Fire Girl

by Matt Ralphs

  ‘I can’t find it, Boss,’ David said, an edge of panic in his voice.

  ‘It’s there, under the telescope stand. Hurry up – she’ll incinerate us both if you dither much longer.’

  ‘Got it!’ David hauled a glass tube banded with copper out of the trunk. At first Hazel thought it was some sort of telescope – until she saw the plunger at one end and a wicked looking needle sticking out of the other. It looked grotesquely surgical.

  ‘. . . What’s that?’ she said.

  Titus let go of her chin. ‘I call it the Syphon,’ he said, taking it from David. ‘We can’t have you using your magic on us.’

  Hazel shrank back into her chair. ‘You cowards – I don’t even know how to use my magic.’

  ‘We both know that’s not true.’ Titus pushed the plunger down the tube with a sibilant hiss. ‘And remember – I know what an accomplished liar you are.’

  Before Hazel could reply, Titus pressed the blunt tip of the needle against her heart and heaved back on the plunger. Tongues of fire, red as blood, licked up the needle and filled the syringe. Hazel tried to scream as her magic leaked away, leaving her numb and shivering.

  Titus handed the Syphon to David. It was full of bubbling orange liquid. She stared dazedly at it. So that’s what my magic looks like. Her heart fluttered like a wounded bird.

  As David locked it away in a trunk, Titus pressed a cup to Hazel’s mouth. ‘Drink,’ he said.

  You’ll pay for this, she thought, glaring at him as she slurped the water.

  The old Witch Finder turned to David. ‘Get us moving. We’ve got a long journey ahead. Wake me at sunset and I’ll take over the driving.’

  David climbed through the hatch, closing it behind him as Titus collapsed on to his bunk. Soon his snores were mingling with the creak of the wagon.

  It’s now or never, Hazel thought. After a few deep breaths, she bunched her fists and strained against the ropes. The chair creaked and the rope’s rough fibres bit her skin, but it was no use – she simply didn’t have the strength. She slumped forward and closed her eyes.

  Orange light filtered through her eyelids and warmth bathed her face, as if someone had opened a stove door. Bramley was standing with his front paws pressed against his cage door. Flames poured from his fur, licking against the glass.

  That’s it, my clever little mouse!

  Clear rivulets of molten glass ran on to the table, blackening the wood, until Bramley had melted a hole big enough to wiggle through.

  Hazel glanced at Titus. Thank the sky he’s such a deep sleeper.

  With startling agility, Bramley leaped across the table and landed on her lap. He mouthed, ‘Hello,’ and began to chew through the rope binding her left wrist. Hazel counted the seconds, forcing herself to sit motionless until the rope slithered to the floor.

  She grinned with delight as Bramley scrambled up her arm and pressed himself against her neck.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ she whispered.

  He nipped her ear. ‘Stop dithering and get the rest of those ropes undone.’

  Eyes fixed on Titus, Hazel flexed some movement back into her fingers and set to work.

  Slowly, agonizingly, she teased loose the knot around her other wrist. The second rope hit the floor. The chair creaked as she leaned down to untie her ankles. A lump of panic grew in her chest as the rope refused to loosen. Come on, damn you!

  Bramley nudged her cheek. ‘Slowly,’ he murmured. ‘Just take it slowly.’

  Hazel closed her eyes, took a deep breath and went back to working on the knots. Samson gave a whine and stood up.

  ‘Hush, boy,’ Hazel whispered, glancing nervously at Titus. ‘Everything’s all right.’

  The coarse rope rubbed her fingers raw, but she didn’t stop until they were all undone. She gripped the chair arms and stood up . . .

  Cramp locked around her legs like a vice. She toppled forward, just managing to grab the table to keep herself from falling. It juddered across the floor, stopping an inch from Titus’s outstretched leg. The tobacco jar teetered on the edge; Hazel was too slow to catch it. It crashed to the floor and rumbled into a corner. Titus stirred and rolled over.

