by Dan Davis
‘If you say so,’ Weaver said. She was whipping a dry old stick at the long yellow grass by the side of the road. ‘What’s the plan then?’
‘I’ll work out the details by the time I get there. Morningtree is a whole day’s walk from here, assuming no hold ups so we can’t get there until this time tomorrow.’ Archer had pretended to his parents that he was totally confident about getting her back.
‘Fine,’ Weaver said and kicked a loose stone skimming along the frozen road.
Promise us you will be home safe and sound, his mother had said before letting him leave. We’ll not lose you again.
I promise, he’d said, just to make them feel better.
The wind gusted and Archer caught that smell again. ‘I definitely smell something,’ he said. ‘Smells like Pym did. Filthy dirty and rotten and mouldy and sweaty. Must be soldiers. Look, I always could smell stuff from far away. I never realised it was something to do with my power. It was the wind bringing the smells to me without me realising I was doing it.’
‘You’re imagining things,’ Weaver said. ‘You’re just afraid of seeing a soldier again so your mind is playing tricks on you. It’s like when you’re really hungry and you think you can smell food but really it’s just wet timber or mud. Come on, let’s get going.’
‘Don’t you ever feel like the earth is speaking to you like that?’ Archer said. ‘Telling you things.’
Weaver shrugged. ‘Earth can’t tell you anything. It’s just earth. It’s just mud.’ She scuffed at the frozen road surface with her boot. ‘And the wind isn’t alive either, by the way. If you think it is then you’re just mad.’
‘Fine,’ Archer said. ‘It’s not the wind, then; it’s me doing it somehow, without realising. Sort of like how it answered without me trying when my life was in danger when the balloon nearly smashed into Bede’s Tower or when it pushed the musketball to the side when Pym me.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ Weaver said, shaking her head. ‘There’s no one here.’ She gestured down the empty road. It stretched off a couple of hundred yards before it bent away and downward, hiding the view beyond.
‘You try it,’ Archer said. ‘Try to feel them through the earth.’
‘Don’t want to,’ she said, pulling her mud-green cloak tighter about her neck. ‘It’s freezing, let’s start walking again.’
‘Just feel the earth,’ Archer said, crouching down and putting his hand on the road surface. ‘Try it. Trust me.’
Weaver sighed and knelt and felt the ground. She frowned and closed her eyes. ‘I feel something,’ she said, her face a mask of concentration.
‘I knew it,’ Archer whispered.
Weaver screwed her face up. ‘I definitely feel something coming,’ she said.
‘What, Weaver?’ Archer said. ‘What do you feel?’
‘Shush,’ she said. ‘I have to concentrate.’
‘Sorry,’ said Archer, and held his breath in anticipation. He could not believe he had been right about Weaver’s abilities.
‘It’s coming,’ Weaver said. Then she leaned to one side and broke wind. Loudly. ‘There it is,’ she said, and laughed so hard she fell over sideways, clutching her belly.
‘Shut up, you idiot,’ Archer said. ‘There’s soldiers coming.’
‘You can’t smell them over that?’ she said, and laughed again.
Archer was sure he could hear voices on the wind. ‘Quiet,’ Archer said and kicked Weaver’s leg to make her stop laughing.
‘Oit,’ she said and lying on her back kicked out at him. She landed a kick on his backside but the force of it was taken in part by his quiver, which rattled but it still stung his thigh and hopped away. ‘Kick me, I’ll kick you back twice as hard,’ she said then froze, listening.
Voices on the wind. Men singing. They were getting louder.
Archer and Weaver looked at each other, he helped her up and they grabbed their packs and ran back a few yards to a gap in the hedgerow on the northern side of the road and scrambled through. They lay down on the other side at the edge of the fallow field and looked through to the road. Many of the leaves bushes were bare but for a few frozen berries but the tangle was dense enough and there were enough evergreens to hide them fairly well. The earth beneath them was freezing and rock-hard. All Archer could hear was Weaver breathing heavily down his earhole.
