by Matt Ralphs
‘Just when you think things can’t get any gloomier,’ Bramley said, ‘we end up in a Garden of the Dead.’ He paused. ‘What exactly is a Garden of the Dead?’
‘No idea.’ Hazel stepped warily under the arch and out into a moonlit cemetery.
‘Ah, I should have guessed.’ Bramley sighed.
Using the goggles, Hazel followed the glowing green footprints up an avenue towards a large church with a clock tower. Rows of crypts, tombs and sarcophagi spread out in all directions, the pale stone bathing in moonlight and cut deep with shadows. A weeping stone angel gazed down with sorrowful eyes; Hazel sped past, half expecting it to move.
They had nearly reached the church when Hazel heard a swallowing sound followed by a loud belch. She ducked behind a tombstone and peeked out.
‘What,’ Bramley whispered, ‘is that?’
Hazel raised the goggles. ‘It’s a demon. I recognize it from that book David showed me – a Shabriri, I think it was called. But what’s it doing just sitting by the door?’
The demon bobbed up and down in a puddle of its own drool – at least Hazel assumed it was drool – licking its lips with a long black tongue. With its bulging eyes and green, warty skin, it resembled an overgrown toad.
‘It looks like it’s guarding the church.’
‘Or guarding someone inside the church. It could be Ma.’ Hazel’s heart quickened.
‘I suppose it’s worth a look,’ Bramley said. ‘But how can we get past that Shabby-whatsit?’
Hazel grinned and pulled something out of her bag. ‘Do you think I’ve just been lugging this around for fun?’ she asked. Moonlight flashed on brass and silver.
Bramley squinted at it. ‘The Grinder? Do you know how it works?’
Hazel turned it over in her hands. ‘I think so . . .’
She poked her head around the edge of the tomb to study the Shabriri. An oily, fishy stink drifted in the air. Does every demon have its own smell? she wondered. And are they always horrible?
The Shabriri’s bulbous eyes followed a moth as it blundered around the lantern hooked over the church door. Faster than sight, the demon flicked out its tongue, caught the moth and pulled it into its mouth. Hazel grimaced as it crunched, swallowed and burped.
She put the Grinder on the ground. ‘I need to enter the description. Shabriri is a daemon-minimus, so I press this lever. There . . .’ Mechanisms inside the Grinder clicked and whirred. ‘Now, what are these levers? “Weight”, “Height” and, er, “Disposition”. What does “disposition” mean?’
‘It means something’s “propensity” or “constitution”,’ Bramley said smugly.
Hazel gave him a stern tap on the nose. ‘I don’t know what they mean either.’
‘Ignoramus,’ Bramley muttered. ‘In words simple enough for you, “disposition” also means “temper”, or “mood”.’
‘Thank you.’ Hazel said. ‘Well, it’s just eaten, so I think the closest match is “Content”.’ She set the Grinder’s levers using her best guesses, hoping that the demon’s ears – assuming it even has ears, she thought – weren’t sharp enough to hear. Then, as carefully as she could, she pushed it out into the avenue.
‘Here we go . . .’ She pressed the ‘Set Trap’ lever then ducked back behind the gravestone. She stifled a yelp of surprise as five hinged brass levers tipped with blades rose out from the bowl-like centre of the Grinder and settled on the ground. With precise movements they scratched a five-pointed star filled with swirling patterns and writing into the stone.
‘A magic circle,’ Hazel whispered. ‘How amazing!’ She couldn’t imagine how a man like Titus could have made such a delicate contraption.
As the legs retracted back inside, the magic circle glowed and began to emit a thrumming that Hazel felt vibrating in her chest. It must be letting off the aura that David told me about. Unable to resist, she peeked out to see what the demon was doing.
‘Careful,’ Bramley said.
‘Calm down, it can’t see me.’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ said Bramley. ‘If you can see it, it can see you.’
Hazel pretended to ignore him but she did duck back a bit. With one eye, she watched the Shabriri stand up and sniff the air. The magic circle under the Grinder glowed even more brightly.
Come on, little fishy, Hazel thought. Take the bait.
