The Dreables, A Merryweathers Mystery

by RA Jones

  “But what’s a cunning woman?”

  Gran gave him a remorseful smile. “Good question. I’ve been asking myself that ever since I woke up.” She clicked her tongue. “Imagine letting Libby Brown’s custard tart fool me.” She shook her head. “I’m growing into an old fool. Soft and silly and forgetful.”

  “But what does it mean, a cunning woman?”

  ...“It means that we’re the ones people turn to when bad things happen. We’re the ones that sort things out.”

  Sam pondered this. “You mean like a witch?”

  Gwladys Merryweather wrinkled her nose. “Different breed. Bit too fond of dressing up and pointy hats and all that paraphernalia if you ask me.”

  Sam’s head was full of all sorts of questions, but the one that popped up first was, “But why didn’t you tell me all of this before?”

  “Would you have believed me, Samuel?”

  Sam hesitated. He wanted to say, yes of course, but deep down he knew he would not have. He would have thought she was nothing but a batty old fruit cake.

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s what I like. Honesty.” Gran smiled.

  “Does Mum know all this?”

  “She knows about Dreables. But she thinks they’re just stories.”

  “Is she a cunning woman?”

  Gran shook her head. “We skip generations, Sam. It’s your turn to be one of the cunning folk, not your mother’s.”

  “So what now?” asked Sam.

  “Now we finish our tea and then we get on with the job we came here to do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Make some cakes. At least that’s what we’ll start with.”

  “Cakes?” Sam repeated

  Gran gathered up the cups and plates. From her bedroom, she retrieved her battered suitcase and put it on the table. She undid the latches and took out two pieces of ancient-looking parchment, which she put into her handbag before closing the suitcase again.

  “Right, you get the eggs and I’ll weigh out the flour,” she said when that was done. She adjusted one wing of her seagull glasses and from the set of her mouth, Sam knew it was pointless asking her anything else at that moment.

  Chapter 10

  The Skwarnok Aryon

  It wasn’t a difficult recipe. There was some butter and sugar, some eggs and plain flour, and baking soda, raisins, and chocolate chips. Sam had watched Gran make her amazing cookies before but this time there was one additional ingredient which Gran made up from a mixture of herbs and dried flowers that were stored in a variety of glass-stoppered bottles in a cupboard in the kitchen. The bottles had interesting-looking symbols written on the sides and Gran consulted her notebook more than once as she carefully sprinkled in the mixture. She boiled them up in a saucepan on the stove and added thirty carefully counted drops to the cookie dough mix.

  They ended up with a hundred in all, which Gran put in the oven before setting the timer.

  “Your basic cookie with a special Mother Merryweather twist,” said Gran, wiping her sugary hands on her apron.

  “Are these for the Dreables?”

  Gran gave a huge roaring laugh and dislodged one wing of her specs in the process, the immediate adjustment of which left a flour thumbprint on the glass as evidence. “Not as long as my name is Gwladys Merryweather. No, Sam,” she added, and there was grim determination in her tone, “these are for the children. Now, are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “For a spot of clearing up.”

  Sam’s face fell. The kitchen was a mess. There was flour and bits of eggshell and baking powder scattered all over the surfaces.

  “I don’t mean here in the kitchen, Sam,” Gran explained with a frown.

  “Oh,” Sam said, relieved.

  “Put something warm on,” Gran ordered. “I’ve just got to get a couple more things from my suitcase.”

  “I suppose those are the things from the cupboard that need to be looked at because now is the time for them to be looked at,” Sam said.

  Gran looked at him with an admiring smile. “You’re spot on, Sam. Spot on.”

  Five minutes later, the dinger went on the oven timer. The smell of the cookies was amazing but Gran scooped them all into a plastic bag and put them in Sam’s rucksack.

  “Troop, Ginger, come on, we’ve got work to do.” Gran grabbed her handbag and went to the cupboard under the sink and took out an old sack stuffed with half a dozen more of the same.

  “What’s that for?”