‘Breathe quietly,’ he whispered at her.
‘Shut up,’ said Weaver.
The singing voices came closer up along the road. Peering through gaps in the base of the hedgerow he saw a group of four men come walking up the road. He had been right. They were indeed men who looked like that soldier called Pym. These four all had long coats and muskets. One was draped in cloth dyed a bright blue. One was carrying a wide flat basket with something in. Another lugged a great big sack that was clinking and jangling as he walked. One seemed to carry nothing.
Archer didn’t recognise the song they were singing but they were certainly singing it with enthusiasm.
The man draped in colourful cloth stopped in the road while the other three carried on walking for a few paces before they too stopped. They turned and faced the other.
‘What you playing at, Richard?’ One of the three called back to their companion.
‘Yeah, come on, Dick, let’s get on,’ he shook his clinking sack. ‘Who knows what bounties lay beyond the far bend?’
The other two men laughed.
‘Something in the road,’ the one called Richard said, pointing at the spot where Archer and Weaver had been standing.
‘What is it?’ the other started walking back.
‘An arrow,’ the soldier Richard said, still pointing at the road.
Archer’s heart raced. One of his arrows must have fallen out of his quiver when Weaver had kicked him.
What do we do? Weaver silently mouthed, green eyes wide.
Don’t know! Archer mouthed back.
The other three walked back and gathered round the first soldier, looking down at the road.
‘What’s it doing just lying in the road?’
‘Who knows?’
‘One of these Vale peasant scum firing arrows at us or something?’
They looked around, up and down the road and into the hedgerows beside the road.
‘Can’t see no one.’ Richard unslung his musket from his shoulder and walked over to the hedgerow on the north side, the side they were hiding on. Archer tried to bury himself further into the freezing ground. His teeth were chattering and his body ached so much from cold it was painful. Richard advanced down the line of the bushes, poking the barrel into the undergrowth. He was getting closer.
Archer saw Weaver slowly, slowly draw her knife from her belt. She glanced at Archer and he saw her green eyes seemed to be getting brighter and greener.
There were four armed soldiers with four muskets and Archer did not think they had a hope of beating them. Their only hope was to stay hidden. But Weaver was right that they be prepared to defend themselves. Archer started to slide his bow from his back as slowly as he could.
‘Who cares, Dick? Come on, it’s cold as brass out here just standing round like a bunch of potatoes,’ the soldier with the sack said.
‘They don’t come in bunches,’ another said.
‘Yeah they do, I seen them dug up, all bunched together.’
‘Might be they’re out there right now,’ Richard said, edging closer toward them. Archer could see breath steaming from his chapped lips and how his coat had been patched dozens of times. ‘They may be looking at us, the savages. Arrows, in this day and age?’ Richard spat onto the frozen earth. ‘These people disgust me. Alchemist’s pets, the lot of them.’
His boots crunched right opposite their hiding place. So close the man’s stench was overpowering. Archer held his breath.
‘That’s right, they are alchemist’s pets’ one of the others said. ‘And we have a job to do, don’t we, Dick.’
‘We have to find that dragon or
Hopkins will have our guts for garters,’ another said. ‘Right lads?’
‘We don’t serve Hopkins, do we,’ Richard said. ‘Who does he think he is giving us orders, anyway?’
‘The Colonel ordered us to follow his orders, so we do follow his orders, don’t we.’
‘It ain’t right,’ Richard said. ‘He’s not an officer. Not even a soldier.’
‘But they say he’s got Cromwell behind him.’
‘Nah, that’s the other bloke, Thurloe. It’s just that Hopkins has a big mouth on him.’
‘Either way, don’t matter. We have to get the dragon, and that’s all there is to it.’
Richard sighed loudly. He slung his musket over his shoulder and stood up straighter. ‘Fine.’
Archer watched his boots as the man spun on his heel and crunched off down the road.
