Prescott could think of nothing to say. Ellen's disappearance meant that his months of glory and prestige were over. David Weir saw the incident in a different light: his beloved Ellen might be lost to him. He uttered a cry of anguish and ran down the road.
Malone broadcast a general call to all sector marshals that the operation had been a success and gave the order for all vehicles to stop.
The black curtain collapsed and once again the bleak Farside vista of the primeval steppes of post-glacial Europe came into view beyond the Wall.
Malone was loping down the steep slope with long, easy strides when he saw David running down the hill with Harding and the others following. Without slackening his pace, he radioed the command sector marshal by name and ordered him not to allow anyone near the spot where the showman's engine had disappeared. The morris policeman dropped his flag and ran across the meadow to intercept David. Drivers and passengers piling out of the vehicles heeded the yells of the morris police and remained a respectful distance from the road. Even Adrian Roscoe and his band of sentinels stayed clear. His acolytes looked to their leader for divine guidance that was not forthcoming. Both Roscoe and his loudhailer were lost for words.
David Weir cannoned into the marshal. They struggled briefly but David managed to break free. With the morris man in pursuit, he continued his frantic dash down the road towards the spot where Ellen and the showman's engine had disappeared. What happened next brought them both skidding to a halt, staring in disbelief.
The Wall was blackening where it spanned the road. Brenda's rear wheels appeared, and the rest of the showman's engine followed. The ponderous machine was being pushed slowly, but inexorable backwards by the Wall's unknown forces. Ellen, white-faced, was sitting, holding the steering wheel. She tightened her grip as the Wall's stupendous thrust caused the engine to slew sideways so that its wheels grated and screeched on the road, forcing up rucks of asphalt.
And then silence. The Wall's blackness cleared. The sudden hush was broken by the slamming of truck and car doors as drivers and passengers came running. The marshal allowed David to approach the great engine. The gathering crowd formed a semi-circle that watched in silence as David shinned up beside Ellen and carefully separated her petrified fingers from the steering wheel's handle. She was staring straight ahead, not speaking, not moving until David coaxed her to stand and then helped her to the ground. She moved stiffly, like an automation, hardly acknowledging his presence.
Bob Harding pushed eagerly through the crowd with Prescott and Malone close behind. `Ellen? What happened? What did you see?'
`Can't you see she's in no state to answer questions?' David snarled.
`It's all right, David. I'm okay.' Ellen tried to disengage David's protective arm from around her waist and then felt in need of his warmth and security when she saw the circle of faces staring at her in silent hostility. Adrian Roscoe had worked his way to the front of the crowd. His ice-chip blue eyes burned into her reason. She concentrated on Bob Harding's friendly concern. `I didn't she anything,' she said slowly. `Just fog... Dense, dense fog. It was freezing and yet... And yet I could sense a terrible heat very close.'
`Mekhashshepheh!'
No seemed to hear the curse except Ellen. It seemed to materialise from all around her. An enclosure of hate that offered no weak point as a means of escape.
`Jesus,' said Charlie Crittenden. `Look at that new paint! It's all blistered!'
Harding looked at Brenda and saw that the patches of fresh primer on the showman's engine had crazed and bubbled as if a blowtorch had been applied to them.
`The witch has challenged the works of God, and God has shown her the cauldrons of hell for her blasphemy!' Adrian Roscoe trumpeted.
Ellen didn't hear him. All she was aware of was the night; flickering torches held high; grotesque shadows dancing on thatched buildings huddled around a medieval town square; a lurching dogcart bearing a manacled, terrified young woman, followed by a crowd chanting:
`Death to the witch! Death to the witch!'
She needed David's arm around her because at that point searing flames seemed to be leaping about her, tongueing and darting into a spark-filled night sky. Agonies racked her body, and before her was Adrian Roscoe, his gaunt features twisted into a mocking sneer of triumph as he plunged more burning brands into the bundles of brushwood at her feet.
Chapter 19.