  “For Dreables,” Gran said, and even though Sam’s forehead wrinkled, she would not be drawn.

  There was no sneaking out of the back this time. Mother Merryweather, Sam, Troop, and Ginger left smartly by the front door.

  Outside, Sam looked around nervously. “What if we see some Dreables?”

  It was almost seven o’clock now. Still light, but the Nule was crowning the tops of the Barrows and there was an unnatural stillness in the air.

  “Not if, when we see Dreables,” she corrected him. “When we do, we sort them out.”

  “But how?” asked Sam. “They’re big and strong and have tusks and…”

  “Are as stupid as those wooden posts either side of the gate.” Gran was positively marching down the road now, eyes peeled for any movements.

  “But if they were people once don’t you feel a bit sorry for them?”

  “All traces of the people they might once have been have long gone, Sam. Arglwd has them exist only to feel our misery. I have no sympathy for that.”

  All trace of the slight limp she usually had was gone. This was not the Gran that his mother was worried about. This was a strong and purposeful Mother Merryweather, who talked as she walked.

  “We Merryweathers are who we are because sometime in the dim and distant past,” Gran added, “a Merryweather stood up to this lot and found a way to beat them. It’s in me, Sam. In you too. All we have to do is look them in the eye and say ‘Bos Karrek.’ It’s a special curse laid on them and their kind by the first Merryweather who took them on.”

  “Was she a witch?”

  “No, but she did happen to be apprenticed to a nice man called Merlin.”

  Sam was quiet for half a minute. Then he asked, “What does Bosh Carrick mean? And what if they don’t look you in the eye?”

  “That’s where their stupidity comes into it. You’ve already met them. There is nothing a Dreable likes more than to put on that stupid face they call ‘scarifying’ and bare their teeth. Once they do that, all you have to do is say Bos Karrek and they’ll turn back into the lumps of rock they really are.”

  “Bosh Carrick?”

  “Bos Karrek. It’s an incantation. It means ‘Be stone.’ It’s old and has its origins in Welsh and Cornish, languages spoken before the Romans came and long before we started to speak English. But it has to be said by one of us. Don’t ask why. Like I said, it’s in us. Some special mix of voice and tone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, it is a lot to take in. I remember when my gran told me, I wouldn’t believe her. But there it is. Magic, if there is such a thing, is a bit like that. It’s individual, otherwise everyone would be doing it and the world would be in a right pickle. Even more of a pickle that it is now. Oh, some of it can be taught, but there has to be something in you, that’s all there is to it.”

  “And you’re sure I have it in me?” Sam asked.

  Gran glanced down at him and Sam saw again that look of pride. “Judging by what you’ve already done today, I’d say definitely yes. But there is only one way to find out.”

  “Bos Karrek,” said Sam, trying to get it right. “Bos Karrek, Bos Karrek. But what about Arglwd?”

