Fire Girl

by Matt Ralphs

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hazel said. ‘She never told me, even though I asked her loads of times.’ A fiery anger welled up within her as she thought of all the secrets her mother had kept. Clearly she didn’t trust me at all.

  The further Hazel went, the more cramped the tunnel became, forcing her to stoop even lower. Stinging sweat ran into her eyes. The treacle-thick air was getting harder to breathe. Something creaked close by; it sounded like a noose being twisted. A coil of fear tightened in her stomach. Vines pulsed, drawing closer together, shutting out the last glimmers of light.

  ‘Bramley?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did those vines move because I disturbed them, or . . . ?’

  ‘Or . . . ?’

  ‘Or did they move on their own accord?’ Hazel glanced over her shoulder. ‘I can’t see the way back,’ she said. ‘The passage has closed up.’

  ‘Then stop bleating and move.’

  ‘It’s swallowing us,’ she moaned, turning on the spot. ‘The Hedge knows we’re here. It isn’t going to let us out. We’re trapped—’

  With the sound of a whip crack, a vine lashed out and sliced her cheek. Hazel fell backwards with a cry.

  ‘Hazel,’ Bramley squeaked, tugging her ear. ‘For pity’s sake, run!’

  Fear gave Hazel the strength to shove her way through the criss-crossed web of vines, but she knew she would not get far. The Hedge had them in its grip and wasn’t going to let them go.

  We’re going to die in here, she thought, her breath coming in panicked gasps.

  Brambles tangled in her hair and snaked around her throat. She squealed as a root emerged from the ground and wrapped itself around her ankle, sending her sprawling face first to the ground. She lay in the suffocating darkness as the constricting weave of brambles closed in, gulping and squirming like an eel on a dried-up riverbed. The bramble around her neck drew tight, biting into her skin.

  ‘I can’t . . . breathe . . .’

  Bramley scuttled out from her hair and pinched the tip of her nose with his claws. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Use your fire-magic – it’s our only chance.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Hazel wheezed. ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Think back, how did you feel when you first let the fire out?’

  Hazel closed her eyes, remembering . . . ‘Anger. I felt so angry.’

  ‘Then feel it again.’

  ‘I . . . I’m too afraid.’

  Bramley’s fur ignited and the brambles flinched away from the heat. ‘So you’re giving up?’ he said. ‘Pathetic. Look at you – call yourself a Wielder?’ Hazel yelped as he pinched her nose again. ‘You’re nothing but a silly little girl. Your mother’s better off without you.’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Not until you fight!’

  Hazel screamed with rage as magic erupted from her skin, lighting up the darkness and burning the vines away. Eyes wide and shining, Bramley clambered back into her hair.

  ‘That’s it, witch-child, burn it all down.’

  Hazel struggled to her feet, breathing hard. Wreathed in flames and smoke, she took a step forward, then another. Foliage melted away as she advanced, whipping back into the shadows to escape her fury. Snake-like roots retreated underground, leaves quivered and burned to ash.

  ‘Come on, Hazel,’ Bramley cried. ‘We’re nearly there. Don’t give up now.’

  Hazel staggered on, feeling her anger wane, her flames turning red like dying embers in a hearth, until, with a final effort she forced her head and shoulders through the scorched leaves and out into the open. Gasping for air, she dragged her legs clear of the Hedge and flopped on to the ground. As her eyes rolled up in their sockets, the final flames around her guttered and went out.

  5

  BEYOND THE HEDGE

  After the Witch War, England’s witches fled to the

  wild parts of the land. It is best to avoid such places,

  unless travelling with adequate protection.

  The Prudent Traveller by Gerhardt Ohler

  ‘Wake up, Hazel, wake up. There’s something coming.’ Hazel forced her eyes to open. Wet, cold and covered in scratches, it took her a moment to realize she was in a forest, lying half submerged in a pile of damp leaves by the towering Border Hedge.

