“It won’t,” Miss P said reassuringly. “We’re in the safest place on the planet.”
I wasn’t so sure.
“Quickly,” Agnes said, calling everyone together. We all held hands. Peter was beside me, and the touch of his hand was like liquid velvet, cool and dry.
“In the alban field, the circling mists twist low,” Agnes began. My great-grandmother and a couple of the others joined her.
“Kith and kin draw the rock on Crafted bow.
Arise, great Arrow, swift as sparrow, sprung from below.”
We stood in silence for a long time. I wondered if the other people here were making more sense of the words than I did, because I still didn’t have the slightest idea what they meant. Actually, I was beginning to think the spell was a dud, when Dingo started barking.
The air in the center of the circle shimmered, as if we were enclosing some powerful heat source. Then the ground began to tremble.
“Oh, man, it’s a sinkhole,” I whispered, remembering the horrible scene at the school earlier.
“Shh,” Peter said.
The air in the circle got thicker and thicker until it looked like gelatin, and the earth swayed in a gentle wave that was nothing like the eruption on the street outside the school. All the trees shimmered so that their leaves turned backward and shone like silver. Then Dingo stopped barking and, staring up at the full moon, pointed his nose straight up and howled.
No, not howled, exactly . . . It was more like singing. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful then. For a moment—and I have no idea how long that moment lasted in real time—the whole Meadow seemed to be in sync. The wind, the trees, the rocks and water and grass, the night clouds and the moon. All of it went together perfectly, making its own music. Above it Dingo’s voice—and it really was a voice, not a howl—floated like a soloist in front of an orchestra.
The music grew louder as the earth shuddered and trembled, until finally it thrust from its depths a rock the size of a car and four times as tall, black as basalt and pointed near the top like the “arrow” in the conjuring verse.
We all stood there dumbstruck, as into the silence came Hattie’s smooth low voice, intoning the second verse of the spell from memory:
The kindred wave gathers to loose what is hidden.
Cast line and hook to split the stony mizzen.
One door wakes one thousand more when Craftily bidden.
Immediately, the huge stone seemed to fly apart with a tremendous noise like the origin of thunder. The rock shimmered and shook, its surface crazing into sinuous lines that made it look like some gigantic, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
And then, with an awesome elegance, the cracks in the rock segmented, the sections flew apart, and the puzzle box opened, revealing a thousand separate closed compartments.
“A botte,” I whispered, feeling gooseflesh traveling throughout the length of my body.
“Fantastic,” Peter said.
“Peter, now!” It was Hattie, gesturing at him animatedly with her chin.
“What? Oh.” Quickly he took his cell phone out of his hip pocket. By its eerie light he read the final verse of the spell.
The wise and Crafty know rightly where to look.
O Word! Spring forth from out thy secret nook.
Ferree Ferraugh diten al blosun na tibuk!
He struggled through the unfamiliar words, and didn’t employ a lot of dramatic expression, but it worked.
The drawers and cabinets all shifted around again, forming and reforming into impossible combinations as the shape of the botte changed slightly with each small movement. It was a bizarre display, moving faster and faster until the whole process seemed to be a blur.
While it was in motion, Hattie stepped forward and intoned: “Attend me, ye greater and lesser spirits!” She lifted her arms into the air. “Bring into being the ‘Song of Unmaking’!”
And then suddenly, abruptly, absolutely, the botte came to a dead stop.
One drawer, situated in its direct center, snapped open with perfect precision to reveal the only object it contained: An ancient, gilt-edged book bound in frayed leather. There were no words on its cover, only the image of a crescent moon stamped in silver. When struck by the moonlight in the sky above the Meadow, it gleamed with an almost living luster.
“The Great Book of Secrets,” my great-grandmother said. A responsive murmur rose from everyone assembled. After the wild motion of the botte, the Great Book of Secrets exuded a deep gravity, seeming almost to breathe in time to the cosmic music that still permeated the copse where we stood.
