by Dan Davis
There was a row of winter greens scattered about. Those manky things were tired and frost ravaged but spring could be the leanest time of the year, especially if the weather was bad. She made more holes for replanting those cabbages, sending thin streams of her power through the earth to plough the furrows and restore the ridges. Even that little effort exhausted her but she wanted to try. To undo at least some of the damage she had caused.
The old man and the old woman came out from the stable. The mother was behind them with her children, her smoke-blackened face streaked with tears.
‘You... you’re a witch,’ the old man said, pointing his shaky finger at her. ‘We saw you, doing spells on my garden.’
‘I’m trying to help you,’ Weaver protested, shocked that he would resent her for trying to undo what she had done before.
‘You were with those terrible men,’ the old woman screeched. ‘You’re evil. You’re an evil girl. Evil, I says.’
Archer ran over to stand by her side.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Weaver said, standing up and tossing a cabbage away. ‘You can stuff your garden and shove off while you’re doing it.’
She took up a great big load of dirt and threw it towards them in a big shower. They ran away back to the stable, the children wailing.
The old man didn’t run away. He was covered in black dirt but it was like he hadn’t noticed. He just stood there like an idiot, possibly because he only had one leg but he was staring up in the air like he was watching a hawk.
‘What did you do to him?’ Archer whispered to her.
‘Nothing,’ Weaver said. ‘I was just trying to help them. I didn’t mean to break him.’
The old man raised his finger again but this time pointing up into the sky above them.
‘W-w-w-w…’ he stuttered. ‘WITCH!’
Weaver followed his outstretched finger.
Writer.
There was a good long moment before Weaver understood what she was looking at.
It was Writer, up in the air, coming towards them as if she was floating in the sky. She had her hands out, palms down as if for balance but otherwise it was as though she was standing or floating on the air.
Writer was flying.
Writer’s Flight
She flew up higher over the battlefield. Her power flowed from her, flowed into her limbs, into her body and over every inch of her skin. She floated slowly, as if she was standing in water, higher than the top of the tallest trees. Such a height that she was afraid of falling, of losing her concentration once again and tumbling to the earth to smash herself, worse than before. Her bones ached still from the last fall.
She went no higher. She was high enough to see the whole battlefield, were it not for the clouds of smoke that drifted around and below her, blanketing the men and horse. The shouts of those soldiers and beats below were almost overwhelmed by the rumbling of the earth. The wind whistled in her ears. Her hair whipped about her face. She was cold.
Devastation everywhere. The worst of the wreckage of men and earth was on the other side on Cromwell’s left wing.
The earth itself flowed like ripples on a pond, from the corner of the hill. She headed toward the centre point over on that side, from where look like pebbles dropped into water. Rumbling, pulsing ripples flowed through the earth, over and over, thrumming out and out and out.
Surely, the earth shaking was Weaver’s doing. Writer could imagine no other force capable of such power. Writer dreaded to think what could have caused Weaver to become so angry.
The rumbling ceased.
All at once, the shaking of the earth was over. It was like the deafening silence after a storm passes, where you did not know how loud and overwhelming the sound had been until it was gone. Her ears rang. Soldiers below her climbed to their feet. Many men, horses and wagons had sunk into the ground and others struggled to dig them out.
Angry shouts from below. Writer looked down through her toes, through the rolling banks of smoke. There were twenty or fifty men down there, King’s musketeers.
They were aiming their muskets up in the air at her.
An officer roared a command.
Almost as one, they fired. Clouds of smoke coughed out and a murderous rain of lead balls hurtled toward her.
She knew she was going to die.
There were two ways she knew to do magic. One way, the elemental way, came naturally. It bubbled up from inside her and it was all raw emotion, such as terror. To first access it, she had needed to lose her sense of self, of who she was. Since then, she had learned to let go of focus.
The other way was the spellcraft of the mages, like that of Bede. That way came from her mind, from focus. To access it she had to concentrate her voice and movements in order to open the third eye in her mind through which the magic could pour.
