Wicca

by James Follett

`And that's what I'm working on,' said Harding.

  Malone pushed harder and felt the Wall pushing back -- matching his efforts with an exact counter force needed to repel him. No more and no less. He took his hand away and the Wall became transparent again.

  `Most of us have got bored with playing with it, Mr Malone.'

  Malone shrugged and peeled off his tracksuit top. `Radio Pentworth got the weather forecast wrong,' he observed, glancing up at the strengthening sun. `Why don't they just play a tape? "Today will be hot and humid just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that".'

  `"And more rain is forecast for tonight and every night",' Bob Harding added. `It keeps the pollen down otherwise it'd play hell with my asthma."

  `Life in a greenhouse.'

  `A productive greenhouse,' said the scientist, nodding to the crops. `I'm sure those lettuces have grown since I arrived. Right -- the best way to spy on me is to give me a hand.' The heaviest item Harding had brought in the trap was a Dowty hydraulic mining jack, borrowed from the fire station. A massive device, resembling a village pump. It was used as an emergency prop to support buildings made unsafe by trucks or tourist coaches attempting to park in them. Such accidents had been not uncommon before the Wall in homes and shops fronting Pentworth's narrow, winding streets.

  The two men positioned the jack flat on the grass so that its base was touching the sturdiest of the tree stumps. Harding cranked the handle vigorously, causing a gleaming ram shaft to appear. The lifting shoe made contact with the Wall and immediately a blackened, opaque area seemed to spread from the point of contact -- rising up like a surreal, two-dimensional bush.

  The scientist stopped cranking and recorded the jack's load gauge reading in a note book. He measured the diameter of the blackened patch of force wall, calculated the area and noted the information.

  `You're not expecting to break through with this thing, are you?' Malone asked.

  Harding shook his head and resumed pumping while watching the load gauge. `I don't think that's likely.'

  The jack's shoe disappeared into the blackness which spread outwards and upwards for two metres from the point of contact. Harding entered the new figures in his notebook. After more cranking and two further readings, the strange blackness of the Wall made visible was the size of a double-track railway tunnel. Harding's mounting excitement was evident.

  `Just as I hoped,' he exclaimed in answer to Malone's query. `The counter force has a linear progression. Double the load and it doubles the area of blackness.'

  `Meaning?'

  `Meaning that I'm sure we can defeat this thing with a massive overload,' the scientist replied. `Damn -- the gauge is nearly on maximum reading.'

  Harding resumed working the crank handle, more slowly because it required considerable effort. A few more centimetres of ram appeared and a little oil seeped around its O-ring gland under the enormous pressure. He stopped and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. `That's it -- needle's on the stop.' He stared into the featureless blackness. `Amazing engineering,' he breathed. `Truly amazing. A hundred tonne load bearing on a few square centimetres and look at it. Let's leave it under load and see what happens.'

  `Cathy Price reckons she hit the Wall at about a 100 miles per hour in her E-Type,' said Malone conversationally. `That was the night that the Wall first materialised.'

  `Yes -- she told me. She said it was like running into a pile of mattresses.' Harding returned his attention to the jack's load gauge. He thought he had seen the needle quiver. `What are you trying to tell me, Mr Malone?'

  `That I don't think we'd ever be able to beat such technology but I accept that we won't know until we try.'

  `If we fail,' said Harding, `I shall attempt to communicate with the so-called Silent Vulcan UFO in Pentworth Lake.'

  `Their spyder made no attempt to communicate with me,' Malone observed.

  The detective-sergeant was referring to the time when a machine that could have only belonged to the visitors had followed him home one night. It had resembled a mechanical crab, moving purposefully on curiously articulated legs. When he had tried to catch it, it had sprouted helicopter rotors and taken off into the night sky. Several other people had seen the strange device. Cathy Price had nicknamed it a spyder -- and the name had stuck. It had not been seen again since the day after its close encounter with Malone.

  Both men saw the needle drop back.

  `By God!' Harding yelled as the needle fell to 50 tonnes. `The pressure's dropping! The jack's breaking through!'

  `I don't think so,' said Malone.

