A Witch Alone

by James Nicol

  She saw an obliging mossy rock, sat down and started to rifle through her backpack, searching for the sandwiches Aunt Grace had packed for them. Colin and Miss Newam seated themselves on two other nearby rocks. They both looked exhausted. They would perhaps have to think about pitching their tents and resting properly, soon.

  ‘Tea?’ Colin asked, stifling a yawn as he pulled out the thermos and three small tin camping cups. He placed them carefully on a smaller rock nearby.

  ‘Here they are!’ Arianwyn called triumphantly as she pulled out the parcel of sandwiches, wrapped tightly in thick brown paper. Her stomach rumbled again as she started to unwrap them. But as she undid the last fold of paper she nearly dropped the package; everything inside the wrappings was covered in a thick, fuzzy green mould. The earthy smell of it filled her nostrils. ‘Oh no!’ She held them aloft to show Miss Newam and Colin. ‘The sandwiches have gone off.’

  ‘What? How?’ Miss Newam got to her feet and peered at the mouldy mess. ‘You must have let them get wet or something – were they wrapped up correctly?’ she snapped. She took the package from Arianwyn and her nose wrinkled. She threw them to the floor. ‘Disgusting!’

  ‘Well, at least we still have the tea,’ Colin said as he tipped the thermos up. But instead of a flow of warm milky brown tea there was a slow dribble of lumpy sludge.

  They looked at each other, trying to work out what had happened to their food.

  ‘It must be something in the wood affecting it,’ Arianwyn guessed.

  ‘That’s all well and good, Miss Gribble, but what on earth are we going to do for food now?’ Miss Newam grumbled as she walked away from their mossy rock seats.

  ‘It’s all right; we have some army rations as well, somewhere in one of the bags.’ She busied herself searching as Miss Newam prowled around the edge of the small clearing, muttering and moaning to herself, occasionally throwing a filthy look at Colin or Arianwyn, at one time even both of them.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve got them, Miss Newam. Look, a lovely can of tomato—’ Arianwyn glanced up and fell silent. Miss Newam was standing as still as a statue at the far edge of the clearing surrounded by a small group of odd and assorted-looking creatures.

  Feylings!

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice, rich and delicate, sounded in her ear. Arianwyn was about to turn when she noticed that the sharp edge of a long flat stone – the tip of a short, carved stone dagger – was aimed straight at her.

  Chapter 17

  THE FEYLINGS

  few moments later, Arianwyn, Colin and Miss Newam were being marched through the wood by the small group of feylings. Every time Arianwyn had tried to ask a question the sharp stone had been pointed at her again and she had fallen silent.

  There was something both exciting and terrifying about seeing these feylings. Each one was a different shape and size to the next. One towered nearly as tall as the trees of the wood and was pale like parchment; another was small, spindle-thin and dark as slate. A third was about as tall as a child, shimmering as though it was slowly disappearing right before their eyes only to shimmer back into view seconds later. Another was squat, and covered in fine purple scales like a fish – the light flashing against them was mesmerizing. In one chubby hand it clutched a spear, also tipped with a finely carved stone blade, which it kept carefully pointed at Miss Newam. ‘Perhaps we’re somehow closer to Erraldur than we thought?’ Arianwyn whispered to Colin.

  The lead feyling, who walked on bright yellow claws and was covered in sleek black feathers, turned and glared at her. ‘Erraldur lost.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Miss Newam asked, not even attempting to lower her voice. She was shoved by the squat purple feyling. It babbled something undecipherable. ‘Well, really,’ she mumbled.

  Arianwyn’s heart was beating in fear. Erraldur lost? Did that mean what she thought it meant?

  Ahead, a wild hedge full of bramble and twists of creeping vine loomed like a solid thorny wall from a fairy tale. The black-feathered feyling halted before it and gestured quickly and elegantly into the air. After a moment, a small opening appeared in the hedge, swirling like a whirlpool. The feathered feyling passed through, followed by some of the others.

  ‘What do we do?’ Miss Newam asked, her face white, her voice wobbling.

  ‘I don’t think we have a lot of choice,’ Arianwyn said gently, as the spear waved dangerously close to them both. She ducked through the gap.