The demon let out a thunderous burp and jumped high into the air with its powerful back legs. Hazel watched in fascinated horror as the Shabriri flew towards them and landed with a slap right next to the Grinder. She shrank back from its rotten-fish stench.
A green strand of drool leaked from its mouth and dangled like a pendulum as it leaned over to look inside. Hazel jumped as hinged blades sprang from the heart of the Grinder, plunging into the Shabriri and pulling it head first towards the rotating cogs at its centre. Within seconds the struggling demon was ground down to nothing more than a odorous pile of mashed flesh and bone.
‘Well,’ Bramley said, ‘that was disgusting.’
‘It worked though,’ Hazel said, glowing with pride. ‘I actually did it.’ For the first time since leaving the Glade she felt as if she had really succeeded at something.
Hazel picked her way towards the Grinder and peered inside as the cogs slowed down and stopped. The blades were smeared with reeking oil, as was the ground around the device. Nothing remained of the demon; its earthly body had been destroyed and its soul flung back to the Underworld. ‘Should we take the Grinder with us?’ she wondered.
‘Do you want to smell like a dead fish?’
Hazel nodded. ‘Let’s leave it.’
The key to the church was in the keyhole. Hazel lifted the lantern from its hook, unlocked the door and with a final backwards glance, slipped inside.
28
THE CHURCH AND THE BELFRY
Rebel demonologist Nicolas Murrell has escaped the Tower!
There is a bounty on the head of this enemy of the people.
The Daily Thunderer, August 1655
Hazel quietly closed the door and held up the lantern. The roof arched into a grey expanse of cold stone and chilly silence. Moonlight glinted through stained glass windows.
‘It’s empty.’ Her whisper fluttered around the pillars and up into the roof beams.
Bramley crawled through Hazel’s hair and perched on top of her head.
‘Ouch! Careful – you’re pulling my hair.’
‘Stop fussing,’ Bramley said. ‘So, what is this place?’
‘It’s a church,’ Hazel said, walking slowly down the aisle. ‘Ma told me about them. Every town has one.’
‘Oh. What are they for?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. It’s a sort of meeting place, I think. For singing and talking. And, er . . . worship. I think.’ Hazel jumped as a pigeon burst out from under a pew and disappeared into the rafters.
‘Who do they worship?’ Bramley asked, crawling back into her hair. ‘It’s a bit gloomy . . .’
‘Enough questions, Bram. I’m trying to think.’
‘No good asking you anyway, is it?’ Bramley huffed. ‘You don’t know anything.’
Hazel sighed. He was right – there was so much about this land, and her mother’s past, that she didn’t know. That she might never know unless she could find her mother and escape. They stopped at the edge of a wide area of empty floor reaching towards the back of the church.
Hazel held up her hand. ‘Hush! Can you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘A sort of scratching sound.’ The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. ‘I think it’s coming from . . . under the floor.’
‘Don’t be so sill—’
‘Shh!’ Hazel dropped to her knees and pressed her ear to the cool, gritty flagstones. There it was, scratching, barely an itch on the edge of her hearing, like claws against stone.
‘There’s something under there.’ She stood up on wobbly legs. The scratching continued. ‘Does this church have a cellar?’
<
br /> ‘Look,’ Bramley said. ‘Everywhere is all dusty, but this bit of floor has been swept clean.’
‘You’re right – a spotless circle. And what’s that?’ She pointed to a white line running around the circumference. ‘It looks like salt.’
‘Something else to add to our tally of strange.’
Hazel wrapped her arms around herself as she crept along the edge of the circle. ‘It’s getting colder, Bram. Can you feel it?’
‘Of course I can,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Let’s go, can we, please?’
‘One more minute. I want to make sure we haven’t missed anything first.’
The pigeon took off and glided towards the back of the church, cooing softly as it landed on a pulpit. As Hazel followed its flight, a hatch in the wooden ceiling high above caught her eye. ‘Perhaps I could get a better look from up there.’
Careful to stay outside the circle, Hazel sidled along the wall until she reached an arched doorway and a spiralling staircase leading into darkness. She paused for a moment, then started to climb.
