by Al K. Line
Witches are immensely powerful. There are countless Heads through the country and they run their Wards well, keeping their witches in line, and this is part of their strength. They are the backbone of our world even though most fail to realize it.
With so many ways we get immersed in the Empty and what it has to offer, many who focus on one aspect or another forget that whatever you do, whatever you are involved in, there is a witch there too. They watch, listen, are always a part of things, just in the background, gathering information. They know absolutely everything that goes on.
It stands to reason. Everyone has a mother, and who has the most contact with what is going on all around you? Exactly!
Meaning, they are dangerous as hell, and Rikka had to be careful or they would take over and he would be history.
So I went to visit Kaisa Hayashi.
This woman, this Kaisa Hayashi, is somewhat of a legend. Like nearly all the top players in our Hidden world, human at least, she hails from Finland—there is definitely something in the water there. That, or they don't like it so all moved here. One thing I do know is she left at a young age, but the rest of her background is shrouded in mystery. Nobody really knows anything about her before she came here. Nobody knows how she learned her magic, all we know is she is powerful as all hell and not one to suffer fools gladly.
Her rise to power within the Hidden community is legend. She tore, clawed, and ripped her way to the top without a moment's hesitation. She is cold, calculating, and brutal—so far removed from the way most witches are she may as well be another species entirely.
She has complete control over the witches in our country, and not one of them is foolish enough to question her, let alone try to interfere with any of her decisions. With the vast witch network, she knows everything that goes on, but stays surprisingly quiet most of the time. Listening, watching, maintaining her iron grip. She is Head of the Witch Council, with a position in the Hidden Council, but nothing to do with the Dark Council.
For us in Cardiff, the epicenter of magic in the United Kingdom, it is Grandma that everyone turns to. Many think of her as the leader, but that's not the case at all. Grandma holds her position because she is allowed to. Other witches relate to her. She's friendly, you can talk to her, get along with her, and Kaisa Hayashi is entirely the opposite.
There are no nice cups of tea, no jolly conversations or chats about the weather all while subtly getting information out of you. No, she is tight-lipped, mean of spirit, and nobody dares challenge her authority.
She also runs the witches from the most bizarre of all places—a farm. It was a good job I hadn't worn my suit.
A Denial
Even though I was getting some much needed alone time to recharge my introverted batteries, digging the new car smell and relishing the sense of freedom being out and about with a job, a purpose, I missed being home with Kate. What a life. Full of contradictions and full of choice, but I knew that was an illusion. I had to do this. Why? It is a part of me. More, it defines me.
I felt underdressed and strange wearing casual clothes. Black Spark is known for his snappy style, not his casualwear. Don't laugh, but I honestly considered turning around and going home to change. But once again that inner voice told me I'd done the right thing, and for the entire drive I couldn't shake that feeling of being watched. Like there was somebody hitching a ride and observing my every move. Which may well have been the case, but I couldn't do anything about it and I'd drive myself to distraction if I focused on it too much.
I let the sensation fade into the background; I had to focus. Anyway, I was approaching the seat of power for the witches in the UK, a place a mere ten minutes from the city but you could have been in the middle of nowhere.
I hadn't been here for years, and when I tried to think about how many, I realized it must have been almost thirty. I wondered if the place was much different, although I supposed it would be.
The witches had turned the farm into various money-making endeavors over the years, whatever Kaisa Hayashi thought would bring in some cash. It had gone through numerous rebirths, from doing good business being one of the first in the country to sell organic free-range eggs, to posh sausages—no, I don't know what made them posh—to running courses on butchery, cheese making, all that kind of stuff.
Then they had turned to more exotic animals, selling rarer meats, even wool from alpacas, keeping the witches busy, the communal lifestyle viable that so many of them adored, and earning while they practiced their magic and took in young girls who they considered suitable for training.
There are a lot of witches, more than you would think. They keep it quiet, live amongst Regulars, many with normal jobs, but once they reach maturity they all seem to switch to this old lady look. Yes, that's how devious they are. So never be fooled, and always show proper respect—be nice to grannies, they can turn nasty if you fail to give up your seat on the bus.
Something told me to make my appearance unannounced—probably fear of the unknown—so I parked a few lanes away and walked through the forests that surrounded the house, and the acres it was part of. I don't know why I didn't just drive up and show myself, but it felt like the right thing to do, so I did it.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for what I saw as I came through the woods out into open fields. Kaisa Hayashi had either lost the plot, or something entirely different to what I had thought was happening was right now in full effect.
How long had this been going on? I got the sinking feeling it had been a matter of days, maybe even less, just since the trolls got smart. It had to be. What I saw made me question the motives for giving them smart pills in the first place, because, well, this was just nuts.
I'd made a terrible mistake. I had got it completely wrong, I was sure, and I hightailed it out of there before I got any more surprises.
Back at the car, I panted like I'd just run a marathon. Sweat dripped from my forehead and my body felt slick and gross. I paid it no mind and drove away, not once looking back. This was out of my league, out of my remit, certainly out of my comfort zone. Yes, I am strong with magic, but not strong enough to deal with what I had seen.
