Gallows at Twilight
Page 32
Jake gave his broadest grin yet and juggled the magic in his hands.
‘We’re going to fight. We’re going to play the Demon Father at his own game and we’re going to win.’
‘I don’t want to sound pessimistic,’ Rachel said, ‘but how on Earth are we going to do that?’
‘We’re going to the demon world,’ Jake shrugged.
‘WHAT?’ cried Brag, Pandora, Rachel, and Simon in unison.
‘We’re going to smash our way into the demon dimension.’
Jake concentrated his magic into two sizzling blue streams.
‘We’re going to hunt down Mr Pinch and take back the witch ball.’
The streams became columns in Jake’s hands.
Magic powered by love and hope. Love for his friends and his father.
Love for Eleanor.
The hope that he would see her again.
Magic roared into the sky, split the ominous clouds and allowed the moonlight to shine through.
‘Buckle up, boys and girls!’ Jake cried. ‘Next stop, the demon world!’
Then: 1645
The Home of Demons
‘My dear, I have made a terrible, terrible mistake. My visions were not clear at the time and … well, our guest has shown me the error of my imperfect sight.’
Preacher Hobarron nodded at the lady sitting opposite him.
‘The fault was not yours, sir,’ Frija Crowden said. ‘The future is always hazy, and his future more than most. But now we must set things right. For the boy and his friends, the cataclysm is fast approaching.’
Eleanor looked from the blind preacher to the veiled lady.
‘I don’t understand.’
The three of them were sitting in the cosy parlour of the Starfall rectory. Outside, a bitter December wind howled around the house and shook the windows. Spots of snow drifted down the chimney and made the fire sizzle. Before she had been called to the parlour, Eleanor had been with Pepper in the stables. Since returning to Starfall, she had spent much of her time with the horse, brushing her down, taking her out for long rides across the meadows. Being close to Pepper reminded her of Jake. The memory of him sitting awkwardly in the saddle was the only thing that made her smile. It had been nearly four months since she had lost him.
She caught her reflection in the dark pane of the window. A scarred face full of sorrow.
Preacher Hobarron went to the large travelling trunk kept at the back of the room. He turned the key in the lock and brought out a grey cloak covered with morsels of earth. Eleanor recognized it at once. It was the cloak she had buried beneath the altar of the church. The preacher hobbled over to Eleanor and laid the hidden treasure in her lap.
‘You must take it to him, my dear.’
Eleanor stared at the old man.
‘To Jake? But how?’
‘We will see to that,’ Frija said softly, ‘but do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ the word leapt from her lips.
‘There may be danger,’ Preacher Hobarron advised. ‘Your life will be at risk.’
‘I don’t care. When can I leave?’
Hobarron gave a weary smile and Frija bowed her head.
‘Now.’
Eleanor grasped the bundle and shot out of the chair. Her face flushed with excitement. She was going to see him again. Her Josiah … Her Jacob …
‘Wife? Are you there?’ the Preacher called.
The parlour door opened and Mrs Hobarron bustled into the room. She managed a curt nod at Frija but did not look once at her husband. She had a leather saddlebag in her hands which she draped over Eleanor’s shoulder.
‘Provisions for your journey. Some food and clothing, nothing much.’
Eleanor knew that Mrs Hobarron’s ‘nothing much’ would probably amount to a feast and, in all likelihood, an entire wardrobe of clothes. The old woman bent Eleanor’s head and kissed her gently.
‘Always been like a daughter to me, you have.’ She looked over her shoulder and cast her husband an evil stare. ‘A good, gentle girl, who deserves better than to be the object of clever plots.’
‘But I want to go,’ Eleanor said, ‘I need to.’
‘Then more fool you!’ Mrs Hobarron burst out crying and fled from the room.
‘Put the object inside the saddlebag, Eleanor,’ the Preacher instructed. ‘Miss Crowden has cast a masking spell that will keep it concealed from Jacob until the time is right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is much I have not told you,’ the Preacher sighed. ‘About Jacob and about Josiah. On the night Josiah came to Starfall, the one that brought him swore me to secrecy … ’
‘Brought him?’ Eleanor gasped.
‘Josiah was not our child.’
‘Then whose was he?’
‘That I cannot say. I gave my word that his identity would remain a secret.’
‘Did Josiah know you weren’t his father?’
‘No. Had I known his true mission in that cavern, I would have told him. Alas, my visions were at fault.’ If the Preacher could have cried then this was the moment for his tears. ‘Jacob is Josiah reborn,’ he continued, voice gruff with emotion, ‘though he was conjured from the dust of Josiah, his core identity is the same. But like Josiah, he cannot know who he is until all hope is lost. To know beforehand would ruin everything. The witch ball and what you hold in that bag is the key to his identity and to the destruction of demon-kind. He will need both Signums, but only when the time is right.’