  ‘We did set out to find feylings, after all,’ she heard Colin murmur as he followed.

  Clambering through the hedge, Arianwyn felt the distinctive tickle of magic, reminding her of the first time she’d met Estar. She stumbled to a halt as she stepped through, Colin trampling on her heel as she gaped at the broad clearing in front of her.

  There was a whole camp full of feylings: fifty at least, perhaps more.

  The tall-as-the-trees feyling hurried towards another of similar height and shape, though its skin was darker and mottled with patches of grey and green. There was a high excited sound and the two feylings were suddenly embracing. Arianwyn saw others who were similar in shape or colouring. Several of the squat purple feylings sat around a small fire, tending to a cooking pot and apparently arguing over some of the ingredients. Another group hurried past; they barely reached Arianwyn’s knee and were striped and speckled, like insects.

  ‘Oh, my word, what is this place?’ Miss Newam sniffed.

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ Colin smiled. ‘Look!’ He pointed as yet more feylings emerged from the woods from the opposite side of the clearing, carrying woven baskets filled with nuts and fruits like nothing Arianwyn had ever seen before, all bright colours and strange spiky shapes. A yellow-scaled feyling no larger than Arianwyn’s boot floated past them in the air, propelling itself with fan-like crests along its back, arms and legs. Miss Newam tried to bat it away until Colin grabbed her hand. The yellow feyling turned sharply, poking its black tongue out at Miss Newam. ‘Excuse me!’ she muttered.

  Arianwyn had been scanning the crowd as they walked through the camp, hoping to see Estar amongst them, and had noticed that many of the feylings wore a small carved stone about their necks, the carvings similar to those on the spear and dagger stones. There was something glyph-like about the shapes, she thought.

  Whispers rose; exotic words and song-like conversations called back and forth. Arianwyn didn’t understand them but the voices sounded faintly familiar, like a language she had heard once in a dream. A small gaggle of what she guessed must be feyling children rushed between groups, laughter rising up into the overhanging trees with the smoke and sparks from the fires. The air crackled and hummed with more magic than Arianwyn thought she had ever felt. Her fingertips tingled, her scalp prickled.

  ‘It’s amazing . . .’ she breathed.

  But as more and more feylings noticed the new arrivals, it was as if a stone had been dropped into a pool. The talking and laughing stopped at once and fifty or so pairs of strange eyes turned to look at Arianwyn and her companions. From far away a strange song began, a single voice at first, a gentle murmuring chant. Then another voice and another.

  ‘Stay here!’ the feathered feyling commanded, raising the sharp stone again at them. All the while, the singing grew and grew. They were now at the very centre of the feyling camp around a small fire. A large cooking pot hung above the crackling flames and the most delicious smell wafted towards them.

  Arianwyn felt nervous about what was happening. Were they prisoners of some sort? She searched the crowd again, hoping against hope that she might spot Estar, his shock of black hair and his curving horns and gentle smile, but there were no blue feylings here: none even bore a passing resemblance to her dear friend. Where was he? Were Erraldur and the book close by? Or was Erraldur really . . . lost? Surely not. She must’ve misunderstood. Her mind raced. As the feylings pressed closer, their murmuring song grew louder, stronger. It was the most beautiful sound Arianwyn thought she had ever heard, voices and words overlapping
and twining together, and as the voices grew louder the magic fizzed and crackled in the air around her, stronger and stronger.

  And then it was over.

  The magic fizzed about them for a few more moments and when Arianwyn looked up she felt as though she had just woken from the most beautiful and refreshing sleep, the aches and pains of the day dissolved, her tiredness evaporated. She felt wonderful. And entirely relieved that, clearly, they were in no danger from the feylings at all. She felt momentarily bad to have thought they might be.

  She glanced at Colin and Miss Newam who had clearly felt the same effects as she had. Miss Newam was even . . . smiling!

  ‘What was that?’ Colin whispered.

  ‘Magic!’ Arianwyn smiled.

  The throng of feylings suddenly split, creating a narrow pathway. A pale white shape moved towards them. For one mad moment, Arianwyn thought it was Bob. But it was another feyling, full of cat-like grace, with a long body as white as bleached bone; somehow Arianwyn knew immediately that this feyling was female, and clearly the one who was in charge. A tail flicked this way and that as the feyling drew closer. Arianwyn couldn’t help but be reminded of a wild animal hunting prey.