  Still propped up by the table, Hazel bit back a scream as fresh spasms seized her muscles, turning them into rock-hard lumps of agony. Seconds scraped past. She risked putting her full weight on to her left leg, then her right. The cramp released its grip, leaving behind a dull throb. Keeping half an eye on Titus, Hazel picked up the map and tucked it under her arm.

  The Grinder and a pair of Entropy Goggles glinted on the workbench. They might come in useful, she thought to herself. She unhooked her bag from the door and placed everything inside.

  ‘Get that apple over there,’ Bramley whispered. ‘I’m starving.’

  Hazel did as he asked, then opened the door and peered outside. The air felt wonderfully cool. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches, dappling the forest track with patches of gold. Freedom beckoned.

  ‘Samson, be a good boy and stay,’ she said.

  The huge dog gave a whine but sat down obediently. Sighing with relief, Hazel leaped to the ground and scuttled into the trees. Crouching behind a holly bush, she watched the wagon disappear round a bend.

  How long would it take for Titus and David to discover she had escaped? Would they turn back and try to capture her?

  No point hanging around to find out, she thought. Best get out of sight.

  25

  THE RIVER WINDING

  Experiments have shown that a Wielder spawns

  magic from her corrupted bodily organs.

  The English Witch Plague by Jacob Sprenger

  ‘Well,’ Bramley said from behind her ear, ‘that was close. I assume you’ve got fresh ideas on how to get us into yet more trouble?’

  Hazel pushed through some trailing creepers. ‘I’m working on a few.’ She glanced over her shoulder to check that the road was out of sight.

  Faded ribbons of sunlight trailed through the green canopy of branches. The air was warm, but Hazel hardly felt it due to the aching, magic-less void in her heart. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, cursing Titus and his Syphon.

  ‘Do you think my magic will come back?’ she said. ‘I feel so cold without it. Sort of empty.’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I think it will over time. You’ll just have to be patient.’

  Hazel slid down a ditch, stepped over the sluggish brook at the bottom and climbed laboriously up the other side, noticing how much heavier her bag was now.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘tell me what happened back there in Mary’s cabin.’

  ‘Er . . . well, Titus came back after you’d foolishly fallen asleep. Then he put me in that confounded cage – after quite a struggle, I can tell you – and carried you out to the wagon,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Why didn’t you try to warn me?’

  ‘I . . . er—’

  ‘You were asleep as well, weren’t you?’

  ‘I may have dropped off for a moment,’ Bramley blustered.

  ‘It’s all right, Bram,’ Hazel said, running her finger down his back. ‘I’m only teasing.’

  He burrowed deeper into her hair. ‘I was so worried that they’d hurt you . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Hazel said. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  Satisfied that they were far enough into the forest to be safe from pursuit, Hazel sat on a tree stump in a small clearing and spilt her bag on to the grass: tinderbox; bread (now rather hard); cheese (now rather mouldy); map; apple; Entropy Goggles and the Grinder.

  Bramley hopped on to the ground and stood next to the apple.

  ‘Hungry?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘A bit peckish. Although I don’t think my teeth will ever be the same after cutting through all that rope.’

  Hazel cut off a slice of apple. ‘There – chew on that.’

  Nibbling on some rock-solid bread, she laid the map on the ground. The title was printed
in ornate gothic script across the top: Wychwood and the Surrounds, in the Kingdom of England.

  The ink-washed forest spread across the parchment like a patch of green mould. As well as the villages, towns, lakes and hills, the mapmaker had added delicately rendered pictures of wolves, bears and deer. On the eastern edge was a walled city with a white tower and seven gates. It was labelled ‘City of London’.

  Hazel traced her finger over the network of roads and rivers, trying to work out where she was. ‘This is Wormwood Lane, and there’s Watley. So, I think we’re here, by this river.’

  Having polished off his apple slice, Bramley trotted over the map and sat on Plymouth. ‘And where are we going?’

  ‘Here.’ Hazel pointed to a picture of a black tower. ‘Rivenpike.’

  ‘Where we’ll find Murrell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And maybe Hecate?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘But more likely our near-certain doom?’ Bramley added, scratching at his tail with a paw.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Hazel said with a grim smile.

