Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  In one wave, the wolves bound forward. The witches start chanting.

  ‘Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  By water, fire, earth and air,

  Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  Let those who challenge us, beware –

  Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  Claws that bite, teeth that tear,

  Wolves and goblins everywhere,

  Destroy through earth and ice and air … ’

  Brilliant tints of ice glint on the grass. We duck down behind the standing stone. I can see it’ll be hard for Oswald to blast us properly while the wolves and Sheila block the way. The wave of ice crashes by. So near. So near. My chest’s thudding. I hold on to Henry’s heart. Just wait for that first splinter of light, Ellie. Get ready to jump out – even under the club of Gwyn ap Nudd – hold it up.

  Oh please, let the first beam of light strike now.

  In the distance, I hear a terrible knocking. Oh my God. It’s bound to be the Coraniaid, the goblins digging under our feet. The ground we stand on is going to collapse.

  Sheila laughs. The chanting continues.

  ‘Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  Let those who challenge us, beware – ’

  The knocking continues.

  The wolves close in.

  Davey drops to his knees.

  ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti … ’

  Suddenly the side of the hill quivers. A bit breaks off. A lump of turf falls away. Some pebbles slide. A chunk of rock falls out and a hole opens up. The side of the mountain caves in. Right beside us.

  My heartbeat is so way above healthy, I’m probably dead already.

  And out of a newly hewn cavern a shape appears.

  Tall. Mighty.

  Terrifying.

  A HUGE female Knocker. Out she strides, her red hair braided down to her waist, her wide trousers tucked into thigh-high boots. In her hand she carries her MASSIVE pickaxe and one HUMONGOUS hammer. She steps in front of us, raises her pickaxe.

  The wolves back away. Gwyn ap Nudd, his face darker than ever, steps forward. ‘You are no match for me,’ he booms.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t our old underworld enemy number one, ol’ Gwynny Nudders!’ Nan, the Knocker Queen shouts.

  ‘Out of my way! I can crush you with one blow,’ he hisses.

  ‘If you wanna prove that true, me hearty,’ yells Nan, ‘come an’ get it!’

  FORTY-FOUR

  A wolf rushes at Nan, the Knocker Queen.

  With one swing of the hammer, she smashes through its skull. Blood and bone spray over the icy ground. She strides forward, reaches Gwyn ap Nudd. She raises her pick. ‘Taste iron, creature of the dark!’ she yells.

  Gwyn ap Nudd jumps sideways. The pick thunders down. It penetrates deep into the stone he was standing on, splinters fly, rocks quiver.

  George cheers.

  I watch from behind the standing stone. I dodge and circle round it, always keeping its majestic height between Sheila and Henry’s heart.

  Please let the first beam of light come soon.

  Gwyn and the Cŵn Annwn regroup.

  The wolves split off to one side. I see their plan: cut the Knocker Queen off – isolate us. Then close in for the kill.

  But then a battalion of Knockers comes marching out of the mountainside. They surround us, surround the stone.

  And at their back, comes a stumbling figure.

  A very pale-looking Rhiannon.

  ‘ELLL-IEEEEE!’ she wails.

  Out of the mountain pour more and more Knockers. They form a moat of little men, ten metres wide around us.

  Rhiannon rushes at me sobbing, ‘ELL-IEEEE!!!’

  But as she catches sight of Sheila in full witch’s garb, she hesitates, grows even paler. ‘SHEIL?’ she gasps,

  ‘Well, well, what do we have here my smashers?’ says the Knocker boss, who heads up the tiny army. He shoots a worried look at Rhiannon and shouts across at Sheila. ‘Sheela Na Giggers, try picking on our princess,’ he says, jerking his head at Rhi, ‘and we’ll have to get very personal.’

  ‘Sheila Na Giggers?’ repeats Rhi.

  But at that moment, Oswald swoops. He sends an ice blast at the newly opened cavern. Four of the last Knockers to come marching out are frozen solid. Oh God, those poor Knocker-men. Little white statues. The wolves creep forward. Gwyn ap Nudd moves into position.

