I wish I had the abilities of another—someone more capable of dealing with this threat.
I slip off my pointy shoes and grip one in each hand. Their heels will be my weapons. All I need is the skill. So I wield my magic and gather it to me. I exert my will. Now I have the innate ability and honed skill of the greatest warrior. I feel it pour into my body.
I am Alice.
The first of the water witches reaches for me. I step aside and clout her hard with the heel of my pointy shoe. She goes down. She now has a third eye in her forehead; a red one, dribbling blood.
I spin and whirl, doing the dance of Grimalkin; the dance of death. And I strike left, right, and left again. Each savage strike makes contact. Each blow fells an enemy. And I wish them to be terrified. That is my will.
Soon they are fleeing.
Some splash into the water and escape that way. Others scamper up the steps.
I feel so strong. Even the threat of Morwena does not concern me. Let her come. I will deal with her, too!
But Morwena does not show herself. It is almost a disappointment.
Now only Lizzie remains.
She scrambles to her feet, daubed in mud.
The moment of reckoning has arrived.
Something inside me wants to kill her. She is a murderess—a slayer of innocent children. The world would be a much better place without her. I gather my will, but then I hesitate. I cannot do it.
She is family. I will not take her life.
Then I remember what she did to me, and I smile.
The sprogs! I will use the sprogs to torment her!
Can I do that? Will they obey my command? Is my magic that strong?
Using my will, I summon them from the dark. Full of hunger, they surge into our world.
I hurl them at Lizzie.
When I leave with the children, she is in serious trouble.
She is screaming.
One sprog is already forcing itself into her ear. She is fighting desperately, vainly. Another is scratching its way up into her left nostril. So I put a limit on things. Give it five minutes before the sprogs go back to the dark.
Next I look over to where the egg is balanced on the edge of the muddy shelf. I walk toward it. But then something strange occurs. Something writhes upward; a long, thin multijointed limb.
I recognize it immediately.
It is the foreleg of a skelt. One must have been lurking in the water. The limb moves toward the leather egg.
I step forward to seize it. It should be kept safe, far from Lizzie’s clutches.
But then I halt and relax.
Let the skelt take it. It will be safer beyond Lizzie’s reach.
However . . . I consider the water witches who might still be able to locate and retrieve it.
I have hesitated too long.
The limb grips the leather egg and draws it down beneath the surface with hardly more than a ripple. It is a strange thing for the skelt to do. Why does it want the egg? I push it from my mind. The children must be returned to their homes.
As I led the way out of the house, I realized it was still raining. But the children didn’t seem to care. When I looked back at them, I saw that most were chatting excitedly, just glad to be away from the witches and scary skelts.
Some would be going home to their families, others to the orphanage. I wondered if they were happy there.
Then I noticed Emily, the girl whose mother Lizzie had attacked. She was not talking to anyone. I made up my mind to go back, take her by the hand, and ask her to walk alongside me. But suddenly I was distracted.
As we passed the pond, a figure stepped out of the shadows and ran toward me. The children scattered, but I stood my ground.
It was Betsy Gammon.
“You’ve spoiled things for me, girl!” she said, spitting her words out in a fury, her piggy eyes almost popping from her head. “I can’t use magic, but that was my one chance to have that kind of power. You’ve taken it from me!”
She had a long, curved blade in her right hand, and I had no doubt that she intended to kill me. She was almost within striking range. Death was in her eyes, so I defended myself instinctively. Using magic, I pushed her away from me.
She flew back, up into the air, head over heels, and dropped into the pond with a loud splash.
Moments later she came to the surface, spluttering and gasping. She began to flail her arms, and her face was filled with panic.
I realized that she couldn’t swim.
It was strange to think that she was a keeper of water witches and that their natural environment could be her death. I felt torn. I could use my magic again to save her. But what would I be saving her for? So that she could organize her witches again? So that other children would die?
In anguish, pulled between actions and inaction, I did nothing. We watched in silence from the bank while she struggled and finally sank from sight.
CHAPTER XVII
YOU LITTLE FOOL!
AFTER Betsy Gammon drowned, I led the children home.
As we approached the first hamlet, I saw men walking down the main street carrying torches. Some were armed with clubs; one, probably an ex-soldier, had a sword in his belt. No doubt they were a search party.