  Her hand reached for Colin’s and gripped it tightly.

  The white feyling came to a halt and then stood, in one elegant, fluid movement, on to her back legs. She was smaller than Arianwyn but stared at her confidently. Her face was wide, with delicate cat-like features but huge, wide blue eyes, the colour of a frozen lake on a bright winter’s day. Eyes that lingered on Arianwyn’s silver star badge.

  ‘You are welcome here, friends,’ the white feyling said. Her voice was not loud, but it carried power. Like Estar, she spoke clearly and well – almost like a fancy Highbridge lady but slowly, as if each word had been carefully thought out. She turned to face the other feylings surrounding them, full of curiosity. ‘Leave us,’ she said sternly. ‘I need to talk to our guests.’ One by one the feylings dispersed to the other campfires dotted around the site, until only the black-feathered feyling remained, watchful eyes fixed on Arianwyn and the others.

  ‘I’m Arianwyn Gribble,’ Arianwyn said, bowing low to the white feyling before she sat. The white feyling shot her the most curious of glances and a small smile fluttered across her wide mouth. ‘These are my friends,’ Arianwyn continued, ‘Colin Twine and Miss Newam.’

  They both replicated Arianwyn’s bow.

  ‘I am Virean le-Marrak,’ the white feyling said, bowing in response, though far more elegantly. Arianwyn noticed that she also wore a stone about her neck, traced with strange cravings and patterns.

  ‘This is Chupak, our head scout.’

  The black feathered feyling bowed also, though not as low as Virean had done.

  ‘Please, sit down. Would you like some food?’ Virean asked, gesturing to the steaming cooking pot.

  ‘Yes!’ Miss Newam said suddenly. She blushed at once, mumbling, ‘Our supplies have gone off!’

  The smell of food was almost too much to bear as Arianwyn, Colin and Miss Newam dropped on to the mossy ground. Arianwyn ached with hunger, and as Virean served out the steaming broth into small wooden bowls, her stomach grumbled loudly. Miss Newam took her serving and was about to lift her meal hungrily to her mouth when Arianwyn gestured for her to wait.

  ‘Thank you,’ Arianwyn said to Virean. ‘This is very kind.’

  ‘We are feylings, our community is based upon kindness and helping others.’ She raised her bowl high and said loudly, ‘We thank the forest for providing food and friends and shelter this day. Please eat.’

  The broth was delicious, spicy and earthy; it warmed Arianwyn from her toes to the very ends of her curls, after just one mouthful. By the time she finished her second bowl, the aching emptiness in her stomach was long gone.

  Now Virean looked at her closely, her eyes falling on the star again. ‘You are a human magic worker? A . . . witch?’ Virean asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Arianwyn replied.

  ‘Are we near to a human settlement?’ Virean asked as they finished their food.

  ‘Our town is about a day’s walk away from here,’ Colin explained, ‘to the north-east.’

  ‘Are you in need of help?’ asked Arianwyn.

  The white feyling turned and had a brief hushed conversation with Chupak behind her. Then she turned back. ‘No, we wish to avoid the human settlements if we can. In times past, feylings and humans were friends and neighbours . . . but no more. We teach our young ones to stay away from the human lands and towns. Now we search for others of our kind – have you seen other feylings on your journey?’

  Arianwyn shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry. Where are you going?’

  ‘There is a feyling meeting place close by. It is the place we go to when there is great danger, when nowhere else is safe for us.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Colin asked.

  Virean had a faraway look in her blue eyes. ‘Our settlements have been plagued by strange dark creatures, twisted monstrosities the likes of which have not been seen for thousands of years. And in the meantime, the black fungus has been spreading, destroying our homes and our food. Families and communities of feylings have been lost or torn apart by darkness and horror. We fled Erraldur when the dark creatures attacked in force. We were unable to save our city.’

  So it’s true. Erraldur is . . . gone? Arianwyn suddenly felt cold. She could feel her nerves jangle with fear at what this might mean.