  ‘Get back!’ Sheila screams. ‘Get back to where you belong, under the hills, inside the mines. You are not wanted here – this is our hillside. None can stand against me! For I am the most desirable of them all. It is I who will hold the hearts of all men!’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing,’ says the boss, ‘and I won’t mincer up my words with it neither. You do not have our hearts, young lady. There’s only one gal for us and she’s our princess and if she’s crying, we’ll knocker you flat.’

  And all of them, in unison, pull their mining picks and their hammers free, and they line up around Rhiannon, hammering on the frozen rocks at our feet.

  I watch the skyline. Please. Please. The clouds swirl close around the summit. The hump of Snowdon grows dark against the coming dawn. This is it. The sun must soon come. I’m ready. I’m standing at the Menhir of Mawr, the standing stone, the Oracle, in the Pass of Arrows, guarding the heart. Let it break sooooon. We can’t hold out much longer. I look at the Hordes of Sheela gathering again for another assault. I stand with my back against the stone. The clouds break.

  The witches start a fresh chant.

  ‘Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  Let those who challenge us, beware – ’

  And there is the dazzling face of the sun! Just rising over the edge of the mountain. One ray of sunshine breaks free. One long shaft of light shoots out from the clouds, shoots straight from the crest of Snowdon.

  It glances down the mountainside, over the scree, past the front of the lake, and hits the standing stone with incredible brilliance.

  The Hordes of Sheela draw back. It’s as if the light burns them. Just for a second, there is a quivering in the air. The blade of sunlight is too intense.

  This is it.

  ACT.

  I jump into the beam of sunlight. I hold Henry’s heart tight. Right by the standing stone I raise my arm. This must be the right place. Has to be. I open my fist, hold the heart on high. The full light of the first ray of the vernal equinox hits home.

  I feel the heat on my hand.

  Work. Please work.

  It must work …

  The sunbeam lights up the heart. It starts to pulse. There’s a roaring heat. So hot. I can’t hold it any longer. Don’t let go. It’s blisteringly hot. Hold on. For a moment it seems it hovers there, all by itself. No longer the hard black object it was. Beating. Growing. Shining. As if a star has broken from the heavens and entered it, filling the entire world with its radiance. Light swirls and …

  Henry, where are you?

  Sheila leaps forward. She twists my wrist forwards. She yanks my fingers backwards. She wrestles the heart from me. Hold on. Hold on. My fingers loosen their grip.

  ‘MINE AT LAST, YOU DUMBO!’ she shouts. ‘SO MOTE IT BE!’ She capers in a wild dance in front of the stone.

  I’ve been tricked! She let me re-animate the heart – use my love – in the pure light of the vernal equinox – so that she could possess it.

  ‘NOOOOO!’

  George wheels his head around. He leaves himself undefended. Oswald sees his chance. Zooms in. George! A dreadful swipe from the White Dragon catches George side-on. The power of the blow lifts him off his feet, flings him back several metres. George crashes against the face of the mountain. He crumples, lies there. Red blood seeps into the snow under him. The White Dragon circles on high, waits for Sheila’s sign.

  GEORGE!

  And then the wolves burst forward. Snarling and snapping, they rush toward the limp form of George.

  And still no Henry.

>   But no sooner have the wolves covered the flank of the slope, than there is the hammering of hooves. And – incredibly – amazingly – a stampede of fleet-footed Welsh ponies charges over the edge of the hillside and stands guard around George’s fallen body.

  Thank God. Thank God.

  The wolves, powerless to stop their attack, crash headlong into the army of ponies.

  And still no Henry.

  I see Graine rear up, toss his mane, snort and stamp down on the lead wolf.

  How did the ponies get here so quickly? They must have galloped all night …

  Oh my God!

  And there at their rear, ears laid flat back, rearing and snorting, teeth bared, slashing wild razor hooves … the ghost of a black pony …

  Widow-maker.

  Davey leaps up from his knees. ‘Now is my hour,’ he declares. ‘God has shown me what I must do. I have remembered my mission!’

  The wolves close ranks, go for the smallest of the ponies, a tiny piebald mare. George dizzily sits up.

  He’s alive! George is alive!