  A creaking roof of interlocking branches arched high overhead. Shafts of grey light cut through the leaves to the forest floor, and lumps of fungi like melted wax clung to tree trunks, glowing with an eerie green light. The air was heavy with mist, but at least the rain had stopped.

  ‘How long was I asleep?’ Hazel mumbled.

  ‘Hours,’ Bramley said, fidgeting by her ear. ‘I thought you’d never wake up. Now hide, for goodness sake.’

  Hazel winced as she stood up. ‘Oh, my poor head . . . it’s pounding. And my mouth tastes of ashes. I didn’t know using magic would be so painful.’ She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders. ‘I’m outside the Glade. I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘Stop being so dozy and listen to me,’ Bramley yelled, giving her ear a nip. ‘Something’s coming. Can’t you smell it?’

  Hazel sniffed; under the smell of earth and leaves drifted the unmistakable tang of blood. ‘The demon – it’s come back.’ Her skin crawled.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ Bramley said. ‘Now hide before it finds you.’

  Hazel limped across the clearing, searching for somewhere to conceal herself.

  ‘In there, in there,’ Bramley squeaked – tugging her ear until she spotted the hollow trunk of an ancient oak tree.

  She ducked inside and out of sight. Insects crawled through the flaky wood as Hazel put her eye to an empty knothole and peered out. Leaves drifted down and settled on the ground. The forest held its breath. Silence fell.

  Hazel stifled a gasp as something moved through the mist and stopped by the Border Hedge. The smell of blood caught in her throat, making her gag.

  It’s here . . . she thought, pressing a hand against her mouth.

  Through the knothole she saw a bulbous, eyeless head, raised high and waving left and right as though sniffing the air. A pinkish ridge of bone ran from its shoulders and down its spine to a gristly spike of tail. Hazel watched with horrified fascination as it loped on all fours towards the Hedge, exposed muscles bunching and stretching.

  ‘Rawhead, wait.’ It was a man’s voice – something Hazel had never heard before.

  The demon stopped and turned its blank face towards the speaker. A tall figure swept into the clearing, face hidden by a dark hood. A cloak of black feathers, shining like an oil slick, brushed the ground as he passed the tree.

  He must be the demon’s handler, Hazel thought.

  As the man knelt down next to the demon and draped a pale arm over its neck, Hazel saw that his right thumb was missing.

  ‘I need the girl alive and unharmed, just like her mother,’ said the man, stroking the demon’s jaw. ‘And bring Hecate’s familiar too, if you can find it. The ginger cat.’ He moved his mouth to within inches of the demon’s face. ‘Try to refrain from eating it.’

  With a thrust of its legs, the demon was gone, swallowed up by the Hedge. Bramley shuddered, his trembling whiskers tickling Hazel’s ear.

  The man stood up; for a moment his gaze fell on the oak tree. Hazel looked into eyes so black they looked like empty sockets. Then he turned and seeped back through the trees like smoke in the dark.

  Hazel slumped to her knees, her heart racing.

  ‘Come on,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Time, I think, to go.’

  6

  WYCHWOOD

  ‘The full might of the Order of Witch Hunters is set

  to fall like a hammer on the witches of England.’

  Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell

  Hazel ran through the forest, leaping over roots, ducking under branches and bursting through drifts of leaves. She might have run forever if she hadn’t tripped and fallen flat on her face. Bramley rolled o
ff her shoulder, squeaking with each bounce.

  ‘Have you always been so clumsy?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Only when I’m running away from a demon,’ Hazel said, wiping mud from her face. She looked around to ensure they were not being pursued. The mist had evaporated and above, through the swaying branches, was a bright blue sky. Her spirits lifted at the sight.

  ‘That man,’ she said. ‘Who do you think he was?’

  ‘I’ve been shaken about so badly I can hardly think straight,’ Bramley huffed.

  ‘If he’s keeping Ma alive he must need her for something. And he came back for me and Tom.’

  ‘The demon-thing can eat that horrible cat for all I care.’

  ‘Bramley!’ scolded Hazel. ‘I know you don’t mean that.’ She scratched her nose thoughtfully. ‘What possible use could I be to anyone?’

