Witch Silver

by Anne Forbes

  It was there that Neil gripped Clara’s arm. “Don’t look in the trees,” he whispered, his voice tight with excitement. “There are witches there. They’re not dressed in black, like the one we saw in the house, though. This lot are in grey and, you know, I think Mum was right about them — they do seem to be looking for something.”

  They felt the wind strengthen as they entered the copse where the witches, intent on their task, moved from tree to tree on their broomsticks, delving deep into broken trunks and kicking aside piles of leaves.

  Pretending that he couldn’t see them, Neil picked up a stone and threw it idly into the stream but all the time he was watching them from the corner of his eye. The witches, however, safe in the knowledge that they were invisible, ignored them completely and it was only when Neil heard his mother’s voice calling them inside that he grasped Clara’s arm.

  “Come on,” he whispered, “I don’t know what they’re looking for but we’d better leave them to it.”

  Clara nodded, her eyes alight with excitement as she met Neil’s glance. It looked as though life in the country wasn’t going to be half as dull as they’d expected …

  5. Magic at Midnight

  The luminous hands of Neil’s watch showed that it was well after ten before it got truly dark. He shifted uneasily in his hiding place at the edge of the wheat field wishing he’d chosen somewhere more comfortable for cover than a break in a hedge that seemed full of sharp, stabbing twigs that kept tangling in his hair. Not only that, he thought, rubbing a painful sting on his hand, there seemed to be an awful lot of nettles about.

  Knowing that he was just going to have to put up with it, he sighed, hugged his knees to his chest and looking round, marvelled at the difference that nightfall made. The comfortable outline of hills, trees and the faraway glimpse of a country road running between stone dykes had long since melted away and he felt suddenly alone as the darkness deepened.

  Time passed slowly. Waiting, he thought, was the most boring occupation and the feeling of tense excitement he’d felt when he and his dad had arrived was beginning to evaporate. The farmer had been brief in his directions. He’d already paired everyone off and as they’d moved away in different directions to their allotted posts, Neil wondered where he’d be put. He’d no idea where the Three Acre field was or Broad Meadow, where his father had been sent, but his ears pricked up at the mention of a place called Witches’ Wood. More witches, he thought interestedly …

  “You, me and Robbie will cover the Home Field,” Jimmy MacFarlane said to Neil when all the men had left. “It’s the one nearest to the farmhouse. I want to be around if anyone’s caught!”

  Neil found himself a space in the hedge at the top of the field and watched as Robbie disappeared downhill into a fringe of trees near the road. Jimmy, himself, settled down near the gate where a huge combine harvester loomed in the fading light.

  Trying to stay alert, Neil peered into the surrounding darkness but the huge field of wheat was only ever visible when the pale light of the moon appeared fitfully through the clouds. He looked again at the gleaming dial of his watch. Only half an hour had passed but it seemed like ages.

  It was just when Neil had decided that nothing at all was going to happen that he heard a strange swishing noise. So low was it at first that he hardly noticed it but as it grew louder and closer, he sat up, excitement thrilling through him. There was no wind and yet the noise was that of rustling corn. Peering anxiously into the darkness, he couldn’t see a thing and sat for a moment, undecided. It’d be awful if he started a false alarm. Better, he thought, to tell the farmer.

  Getting quietly to his feet, he left his hiding place carefully and walking through soft patches of nettles made his way silently towards the gate. “Mr MacFarlane,” he whispered. The darkness was absolute and there didn’t seem to be anyone there. “Mr MacFarlane,” he whispered again, louder this time. Still no one.

  The wood of the gate felt rough under his hands and he wondered frantically what to do. If he shouted, he’d scare the people off and yet he couldn’t tackle them on his own. Maybe Mr MacFarlane had gone into the farmhouse …

  Neil was halfway over the gate when the moon appeared from among the clouds, lighting the cornfield in its silvery gleam. He froze and, moving slowly so as not to attract attention, turned to see if he could see how many people were in the field; for the swishing, swooshing noise was now quite distinct.