  Bramley snorted. ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘We find the river that leads to it,’ Hazel replied.

  ‘And how—?’

  ‘By walking.’ She scooped up Bramley and repacked her bag. ‘And listening.’

  When they found it, the river turned out to be narrow, weed-choked, and following a seemingly aimless course through the trees.

  Night rose like black vapour, creeping up the trees and swallowing the sky. Hazel’s breath misted and it wasn’t long before her damp clothes were sticking to her like a second skin. Her legs ached; her back ached; everything ached. But worst of all, her heart still beat cold and empty.

  ‘It’s dirty back here,’ Bramley said, breaking the silence. ‘You need a wash.’

  ‘Wash?’ Hazel spluttered, tugging him out from behind her ear and dangling him by his tail. ‘When am I supposed to find time to wash? I’m too busy getting us out of trouble.’

  ‘Into trouble, more like,’ Bramley said. ‘Put me down this instant!’

  ‘As you wish.’ Hazel said, dropping him into the top of her bag and leaving him to sulk in silence.

  She was beginning to wonder if she was following the right course when the river broke free from the confines of the forest and widened, tumbled and foamed towards a precipice. Hazel followed it out, picking her way between gorse patches and twisted saplings until the sky opened up overhead. Taking the last few steps carefully to avoid slipping on wet stones, she peered out over the precipice.

  Below was a gorge, wide and deep, with sheer walls of jagged rock. Moonlight glinted on a river far below and the rush of water echoed between the cliffs. With an eerie hoot, a snowy owl swooped out of a nearby tree and glided down into the depths, outstretched wings shining like ivory as they cut through the air.

  Bramley crept out from the bag and perched on her shoulder, their argument forgotten.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Over there.’

  On the other side of the gorge, behind a screen of pine trees, rose the forbidding stone walls of a fortified town.

  ‘Rivenpike,’ Hazel breathed.

  26

  RIVENPIKE

  After a month-long siege, Rivenpike has fallen. The Witch

  War is over. England is free from the tyrannical King.

  The Daily Thunderer, July 1644

  Hazel stood at the end of a neglected bridge spanning the gorge to Rivenpike. On the other side was a half-ruined gatehouse with two towers studded with gun loops. The river churned far below.

  Rivenpike’s vast defensive wall was carved from solid rock, sweeping round the natural curve of the gorge. Narrow windows squinted between towers and flying buttresses, and from behind the topmost turrets peeked steep, grey-tiled roofs, gleaming like tarnished mirrors.

  ‘No smoke from the chimneys and no lights in the windows. Looks abandoned, just like Titus said.’ Hazel stepped tentatively on to the bridge. It groaned, as if deciding whether or not to bear her weight. Trying to ignore the dizzying drop, she risked the other foot.

  ‘Rumour has it that some witches can fly,’ Bramley said.

  ‘Well, this one can’t.’ She grabbed the handrail, holding her breath as the bridge leaned with her. Inch by inch, she shuffled towards the middle of the span, feeling the structure shift and wobble under her.

  There was a flash of white below. It was the snowy owl, drifting up the gorge with something dangling from its beak. Death never sleeps, Hazel thought, freezing as the wood under her feet cracked. It just waits.

  ‘Why have you stopped?’ Bramley squeaked.

  ‘Bram?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to apologize.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve taken you from your home and thrown you into terrible danger,’ she said. ‘And I’ve not thanked you once.’

  ‘Do you really think this is the time?’ Bramley’s squeak was so high it was barely audible.

  ‘Yes, because I might not get another chance,’ Hazel said. ‘Bram, you may be grumpy, and annoying, and rude, but thank you for sticking with me through all this danger.’

  ‘I don’t want your thanks, I just want you not to get me killed. Now, hurry up.’

  Feeling a little lighter, Hazel edged her way to the other side of the bridge and paused under the gatehouse arch.

  ‘We made it,’ she said. ‘Before we go on . . . is there anything you’d like to say to me?’

  ‘No,’ Bramley sniffed.