I went to get Rikka.
*
"This better be good, Spark," said Rikka, glaring at me harder than he'd been doing the entire drive back to witch HQ.
"I told you, it's not good, it's very bad."
"Less of the attitude. You know what I mean. I don't see why you couldn't just tell me, rather than dragging me all this way out when I've got so much to deal with."
"If I told you then you wouldn't believe me, not in your gut. You need to see this. Trust me, Boss, you really do."
"Fine, just hurry up." Rikka sank back into the leather and sulked like a dwarf that had its hammer taken away. I parked up where I had a mere half hour earlier and led Rikka, complaining continuously, to where I'd stood, mouth open.
"Holy shit," said Rikka, as he stood, gawping, I guess the same way I had done. You know it's bad when Rikka swears.
"Yeah, you could say that. What's going on? When did you last come here?"
"I, er... Um..."
"Rikka, hello?" He dragged his eyes away and stared at me with an intensity that still unnerves me to this day.
"I had people up here last week. I think they would have mentioned it, it's not like you can miss it."
"That's the point, you entirely can miss it."
"You're right. Can you feel it? The magic."
"I feel it." I could, but I thought it was overspill from the work done. But now I looked closer, and through normal eyes, I could see it was more than that. Whatever had gone on, and I believed I knew what, was nothing compared to the forces at work behind the scene we stared at, still half unbelieving.
"You need to deal with this, Spark, and fast." Rikka looked genuinely worried. It wasn't the response I expected. I'd assumed he would want to deal with it himself.
"Me!? What about you?"
> "What about me? This is your job, I gave it to you. So you have to see it through."
"Come on," I whined. "You can't be serious?"
"Do I look like I'm joking? Take me home."
He didn't look like he was joking. I needed a drink.
Time to Think
Some things take a while to filter through your mind and for you to come up with a solution. Or maybe that's just me and my hundred plus years of slow senility. I had a lot to consider and I'd taken hours, yet still had nothing. Normally, something bad happens, I run around chasing up leads, fight, and it gets resolved.
That scenario had about as much chance of playing out this time as a dwarf offering you a hunk of gold, of that I was sure. It was too out there, too bizarre, and the scale meant I was out of my league. And Rikka had told me to get on with it and deal with it on my own. Was he nuts?
Yes, I am an Alone. I work solo, always have and always will, but this was most definitely one of those times that I needed a little help. So, why was he reluctant to give it to me?
Maybe he had every confidence in me, maybe he had too much else to deal with because of the troll intelligence thing, or maybe there were things happening I wasn't privy to. I may be no genius, but I knew which one was the most likely. He was either keeping me in the dark, or he had no clue so didn't want to muddy the waters by teaming me up with anyone else.
I wandered the city, passing from the parks where even the boating lake and feeding the ducks soured my mood, reminding me of previous events. I took to the streets, but the depressing weather, the trapped traffic fumes combined with the dampness that caused every other person to cough, and the dour faces of people as they jostled me or poked me with umbrellas and I had to resist blasting them into the gutter with dark magic, merely darkened my already dour mood. So I did what I always did in such cases, I sat on a bench and people watched.
What could have happened? Witch HQ was gone. Not damaged, not abandoned, not ramshackle, not different, but gone. It was an empty field, and at first I'd thought maybe I had the wrong place, and had retraced my steps, sure I'd made a mistake yet knowing that I hadn't.
What used to be an impressive, massive farmhouse, plus countless barns, outbuildings, row after row of wooden lodges where many witches lived and worked, was all flattened, easy to miss because of the slight rise of the land. All that remained was a damn large pile of rubble, nothing else. No witches, no animals, nothing still standing. It had been not only decimated, but obliterated from the face of the earth.
I had absolutely no clue what was going on.
Hours had passed as I sat on the bench. When I came back to myself I realized it had gone eight at night, the streets almost deserted. Groups of students made their way to the pubs, stressed looking men and women in boring office uniforms were getting takeaway, shoppers were all at home staring at their purchases and wondering why they had bought unwanted tat and when could they return it?
The thought of a drink surfaced again, so with more than just the booze in mind, but an altogether ulterior motive, I went to the best place in my current mood and depressing lack of answers. I went to the Hidden Club.
Something wasn't right, something wasn't adding up. None of it clicked and I couldn't find the connection. I had to stop thinking. I had to be around people from my world, so what better place?
I also had a craving that comes every few years. I wanted a cigar and a cold beer, so there was only one place I could go to anyway if I wanted to do both indoors without risking a fine and some angry stares.
The Hidden Club
It was early for the Hidden Club, too early. It's a late night kind of place where the action doesn't get going until most people are climbing from their beds ready to begin a new day.
Insomniacs, loners or the alone, night owls, the desperate, alcoholics, smokers, and anyone that wants a laugh, a drink, and more than likely to either be in, or witness, a fight, that's the clientele. Meaning it is usually very busy, very loud, and very dangerous on any given night of the week.