  But the scientist had heard the soft snapping sound of buried roots being wrenched apart and he had felt the tremors underfoot. Both men stared at the massive tree stump as it heeled slowly away from the Wall. A hard-packed pan of leaf mould near the base of the stump yawned like a mouth. Freed of its mighty load, the jack rolled onto its side and the huge black patch of nothingness in the Wall disappeared.

  `Bugger,' said Harding succinctly.

  Chapter 4.

  `RIGHT,' SAID ANNE TAYLOR FIRMLY when breakfast in the garden was over. `Vikki -- your turn to wash up. Sarah -- help me position the cooker for dinner.'

  As always, it irritated Anne to see her daughter clear the garden table by expertly balancing the plates on her forearm instead of making proper use of her left hand. Before leaving Vikki gave Sarah a warning glance to say nothing about her strange dream although she knew it was unnecessary. Sarah would never betray a confidence.

  Anne treated Sarah to a frosty look but said nothing as she and the girl swung the four-metre-diameter solar dish into the optimum position for cooking the evening meal. The silver-painted, papier-mache parabolic reflector, mounted on a stout, cross-braced framework of hazel and ash, was one of several hundred manufactured by Selby Engineering. It was a bulky yet simple device: the cooking area was little more than a shelf at the dish's focal point for concentrating the sun's energy onto saucepans and pressure cookers. The people of Pentworth had become expert at cooking casseroles and stews while standing on stepladders.

  The Taylor household was luckier than many. They had water from a borehole, and Anne had converted a large, old-fashioned cast iron radiator into a solar heat exchanger that kept the well-insulated hot water tank primed. The radiator was in position on the lawn, painted black, and propped against a post.

  With her husband, Jack, Farside, the entire burden of running the two farm cottages knocked into one dwelling had fallen on Anne's capable shoulders. She coped admirably with all the problems of the "new life" as it was now called, the most significant being no electricity but she was now used to even that. Her hand no longer went automatically to the light switch when entering a room. There was no television, no piped gas, no petrol for her ancient Mini. Life for everyone in Pentworth was akin to life in the early 19th Century, but with the knowledge of the 21st Century.

  Anne was proud of the way she had come to terms with the "new life". She rose at dawn and went to bed at nightfall after listening to the daily radio play or the reading on Radio Pentworth. The Wall had pushed her into finally giving up smoking and she felt better for it. And the air was so much cleaner without diesel and petrol pollution. But what she really appreciated was the new community spirit that the Wall had brought to Pentworth.

  It was now the end of June. Asquith Prescott and the council had achieved much in 13 weeks. The campaign to revive ancient but vital skills that were essential for Pentworth's survival was proving a success. A cooper, who had made his last barrel twenty years before, had been wrinkled out of retirement, given a workshop and two willing lads, and asked to make barrels.

  A shoe repairer had, to his joy, been supplied with four youngsters who were already keen on leather work, and tasked with teaching them to make good-quality working boots -- the supply of rawhide and leather assured by the revival of the tanning workshops where young and old trainees scraped and worked hides on stretcher frames and used cows' brains for the tanning pr
ocess.

  Pentworth was reverting to what English towns had always been before industry had been driven out by planning regulations and rocketing rents and rates. The antique shops were fast-disappearing to be replaced by shirtmakers, farriers, blacksmiths, seamstresses, spinners, candle makers, tanners, saddlers, and all the socially-useful trades that contributed to the wealth and well-being of a thriving community.

  It was a similar story on the farms where old skills were being relearned. David Weir's Temple Farm was among the busiest, running training courses in which Charlie Crittenden and his family of travellers introduced classes of the young and old to the crafts of hurdle-making, hedge-layering, coppicing, pollarding, ploughing and harrowing, and care of horses and farm implements. The once-despised Crittendens, that David Weir had welcomed to Temple Farm before the appearance of the Wall, were now held in high esteem for the skills that had been in their blood for generations.

  Under the direction of Charlie Crittenden's sons, parties of apprentices were hard at work clearing long-neglected and overgrown woodland. The piles of brushwood of their labours were collected and taken to Pentworth Paper Mills for pulping and shredding to make a wide variety of paper goods that included the production of huge sheets of low-grade but adequate tissue paper that were dried in the sun and rolled and sliced to make toilet paper and even sanitary towels. Nothing was burned.