  Hazel narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t you want to apologize for the nasty things you said to me earlier?’

  ‘My imperfect little witch,’ Bramley said, pressing his warm body against her neck. ‘There are two things you need to learn about dormice: we are always right, and we never apologize.’

  Hazel shook her head in disgust. ‘I give up.’

  She crept out of the gatehouse on to a cobbled street. Terraces of grey stone buildings brooded on both sides, their windows dark and empty. A sign fixed to a shuttered tavern read ‘Tower Road’. The road sloped up, winding its way towards a forbidding castle keep in the centre of the town.

  ‘Look,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Mary was right. Someone’s home.’ Light glowed through the windows in the keep’s topmost floors.

  Hazel wondered with an aching sense of hope if her mother was in there. ‘Let’s take a closer look,’ she said.

  Silence pressed down on her as she crept up the street. Nothing moved except the silver-gilt clouds scudding across the sky. The shops and houses were as empty as nests in winter.

  ‘You do take me to the nicest places,’ Bramley said.

  ‘I do my best.’

  A sign reading ‘Rumpole’s Butcher – Cuts, Chops and Hocks’ creaked in the breeze. Hazel peered through a smashed window at a counter and rows of bare shelves. A rat crouched on a marble chopping block, licking at a smear of dried blood.

  ‘What happened here?’ she wondered. ‘Not even a ghost would want to stay in this awful town.’

  She reached the top of the Tower Road, which opened out on to a paved square of houses and shops. A dried-up fountain marked the centre.

  Ahead loomed the castle keep, a blank witness to the life and death of the town it had been built to protect. The water in the surrounding moat looked as black as tar.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Hazel said. ‘It’ll take forever to search it.’

  ‘I don’t know how we’re even going to get inside,’ Bramley said. ‘The drawbridge is up.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait until someone lowers it and then sneak in,’ Hazel replied. ‘They’ll have to come out at some point.’

  ‘Brilliant. I was hoping to get captured again.’

  ‘Do you have a better suggestion?’ Hazel snapped.

  There was a silence. ‘I don’t, no.’

  ‘Well then.’

  A wave of exhaustion crashed over her and she slumped in a doorway. She was
cold, hungry, and hated the idea of just waiting around. An idea flashed into her mind when she saw a black slug gliding up the wall, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

  ‘Wait a minute . . .’ She opened her bag and pulled out the Entropy Goggles. ‘I could try these. They might give us a trail to follow.’

  ‘A trail to a demon, not to your mother.’

  Ignoring him, Hazel looped the strap over her head and settled the goggles over her eyes. The world turned misty and indistinct.

  ‘I demand that you take those things off this instant!’ Bramley squeaked, scaling up her hair and trying to dislodge them from her face. ‘No good can come of this.’

  ‘I’m just looking, Bram,’ Hazel said, fiddling with the levers.

  ‘But it never stays “just looking” for long, does it?’ Bramley huffed. ‘Soon we’ll be “just running” and “just screaming”.’

  Hazel flicked a lever at random and gasped as a glowing trail of green footprints appeared. ‘Got some,’ she said. ‘Footprints leading from the keep up to that alleyway over there.’

  Bramley clambered to the top of Hazel’s head and squinted at the alley. ‘How big are they?’

  ‘The footprints? Oh, tiny. Petite, actually.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘You’re don’t really want to follow them, do you?’

  ‘It’s better than sitting here doing nothing,’ said Hazel, pushing the goggles up on to her head and forcing Bramley to scurry for the safety of her shoulder.

  ‘No,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘It most definitely is not.’

  27

  A STICKY END

  ‘Witches spread through the land like a disease.

  Hunt them down! Drag them into the glare

  of their own execution pyres.’

  Matthew Hopkins, Witch Hunter General

  The alley wound between stone-and-timber tenement buildings. A single lantern hung from a wall, casting a feeble light that made the shadows deeper. Another sign of life, Hazel thought.

  Ahead was a gateway with a wrought-iron sign arching over the top: ‘Garden of the Dead – South Entrance’.