There is also comedy most evenings, which may sound contradictory, but Hidden do like to laugh before they break each other's heads. It was also the place most likely to lead to answers, and I wasn't going to get them on my own.
It was a bit of a let-down.
The air was clear inside the club. The place was silent, and even Brewster Bunker failed to show. Instead, I met a gremlin. Sheiling Bumbescu was half-soaked on some odd drink in a shot glass, green and nasty looking, with bits floating in it that didn't look like olives, and a sorry looking miniature umbrella.
Apart from us, the place was deserted. Brewster Bunker, the owner and one of only a few enterprising trolls I had ever met until today, often didn't begin serving until late. But the doors are always open, and we are trusted with paying for what we help ourselves to.
Nobody ever tries to cheat on him. He has this innate ability to look at the rows of bottles, or listen to the beer taps, and know exactly what has been consumed. And besides, he's bloody huge and would pull your head off if he found out you were drinking without paying.
I grabbed a cigar and lit up with a match—the only way you can light a cigar and truly savor the flavor. I sucked down the nicotine even though I knew I shouldn't inhale, and as I drank a beer I felt my body relax moderately. This wasn't the answer to the problems that seemed increasingly insurmountable, but it was a start. I needed just a little time to unwind, to figure things out. My contemplations so far had failed to deliver anything, so maybe this would help? It certainly couldn't make things worse.
Sheiling Bumbescu wobbled on the highly polished wooden bar, seemingly trying to stare at itself. I guessed it was having a hard time focusing.
It felt weird being in the club without the usual clientele, like the Hidden world had disappeared out from under me. If it wasn't for the gremlin, I could have believed I'd made up my entire life. I shouldn't have come, this was no place to find answers. Maybe if Brewster Bunker had been there I could have tried to get some information from him, or was he off somewhere having taken up a new vocation, eating smart pills and running a corporation or something equally at odds with his usual nature?
With nothing keeping me, I downed my beer and wandered between empty tables as I smoked my cigar.
When finished, I headed back to the bar, stubbed out the remains of the cigar, and said, "Be seeing you, Sheiling Bumbescu."
The gremlin lifted its head and looked at me as if it had forgotten I was there. It said, "Help," in that childlike way they have, and shook its head in a blur of fur. It was sobering up. The lucky sods have this great ability to drink you under the table and get totally hammered, then shake it off like that. If they could bottle it they'd make billions.
"Help? What help do you need?" Maybe my trip hadn't been wasted after all. See, this is what I mean about always trusting your gut. Sometimes you do things, not understanding why, and in hindsight it's always for the best. I got that feeling, that this was why I had come.
After a few minutes of confused, and very one-sided conversation, I was walking through the streets, seemingly a man with a rather frazzled looking pigeon hurrying by his side.
Then we were in the car and heading out of the city, the gremlin pointing out directions for me.
I had nothing to lose, and as I couldn't think of what else to do at that point, I went with it.
I was also excited. As far as I could tell I was being directed to gremlin HQ.
At Home with the Gremlins
Gremlins are an odd bunch. To Regulars, they usually take the form of dogs, pigeons, sometimes cats, never a human like most other Hidden. Probably a size thing, same as imps usually look like deformed cats—at least Intus does, anyway. In all my years, I had never been to a gremlin's home, as they aren't really big on inviting you back. Again, to do with the size thing.
Sheiling Bumbescu beckoned with a wave of a furry hand as it scampered through the undergrowth. I ducked low and crawle
d, wishing I had something to protect my arms and face from the hawthorn that cut like Grandma's tongue when she scolded me for being a degenerate as I was going through a rugged beard phase.
With little choice if I wanted to survive the concealed entrance, I let magic flow gently through my ink, the damage repairing itself as soon as the cuts happened, leaving my forearms stained pink but at least still intact. I focused on the furry bottom in front of me and kept going.
Your gremlin is a strange creature. We know little about them, apart from that they originated in Scotland and are most populous in the UK, without much of a foothold abroad. Hardly surprising as they are one of those rare creatures born of man's own mythology. They are immortal, and in some ways comparable to imps I guess, in that they are certainly mischievous and downright naughty, but they are like small children, much more innocent than an imp.
The First World War, and the advent of aviation, saw these furry pests pop into existence by the sheer force of will of airmen trying to find reasons why aircraft would suddenly develop faults. It was always blamed on the gremlins, and maybe it was the height of the emotion when the name was used, or maybe they were just waiting for such advances so they could make an appearance, nobody knows, but with so many men fearing for their lives, hurtling through the sky in flying machines and blaming the gremlins for acts of sabotage, suddenly there they were, a reality to those immersed in the Hidden.
Little furry creatures about a foot tall, wide heads with ears more animated than Grandma's, stubby limbs and covered in thick fur that made them look like fat cats after a serious blow dry.
I think the whole existence thing must have been somewhat confusing for them as they were so new to the world, and they spent their time close to army bases, interfering with planes, tinkering and generally causing mayhem for pilots.