by Matt Ralphs
‘We do indeed. It suits the needs of two freelance Witch Finders. It may be small but it has everything we require.’
The horses raised their heads as Hazel approached; she barely came up to their knees. She had never seen horses before and was strangely comforted by their quiet strength and earthy smell. She laughed as one of them whickered and sniffed at her neck.
‘Begone, beast!’ Bramley yelped.
‘What was that noise?’ David said.
Hazel froze. ‘What noise?’
‘A sort of squeaking, like a mouse.’ He frowned at her. ‘Was it you?’
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Hazel said, anxious to change the subject. ‘Come on, introduce me to your beautiful horses.’
David shrugged. ‘Hazel, meet Hercules and Ajax,’ he said. ‘They seem to approve of you, so that’s a good sign. Most of the money we earn goes on their food, but without them we’d be stuck – quite literally. Best horses in England, aren’t you, boys?’
Hazel circled the wagon, running her fingers over the flaking red paint. The wood panels and ornate iron edging were pitted and scratched, and in some places had been burned. It looked as if the wagon had been driven through a battle and only just made it to the other side. A crooked chimney issuing smoke poked out from the roof like a mushroom.
The narrow arched windows and grotesque gargoyles leering from each corner gave it the look of a miniature gothic cathedral – albeit one with a dragon-shaped swivel cannon mounted on the roof.
David opened the back door and climbed up the steps. ‘Come in; close the door behind you.’ He bent down by a pot-bellied stove and gave the embers a stoke. ‘You’ll soon warm up in here.’
Hazel gawped at the cluttered interior. Lanterns cast a buttery glow on the walls and arched ceiling. Labelled trunks were stacked in piles: ‘Tools and Accoutrements’, ‘Powders and Tinctures’, ‘Traps and Snares’, and one mysteriously called ‘Misc’. Half-open drawers overflowed with clothes and blankets.
A barrel stood in one corner, stuffed with rolls of parchment – maps, Hazel guessed – a brace of swords, a musket and a huge soup ladle. On the far wall was a workbench strewn with tools, doubling as a step to a hatch leading out to the driver’s seat.
She perched on the lower bunk bed and examined shelves and cabinets filled with books, papers and scrolls. What a wondrous mess, she thought, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and stew.
‘Can you see any apples?’ Bramley whispered, having settled in his usual place behind her left ear.
Hazel jumped as what she thought was a misshapen pile of hairy cushions in front of the fire turned out to be shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. He opened a brown eye and appraised Hazel in a friendly way before clambering to his feet and giving her a thorough sniff. She endured the examination, mindful that the dog was nearly as tall as she was.
‘Don’t worry about Samson,’ David said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. ‘He may be as big as a pony, but he’s got a heart of gold.’ Samson gave Hazel’s face an appreciative lick. ‘There, see? He likes you.’
A shadow appeared by the door. ‘Never mind the dog, boy.’ Titus glared at David, his eyes glittering behind a curtain of straggly hair. ‘Where the devil’s my hip flask?’
‘You’ve only just got out of gaol,’ David said. ‘Now is not the time for drinking.’
‘Hip flask!’
Hazel flinched as Titus banged his fist against the doorframe, causing a painting of a sailing ship to crash to the ground.
‘Have you tried your hip pocket?’ David said with a sigh.
‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I tried . . .’ Titus felt in his pocket and withdrew a battered flask. He downed the contents in one swallow.
‘Boss, listen, we’ve got a job. Paid work.’
‘Work? What work?’
David spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Hazel’s mother has been kidnapped by bandits in the forest. She’s employed us to find her.’
The furrows on Titus’s brow deepened. ‘Hazel?’ he said. ‘Who in the devil’s bloody name is Hazel?’
David rolled his eyes.
‘I am,’ Hazel said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘And you, Mr White, owe me an apology.’
David stared at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. Hazel ignored him, giving the old Witch Finder her fiercest glare.
Slowly, like a bear anticipating a meal, Titus turned his shaggy head towards her. ‘Apologize? What the hell for?’