‘Why is he always so serious, anyway? And why was he so rough on that old couple?’ The youngest of the soldiers said to other two as they strolled after Richard, going by Archer and Weaver’s hiding place. ‘Don’t he like getting plunder or something? This is as easy a detail as any in the army, ain’t it? Beats fighting the King’s men, anyway, right Bill?’
‘Ah,’ said the one with the sack. ‘Dick’s a true believer. He hates alchemists as much as anybody.’
‘Don’t you hate them, too?’ the younger one asked.
‘Course I do, lad,’ the other said. ‘I just love booty even more.’ He raised his sack and shook it, clinking. ‘This is why I joined the army. These people are ripe for the plucking. They’re just ignorant peasants but they got plenty of nice stuff for us to help ourselves to. And not a musket in the whole valley. There’s nothing anyone can do to stop us. By the time we head back to Coalschester we’ll be so loaded up with booty we’ll have to steal ourselves an ox-cart.’ The others laughed and the next words they said were too faint to be made out, even on the wind.
‘Could we take them on?’ Archer asked, nodding up the road where the soldiers had gone.
‘Yeah,’ Weaver said. ‘I reckon we could. You could blow them all off their feet with a gust of wind and I could probably shake the ground and keep them from getting up again.’
‘But then what?’ Archer said. ‘Am I supposed to shoot them full of arrows? One shot from a musket and we’re done for. Them things can shred you like a cabbage.’
He had been thinking to himself that they were powerful now but of course they were still just two children against grownups.
‘You said it yourself just now, that Keeper and Burp would be safe.’
‘But my family,’ Archer said. ‘Those men are going to rob them.’
‘They already know soldiers are coming to the farm, that’s the whole point of them hiding Keeper up in the hills so they will know enough to hide their good things. If anyone starts anything, your mum and dad and all your aunts and uncles will smash their faces in, no problem.’
Archer wasn’t so sure. His parents seemed to have no idea what soldiers like Pym were capable of. There simply wasn’t that kind of person in the Vale, so far as he knew, and he wanted to be able to go and warn them properly and felt terrible for not going to help.
‘Come on,’ Weaver said, punching him the shoulder. ‘We have a job to do, don’t we?’ She walked back the way they were headed and he followed. ‘Writer ain’t going to save herself, you know.’ she said over her shoulder.
‘No,’ Archer said as he stooped to pick up his arrow. It had been stamped on and broken in half. He tossed it into the hedgerow. ‘No, she won’t.’
In Deep Water
‘Get out here, witch,’ Stearne said, using his strange, gloved hand to hold open the door to her prison, the Guildhall records room.
‘Not until you tell me where I am going,’ Writer said. They had left her alone for hours and she had tried to remember any of the spells from the Wicungboc.
Stearne sighed and rubbed his face with his normal hand. ‘Stop mucking about, girl. You’ll be coming out there one way or the other so it may as well be the one way, right?’
Writer wished she could remember the spell she had used to turn the Alchemist Bede into a basket. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Don’t get your hose in a twist,’ Stearne said, sneering. ‘It’s just what is called a hearing. You’ll be brought before a bunch of bigwigs and hear the charges against you, then the boss is going to be ordered to get evidence and your confession and a date set for the trial.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Writer said.
‘Don’t matter,’ Stearne said, shrugging. ‘Get out here or you’ll get dragged out.’
Writer took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor. Stearne stood back to let her pass and then shoved her forward down the corridor, his strange had twitching inside its glove.
She was cold and tired and hungry. She supposed it was past time for luncheon now and she had not eaten nor slept since the day before. Everything felt strangely unreal as she stepped out into the large space of the Guildhall itself. Many Vale folk were gathered and their murmuring stopped. Perhaps a hundred faces turned to her as she entered with Stearne. Up on the raised speaking platform at the end of the room sat a row of elder Guildmasters behind a long table, many of whom she recognised. They looked at her, their faces grim. The Guildmaster sat in the centre and he looked very disturbed indeed. She looked around the crowd for her mother and father but they were not there.