‘But how will I know when the time is right?’
The Preacher’s face turned as hard as stone. ‘Oh, my dear, you will know.’
Frija Crowden rose from her chair. She took a little leather pouch from her pocket and gave it to Eleanor.
‘A charm to keep you safe, my dear. A thank you for helping me find a new home.’ She kissed Eleanor through her veil. ‘Farewell.’
Eleanor tucked the pouch into the saddlebag and turned to the Seers.
‘How do I travel?’
‘With hope,’ the old man said. ‘This is very tricky magic. We will bend our thoughts and powers towards the boy and, with luck, you will arrive at a time and place where you can intercept him. Now, I want you to concentrate on the fire.’
Eleanor went to stand in front of the little fireplace. From behind, she heard a stir of words, foreign, beautiful, and somehow menacing.
‘Do not look back,’ Frija hissed. ‘The source of the magic should not be seen.’
A flurry of snow wafted down the chimney and the flames in the grate sizzled. Suddenly, they reared up like a dozen yellow snakes. Eleanor’s eyes misted in the glare. All the colour seemed to fade from the flames and she caught a glimpse of shapes moving within the fire. Shadows within shadows, darkness everlasting. Her heart quickened. As much as she longed to see Jake, part of her was now reluctant to enter this future world.
A scream cut the air. Preacher Hobarron in agony. She began to turn when Frija called—
‘Keep your eyes on the fire, Eleanor.’
‘Ye-yesss,’ the Preacher cried. ‘I was aware of the risks, my d-dear. This is my choice.’
The flames spilled out of the fireplace and singed Eleanor’s face. She tried to back away but remained rooted to the spot. Stunned, she realized that the fire had not burned her. That, in fact, its flickering fingers were as cold as ice. They billowed around her in a ragged circle of cool, grey light. In the final moment before the flames engulfed her, Eleanor peered back over her shoulder.
Frija was leaning forward in her chair, a stream of mist issuing from her hands. Next to Frija, Preacher Hobarron had slumped forward. His face was waxy and unmoving.
The fire rose up around Eleanor. Frija and the dead preacher, the parlour, the rectory, and Starfall itself disappeared into darkness. Everything she had known fell away from the girl as she crossed into new and terrible dimensions. Alien skies wheeled overhead; strange stars rose and set around her. She closed her eyes against the horror.
When at last she opened them again, the floor was solid beneath her feet. A hard, stone floor, cold and damp. She appeared to be in a chamber of some kind, but it was too dark to see the walls.
‘Who’s there? Who has come to find me?’
That voice. There was something familiar about it. A voice from her own time.‘M-my name’s Eleanor,’ she stuttered.
A figure moved in the dimness. Shuffled forward with the gait of an old man. ‘El-ean-or. That is a human name, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘But there are no humans here. I see to that … ’
He came forward into the light, and Eleanor recognized him at once. Mad eyes rolled in his head and he clutched his haggard face like a man trying to tear the skin from his skull. There were drops of red in his straggly beard and old brown stains on his filthy shirt.
‘Witchfinder,’ Eleanor gasped.
Matthew Hopkins coughed up a mouthful of blood.
‘That was what they called me,’ he grinned, the blood spilling over his lips. ‘Witchfinder General. I killed so many, many, many, many, many. That is why I am here.’
‘Where?’
The madman cocked his head to one side.
‘Do you not know? Can you not guess?’
He sidled up to Eleanor and whispered in her ear.
‘Hell, my dear. This is hell. The home of demons … ’
Many thanks to my brilliant agent Veronique Baxter and editors extraordinaire Jasmine Richards, Clare Whitston, and Kate Williams for helping to shape and reshape this book.
I must also acknowledge the invaluable assistance of Vicki Malkinson and her knowledge of all things equestrian.
My heartfelt thanks go to the ever-resourceful librarians at Skegness Library for helping me to find a path into the seventeenth century.
As ever, I must also acknowledge my friends and family whose love, support, and patience makes writing possible.
Finally, thank you to all the bright and brilliant people at Oxford University Press who have worked their own special magic on Witchfinder—here are a just a few of them: Molly Dallas, Lou Brown, Nicola Atkinson, Katie Hovell, Anna Baldwin, and Harriet Bayly.
About the author
William Hussey has a Masters Degree in Writing from Sheffield Hallam University. His novels are inspired by long walks in the lonely Fenlands of Lincolnshire and by a lifetime devoted to horror stories, folklore, and legends. William lives in Skegness and writes stories about things that go bump in the night …
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