THE FOLLOWING DAY Ellen and David were finishing lunch at Temple Farm while listening to a report on the radio about the proceedings that day of the trial of Brad Jackson for murder and treason. Ellen and David had been too busy the day before to listen to the news.
`Treason?' said Ellen in surprise. `Why treason?'
`God knows,' said David. `At least he's pleading guilty to murder. At least we weren't on steps of Government House otherwise we'd be called as witnesses... But treason? Some devious plan of Prescott's making I suppose.'
There was a rap on the kitchen door. Dan Baldock had ridden over to see David. The waspish little pig farmer made a few comments about the abortive assault on the Wall but remained standing awkwardly on the threshold and declined to come in despite David's invitation.
`It's country business, David,' he said, glancing at Ellen.
David laughed. `Ellen's country, Dan -- she's growing about two hectares of herbs. Come and try a cup of her tea.'
Baldock looked sheepish and sat at the kitchen table. `Sorry, Ellen. Don't mean to be rude. It's just that I always think of you as town.'
`What's the problem?' asked David, pouring his guest a cup of yarrow tea.
`Bill Croft got hi-jacked about three hours ago. He was on his way to the government food depot with five tonnes of spuds. The town mob who turned him over said that he had plenty more that he was holding back.'
`Is he okay?' asked Ellen.
`Yeah. There was no beating up this time. He didn't resist. One of the town gang had a shotgun.'
`This is starting to get out of hand,' said Ellen worriedly.
`It is out of hand,' Baldock replied.
`There's been nothing on the radio,' said David.
`A lot doesn't get on the radio since the studio was moved to Government House,' said Baldock acidly. `I always said that it was a mistake. I'm calling a meeting at my place -- 8 o'clock this evening. About a dozen tenant farmers and growers. More if there's interest. The inaugural meeting of the Country Brigade. We need to set up some sort of rota system so that farmers making deliveries have protection from these townie troublemakers.'
David frowned. `But after that last incident, Mike Malone said he'd look into supplying a morris police escort for major deliveries.'
`He did,' said Baldock shortly. `And his plans got the chop.'
`By whom?' asked Ellen.
`He wouldn't say. Are you coming?'
`You'll have to choose another name, Dan. Country Crimewatch or something not too emotive. The Country Brigade sounds like a vigilante gang.'
`A wishy-washy name ain't no good,' said Baldock stubbornly. `We've got to show the townies that we mean business -- that we're not to be messed with. As I said, all we need for starters is a rota system so that farmers delivering produce don't get set on.'
`I'll be along,' David decided. `But don't count on my support for setting up a vigilante gang.' Baldock rose. `See you this evening, David. I'd better be off. Got a lot of calls to make.'
When they were alone Ellen asked David if he had been withholding food supplies.
`Now why should you think that, m'dear? Temple Farm is primarily a training centre.'
`Because I'm damn certain you've got a lot more chickens than the 25 you've registered. There were six eggs in that omelette. The ration for one person for a week is seven.'
`So I've got a few extra chickens? What of it?'
`And Dan Baldock has got a few extra pigs; and Bill Croft's family don't go short of veggies. And farmers are doing a bit of trading with each other. How come you've got a whole leg of c
ooked pork in your meat safe when you haven't got any pigs?'
`It's lamb. I've got a three-legged sheep.'
Ellen wasn't amused. `Does it occur to you that maybe the town people have got a point with their gripes about farmers?'
`Well look at all the perks they're getting,' David countered. `Doctors on call in few minutes; water laid on. Several public telephones. This area was promised a phone weeks ago. We're still waiting. They get daily collections and deliveries of mail whereas we only get mail when the refuse collectors decide to come around. Sometimes the bread delivered to local shops is two or three days old. I know Diana is doing her best, but forgive the crudity, m'dear -- the country is sucking a hind tit.'
Ellen didn't want to argue. `I suppose you're right. I ought to be getting back. Thomas won't speak to me for a month as he's missed out on his dinner and breakfast, and my helpers are incapable of doing a stroke unless I'm there.'
`I'll get the trap.'