Hattie touched the book with the tips of her fingers and spoke: “It is our deepest desire to harm none while protecting our own from the Darkness,” she said. “Therefore, with humility and respect, we seek the meaning of the ‘Song of Unmaking’, and ask to be shown its right use.”
The music grew louder as the book opened by itself and its pages turned rapidly, as if blown by a strong wind. When it finally fell still, the music rose all around us, beautiful and hypnotic. Dingo the dog sat up again, reverentially, and crooned his own wild song that went perfectly with the rest of the strange earth-music around us. That was the meaning of harmony, I realized: Everything fitting together, belonging, being exactly where the universe wanted all its pieces.
So it was strange and . . . well, shocking, really, when Hattie and Agnes and just about everyone else in the circle started singing this other weird song that didn’t fit at all with the earth-music I was hearing.
Dingo didn’t like it either. He stopped singing and laid his head down on his paws, but apparently we were the only ones it bothered. Even Peter started to sing the ugly song.
I poked him with my elbow. “What the heck are you singing?” I hissed.
He shrugged. “It’s what everybody’s taught in kindergarten,” he whispered back. “The ‘Song of Unmaking’ is pretty basic witchcraft.”
“But it’s . . .” I saw Hattie giving us the stink eye, so I shut up. But there was something jarring about it all. The leaves on the trees turned right-side up again. The air around the botte lost its thick, shimmering quality and, at least for me, the music—the real music—diminished to nothing.
Suddenly I wasn’t comfortable in that circle, as if my skin were too tight for me. As if, after being in heaven for a few minutes, I’d been tossed into hell. More than anything I wanted to let go of the hands holding mine and run away, breathe some other air, hide. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. I felt danger.
I looked over at Eric, but he was still asleep on his blanket, his angelic face undisturbed.
Then what . . .
“What are you doing here?” a woman asked, her clear, loud voice bringing the so-called singing to a halt.
It was Livia Fowler, followed by her daughter, Becca.
“You are no longer high priestess,” Mrs. Fowler said to Hattie. “I am. All rituals in the Meadow are conducted by me, exclusively.” She turned toward the botte. “And what is this thing?” She scrutinized all of us in the group, one by one. “Well?”
Hattie squared her shoulders. “It is the Great Book of Secrets,” she said.
“What?” I could tell Mrs. Fowler couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Just you? You few? Without informing the rest of the community? Or me? Are you mad?”
“We needed to find a spell,” Gram offered.
Livia Fowler examined the book. “The ‘Song of Unmaking’?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is one of you infected with the Darkness?”
“No, Livia,” Gram waffled. “We only wanted—”
“Who is she?” Livia demanded.
“She’s not here,” Miss P said decisively. And she wasn’t lying. Mrs. Fowler had assumed that the witch in question was a woman.
“Then you must bring her,” Mrs. Fowler said imperiously. “The rules are clear.” She sang the song from the book, using the same cacophonous tune the others had been singing.
“Through Lo
ve’s unbreaking tie
Unmake the Darkness, do not die
No death shall come, good soul, to thee
For by the sacred Fire set thou free.”
When she was done, she pointed a finger at the big oak tree beside the botte, and it burst into flames.
“Oh, dear,” Gram murmured, dismayed.
So that was Livia Fowler’s talent. She was a firestarter. It figured that her gift would be one of destruction.
“That tree is over four hundred years old,” my great-grandmother pointed out indignantly.
“Get the others,” Mrs. Fowler ordered.
Becca ran to spread the word that a witch was about to be burned. There were enough telepaths in Whitfield that it wouldn’t take long for them to show up, I knew. People were always ready to watch someone getting punished.
“Stop!” I said to Becca as I took the rowan wand from my sleeve and pointed it at her retreating figure. “Right now!”
She fell in a heap.
“Oh, no,” I heard my great-grandmother groan.
“I’m sorry, Gram,” I said, backing out of the circle. Peter moved with me, step for step. He knew we had to get Eric out of there.