‘For strangling me,’ she said, cheeks flushing with anger. ‘And calling me a slop-sprite.’
‘Don’t lose your temper,’ Bramley hissed. ‘You’ve got to control your magic. If you don’t, we’re both for the pyres.’
‘You’re still breathing, aren’t you?’ said Titus. ‘And you look like a slop-sprite to me.’ He held out his hand to David. ‘Give me the money.’
‘But . . . it’s all we have left.’
Titus climbed up the steps and loomed over David, who backed away until he fell into a chair. Despite his age, the old Witch Finder was still strong. ‘Money,’ he growled.
David poured a few coins into Titus’s palm. ‘I’m keeping some back,’ he said. ‘We need to eat as well as drink, you know.’
Titus grunted, pocketed the money and barged out of the wagon.
‘The man’s a nightmare,’ Bramley murmured.
‘Is he always like that?’ Hazel asked.
‘Not always,’ David replied.
‘When will he be back? We need to get moving.’
‘He’ll be back as soon as he’s found something to drink,’ David said with a sad smile. He lifted the lid from the stew pot, releasing a rich smell of spiced meat. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
Hazel’s stomach rumbled despite her anxiety. Her meagre meal in the forest seemed a long time ago. ‘Yes, please.’
David ladled stew into two bowls. ‘I’m afraid we can only afford umbles. We’ve been living on the ragged edge of poverty for too long now. Meals are included in your fee, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking a spoonful. ‘It’s pretty good.’ They ate in companionable silence. Hazel glanced at David and noticed that he was trying, without much success, to grow a moustache. She smiled as Samson clambered to his feet and laid his huge slobbery head on her lap.
‘Urgh! What a dreadful beast,’ Bramley whimpered, burrowing deeper into her hair.
Hazel nodded towards a metal contraption propped up on the workbench. It looked like a large soup bowl with delicate brass levers sticking out from the sides. ‘What’s that?’
David picked it up and set it carefully on his lap. It looked heavy. ‘It’s one of the boss’s inventions. He used to make things like this all the time back in the day.’
‘What does it do?’ asked Hazel.
David grinned. ‘It’s a demon trap. We call it the Grinder.’
Hazel looked at the contraption with renewed interest. ‘Will we use it to catch the demon that took my mother?’
‘It depends. The Grinder can only snare lesser demons – daemon-minimus to give them their Latin name. Boggarts, goblins and suchlike. As for bigger demons – Bladecatchers, Gullahtooths – well, they’re another matter entirely.’
‘Oh,’ Hazel said, not really understanding what he was talking about.
‘Let me show you how it works.’ He pointed to the levers. ‘Every type of demon is unique, so the trap needs to be set correctly for the specific demon you want to catch. You tell the Grinder about the demon – weight, height and disposition – by pressing these levers.’
Hazel leaned closer and saw that the levers were inscribed with words like ‘Fat’, ‘Muscular’, ‘Scaly’, ‘Angry’ and ‘Murderous’.
‘Now,’ David said, ‘when the information is collated we press the “Set Trap” lever.’
‘And then?’
‘The Grinder releases an aura that the demon can’t resist—’
‘What’s an aura
?’
David thought for a moment. ‘Well, it’s a bit like a smell, I suppose. Imagine the best smell you can think of.’
Hazel thought of the way her mother smelt of flowers after a day tending the garden, and felt tears prickling behind her eyes.
‘So the demon senses, or smells, the aura and comes running – it can’t help itself.’ David tipped the contraption up so Hazel could see an array of sharp-toothed cogs inside. ‘The demon is snared and pulled inside towards the grinders and then, splat! Its mortal body is destroyed and its soul flung back to the demon world. Well, that’s the theory anyway.’
‘Amazing,’ Hazel said, struggling to understand.
‘It really is. I wish the boss would teach me how to build such things.’
Hazel put her bowl down. The stew had warmed her stomach and her eyelids drooped. As she surrendered to sleep, she was dimly aware of David guiding her to a soft nest of cushions by the fire and covering her with a blanket.