`I'll walk. It's a lovely afternoon.'
`I'll come with you.'
`You're supposed to be helping Charlie bring Brenda back.'
`He'll manage without me. I prefer your company to Charlie's.'
They left Temple Farm 30 minutes later with Ellen setting a brisk pace, showing no sign of her ordeal of the previous day. David questioned her again about what she had seen when she seemed to have broken through the Wall but she merely reiterated what she had said before -- that she had seen nothing but thick, freezing fog during those few moments of disorientation and confusion.
She glanced longingly at the concealed entrance to her cave as they trudged uphill, holding their breath and noses when they passed through the Ginkgo tree's primary assault zone. The ancient tree was flourishing in the heat and humidity, thrusting upwards and extending the range of its awesome olfactory offensive. Contrary to expectations, Ellen's apprentices were at work among the herb crops, doing essential daily battle with dutch hoes to keep weeds in check.
The first thing Ellen noticed as they approached her home through the rear garden was that the still room door was partially open.
`I know I locked up yesterday,' she said, quickening her pace.
The reason for the door's position was immediately obvious: the timber around the lock was splintered where the mortise had been jemmied open.
`Oh, no,' she said. `Someone's broken in.' `Haven't got any exotic drugs in stock, have you?' David asked.
`Of course not.' Ellen tried to pull the door open but it had been torn partially off a hinge and was jammed. David lifted the door and eased it open. It felt strangely heavy. Ellen's sudden scream of anguish caused his eardrums to sing in protest. One glance at what she had seen was enough. He quickly pushed the door shut and swept his arms around her, holding her tightly.
`For God's sake,' he muttered as Ellen tried to push him away. `It might not be Thomas.'
`Of course it's Thomas!'
`Let me deal with it.'
`He's my cat--'
`Ellen--'
Ellen exploded. `For Chrissake, David! Will you stop treating me like a child!' She disentangled herself from David's grip and dragged the door fully open. She stared in silence until the horror of what was before her wrested a sob from the depths of her being.
Thomas was nailed to the inside of the door -- crucified upside-down, wire nails driven through his throat, pelvis, paws, and even his tail, holding him in an inverted black T position in a ghastly parody of St Peter's fate.
Ellen knelt, touched him gently under the chin. His lifeless amber eyes regarded her with a "breakfast is late" expression that she knew so well. Above his pinioned tail, written in his blood on the door, was the legend:
EX2218
Ellen straightened and took in every detail of the terrible scene, ignoring David's well-meaning attempts to turn her away until he stood forcibly between her and the macabre spectacle.
`Let me bury him, m'dear,' he said gently.
She pushed him aside, stared at the lifeless cat for some moments, and shook her head.
`You must. Please, Ellen.'
But she would have none of it. Thomas had been her friend, companion and target for good-natured abuse for eight years and she wasn't going to fail him in this last office although she did allow David to pull the nails out with a claw hammer. She gathered up the pathetic bundle and held him close for a few moments, not speaking, her back to David so that he wouldn't see her tears.
The rest she performed mechanically, hardly knowing what she was doing as she buried her pet with his feeding bowl in his favourite summer spot under a nearby apple tree. A few moments contemplation of the sad patch of disturbed soil was enough. She returned to the house without a backward glance, masking her grief with composure, and sipped the mug of tea that David had made. She leaned against the still room wall, watching as he wiped the blood and its grisly message from the door, and reset the hinge and mortise lock with longer screws. He was unable to completely obliterate the hateful message so he found a tin of emulsion paint and gave the door a quick coating with a roller. Ellen remained silent as he put the tools away and regarded her thoughtfully, knowing that a warm, sympathetic approach would not be well received -- not just yet. She allowed him to steer her into the shop's workroom and sit her at her workstation.
`Who would do such a thing, Ellen?' `How should I know?'
`I think you do.'
She shrugged. `I can't help what you think.'
`What does EX2218 mean?'
`How should I know?' she repeated and avoided David's gaze by switching on the radio and pretending to listen to a report on the Government's plan to make more lamb available.