  Anne Taylor's main regret was not separation from her husband -- their marriage was on the point of break-up anyway -- but her failure to persuade Vikki to accept her miraculous new hand -- a wonderful gift from God that had grown on that unforgettable weekend in March when the Wall had appeared and Pentworth's isolation had begun. Vikki's wish to say nothing to anyone about the hand had been respected but her mother's patience was wearing thin.

  Once the solar dish was in position, Sarah tried to flee to the kitchen to help Vikki but Anne commanded the girl to sit at the table. Woman and schoolgirl faced each other.

  `Well?' Anne demanded.

  `Well what, Mrs Taylor?'

  `Vikki's hand. You promised to get her to end this secrecy nonsense. It's gone on too long.'

  `I promised to do my best,' said Sarah, a hint of defiance. `You know how stubborn Viks can be. She says she's not ready.'

  `I was counting on you, Sarah. It's bound to come out sooner or later. Too many people know.'

  Sarah looked puzzled. `Who else knows? Vikki. You. Me. And Dr Vaughan. She's your doctor, so she won't say nothing.'

  `Say anything,' said Anne absently, brushing her long, blonde hair away from her face. At 36, she looked more like Vikki's older sister than her mother. `I'm sure Mike Malone suspects something. Vikki was using both hands that time we were fixing up that radiator when he turned up.'

  Sarah looked contemptuous. `He's a thick plod.' She gave an impish grin and looked speculatively at Anne. `Wouldn't mind finding out just how thick. I bet you've found out.'

  `Don't you think about anything but sex?'

  `No. But who mentioned sex?'

  Anne smiled. Sarah was a likeable little trollop. `You seriously underestimate Mike-- Mr Malone. He's the shrewdest man I've ever met. The scrapping of bars and having waiter only service at tables for drinks in pubs and clubs was his idea. And it's worked. It means that juveniles like you and Vikki can go into pubs for soft drinks. So don't go knocking Mr Malone.’

  `Well -- he would've said something by now if he'd seen anything.'

  Anne's green eyes regarded the girl steadily. `One of the Pentworth House girls delivering milk saw Vikki climbing out of the swimming pool using both her hands.'

  `Must've been before the water turned green.'

  `It was a couple of days after the Wall appeared. The girl returned Vikki's artificial hand which she lost at the Pentworth House party.'

  `No one takes any notice of those Bodian Brethren loonies at Pentworth House,' said Sarah pointedly. `They're all nutters.'

  `Obviously you've never heard Father Roscoe preaching from the back of a dogcart,' Anne replied. `A lot of people are beginning to take him very seriously. That the Wall is a punishment for our sins. Although I'd be sorry now to see it go.' Anne experienced a twist of guilt, knowing how much Vikki missed her father.

  Sarah remained silent, wondering what was coming next.

  `You're good for Vikki, Sarah,' said Anne slowly. `If your mother doesn't mind, you're welcome to stay on here as long as you like.'

  `I'd like that, Mrs Taylor. Thanks. I like having a sister. Vikki thinks she can get me a holiday and weekend job with her in Ellen Duncan's herb shop. Or in her fields. I'd could give you some housekeeping.'

  `I'll have to check with your mother first.'

  `Mum won't care. She's got a new boyfriend.'

  `Another one? Your mother is going to run out of Pentworth men at this rate.'

  `Oh -- she only has 'em one at a time, Mrs Taylor. They come and go with monogamous regularity.'

  `Her daughter's also heading for a reputation as a man-eater, the way she carries on,' said Anne dryly.

  `But a lot of men like being eaten,' said Sarah innocently.

  Vikki emerged from the kitchen and wondered what her mother and Sarah were laughing about.

  Chapter 5.

  THE VISITORS CHOSE A NIGHT when there was no moon therefore the only witness of the sudden disturbance in the centre of Pentworth Lake was a marauding barn owl. It circled, scrutinizing the erupting bubbles before deciding that they were inedible and continuing its flight.

  The spyder surfaced, the many metres of bottom silt it had had to push through still streaming from its strange, crab-like body. It crawled clear of the water and tested each of its articulated legs and manipulators in turn while its sensors listened and watched, monitoring the entire spectrum of human perception and beyond. The nearby cry of a nightjar had to be pinpointed and accounted for before its casing opened and contra-rotating helicopter rotors appeared.