12
DEMONOLOGY
The breed of witch known as Wielders are born
with an innate magical talent, which they can
use to great and usually destructive purpose.
The English Witch Plague by Jacob Sprenger
Hazel woke and tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pressed her to the floor. It took a few panic-stricken moments to realize that Samson had fallen asleep on top of her, so she lay still, letting her heart slow down as the dog gently snored.
‘He doesn’t mind me sharing his bed,’ she muttered, untangling herself from his limbs and brushing dog hairs from her dress. ‘What a good-natured creature he is.’
‘He stinks,’ Bramley said from behind her ear. ‘I could hardly breathe under there.’
Hazel passed Bramley some berries from her pocket, poured a cup of warm milk from a pan on the fire and sat down at the table. The wagon creaked and swayed like a ship rolling on a heavy sea. Clanging pots and rattling dishes created a cacophonous medley that beat time with every lurch.
I must have been exhausted to have slept through that, she thought.
Titus lay collapsed in sleep, his long legs hanging over the edge of the bottom bunk with one boot on and the other discarded on the floor. In his arms he cradled an empty bottle; the air around him reeked of cider. Hazel gave him a cautious prod with her boot but he didn’t stir.
‘What a state he’s in,’ Bramley sniffed. ‘Still, we’re on the move anyway. It’ll be good to leave that awful town behind.’
‘David must have set off when Titus got back.’ Hazel wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and peeked out of the window. ‘I’m glad we met him. I think he’ll be able to help us.’
‘You’re getting gooey-eyed over him.’
‘I’m not getting gooey-eyed,’ Hazel hissed, anxious not to wake Titus.
‘I know I’m right because you’re angry.’
‘Rubbish. It’s the opposite. I’m angry because you’re wrong – as usual. David’s going to help us find Ma and that’s all I care about.’
‘Oh yes?’ Bramley said, leaping on to the table and pointing at the slumbering Titus. ‘And what about him? He’s nothing but a dangerous liability. A drunken Witch Finder with an evil temper.’
‘You’re such a nit-picker,’ Hazel whispered, refusing to admit that Bramley had a point. ‘It’s obvious that David’s the one who’s really in charge.’
‘Mmm, well, the boy seems more capable than his master, I’ll give you that,’ Bramley conceded. ‘But you’ve chosen treacherous allies, Hazel. If they find out you’re a witch . . .’
Hazel scooped Bramley up and held him close to her face. ‘I know. I’ll be careful, all right?’
‘You need to be extra-careful,’ Bramley wagged a claw at her. ‘I’ll be very angry if I get killed because of you.’
‘You’re a huge nag for such a small mouse.’
Bramley jumped into her curly red hair. ‘I do my best,’ came his muffled reply.
Hazel stared out of the window as the wagon rumbled through the darkness. The lantern glow struggled through the whirling fog, lighting up the road and the fields beyond. She was grateful for the fire’s warmth; it looked cold outside.
The hatch above the workbench sprang open so suddenly that Bramley barely managed to hide behind Hazel’s ear in time. He’s pretty nimble for a portly mouse, she thought, trying to keep a straight face as his whiskers tickled her neck.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ David said as he poked his head inside. ‘Had a nice sleep? Good. We’re out of Watley now and heading for Wychwood. Time for us to get to work.’ He pointed to a shelf over Hazel’s head. ‘There’s a book there that might interest you.’
Hazel ran her finger over the leather spines, reading the titles. A History of Witchcraft; Malleus Maleficarum; Famous Trials and Executions; The English Witch Plague; A Wonderful Discovery of Witches.
‘Some of these books were written by Titus,’ she said, glancing over at the snoring old Witch Finder. ‘Spells and Charms – A Study of Benevolent Magic; The Trial and Acquittal of the Opperley Witches; The Persecution of the Wise and Cunning Throughout History.’
‘I know,’ David said. ‘Hard to believe he was capable of such a thing, isn’t it? I’m afraid you’ve met him when he’s rather past his prime.’
Titus twitched, muttered and rolled on to the floor. There was a moment’s silence and then he began snoring again.