  “I’ll deal with him when the time comes,” Gran said grimly.

  ~~~~~

  They met the first lot on Coronation Road. A gang of them had cornered a terrified cat and were taunting it. The cat had its hackles up and seemed to be giving as good as it go
t. But it made Sam’s blood boil to see them tormenting a small animal like that. He wanted to shout at them, but Gran put her arm out to stop him as he stepped forward.

  “Don’t say anything,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

  One of the Dreables saw them and immediately stood up and signalled to the others.

  “Hey boys, look here. Four softies. Leave the mog, let’s scarify them up for the party.”

  “Oh yeah,” sang a much smaller Dreable. “Mustn’t forget the party. We always have a party for the old ones. A welcome to the Barrows party.”

  “Oh please,” whimpered Gran. “Please. Leave us alone.” She sounded so frail and terrified that Sam had to look at her twice.

  “Gran?” he asked, suddenly unsure of himself and her.

  “I’d forgotten how horrible they are,” Gran said, holding her hand up in front of her eyes fearfully.

  She had all the Dreables’ attention now. They were leering and swaggering, enjoying Gran’s terror.

  “She’ll be good for scarifyin’,” said another of the Dreables.

  “She’s scarified already,” chortled another, raising itself up on its bandy back legs and pulling its long arms up over its head. It made its hands into claws and bared its teeth. Slowly it began to creep forward.

  Gran, who was still cowering, suddenly dropped her hand to show her face. There was no fear there anymore. Far from it. “Nice knowing you boys,” she said and added in a loud and clear voice, “Bos Karrek!”

  The Dreables froze, half in fear and half because they literally had frozen. They became statues. There was a sound like ice cracking on a deep lake and then the Dreables just collapsed in midair and fell to the ground as tiny pebbles, each the size of a sparrow’s egg.

  “Wow,” said Sam, staring at the four pebbles on the floor. “That was… amazing!”

  “It’s just a question of knowing what to do and how to do it,” Gran said, scooping up the pebbles into her sack. “Now…”

  Gran didn’t have time to finish her sentence. From behind her another Dreable emerged from where it had been hiding. Gran didn’t see it because she had her back to it. Too late she saw the surprise in Sam’s face. Before she could react the thing was upon her, wrapping its big hands around her mouth and her waist. Troop growled and lunged forward, but the Dreable kicked out at the dog and tightened its grip on Gran.

  “Call it off or I’ll strangle her here and now,” it commanded.

  Sam beckoned to Troop. “Here, Troop. Here, boy.”

  The dog came back to Sam and sat, growling low in its throat.

  “Meddling Merryweather,” said the Dreable with it’s teeth clenched. “But I’ve shut her up now, haven’t I?” It looked terribly pleased with itself.

  “Leave her alone,” Sam said. He didn’t like the funny dark red colour Gran’s face was becoming.

  “Or what, softie, eh? If I strangles her here and now, what are you going to do about it?”

  Sam watched in horror. He didn’t know what best to do. Gran was the cunning woman, not him.

  “Pah,” spat the Dreable. “You wait where you are, little boy. I’ll send someone back for you.” It began walking backwards, dragging Gran with it. The thing had its eyes on Troop, making sure the dog didn’t spring at it.

  “Wait,” Sam said.

  But the Dreable wouldn’t lift its eyes up from Troop. “Too late, little boy. I’m in charge now, so just shut your softie m…”

  “Please,” Sam said, taking his lead from Gran, although he didn’t have to try too hard to sound as if he was pleading. It did the trick. If there was one thing Dreables loved other than scaryfying it was to gloat. Smirking, the Dreable lifted its eyes to enjoy Sam’s discomfort. That glance was enough.

  “Bos Karrek,” Sam yelled.

  One second, Gran was in the Dreable’s clutches, in another, she was just standing there, gasping for air, with a small pebble rolling around at her feet.

  “Phew,” Gran said after a second of gulping in oxygen. “That was close.”

  Sam just stared at her. After a long few seconds he remembered to blink. He could feel moisture in his eyes. Gran saw it too.

  “Hey,” she said and grabbed him in a hug.

  “I didn’t know what to…” murmured Sam.

  “But you did it anyway,” Gran said. Sam looked up into his gran’s twinkling eyes. She was smiling. “That was a narrow shave. But here we are, safe and sound. There’s no doubt about it now. You’re a Dreable hunter too, Sam Jones. Now, just pick up that miserable specimen you just reduced to a lump of granite and pop him in the sack. We have to get on and find the Skwarnok Aryon.”

  Sam picked up the Dreable. It felt warm in his hand. He wanted to ask what on earth the Skwarnok Aryon might be, but when he looked up Gran was already striding away through a gap between the houses that led up onto the open moor. He had to run to catch up with her.

  “Gra-an,” Sam protested.

  “It means ‘silver hare,’” Gran said, not slowing down.

  “Why do we want a silver hare?” Sam demanded, almost stepping in a pool of black peaty mud. They were striding up the side of a hill, and over his shoulder across the valley Sam could see the hunched Barrows, like the bent backs of huge green beasts.

  “Because we need its help,” Gran said. “The Dreables aren’t the only things that lie waiting under these hills. Our ancestors weren’t stupid. When a plague strikes and half the village is struck down, if you find a herb that helps you, make sure you plant lots of it for the next time.”

  Sam wanted to ask her if the plague had really struck Wihtlea but he didn’t because at that moment they crested a rise. Below was a steep-sided valley at the very bottom of which ran a meandering stream bordered by a wood.

  “Now,” Gran said, scanning the valley floor. “If I remember correctly there should be a big boulder…”

  Sam saw it and pointed. Gran set off immediately but when they were within fifty yards, she turned to Troop and Ginger. “You two stay here. We don’t want her frightened by two carnivores like you.”

  Troop, whose tongue was lolling, tilted his head but sat where he was told to. Ginger just stood there watching.

  Sam was about to ask why but then Gran was moving again. When she got to the boulder, she put down the Dreable bag. From her handbag, she took out a piece of oval amber on a leather necklace and held it up for Sam to see. It looked like there was a strand of heather caught in the middle of it. She put it over her head and knelt with one hand on the ground and the other on the boulder. She put one finger on her lips and looked at Sam and then she began to sing.

  Sam realised that he’d never heard Gran sing properly, apart from lullabies when he was little. The song was strange, the words odd, but her voice was clear and pure and in the stillness of the valley, it sounded like the voice of a young girl.