She could not do both at the same time. They were absolute opposites.
Her elemental magic was holding her a hundred feet in the air in the way of a hail of musketballs.
To cast the protection spell and deflect the shots would mean falling to her death.
The emotional conflict confused her. Her ability to command the water within her body simply ceased to be.
She fell.
The musket shots ripped through the air where she had been floating, whipping vortices through the smoke. She tumbled, head over heels, down toward the earth.
The musketeers roared and jeered, thinking that they had hit her.
Her terror at smashing into the ground made her elemental power surge back through her. It slowed her fall but not far enough. She felt that moving through the air would give her more time and, through feeling it, that is what happened. She swooped down in an arc to skim across the tips of the grass, face down, like a swallow over a river. She swooped toward the startled musketeers who scattered from her, screaming like children, and rose up over their heads.
She flew as fast as a bird away from the hill and over the dip between them, doubling and tripling her height above the ground.
She laughed.
Was there a limit to how high she could fly? Could she fly ever upward, as high as the clouds and higher still? Could she fly as a high as the Moon and touch her hand to that silver disk that was otherwise forever beyond reach? What would it feel like? She imagined it would be something like chalk or even a magical white substance, the same material as the stars.
A cannon fired, the blast shattering her joy.
The battle was almost over for Cromwell’s New Model Army, their left wing and centre shattered by the quaking earth. Yet the fighting continued here and there and she had to reach her friends. The wind flicked her hair across her face and blew the smoke away below.
The parting of the smoke revealed a group of soldiers in green jackets, perhaps ten or twenty of them. They were in a line, pointing their weapons skyward. Writer prepared to dive down, on purpose this time, swoop down and rout them all.
But they were not aiming at her. No doubt, they could not even see her through the smoke. A loud officer’s voice bellowed a command and they fired together, away from her. She flew on.
She squinted hard looking for her friends but had no idea where they could be. From such a height, she could see a long distance but detail was hard to pick out. There were so very many people walking and running here and there that finding any one person in the crowds was almost impossible. Perhaps she would be able to see Burp, she thought. A dragon looked like a dragon, no matter how far away it was.
There was a column of smoke from near where the shaking had been coming from and she flew toward that. Getting closer she saw it was the wreckage of a house, burned to the ground, surrounded by wrecked buildings and churned up earth.
She circled around it. Down below there was a girl standing in the muddy garden with her legs planted wide and her fists on her hips.
Weaver.
A boy ran over to the garden and Writer almost fell from the sky when she recognised Archer’s gait.
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She swooped down toward her friends, too excited and relived to even call out.
An old man with earth over him pointed and gibbered at her. He hobbled away on a stick as she came down to land next to the burned ruin of the house right in front of her friends.
Archer shouted her name and then they were hugging and both saying a dozen things at once.
‘What happened? What have you been doing? How come you can fly?’ Archer shot questions at her. ‘Where’s Bede? Is the King alive? How did you fly, did Cedd teach you that? What did the battle look like from up there, could you see my men? What was that explosion?’
‘There is much to say,’ Writer said. There were a number of those green-coated men standing around with their weapons at the ready, facing out.
Weaver was there, scuffing at the earth with her boot. She was filthy with mud, as usual and dark red-brown stains. Her green eyes were rimmed with red.
Writer did not know what to say. She had never really known how to speak to Weaver. Instead of speaking, Writer put her arms round the smaller girl and hoped that Weaver would not hit her.
Weaver hugged her back. Hugged her tightly with a brief squeeze and then stepped back, looking embarrassed.
‘I am so happy to see you both,’ Writer said. ‘I have so much to tell you.’
‘We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it when we get back home to the Vale,’ Archer said.
‘I am not sure that we can go home,’ Writer said. ‘At least, not right away.’
Archer and Weaver looked at each other.
