldly, from behind their smiling, silver masks.