‘Sensible witches listen to their familiars,’ Bramley grumbled.
‘I do listen,’ Hazel said, peering into the gloom. ‘I just choose to ignore you.’
‘Well, how about a bit of light so you don’t fall and break your neck?’
Hazel stopped. ‘You mean . . . use my magic? But what if it hasn’t come back yet?’
‘We just want a light to see by,’ Bramley said. ‘Not burn the place down. Just try.’
Hazel imagined a lantern glowing in the dark, and held the image in her mind’s eye. Her cold heart throbbed painfully. ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Listen to me,’ Bramley said. ‘You can. All you need is a spark. I know anger is where your magic came from – but other feelings can be powerful too. Try again.’
Hazel shut her eyes and thought of happy memories of her mother, the Glade and Mary. Her heart sent out a tiny pulse of warm magic, and her veins glowed like seams of gold.
One more little push . . .
She yelped with joy as flames burst from her fingers, lighting up the damp walls and, best of all, warming her up. With a mental push she made the flames flare up; and with a gentle pull they faded. Hazel did a delighted little jig.
‘Not bad,’ Bramley said. ‘Not bad at all.’
Bursting with pride, Hazel held her hands in front of her. Shadows leaped on the walls, dancing to her whim. ‘This feels amazing,’ she breathed. ‘I’m in control.’
‘All right, bright eyes,’ Bramley said, tugging her ear. ‘We’ve got things to do, remember?’
Hazel grinned. ‘Allow me to light the way.’ She pulled back on her magic until only one hand was gloved in a flickering yellow glow. Keeping to the outside wall where the steps were widest, she continued to climb until she reached another low doorway. Floorboards creaked as she stepped into a wide, windowless room, seemingly without a ceiling.
‘This must be the bell tower,’ she said, flaring her magic and looking around.
Suspended on wooden mounts far above in the belfry were the church bells. Ropes hung down, swaying in the restive air. A hatch lay open in the middle of the floor. Hazel drew in her magic as she approached, allowing the flames to shrink and disappear back under her skin. Slowly, carefully, she knelt down and peered over the edge.
29
THE MAGIC CIRCLE
By their crafts shall ye know them.
Anon.
A chill brushed Hazel’s face, as if the hatch was exhaling a long, freezing breath.
‘This cold isn’t natural,’ Bramley said, burrowing into the hair behind her ear. ‘Where’s it coming from?’
Hazel stared at the circular salt outline directly below. At first she couldn’t focus; her gaze skittered over the floor as if her mind was unwilling to believe it was really there. Slowly, hard black edges appeared, strange patterns and jagged lines that hurt her eyes – and then, running around the circle’s circumference, angular writing in a language she didn’t recognize.
Hazel rolled on to her back and stared up into the belfry, feeling breathless and sick. ‘It’s a magic circle.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Bramley said. ‘We should leave. Whatever all this means, it’s got nothing to do with us. Your mother’s not here, so let’s go before someone finds us.’
‘You’re right,’ Hazel said, getting up and heading for the stairs. ‘We’ve been here for too long. My curiosity will kill me one of these days. Oh, I could kick myself.’
‘Kick yourself later. For now, just hurry.’
Hazel flew through the doorway and down the spiral staircase as fast as she could, using a little magic to light the way. Extinguishing the light, she scurried down the nave towards the front door.
‘We should go back to the castle,’ Bramley said.
‘Good idea. We can—’ Hazel froze with one hand on the door handle. ‘Oh, hellfire! Someone’s coming.’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Bramley shrieked. ‘You never listen!’
‘Where shall I go?’ Hazel whispered in a panic, running back the way she had come.
‘Behind that stone table thing over there. Quickly.’
The voices were right outside the door. There was a click as the handle started to turn.
Hazel skirted around the circle – unable to bring herself to cross it despite her fear of capture – scampered up some steps and scrambled behind the altar just as the church door creaked open. Her heart hammered in her throat; she knew she was hidden from view, but she couldn’t stop trembling.