  ‘I’m racking my brains,’ Bramley muttered.

  ‘Wait a second!’ Hazel leaped to her feet. ‘If we follow them – they might lead us to Ma. We have to go back.’

  ‘Are you totally mad?’ Bramley said. ‘How long do you think it’ll take that demon to catch you? I wouldn’t give a rotten acorn for your chances.’

  ‘Well, what other choice is there?’ The curls of her red hair started to smoulder.

  ‘There are always other choices. You’re just not giving yourself a chance to think of them.’

  ‘If I wait I might lose her forever—’

  ‘Listen,’ Bramley said, his whiskers twitching in agitation. ‘When that demon discovers you’ve left the Glade it’s going to come looking for you, and you’ll be no good to your mother if you’re captured too. We need to get as far away as possible and then think of a plan. I for one have no intention of becoming demon food – if it’s all the same to you.’

  Hazel’s shoulders slumped. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said in a shaky voice.

  ‘I usually am. Now pick me up. You’ve got walking to do. And pick some berries as you go. I’m starving.’

  Wet leaves squelched under Hazel’s feet as she wandered further into the forest. After years of tramping over the same hills and meadows in the Glade, it felt strange to be somewhere new, a place not hemmed in by boundaries.

  Bramley had been very quiet for the last hour or so. Hazel peered into her pocket and found him curled up into a ball. She poked him with a finger.

  ‘Wassat? Wha? What?’ mumbled Bramley.

  ‘Are you sleeping?’

  ‘No,’ sniffed the mouse. ‘Well, maybe. We’ve been walking for hours. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s been walking for hours,’ said Hazel. ‘And I’ve come up with a plan, if you can stay awake for long enough to listen to it?’

  ‘Go on then,’ Bramley said.

  ‘We’re going to find Blind Mary,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Who’s Blind Mary?’

  ‘A good friend of Ma’s. She’s a Wielder too, very old and clever. Going a bit doolally, to be honest, but I know we can trust her.’

  ‘She sounds splendid,’ Bramley said. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘In the forest.’

  ‘This forest?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hazel said, turning on the spot and peering through the trackless trees.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where exactly?’

  ‘Er, well . . . no.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Bramley shook his head.

  Hazel tapped him on the nose. ‘That’s enough, mouse. Now,’ she continued as Bramley sulked, ‘all we need to do is find someone who knows where she lives. There must be a farm or town nearby. The first thing to do is get out of this forest.’

  ‘But which way do we go?’ Bramley shimmied up Hazel’s cloak and gripped on to her ear.

  Hazel grinned and pointed up. ‘We climb the tallest tree we can find and take a look.’

  ‘Wonderful. Just wonderful,’ groaned Bramley.

  ‘That one looks easy to climb,’ she said, pointing to a copper-leaf beech tree.

  ‘I think the most sensible thing would be for me to stay down here.’

  ‘Scared?’ Hazel asked, hauling herself on to the lowest branch.

  ‘Certainly not! I was . . . er . . . just thinking that if I was on the ground, I could catch you if you fell.’

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ Hazel laughed. ‘But don’t worry, I won’t fall. I used to go climbing in the Glade all the time. I’m like a squirrel.’

  Bramley gripped her ear even tighter. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But for goodness sake, stop talking and concentrate.’

  The sunlight brightened as Hazel wormed her way through the branches until, panting for breath, she poked her head through a gap in the leaves. A breeze brushed her face, carrying with it the distant rattle of a woodpecker. Wychwood shimmered in the sun, rolling and swaying like an ocean. Leaves hissed like waves on shingle, branches creaked like masts.

  ‘Oh, Bramley, it’s beautiful!’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he replied. ‘Just tell me what you see.’

  ‘Treetops as far as the horizon, green and copper and red. The sun feels wonderful. There’s a grey haze over there. Hills or mountains, maybe? Storm clouds, perhaps?’ She twisted round, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. ‘Is England just one big forest? Wait, I see something . . .’