  ~~~~~

  Evening creeps,

  The enemy is near,

  Darkness roams the land.

  Though friend may fall

  And others fear,

  Strong heart must guide our hand.

  Once more we must do battle

  Relive the horrors past,

  And call upon our allies

  Old fealties that last.

  Skwarnok aryon, Skwarnok aryon

  Doas yma unawath eto

  Skwarnok aryon, Skwarnok aryon,

  Addaw nest y gofio.

  ~~~~~

  The notes trilled and soared into the air like a bird freed from a cage. Sam felt something beneath his feet, a noise or vibration that seemed to grow with every second. It came and went, as if something was moving in a circle under the ground, moving quicker and quicker until, at last, it stopped. A scrabbling, digging noise began beneath the boulder and suddenly, to Sam’s utter astonishment, a head popped up from out of the grassy earth. It was a hare, but not like any Sam had ever seen. This one had a silver coat that shimmered and eyes that glittered like diamonds. She pushed herself
free of the ground and sat, preening herself.

  “Ah,” Gran said, like she would when a favourite song came on the radio. “Thank you, Skwarnok Aryon.”

  The hare stopped preening and bowed its head.

  “Feed now,” Gran said. “We will summon you before sunset.”

  The hare hopped off towards the edge of the wood. But as it did, it seemed to leave a bright image of itself in the air wherever it went – a blurred moving silver image that faded slowly on the grass and in the air above.

  “Was that…”

  “The Skwarnok Aryon. The Silver Hare. She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Sam agreed. “But…”

  Gran was already turning away. “Still no time for buts, Sam. We have to make use of what daylight there is left to us. Fighting Dreables at night is not any fun at all,” Gran added grimly.

  She walked even more quickly on the way back to the village, picking up an excited Troop and Ginger on the way. They met no more Dreables on the way. In the park, Gran insisted on laying out the cookies they’d baked on a picnic table. But soon Sam found himself passing beneath the arch and inside the stone circle once again. Gran took Sam’s hand.

  “When we ask to be let in, they’ll try and trick us. They’ll show us something we really want, but you know it’s just a sham, don’t you, Sam?”

  Sam remembered the Christmas party and nodded solemnly.

  “I want you to put these on,” Gran said. She reached into her handbag and took out some very odd-looking pale blue gloves. They were made of fine silk and each one had an embroidered eye at the end of each finger.

  “What are these?” Sam asked.

  “Bislyged. When we get inside, hold them out in front of you. There are ten eyes here. The Bos Karrek will work just as well if the Dreables look at these eyes and not yours. Think of them as machine gun gloves.”

  Sam could understand machine gun gloves alright. He slipped them on. They were a bit big, but they’d do.