  As his eyes scanned the scene, he choked back a gasp of surprise for as far as he could see, there was no one there at all. The moonlight lit the field quite clearly and from his perch on the gate, he could see over its entire expanse. And it was scary; for although there was no one there, the wheat was alive with movement, swaying gently in places as though involved in some elaborate dance. It moved and dipped and flattened itself with no one there to touch it — no one that he could see, at any rate. Neil’s mouth went dry as the corn beside the gate started to move and form fantastic shapes …

  And there are no witches, he thought, suddenly. There are no witches. I’m wearing my firestone and I’d see them if there were. This is magic …

  Hastily he clambered over the top of the gate and ran to the farmhouse. To his relief, he met the farmer coming out of the door.

  “What’s up, Neil? Is there someone in the field?”

  Neil shook his head. “There’s no one in the field,” he whispered, his voice shaking with excitement. “The crop’s moving on its own …”

  Jimmy MacFarlane heard the alarm in Neil’s voice and grasped him reassuringly by the arm. “Calm down, laddie,” he whispered. “Let’s go and see.”

  As they approached the gate, however, the moon sailed behind the clouds once more and the blackness of night covered the field.

  “If you come into the field you can see where the crop’s been flattened,” Neil whispered urgently, for he didn’t want Jimmy MacFarlane to think him a silly town kid, afraid of the dark.

  “I can do better than that, Neil,” came the grim answer. “Just wait here.”

  MacFarlane turned to the huge bulk of the combine harvester that sat by the gate and, climbing into the cab, turned the engine on. The sound shattered the night and all the men in the surrounding fields looked up at the noise of it. They knew immediately what it was.

  Neil had almost had a heart attack at the sudden roar of the engine. Then there was a blaze of light that lit up the whole area. Of course, thought Neil as the farmer jumped down, they need lights so that they can work at night.

  He rushed to the gate and clambered up, standing to get a good view over the field. MacFarlane climbed up beside him and gasped as he realized that the boy hadn’t been imagining things at all. The whole field was moving, and moving with a purpose. He could see patterns taking shape before his eyes without a soul being there to form them.

  Neil was conscious of the rest of the farm workers rushing up in a straggling crowd and heard their cries of amazement as they, too, watched the designs weave themselves among the stalks of the wheat.

  “Look!” Neil shouted in sudden horror. “Look!” he pointed down the field to where the trees verged on the road. “Robbie’s going into the field!”

  Robbie, fascinated by the movement of the wheat, had moved from the shelter of the trees into the crop itself. Gripped by a fearful sense of dread, they watched him as he walked here and there, grasping at the stalks of wheat as they whipped themselves into sweeping curves or flattened themselves to the earth.

  “Get him out of there, Jimmy,” John MacLean said urgently, pushing his way through the farmhands to the gate, “now, at once.”

  Neil looked at his father in astonishment and then, as his firestone turned suddenly heavy, understood his concern. There was big magic around. Magic that he had never known before. He gritted his teeth hard and clenched his fists to stop himself gasping at the pain of it. His firestone! It was so … dreadfully … heavy! Sweat beaded his forehead as he fought an all consuming urge to throw
himself to the ground and bury himself deep in the earth.

  “Get yourself out of there, Robbie,” Jimmy MacFarlane bawled down the length of the field. “Right now, do you hear me!”

  It was too late. They watched in horror as Robbie seemed to straighten and stretch before crumpling to the ground, disappearing from view into the waving wheat.

  Some of the men made to clamber over the gate to run to his rescue but John MacLean’s voice stopped them short.

  “Wait,” he said, in a voice of iron. “It’s not over yet.” And although he had no authority over them whatsoever, every man fell back and obeyed.

  Neil felt like screaming. His firestone seemed to be dragging him to the ground. He felt his father’s hand grip his arm strongly and knew that he, too, was struggling to stay upright. Then, suddenly, just as the intricate pattern was completed and the wheat stopped swaying, the pressure eased. Neil gulped and straightened thankfully, conscious that Jimmy MacFarlane was watching him strangely.