‘I learned much from Bede and Cedd,’ Writer continued. ‘Despite their efforts to exclude me and keep me ignorant. More importantly, there was another alchemist who taught me rather a lot about Burp.’
‘Nothing good, I take it?’ Archer asked.
‘Put it this way,’ Writer said. ‘We should immediately go to find Keeper and Burp and get them away from the King’s men before they overrun your army.’
‘The King’s army is heading this way?’ Archer asked, looking north. ‘How close are they?’
‘Everyone was in rather a lot of disarray,’ Writer said. ‘On both sides of the battlefield. But the damage from the shaking earth appears to have had a significantly worse effect upon Cromwell’s side.’
Weaver had her head down and scuffed more earth with her boot. Writer did not wish the girl to feel badly about herself, yet the facts were the facts. Nothing could change that.
‘We’re falling back to the reserve forces,’ Archer shouted at his men. The grown men scrambled to obey and together they walked down the other side of the ridge away from the battle.
Writer was weakened by her flight. Weaver, too, appeared exhausted, which was to be expected if she had used her power so much. Writer was sure that she herself had never used so much of her own power, or for such a long time. Archer seemed tired, too. And perhaps even downhearted.
Horses and redcoats streamed by them. The men were filthy, battered and shocked. ‘What happened?’ they were saying to each other. No one knew.
‘Harry, get the men to gather on me for a moment,’ Archer said to one of his men. The green-jacketed men gathered about Archer under an oak tree. Archer lowered his voice but she could just about hear what he was saying. ‘Listen, you lot. Weaver did not do this, right? It was the alchemists. They got by our flank, using magic and they did this to us.’
The men looked at each other for a moment, glancing at Weaver. The girl glared at them but her eyes were watery.
‘That’s right, sir,’ the one called Harry said. ‘Right, lads?’
All the men nodded and grimaced.
‘And Sergeant Jones was a hero,’ Archer said. ‘He stopped them from doing any worse damage. If they know that’s what happened, they’ll give his wife a bigger pension.’
The men’s faces lit up. They loved him for saying that.
‘We’ll have to win the war first, sir,’ Harry said. ‘Or no one gets nothing.’
‘The sharpshooters are alive,’ Archer said. ‘So the war’s as good as won, right?’
They cheered and clapped each other on the back.
‘You better find Watson and rest of the army command,’ Archer said to them. ‘We have to find our friends and then we’re going to go. You can’t be with us when we do or you’ll get in trouble.’
The green jackets nodded.
‘Well then, if this is farewell, sir,’ Harry said, pulling off his cap and clutching it to his chest. ‘On behalf of the lads, may I say it was a proper honour, sir.’
‘Thanks, Corporal,’ Archer said. ‘Take care of yourselves. Stick together and you’ll be right as rain.’
‘Oh, we intend to, sir,’ Harry said. ‘And you look after that rifle, sir. It’ll serve you well.’
Archer looked sorry to see them go, clutching his rifle to his chest. Then he swung it onto his shoulder by the strap.
Together, they walked back amongst the crowds of redcoats to the New Model Army’s rear camp. There was a road, somewhere, but the mass of retreating soldiers spilled over into the fields either side.
Keeper was waiting for them. They crested a hill and saw him in a field boxed by scraggly hedgerows and trees. Keeper stood upon a large wagon, peering across the helmeted heads for his friends.
Another wagon was parked next to his, even bigger than Keeper’s, lined with troughs full of living bushes and small trees. It was most peculiar. A man and a woman stood atop amongst the greenery, scanning the soldiers just as Keeper was.
Neither wagon was hitched to any draught animals. The soldiers kept well away from them, streaming around them like a river flows around a boulder.
Burp was on the back of Keeper’s wagon with him, looking out with his long neck stretched up.
He was enormous.