  Motors hummed faintly, the rotors spun, and the spyder lifted high and vertical into the humid night sky before swinging towards Pentworth.

  During the early days of their arrival the visitors' spyder had come close to being captured, and on another it had been forced to use a spray of non-lethal nerve gas. They didn't want to use the spyder again to venture into a house -- their summoning of Vikki to the lake had satisfied them that their triggering of the correct stem cells to regrow her hand had been a success, but they needed information on the repair of neural networks in the human brain. They had already carried out some simple repairs on a person therefore they decided that it would be sensible to visit that person again to obtain the additional information and confirm that the repairs had worked.

  They didn't know her name -- Vikki was the only person with whom they had established contact -- but they knew where Cathy Price lived. A house with an octagonal tower on a hill on the outskirts of Pentworth.

  The spyder found Hill House, stopped, and descended rapidly, arresting its fall with a surge of power in the final seconds so that it settled silently on the roof of the octagonal tower. Two manipulators were extended quickly to secure a purchase.

  It waited for over an hour, not moving, listening for the characteristic pattern of cerebral rhythms that told it that its quarry was in deep sleep. This time the warmth and humidity made its task of entering the house easy because all the windows were open to catch the light breeze of the night convection currents. Extending its manipulators allowed it to lower itself level with an open window. Dropping silently from the sill to the bedroom floor was achieved by the same means.

  Through the eyes of their spyder, the visitors studied the spacious bedroom. Their machine had been in the room before but had had to leave in a hurry when Cathy had woken.

  Despite being able to walk again, the woman still had a combined studio and bedroom. The visitors surveyed the professional workstation and had no difficulty divining the purpose of the Mackintosh computer, a large A3 laser printer and an equally large flat
bed scanner, but the purpose of a bicycle exercise machine took them several milliseconds to comprehend. There had been another device in the bedroom that had been noted on its first visit but there was no sign of it now: a wheelchair.

  The spyder moved towards the dark-haired young woman, sprawled naked on her stomach on the bed, her fingers touching the floor. A small manipulator took a tiny tissue sample from the woman's wrist. She didn't stir. The biological identification confirmed the visual identification that they had the right person. A neural scan of Cathy's brain was performed in less than a minute. The findings confirmed what the visitors had hoped: that the repairs to the young woman's brain carried out by their spyder during its first visit had been a success. Even without the positive information of the scan, the worn state of the young woman's shoes and that the wheelchair was gone confirmed that she could now walk.

  The spyder returned to Pentworth Lake and disappeared into its depths. Its makers were satisfied with the results of the sortie. Work could resume on the human being they were rebuilding.

  Chapter 6.

  ELLEN DUNCAN WAS IN A reasonably good mood so she tore into David Weir for only a minute on her visit to Temple Farm.

  `I'm slaving my guts out to increase herb production to make remedies for the hospital!' she railed. `I'm having to work all hours God made in the shop. Cope with a bunch of cretins I've been lumbered with, and I find you and Charlie Crittenden and his boys messing about with this useless rust box on wheels! You promised to plough and harrow my lower field by the weekend!'

  The target for Ellen's ire was David Weir, owner of Temple Farm. Good-natured, blond, 40, with an unlikely aristocratic demeanour for a farmer. Five years ago he had sold his share in a London art gallery, bought the rundown Temple Farm, and turned it into an agricultural museum -- a working theme farm with horse-drawn and steam-powered farming implements. The useless rust box on wheels that Ellen had referred to was Brenda -- a partly restored showman's engine. It was a Charles Burrell and Sons steam-driven traction engine that had been abandoned in a field for half a century. In its day the formidable machine had generated the electricity for travelling fairs. David was standing on the driver's platform beside Charlie Crittenden -- head of a family of travellers whose caravans were now a permanent feature of Temple Farm. Charlie's eldest sons, Gus and Carl were sitting astride Brenda's boiler, regarding Ellen in some awe. Tight shorts that had been jeans in another life, a loose halter top, the breeze tangling her rich, black tresses around her face, the voluptuous herbalist was a stirring sight for two young men, or any number of men of any age.