  “Look! What’s that light?” one of the men shouted, pointing to a darkened area away from the harvester’s blazing lights.

  “It’s not the harvester,” another agreed.

  “Turn the lights out,” MacFarlane shouted to one of the men who’d been watching the field from the cab of the machine.

  The dazzling lights went out and as their eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness they were able to see the strange yellow glow that bathed the field. Neil stiffened and looked up at his father.

  Someone from the world of magic was watching the field through a crystal ball.

  6. Plots and Plans

  “The Earth Witches are making a great show of mourning my daughter’s death,” Lord Jezail remarked, indicating the intricate patterns wrought in the cornfield. “Have I miscounted, or does that make seven of them in all?”

  “It does, milord,” Count Vassili bowed his head and looked suitably solemn as the eye of crystal travelled slowly over the field.

  Lord Jezail scowled. “Is that all you have to say?” he snapped.

  Vassili eyed his master in some surprise. “But, surely the witches have done more than is required, milord,” he pointed out after a moment’s hesitation. “The Queen of the Earth Witches is a relative, after all,” he pointed out diplomatically, “and it’s natural that she would want to honour Lady Merial’s memory.”

  “Maritza! Honour her memory!” Lord Jezail almost spat, “when she was as mad as fire at not getting the talisman!”

  “But she was her cousin,” Vassili pointed out, “and it’s understandable that she’d expect to inherit it …”

  “If Merial wasn’t going to leave the talisman to the witches then she should have sent it straight back to me!” Jezail muttered angrily. “She’s made a mess of the whole affair!”

  “Don’t I know it,” the count said feelingly, for keeping tabs on the witches was proving an absolute nightmare.”

  Lord Jezail drew his cloak round him and flung himself back in his vast chair. “Well, we can’t give up now,” he said petulantly. “We must be ready to take it from the witches whenever they find it! They must never be allowed to keep it.”

  Count Vassili listened with a sinking heart, knowing that he would probably moan on about it for the rest of the night. Finding the talisman would only be the start for Lord Jezail nursed many grudges, both real and imagined. Indeed, there were occasions when Vassili thought that his master was more than slightly mad. He’d once boasted about a hex he’d put on Prince Casimir and Prince Kalman when they’d visited Ashgar. Vassili shuddered at the thought. Indeed he’d been so disturbed by it that he’d almost decided to return to his father’s estate at Trollsberg. Then there had been the disastrous Firestar affair when the whole world of magic had been put at risk. Not for the first time, he wondered if the Lords of the North had ever suspected anything …

  Lord Jezail looked at him suspiciously. “Very quiet all of a sudden, aren’t you,” he snapped.

  “Milord …” Count Vassili’s heels clicked together as he bowed low, his blue eyes lifting to meet the hard, black stare of his master. Cold eyes, devoid of feeling; they were the shade of blue that one sometimes glimpses in the depths of ice: the eyes of a wolf.

  Lord Jezail held his gaze and calmed himself. Vassili was generally so agreeable that he tended to forget that he was of the Onegin, the wolf people, who lived in the very north of Ashgar near the Russian border. Vassili came from quite a distinguished family of magicians and although his parents had sent him to Stara Zargana as an apprentice, his magic had, somehow, never seemed to amount to much …

  This seeming lack of talent was actually deliberate on Vassili’s part as he had been quick to realize that Lord Jezail disliked competition of any sort. And it suited him to stay and browse through the vast library of magic books that, until his arrival, had lain untouched for centuries in the library of the citadel.

  His master tapped the arm of his chair with restless fingers, his mind still on the talisman. “Merial must have hidden it well,” he muttered discontentedly. “I really thought the witches would have found it by now.”

  Vassili sighed, for although his master spent the odd ten minutes studying the crystal, the tedious job of monitoring the witches had fallen mostly to him and he was heartily sick of it. “The trouble is, milord, that the witches aren’t really all that bright,” he pointed out. “They’re looking in the most ridiculous places. The Wind Witches are searching the trees and bushes, the Earth Witches the rabbit holes and the Snow Witches are having to merge with birds and animals to do their work! Quite frankly, if they go on at this rate, it’ll take them years to find it.”