‘See what I mean?’ David said. ‘The book you need is called Demonology by Theodore Dreisler. It’s the big black one with the gold foil, next to Le Dragon Rouge. That’s the one.’ Hazel pulled it off the shelf and nearly fell backwards under the weight. ‘Careful, it’s heavy. Come on through the hatch and sit next to me. Bring the book.’
Hazel glanced at Titus. ‘What about . . . ?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him. He’ll be asleep for hours yet.’
Hazel handed the book to David, gave Samson a goodbye scratch behind the ear, then clambered through the hatch and sat down on the driver’s seat. Her breath misted in the air. Bramley curled up at the nape of her neck, radiating heat. She pulled an apple out from her bag and offered it to David.
‘Hey,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘That’s mine!’
‘No, thank you. I can take or leave apples,’ David said. ‘Now, if what you saw really was a demon—’
‘I’ve told you – it was.’
‘Then perhaps you’d like to look through Demonology and see if you can identify it?’
Hazel laid the book on her lap. The smell of foxed paper wafted out as she opened the front cover. A piece of parchment framed with gold had been stuck to the front page:
To Captain Titus White,
England’s Greatest Witch Finder and true Knight of the Road
With thanks from His Royal Highness
King Charles
Charles R.
Patron of the College of Witch Finders
Hazel hoisted the book up and pointed to the page. ‘Titus met the King?’
‘He worked for the King. Titus was one of his closest courtiers,’ David said. ‘But that was before the Witch War and the King’s execution.’
Hazel didn’t want her ignorance of what was probably common knowledge to arouse David’s suspicion, so she dropped the subject and read on. The title page was printed in a bold gothic font:
Intrigued, Hazel turned the page and saw a picture of a hideous creature, carefully outlined in black and coloured with delicate ink washes.
‘Beautiful penmanship, isn’t it?’ David said. ‘Dreisler was a genius. The way he made such ugly creatures look so luminous. Marvellous.’
Hazel didn’t think the frog-like creature with the bloated throat looked luminous; she thought it looked terrifying.
The heading on the page – Shabriri – daemon-minimus – was followed by some introductory text: Shabriri are mischievous toad-like demons that wait near uncovered water. They strike blind and eat those that drink of the water.
She turned the page. A beast with crooked horns and a scorpion’s tail grinned at her. Azazal. Daemon-mediocritas. An insidious demon that invades the hearts of the virtuous, turning their will to its own ends.
Fascinating, frightening, but not the demon she was looking for. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she leafed through one page of horrors after another.
‘We need to pick up the demon’s trail as soon as we can. Can you direct us to where the abduction took place?’
‘No, you can’t,’ Bramley whispered. ‘That horrible hedge is in the way, remember?’
He’s right, Hazel thought. Besides, how can I explain that I spent all my life until yesterday living in a magical Glade protected by an enchanted hedge?
After a moment’s thought, she said, ‘I’m not sure I can. I got lost in the forest and I don’t think I can find my way back.’
‘Pity,’ David said with a frown.
‘Ma never let me go far alone because of Boggarts and wolves and suchlike. So I don’t really know my way around.’
‘Never mind, I’m here to help now,’ David said with an indulgent smile. ‘If you can identify the demon, we can try to work out where he’s most likely to be hiding. Keep looking.’
Flushed with relief, Hazel continued to turn the pages.
‘You and your mother lived alone in the forest?’ David asked.
‘Yes, just the two of us.’
‘A hard life to choose. It must have been lonely.’
‘No, not really. We had each other. And a few friends too,’ she added hurriedly, thinking of Mary and hoping she was safe.
‘Careful, Hazel.’ Bramley squirmed his way closer to her ear. ‘Remember what David is. Don’t give too much away.’
‘And what of your father?’
David’s voice was light, but Hazel heard the curiosity in it. Bramley was right – she needed to be careful.
‘He’s dead,’ she said, surprised at how easily the lie came to her. ‘Killed in the war. I never knew him.’
‘The Witch War?’ David said, looking sidelong at her. ‘Interesting. Did he side with the King and his witches, or Lord Cromwell?’