  Virean continued. ‘To keep as many safe as we could, we split into small groups and told every feyling to head north to an ancient place feylings used in times of trouble, an old village called Edda. Away from the dark creatures, away from the black fungus—’

  ‘The hex?’ Colin asked quickly. ‘You mean the hex, don’t you?’

  Virean cocked her head to one side. ‘Hex?’

  ‘This is hex,’ Miss Newam said, reaching for one of the glass containers that held a sample.

  Virean peered closer. ‘Hex,’ she said carefully, nodding. ‘It is everywhere throughout the wood.’

  ‘What?’ Arianwyn asked.

  ‘The . . . hex. It is everywhere, south of here. About four days’ walk. We tried to double-back around, but . . .’ Virean shook her head.

  Arianwyn stared at the mossy ground. That was it. They would never reach Erraldur – or what was left of it – if the hex had spread so much throughout the wood. They would not find the book. And she would never see Estar again . . . if he had even survived. A crushing emptiness descended, spoiling the magic of the feylings and the warmth the broth had brought. She felt sick, her insides twisting.

  ‘Are you all right?’Virean asked. She placed a cool white hand on Arianwyn’s.

  ‘We were trying to get to Erraldur . . . we are looking for someone.’

  ‘Erraldur is gone, overrun with the hex and strange creatures. Everything was destroyed, everyone has fled.’ Virean played with the carved stone around her neck.

  Arianwyn looked at Miss Newam and Colin, their faces almost as white as Virean. She saw her own confusion mirrored in their eyes. This had not been how she had imagined their mission would go. How was she going to explain all this to the High Elder? How would they help everyone if they couldn’t get the Book of Quiet Glyphs? And what about Estar? It felt as though the world had fallen away from underneath her.

  ‘Are you OK, Wyn?’ Colin asked.

  She shook her head, tears brimming around her eyes. ‘Estar . . .’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know.’ Colin swallowed. ‘But perhaps he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Estar?’ Virean said. She sat suddenly straighter. ‘You know Estar?’

  Arianwyn nodded, wiping away a tear. ‘He’s my friend.’

  Virean looked carefully at her again. ‘Estar.’ She smiled. ‘I might have known – he has always been curious about you humans.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Arianwyn said, hardly daring to hope.

  ‘I tried to persuade him to come with us, b
ut he would not leave without helping as many feylings as he could – other clans, other feyling villages under attack and in need. Estar cannot help but help. I am sorry, but I do not know what became of him.’

  Chapter 18

  THE RIVER

  rianwyn looked at Colin and Miss Newam. ‘We’ll have to go back to Lull then,’ she said, the realization hitting her like a blow to her stomach. Back to Lull – without the book, without Estar.

  There was silence for a few moments and then Virean said, ‘Then we wish you a good journey.’ Chupak came forwards, carrying three of the carved stones. ‘We would like to offer you these as gifts,’ Virean said, reaching out to place the first over Arianwyn’s head. There was the faintest tingle of magic from the stone as it fell gently against her chest. ‘For protection on your travels.’ Virean smiled. ‘Stories say river stones gathered at full moon and marked with this symbol can protect from darkness.’

  She placed a ghost-white hand across her thin chest and bowed low. Arianwyn, and then Colin, copied the gesture. They looked sharply at Miss Newam who had not.

  ‘I shall get a stiff back with all this bowing,’ she grumbled, bowing just a little and very quickly.

  Arianwyn noticed Virean take it all in, her ice-blue eyes unblinking before she slowly looked away.

  ‘Thank you for sharing your meal with us,’ Arianwyn said quickly, trying to make up for Miss Newam’s rudeness, ‘and for welcoming us.’

  Virean smiled.

  ‘Quicker to go south from here,’ Chupak said. ‘Follow the river path, hex not yet reached that part of wood. No bad creatures there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Arianwyn said again, though it felt insufficient for the kindness Virean and the feylings had shown them. Then she looked at her charm basket. ‘Oh, wait a second,’ she said, opening the lid, the contents jingling brightly inside the basket. She pulled out a small glass globe, quickly added dried daisy petals, a small sliver of pink quartz and two silver hoops. She handed the completed charm to Virean and then sketched Aluna, the water glyph, above it.