  Davey jumps at Sheila, as if his body weight alone will crush her. He catches hold of her hand, catches hold of the heart, as she dances in triumph.

  She halts. She snarls. She spits in his face. ‘Nobody can stop me now,’ she says. ‘Henry is mine. Oswald will claim Wales. His winter will destroy any that oppose him. He will destroy the sleepers in their cave. He will take the Golden Throne of Arthur. And all the wild Olde Deepe Magicke will be free!’

  She cackles and capers and looks truly mental.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ says Davey. ‘For in the name of the Father and the Son and our Lord the Holy Ghost, I defy all evil.’

  But before he can take back the heart, Sheila and the other witches surround him and strike him down.

  Down with their daggers.

  ‘DAVEY!’ I cry out in horror.

  His blood flows over Sheila’s arm, over Henry’s heart. Then he staggers, falls and is trodden into the packed snow around the standing stone.

  I scream. My screaming dies on the air.

  As he falls, he calls out: ‘I put my faith in the Lord … I have completed my mission … my sacrifice will purify the heart … ’

  The Olde Deepe Magicke? What had Idris said? An eye for an eye. A sacrifice for a sacrifice. Fight fire with fire.

  ‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis (suspensionis) et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’

  Sheila cackles on: ‘Die foolish saint. Is this all the Olde Magicke can conjure from its favourites? The pathetic Patron Saint of Wales! Sent to save the world. What a joke. Die, and as your lifeblood ebbs away, know that Sheela Na Gig IS the Olde Deepe Magicke – it is from her power it flows and to her it will return.’

  Saint? My mind turns cartwheels.

  Davey – a saint?

  From the Olde Deepe Magicke?

  I’ve been travelling around with Saint David – the Patron Saint of Wales?

  Breathe.

  He can’t die.

  I shake my head. I knew there was something strange about Davey. But a saint? Surely not?

  He can’t die. Can he? Isn’t he already dead?

  But Gran knew. She knelt before him …

  Can you die twice?

  Don’t let Davey die.

  But he is dying.

  As if he hears my thoughts, Davey feebly lifts his head and smiles. ‘Arglwydi, vrodyr, a chwioryd, Bydwch lawen a chedwch ych ffyd a’ch cret, a gwnewch y petheu bychein a glywyssawch ac a welsawch gennyf i. A mynheu a gerdaf y fford yd aeth an tadeu idi,’ he whispers.

  Oh my God.

  Those were his last words to his followers.

  We learnt them in school.

  We said them in chapel …

  ‘Lords, brothers and sisters, be joyful, and keep your faith and your creed, and do the little things that you have seen me do and heard about. And as for me, I will walk the path that our fathers have trod before us … ’

  Walk the path …

  The little things he used to go on about

  His mission. Does he know he’s fulfilled it?

  Has he realised who he is?

  He smiles at me again.

  He seems to know.

  ‘May the Lord bless you, St David!’ I cry.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The sky brightens. Davey smiles one last time. I can almost hear Idris’s Harmony of the Spheres; almost hear angels. A small white bird flutters from the sky. It falls beside Davey.

  My heart beats wildly. I want to run to George. But all I can see is a mass of flailing hooves and bloodstained fur.

  I don’t understand why Henry hasn’t come. A hollow carves itself out under my rib cage. My legs go all weak. The Knockers back away, shielding Rhiannon, trying to get her back under the mountain. But even as they try to retreat, the ground around them seems to give way.

  Out of cracks and pits and holes and ditches come streaming the Coraniaid.

  Goblin creatures.

  Misshapen and dwarfish.

  Orc-like.

  Not much bigger than the Knockers. But not at all like them. Large-limbed and distorted. There’s an evil impish look about them. Out they swarm like insects.

  Like insects …

  In biting, slicing movements they hack at the Knockers. It might have been a fair fight if the Knockers hadn’t been trying to defend Rhiannon. But she makes them vulnerable. The Coraniaid cut off their retreat; force them back towards the standing stone, until once again we are all huddled around it.

  And still no Henry.