People edged out of the space before the speaking platform and Stearne led her there by the arm. She allowed herself to be led, like a weakling child but she did not know what else to do.
The crowd was made up of the tradespeople of Morningtree and surrounding area. But there was another man. Standing near the front and dressed in the strange garb of the outsiders like Stearne and Big Ned and the two other brutes who had dragged her off in the night. This other one was a young man in a long black coat and black trousers and black shoes. He wore his hair trimmed short, in the same fashion as the other outsiders. Other than superficially, though, he was totally unlike the others. He was slim, smooth-skinned and his clothes were well-repaired and clean. He was young and handsome whereas the others were ancient and corrupt. This man stood before the Guildmasters with one hand behind his back and the other on his hip, appearing relaxed and at ease, as if it was he that owned the place and not them.
As Writer was dragged into place by Stearne, the Guildmaster addressed the handsome man before him. ‘Well, here she is, Hopkins. Now, you had best explain yourself to the assembly.’
The handsome man gave a brief bow to the Guildmaster and then turned to address the room. His voice was powerful and clear. ‘My name is Hopkins. I am charged by the Parliament of England to root out sedition, alchemy and witchcraft have been appointed as the Witchfinder General.’
The Vale has been cut off from this land called England for hundreds of years,’ said the Guildmaster. ‘For time out of mind. Beyond all our long records. There have been very few visitors since Bede fell and we have barely ventured beyond the Moon Forest. We have not yet recognised the authority of this English Parliament and many fail to see how you men have any legal rights here.’
Whether you recognise it or not, Guildmaster, you are most certainly under the rule of law of the Commonwealth of England. I have here,’ he drew from a pocket a roll of parchment, ‘a decree from Cromwell himself that I do operate with his full authority.’ This parchment he handed to Stearne, who handed it up to the Guildmaster. While the Guildmaster read the contents, the man named Hopkins continued. ‘I know all about the Vale. I myself am from a village just to the north and I spent my childhood wondering about the mysterious folk inside. And ever since the protection spells of the Alchemist Bede failed in that most spectacular and unnatural thunder storm, I learned all I could of your existence under the thumb of that very evil alchemist.’ Many in the hall mumbled agreement. ‘Yes, an evil alchemist indeed to keep you good people prisoner for so long. But now you are free. Free t
o join the rest of this great country in throwing off the shackles of Alchemy.’ There were nods and smiles in the room.
‘And yet,’ Hopkins said, and paused. The smiles slowly died. ‘And yet we must be certain that all trace of Alchemy is burned from this place.’ People glanced uneasily at each other. ‘Alchemy is evil, we can all agree on that, can we not?’ People nodded. ‘And all Alchemists must be destroyed and their influence annihilated. It is for this reason that I am come. Charged by the highest authority in the land to root out all trace. All trace, mark you! Root and branch. My men have been amongst you these last few days, seeking information and what information they have gathered, gentlemen. For it seems that living amongst you, in plain sight, you have been harbouring those that consort with alchemists.’ Hopkins jabbed a black-gloved finger at Writer’s face. ‘There, gentlemen.’ He raised his voice. ‘There before you stands a young woman accused by folk of good character and sound mind of being one who consorts with alchemists, a practitioner of magic and a witch.’
The voices in the room rose loudly and Writer had to shout to make herself heard over the din. ‘Consorted with him? I was captured by him.’
‘Silence, witch!’ Hopkins voice was thunder, and he spat phlegm when he screamed at her. The other voices died down, shocked at his vehemence. ‘We shall hear from you in time. For now you shall remain silent.’
The Guildmaster looked appalled. He glanced at the parchment Hopkins had delivered to him. ‘And what do you require from us?’
‘There must be a trial, of course,’ Hopkins said, calming down. ‘This is England, after all. There must be evidence presented and a judgement made before any punishment can be carried out.’
‘I see,’ the Guildmaster said, looking along the table at the others. ‘And how shall it be conducted?’