The dragon had grown so much bigger since she had seen him last. He was so huge it made her stumble. His scales were blacker and thicker than she remembered. He looked like he was carved from obsidian or hammered from wrought iron. His eyes seemed more intelligent. The rumble of the fires inside him was as loud as a big bonfire.
Writer remembered that the beast was some sort of artificial construct, powered by a mighty captured demon.
She imagined Bacon’s quivering voice speaking. If Dee were mad enough to place a dragon in a Conjuration Chamber, our world would be destroyed.
The thought made her shiver.
‘Where have you been? What was all that earth shaking?’ Keeper shouted. ‘Writer!’ He jumped down from his wagon, pushed through to Writer and threw his arms around her. The top of his head still only came up to her nose but his shoulders and arms seemed even bigger than they had before. She still stared at the dragon, over Keeper’s head. ‘I know, Burp’s gotten big, hasn’t he.’
‘You’re looking strong, too,’ Writer said to him, holding him out at arm’s length.
‘Been working in the forge every day.’ Keeper shrugged. ‘I’m so happy to see you. How did you get away from Bede?’
‘Bede died,’ she said. ‘In a ball of fire. Cedd, also.’
‘Oh,’ Keeper said. ‘Poor Bede.’
‘Poor Bede?’ Weaver said. ‘Are you joking?’
‘I know he wasn’t nice or anything,’ Keeper said. ‘But he did sort of give us these powers. And if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t ever have met Burp, would I?’
She expected Weaver to bite Keeper’s head off but instead she took a big shuddering breath and sighed. ‘Yeah,’ she said.
Archer put his arm round Weaver’s shoulders. Weaver did not shrug him off.
Watching them, Writer felt that she had been away from her friends for too long. She had missed out on things that she did not understand. She felt almost like an outsider.
She knew that she should tell them about the Elixir of Life. She should tell them of the possibility that they were cursed to stay children for many years and possibly never have children of their own. But she hoped that Bede truly had perf
ected his version of the Elixir. There should be none of those negative effects. In fact, there could be other powers that it had imbued in them. Either way, time would tell so it was best to keep the knowledge to herself.
‘What do we do now?’ Keeper asked Archer. ‘Should we run away with everyone else?’
‘We’ll fall back,’ Archer agreed, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. ‘We need to get away. Get away from all of this. Get back to the Vale.’
‘We must get away,’ Writer agreed. ‘But not to the Vale.’
‘We’re not going anywhere without oxen or carthorses,’ Keeper said, looking over his shoulder at Burp. ‘Winstanley and Susan want some to pull their travelling garden but they said Burp’s wagon has to come first. They want to get out of here, too. It’s not safe for them anymore, no matter what happens. They have to go be with the other Diggers, probably in London.’
‘What happened to the last lot?’ Archer asked. ‘The ones that brought your wagons here.’
‘The oxen were panicked by the earth shaking,’ Keeper said. ‘They bolted.’
‘There’s Cromwell,’ Weaver said, her voice flat, nodding towards the flow of men.
Writer saw a big man in plain clothing on a powerful horse riding toward them across the field, through the mass of men. There were dozens of officers and soldiers riding with him. Cromwell and the others were filthy and looked grim indeed. In fact, Cromwell looked furious.
‘There they are,’ Cromwell cried, riding toward the wagons.
‘Archer,’ Weaver muttered.
‘Don’t worry,’ Archer said to her. ‘We won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘Captain Smith and his men are there,’ Weaver said.
‘Ignore them,’ Archer said.
The burly man flung himself off his horse right in front of them. His men stayed mounted behind him, the other side of the parked wagons. The stream of soldiers continued around them. The men stared at their leader, no doubt wondering whether they had truly been defeated.
‘General Cromwell,’ Archer said, stepping slightly in front of Weaver, one hand clutching the rifle strap over his shoulder.
‘You are all alive,’ General Cromwell said. He had a big face and a big nose and big, country voice. ‘Captain Archer, what happened to you all? What happened to my blasted left flank? None of these fools can tell me what was going on.’