  My mind is blank. I can’t think what to do. I don’t know why Henry hasn’t come. Idris had been so sure that he was released. The Coraniaid drive forward, the ponies neigh wildly. There’s something in their whinnying; so desperate, so pitiful. It rings in my ears. It bruises the air.

  Oh no. Please no. Graine is down …

  I try to remember anything that can help.

  I hear George calling from the side of the pass. For a minute I think he’s calling to his pony, his trusty Graine, the cob that carried him so faithfully to Cadair. But then I hear him more fclearly: ‘Gran!’ he calls. And my heart breaks. He’s calling for Gran. He’s in pain. Maybe dying.

  Rhiannon turns to me, her face pale, terrified. ‘George is going to be OK, isn’t he?’ she says.

  I catch sight of the adder stone swinging around her neck.

  Gran?

  Of course!

  George isn’t calling for Gran because he’s scared and wounded – though he probably is. He’s trying to tell me that Gran gave me something for my ‘darkest hour’.

  The insect powder.

  The flipping insect powder!

  I dive deep into my jacket pocket. I find the small sealed yogurt pot. As the Knockers fall under the blows of the Coraniaid, I pour the contents of the plastic carton in to the palm of one hand. Instantly my skin starts to itch. I’m glad to take a deep breath and blow hard, as I throw it at them.

  The dust flies up into the air, swirls and is carried on the wind. The tiny particles spread and scatter and rush straight into the faces of the Coraniaid and Knockers alike.

  The Knockers shake and sneeze a bit, but among the ranks of the Coraniaid a terrible screaming breaks out. Quickly it escalates into murderous shrieking, as if hot coals have rained down upon them. Their goblin features twist in pain. There is a chorus of unholy screeching, and before my eyes, flesh seems to dissolve, disappear, like candlewax melting. What is left of them slips and slithers away into the cracks and pits and ditches that they came from.

  And suddenly I realise how stupid I’ve been. I haven’t listened to any of the advice I’ve been offered – I mean really listened: it wasn’t only Gran who told me things. The Lady of the Lake told me everything – that song, that riddle. I reme
mber the words:

  ‘On the feast day of St Cuthbert,

  When saints can play their part,

  Where sleepers sleep, and mirrors crack,

  By traitor’s blood and hero’s art,

  It will take a sacrifice, to purify the heart.’

  I run the words on a loop through my head. Think, Ellie. Think. What does it mean? Today must surely be the feast day of St Cuthbert. And sure, one saint at least has ‘played their part’.

  ‘Where sleepers sleep’ seems obvious. I guess that must refer to the sleeping knights, those knights of the pure in heart asleep in the cave of King Arthur somewhere close by. But where ‘mirrors crack’? I touch the mirror still inside my pocket. I don’t want my mirror to crack. It’s the only way that I can speak to Henry and speaking to him is the one thing I want to do more than anything now. I pull the mirror out. I look into it. ‘Henry?’ I call, ‘Henry, where are you?’

  I am so busy looking into the mirror trying to summon Henry, for a moment I forget the battle. Rhiannon starts shrieking. She’s pointing and screaming. I look up to see that Gwyn ap Nudd is raising his arm up; Nan, the Knocker Queen, has fallen, her last defenders dead around her. In Gwyn ap Nudd’s hand is a great black club.

  I watch, horrified, as he brings it down. Her skull splits open. Blood and bone spray over the mountainside.

  My scream hangs on the air, is drowned under other screams. Screams that have filled this mountain pass before. Blood that has stained this landscape red, when Arthur was defeated here.

  Oh my God!

  Then I breathe. My chest expands. The Knocker Queen lies where she has fallen, somehow smaller. Limp.

  Oh my God!

  Poor Nan.

  I look away. Breathe. Think.

  I force myself. Think of the Lady of the Lake. Is there anything that can help us?

  Traitor’s blood?

  There is only one traitor among us. She is right beside me, screaming her head off.

  Hero’s art?

  I’m surrounded by bravery but there’s only ever been one truly selfless hero in my life. He has his back pinned against a rock face and is defending himself against a pack of wolves with a few wild ponies. While above waits the mighty White Dragon. Looking down, biding his time, saving his energy. God, how he must be enjoying this little scene.