“You’re going to be a lot sorrier, missy,” Mrs. Fowler said, pulling her own wand out of her sleeve. The few people assembled broke ranks and skittered away in panic. One woman began to sob hysterically. Dingo growled.
“The girl,” was all Mrs. Fowler said, smiling maliciously at me. I saw a long blue thread like a visible electric current speeding toward me. The hair on my arms stood on end. I heard Peter shouting my name, slowly—very slowly—but I knew it was too late. Nothing could stop that laser beam of black magic headed for me.
And nothing did. It kept coming until it was an inch away from me, and then, inexplicably, it veered upward and around until it was shooting back the way it had come. It struck Mrs. Fowler in her eyes. She screamed, her hands flying to her face. I saw Agnes turn to look at me incredulously. Of course, it appeared as if I’d deliberately blinded Mrs. Fowler, but I really hadn’t done anything. I wouldn’t even have known how to do such a reversal.
But who had done it? Who had had enough power to turn that beam away? Who would possess enough malice to have it strike Livia’s eyes?
There were several new voices shouting as a dozen people bounded through the fog into what had been the circle, stopping near the burning oak. Even though she was caught in my binding spell, Becca must have been able to summon her mother’s supporters. Two of them were releasing her already, while others tended to Mrs. Fowler, who was still shrieking piteously and in obvious pain.
Aunt Agnes turned to face me, her expression one of utter horror. “Katy!” she shouted.
“I swear, I didn’t—”
I turned to look behind me. And I knew who had sent that ray of hatred back toward Livia Fowler to blind her.
“Oh, shit,” Peter whispered.
Eric was awake.
CHAPTER
•
THIRTY-EIGHT
DIES IRAE
A seagull plummeted out of the sky and fell dead directly in front of the botte. Dingo yelped and flew upside down, feet sticking up in the air, and smacked into one of the big trees. He whimpered as he limped into the arms of Mr. Haversall, who looked around in confusion.
“Who’s doing this?” he asked.
Mrs. Fowler pointed at Hattie. “She’s responsible,” she said. “And those two.” She meant Peter and me.
“No, it’s the little boy,” someone whispered in amazement.
Then everyone turned to look at Eric, who was sitting up on the rock like a little prince. His hands were folded in his lap, and a small smile played on his lips. But his eyes. They were like black pools, amused, indifferent, inhumanly intelligent. They never blinked.
“I don’t think I like you, Livia,” the Darkness said in its clear, emotionless voice.
Mrs. Fowler squealed with fear. We were all afraid by then.
In another moment there was a whooshing sound cutting through the silence. Something had entered the Meadow from the town, something traveling at a tremendous speed.
“Oh, my God,” someone said.
It was hard to see what it was at first, but then I noticed the wooden handle and, attached to it, a shiny blade slicing through the air inches over our heads, heading directly toward Livia Fowler.
A dozen people scrambled for their wands, but the thing was moving too fast. Mrs. Fowler’s face was frozen in terror as the knife streaked inexorably in her direction. But just before it reached her, one hand in the crowd shot up. With a movement too fast to see, it grabbed the knife by its handle, stopping it in midair.
It was Hattie, the muscles in her forearm straining with tension.
There was a collective sigh as everyone suddenly remembered to breathe. Hattie’s eyes were wide with residual fear. “Go,” she mouthed.
Peter moved toward Eric, fumbling for the sedative in his pocket.
“Hattie,” Eric crooned. “Such an accomplished witch.”
“Did you hear that?” Mrs. Fowler shrieked. “That’s the Darkness, that boy! And Hattie Scott is his servant!”
Then three things happened:
Mrs. Fowler spewed out a twenty-foot stream of projectile vomit that landed right on top of the Great Book of Secrets.
Another bird, bloody and wingless, fell on top of Becca, who screamed.
From the edges of the forest, deer and rabbits emerged, baring their teeth and growling like predators.
Eric laughed so hard that he had to hold on to the rock he was sitting on to keep his fragile body from falling off.