David stood over her. `It's what those vandals sprayed on your shop window last spring. You painted over it but it showed through.' He hesitated before continuing. Being blunt with Ellen was not without risk. `Don't treat me like an idiot, m'dear. You know perfectly well what it means. The sickos that did that to Thomas, did it for a reason. Obviously a perverted reason. What frightens me is that you could be next. So... I'm going to stay here and take as much smelly stuff as you want to give me, but I'm not budging until you tell me everything. Start at the beginning. Start now.'
Ellen opened her mouth to blast David but held her fire when she saw the determined light in his gaze. He was easy-going, but only up to a point.
`So tell me what EX2218 means,' pressed David.
`Exodus,' she said quietly. `Chapter 22, verse 18.
`Which is?'
`"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."'
`Good God.'
`Actually the original Hebrew for witch was Mekhashshepheh --sorceress. The Pentworth Mayday shout. Not quite the same as witch. And as a result of that translation thousands of men and women have suffered unspeakable tortures down the ages.'
`So who thinks you're a witch?'
`I don't know.'
`I'm going to call you an unpleasant name, Ellen, and to hell with the consequences.'
After a pause, Ellen said, `If I tell you, I want your word that you won't do anything about it without my say so.'
`I don't understand, m'dear. How can I promise--'
`You can promise me not to do anything!' Ellen snapped. `Now promise!'
`Very well.' said David with great reluctance. `I promise.'
She regarded the farmer steadily. `In that case, I'll tell you because I trust you to keep your word.' She paused, gathering her thoughts. `This was a very different sort of shop when I took over from my mother. That was ten years ago -- long before you bought Temple Farm. She called it the Wicca Basket. Wicca is an Old English name for witch. She sold spells, potions -- white witchcraft stuff. All pretty harmless but it wasn't what I wanted to sell. But I couldn't change things overnight. Money was tight and mother had built-up a regular clientele that provided the sort of turnover I couldn't ignore. So I changed things gradually. I ran down her stock of witchcraft publications and suchlike and started introducing proper herbal r
emedies. In fact I only got rid of her books on the occult recently by donating them to the library.' Her voice trailed away.
`Gradually changing a business is a sensible approach,' David commented to encourage her to continue.
`One of mother's best-selling decoctions was what she called witches' tea. Yarrow and other stimulants mostly, but it included a dangerous alkaloid made from the seeds and dried roots of Angels Trumpets -- datura. It has similar properties to LSD. It's an ancient anaesthetic. The Egyptians dosed their patients with it before drilling holes in their skulls, and the Incas sedated human sacrifices with the stuff. Satanists use small quantities to stupefy new recruits. It's supposed to help witches not feel the cold when dancing naked in the woods in winter although God knows how they stay awake. Some TMers like it because they really do think they're flying.'
`Good grief. Is it legal?'
`Oh yes -- so long as kids don't cotton on to its properties. You could buy datura plants in any garden centre although they're tricky to grow. I've always got a few in the greenhouse.'
`Those shrubs that produce what look like ugly great marrow flowers?'
`That's them. I use tiny amounts in my more powerful sedatives. Anyway, just after I took over, a woman came in for some witches' tea. A large amount -- 50 grammes -- which I sold her because mother charged œ2 per gramme. It was virtually the last of her stock. On the packet were strict instructions on its usage. The warning about not mixing it with alcohol was printed in red. Two weeks later I'm in a coroner's court in Yorkshire giving evidence. The woman had topped herself with a cocktail of all the witches' tea I sold her and a bottle of vodka.'
The radio presenter introduced a studio discussion on the Wall assault. Ellen stared at the radio and shook her head. `I was cleared of all blame. Afterall, the woman had misled me, and there very precise written instructions and warnings on its usage.'
`So who was she?'
`Adrian Roscoe's wife. I had no idea at the time. Roscoe had only just taken over Pentworth House and I had never met him. It turned out that she had come down from Harrowgate to plead with him for a reconciliation... Without success.'
Wicca Page 10