  “Years?” Jezail looked startled.

  Vassili smiled ruefully. “Well, maybe not years,” he admitted, “but the truth is, milord, that at the moment they’re just wasting their time!”

  Lord Jezail sat back in his huge, carved chair pondering Vassili’s words and, eyeing his aide speculatively, looked suddenly thoughtful. It was a look that Vassili knew well and his expression became wary.

  Lord Jezail’s eyes gleamed. “All this is taking too long,” he said, gesturing towards the crystal. “I’m too old to search for it myself and I’ve no intention of waiting for years until the witches find it. There’s only one thing for it, Vassili! You will have to go and look for me!”

  Vassili bowed and tried not to look surprised. The relief was enormous. To go to Scotland on his own! It was by no means the nightmare scenario he’d envisaged. Nevertheless, it was polite to protest and his voice was concerned as urged his master to accompany him.

  “The change would do you good, milord,” he pointed out, “and you could always stay with the MacArthurs or the Lords of the North?” He said this, knowing perfectly well that while his master might agree to staying with the MacArthurs, he would never go anywhere near Morven.

  Lord Jezail looked at him arrogantly. “I’ve no wish to stay with either the Lords of the North or the MacArthurs,” he said sharply. “You will go on your own and bring me back the talisman.”

  “It won’t be easy, milord,” Vassili protested somewhat anxiously. “After all, the witches have had no luck so far and quite frankly, I might not do much better. Er … don’t you have any idea where your daughter might have hidden it?” he enquired.

  “None whatsoever,” his master said unhelpfully, “and from the way the witches are setting about it, it would seem that they haven’t a clue either,” he muttered, turning once more to the crystal ball. “The only sensible thing they did was search Merial’s house from top to bottom. Maritza, though,” Lord Jezail continued, “might be on to something. I told you, didn’t I? She’s taken a job at Netherfield, the school Merial used to work in. It’s an old building so there must be plenty of hiding places.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Vassili nodded, looking suddenly interested. “How big is the school?”

  “See for yourself … There it is.” Jezail tilted the eye of the crystal to rev
eal a sprawling, turreted building that stood in its own grounds amid trees and playing fields.

  “Maritza might well be on to something there,” Vassili admitted, looking suddenly hopeful. “Could you arrange for them to need a … a German teacher, perhaps?”

  Lord Jezail looked at him sourly. “If that’s what you want …”

  Count Vassili nodded. “It would be ideal, for as a member of staff I’d have access to all parts of the school. And let’s just say that I have a feeling that Maritza might know something that the others don’t,” he added shrewdly. “Your daughter was, after all, her cousin.”

  7. Surprising News

  “The MacLeans are on their way,” Jaikie said, looking up from a crystal ball that showed the green slopes of Arthur’s Seat and the Ranger’s cottage that lay just inside the great gates of Holyrood Park. “They’ve just left their cottage, and Neil and Clara are with them.”

  The MacArthur nodded and Arthur, the great red dragon that curled beside his chair, blew a cloud of smoke down his nostrils that set everybody coughing. Like the MacArthurs, he was very fond of the Park Ranger and his family and had been devastated to hear that they were leaving their cottage to live in the Borders. Over the years they’d had some very exciting adventures together and they’d all got used to having the children drop in on their magic carpets just for a chat.

  “Give over, Arthur,” Archie muttered, flapping his hands. “It isn’t all that long since you’ve seen Neil and Clara.”

  “It is,” Arthur disagreed. “It’s weeks since they left.”

  “Well, here they are now,” Hamish announced a few minutes later, rising to his feet as four magic carpets soared from a side tunnel into the vast, richly-decorated cavern that lay inside Arthur’s Seat. The carpets swooped in, one after the other, to hover beside a raised dais where the MacArthur sat, a small but regal figure, on a huge, elaborately carved chair piled high with cushions.