  ‘What?’

  With great care, Hazel braced her knee on the wobbling branch and stood up, clinging to the tree trunk to steady herself.

  ‘Hazel!’ Bramley squeaked, his eyes popping open with fright. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I need a better look.’ She pointed to where the forest sloped down into a valley. A river wound through the trees like a silver thread, and beyond rose a column of black smoke.

  ‘That’s where we should go,’ Hazel said. ‘Towards the fire.’

  ‘That smoke is miles off,’ Bramley said. ‘We’re sure to get lost.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Hazel replied, ‘because I have another plan.’

  ‘Oh, joy.’ Bramley sighed. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘We follow the moss.’

  7

  THE WOODSMAN

  Anyone found harbouring witches, knowingly or not,

  will face the full vengeance of the law.

  Amendment to the Witch Laws, passed in 1651

  By the time Hazel had scrambled to the ground, the sun was high and the forest streaked with columns of light. Birds chattered all around, fluttering busily in the leaves.

  ‘This way,’ Hazel said, and set off through the trees.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Bramley asked.

  ‘I would have thought a wise forest creature like you would know all of nature’s secrets,’ Hazel said as she hopped over a foaming stream.

  ‘I know what I need to know, and that’s enough for me,’ Bramley huffed.

  Hazel stopped by a gnarled old ash tree. ‘Look at the moss on the trunk. Notice anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about on that one?’ she said, pointing to a chestnut tree.

  Bramley stared hard. ‘Well, there’s moss on both of them.’

  ‘Yes, and what does it have in common?’

  ‘It’s green?’

  ‘Ye-es. Anything else?’

  ‘Ah! It’s only growing on one side.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Hazel said. ‘Moss only grows on the north side of a tree, and the smoke column is in the same direction. So to get there I’m following the moss. Clever, right? Blind Mary taught me that.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Bramley tugged her ear. ‘You know, there’re other things you need to be doing besides tramping through the forest.’

  Hazel hopped over a tree root. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like using your brain. We need to work out why that man and his demon took your mother. Tell me about her. What do you know of her life before you were born?’

  ‘Not much.’ Hazel frowned. ‘She never told me about it.’

  ‘And why did she never
let you out of the Glade?’

  ‘I don’t know. I asked and asked but she always said I was too young – that she would tell me when the time was right. She was just about to when—’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’ Bramley said. ‘You were trapped, a prisoner, kept away from the world. Why would she do that to you?’

  A flash of anger made heat pulse through Hazel’s veins. ‘Stop asking me questions I can’t answer.’

  ‘Perhaps that man and his horrible demon are the reason she created the Glade?’ Bramley said. ‘Maybe she was just trying to protect you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Hazel replied. ‘But she could have trusted me with the truth. I wish she had. Then maybe we’d have some idea about how to save her.’

  Hazel pressed on, mind whirring, stopping only once to rest her aching legs and eat some bread and cheese. By the time she emerged from the forest the sun had set, leaving a bloody smear on the horizon. Freshly cut tree stumps poked sadly through the ground and lopped branches lay stacked in piles. The air smelt of sap and sawdust.

  Hazel unslung her bag and perched on a felled tree trunk. ‘We did it,’ she said, pointing further down the valley. ‘Look, we’ve found a town.’

  Huddled in a bend in the river was a walled village. A column of dense black smoke drifted from an open square in the middle.

  ‘I hope there’ll be apples there,’ Bramley said.

  A crown of stars glittered in the pitch-black sky; after the shelter of the forest, Hazel suddenly felt small and exposed. She bit her lip. Am I ready for this? she wondered. I don’t know anything about towns or people.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last – as much to Bramley as to herself. ‘I supposed we’d better get down there and see what we shall see.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

  The gruff voice came from behind her. Startled, Hazel leaped to her feet. A man in rough clothes and a hat that shaded his eyes was sitting on the ground with his back against a tree trunk. An axe lay across his lap.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Demon got your tongue?’