Footsteps echoed – Hazel counted about ten or more sets. Were they all Murrell’s followers? Lilith’s silky voice rose over the noise, but Hazel couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then it hit her: the tang of blood that she had grown to loathe.
Rawhead, she thought, burying her nose in the crook of her arm. It’s going to find me.
‘Hazel,’ Bramley said. ‘Stop whimpering. They’ll hear you.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Hazel curled her fingers into her hair and pulled until it hurt. ‘I don’t want to be eaten . . .’
‘Calm down. I don’t think they’re here for you.’
‘What about Rawhead? He can smell magic . . . and there’s no way out.’
Bramley plopped on to her lap. ‘That horrible circle thing is leaking magic like a rusty cauldron. That’ll be more than enough to cloak your smell.’
Hazel picked him up and pressed his plump body against her cheek. ‘Thanks, Bram.’
‘Put me down,’ he spluttered.
She put him back on her shoulder, took a steadying breath, then shuffled sideways towards the corner of the altar. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready for what?’
‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘Have you completely lost your senses? They might see you. It’s this sort of reckless behaviour that got us into this mess in the first place.’
‘I know,’ Hazel said. ‘But since we’re already here . . . just a little peek?’
‘I’ll look first, and then tell you if it’s safe to poke your fat, conspicuous head out. All right?’
Hazel resisted the urge to give him a kiss. ‘Brave mouse,’ she said, setting him on top of the altar.
She waited. Seconds ticked past, then, ‘Psst!’ She looked up and saw Bramley poking his head over the edge.
‘It’s safe to look,’ he said, jumping down and burrowing into her hair. ‘There are about ten witches gathering near the circle. Rawhead’s prowling around, but there’s no sign of Murrell.’ He gave her a nip on the ear. ‘I don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I?’
‘No, Bram, you don’t.’
Hazel crouched on her haunches and cautiously peered out. She counted thirteen witches, ten women and three men, all clad in black floor-length robes. They stood around the circle, muttering to each other, their faces pinched with fear. Lilith stood a few paces apart, pale, beautiful, dressed in white. Rawhead prowled the circle, head down, snif
fing at the salt.
Murrell’s followers, Hazel thought. I wonder why they’re so nervous. And where are their familiars?
Lilith raised her arms into the air and the other witches stopped whispering. ‘Sisters and brothers,’ she said, her voice cutting through the darkness. ‘The moon is at its zenith. It is time for the summoning ceremony. To your places.’
‘Oh dear,’ Hazel muttered. ‘I wonder what they’re going to summon.’
‘I don’t know,’ Bramley replied. ‘But I don’t think it’s going to be friendly.’
30
THE SUMMONING
Demonology is the blackest of the magical arts,
practised only by the most dangerous witches.
The Infernal Magi by Robert Boyle
The witches spread out around the edge of the circle until they were an equal distance apart. No one spoke; tension filled the air until it seemed ready to burst. At a signal from Lilith each witch withdrew a fat tallow candle from their robes, placed it on the floor inside the salt boundary and then raised the hoods. Rawhead prowled in an endless circle, lips peeled back over curved teeth.
‘Everything depends on us,’ Lilith said. ‘Whatever happens, do not stop the incantation. Recite the words exactly as we practised. A single mistake and all of our plans –’ she blew across the palm of her hand – ‘are dust in the wind.’
‘What if it doesn’t work?’ a large witch with a bulbous nose asked. ‘What if he’s lost forever?’
‘It will work, Tilda,’ Lilith replied. ‘Have faith. Now – begin.’
As one, the witches began to chant. It was an ugly noise, ebbing and flowing like a sluggish sea. Lilith threw back her head and cast a cold lament up to the rafters. All the candles burst into flame and mist seeped up through the floor, gathering inside the salt barrier like a pool of milk.
The air froze against Hazel’s skin. Her breath fogged and she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. She peered hard. What was that? The mist in the middle of the circle seemed to be bulging upward, as if something was growing underneath. The chant shrank to a whisper as the shape emerged. At first it was just an indistinct mass, but then details became clear: a fold of cloth, a battered boot, a twitching hand.