I shoved Peter toward his brother, and Peter fell on him, sticking the needle into Eric’s hip. As the boy lost consciousness, the conjured woodland animals retreated, fading into the fog like creatures of mist.
“It’s okay,” Peter announced to the crowd. “Everything’s fine now.”
Mrs. Fowler stood up, her ample torso quivering. “Everything is not fine,” she rumbled with malefic intensity. “Bring him to me.”
Hattie walked up to her. “Please let me take him home,” she pleaded. “I will take care of . . . what has to be done.”
“Liar! You’ll do his bidding!”
“Please,” Hattie repeated, broken. “Spare him the fire. I’ll take his life.”
“No, you won’t.” Peter said from the rear.
Hattie pushed her way through the people. “Peter, give Eric to me.”
“I said no!” He threw out five fingers in an attempt at a binding spell.
Hattie tripped. “Peter . . .”
I took a deep breath. “Get him away from here,” I said, moving between Peter and the rest of the witches. “I’ll cover you.”
“Stop him!” Livia Fowler commanded. A dozen wands snapped into position.
Before I could even think, I flicked my wrist and knocked the wands out of their hands one by one—a temporary solution, but at least enough of one to give Peter a chance to escape with Eric in his arms.
“Katy, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Hattie shouted, lurching out of Peter’s weak binding.
“You’re right,” I admitted, throwing another binding spell on her that sent her crashing to the ground. “I’m sorry, Hattie.”
Mrs. Fowler screamed, the cry of a Valkyrie on the rampage, and produced a wall of flame so close to me that I could smell my hair singeing. “She brought the Darkness into the Meadow!” she accused. “And now she’s let it escape!”
I felt the crowd move in one body toward me.
“Put the wand away,” Aunt Agnes said to me.
As I backed away, another wall of fire burst behind me. “Okay,” I said, putting the wand back into my sleeve. “Okay, okay.”
“Bring her to me,” Mrs. Fowler commanded.
“Burn her!” someone suggested. It sounded like Becca’s voice.
Someone pushed me. I fell, feeling my cheek explode against the ro
cky ground. Dingo whimpered.
“Burn her!” a young man screamed.
“Yes, burn her!”
“Wait,” came a voice that sounded as if it was inside my own head. “We’ve made a mistake.”
“Oh,” someone said. I felt the grip on my clothes loosen. I could stand up. “Yes, a mistake.”
“We’ll wait until we’re certain.”
“We are certain!” Livia Fowler’s voice broke through that other, strangely compelling one, like a chainsaw through butter. “The rules say—”
“We’ll WAIT.”
The fire crackled. All else was silent.
“All right,” Livia said, oddly calm. “We’ll wait.”
I stood up, looking around, bewildered. Everyone seemed to be sitting and staring quietly ahead as I staggered away from the circle. Everyone except for Miss P, who stood still as a statue, surrounded by an unearthly light. Her eyes, deep as the heart of night itself, glowed an iridescent blue like windows offering a glimpse of a creature of awesome power.
“Thank you, djinn,” I whispered, managing a small bow.
She inclined her head slightly, without ever meeting my eyes.
As I backed away into the fog, I saw Mr. Haversall raise one hand, shooting its fingers upward. A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky, followed by the crash of thunder and a sudden shower of hard rain.
All the fires were extinguished. The big oak smoldered and hissed in the downpour. I nodded to the old man. A rainmaker, I thought. Bringing water, the third harbinger.
With two fingers he touched the edge of his cap in response. Dingo lay down at his feet. They were all going to wait for an answer.
All Peter and I had to do was to come up with it.
As I bolted out of the Meadow, I felt sick with the realization of how hard that was going to be, especially after I saw that Peter’s truck was gone. Where had he taken Eric? I tried to think clearly. Not back to Hattie’s, surely. Not after what had just happened. The school, then? Or my great-grandmother’s house?
Then it came to me. There was only one place where they could have gone. I finally understood what Peter’s “plan” was. It was the same as Hattie’s. The same as Henry Shaw’s.
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