I didn’t want to get too close. My pointy shoes would identify me as a witch, and they might think I’d been party to the abductions—which, with a twinge of guilt, I acknowledged was true.
“That’s my dad and my uncle!” one little boy exclaimed, a smile widening on his face.
“Go to them!” I commanded the other children. “They’ll take you home.”
Some ran toward the distant figures eagerly, while others walked behind with far less enthusiasm. I put my hand on Emily’s shoulder.
“You come with me,” I said softly. “I’ll take you home myself.”
She came with me happily. I took hold of her hand, and we stepped off the path and skirted the hamlet before heading toward the village where Lizzie had seized her.
As we approached her house, I noted that it was in darkness. That wasn’t promising. Of course, her mam might have gone to join another search party, or she could be staying with friends or family.
But then it got worse. I saw that the front door was still unlocked.
I eased it open and slowly climbed the stairs, Emily at my heels. Neither of us said anything, but she began to cry softly. We both feared the worst.
When we reached the darkness of the bedroom, I heard someone breathing. The sounds were harsh, suggesting we were listening to a struggle to draw air into lungs that desperately needed it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the stub of candle I always carried. I muttered a spell out of habit, realizing as I did so that the words were unnecessary. The candle flared into life.
Emily’s mother was on all fours, staring toward us. There was nothing in her eyes that told me she recognized her own daughter. She tried to speak, but only gibberish came out.
Then she tried to stand but immediately collapsed onto her hands and knees again. Emily crouched beside her and wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck.
“Oh, Mam! Mam!” she cried. “Don’t you know me? It’s me, your daughter, Emily. Can’t you speak?”
The poor woman only groaned and rolled her eyes. It might well be that she was dying. Some witches believe that a bad blow to the head can make the brain swell up until it becomes too big for the skull and oozes out of the ears and nose. There was certainly a spell to bring this about.
It was also possible that, despite the damage to her brain, the poor woman would live on, unable to speak or recognize her own daughter.
Could I help her? I wondered. Was my magic strong enough to heal her? I was not sure that I could do anything. Dark magic is useful for fighting enemies and forcing obedience upon others. It can kill, maim, and terrify, but its use in healing is uncertain. Some believe that healers use a more gentle, benign magic.
My magic was probably the wrong kind, but I
had to try.
“Stand back, Emily,” I said softly. “Let me see if I can do anything to help your mam.”
The girl did as I asked, and I knelt down beside her mother, placing my right hand on her head. She just stared at me, her eyes wide, looking utterly bewildered.
I willed the woman to get better. With all my strength I pushed that wish toward her. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then I felt intense warmth spreading down my arm and into my hand.
The expression in the woman’s eyes changed. She looked up at me angrily and then pushed my hands away. She got to her feet and stared at her daughter. “Emily!” she cried. “I thought I’d never see you again!”
She went to pick up her daughter and started to cry. Soon both of them were weeping; they seemed to have forgotten all about me. I slipped out of the room, went down the stairs, and left the house.
As I headed back toward Pendle, I thought back over what I’d just done. I’d healed Emily’s mam. So my magic could do good as well as the other . . . maybe there was hope for me?
I walked as if in a dream.
Walked? I was almost floating, wafting along effortlessly toward Pendle.
Brambles moved aside at my approach, low branches raised themselves so that I could have headroom, and butterflies fluttered in my wake.
I even walked through the middle of a small village in broad daylight, my pointy shoes clacking on the cobbles. I willed the people not to see me, and I was instantly invisible to them. There was a small market in the square, and I helped myself to a piece of fruit right in front of the stallholder. He didn’t notice a thing, and that rosy-cheeked apple proved to be one of the sweetest and juiciest I’d ever munched. Or perhaps it was just the manner in which I’d taken it that made it taste so delicious!
At one point, as I passed south of the great brooding hill, it rained heavily, a torrential downpour that flattened the wheat in the fields and sent rivulets of rainwater rushing down the incline. But none of it touched me. Not one drop fell upon my head, and my shoes were as dry as if there had been a dusty road beneath my feet.
The inside of my head was filled with music. A choir of unseen stars sang in harmony only for me, and I was consumed with a tremendous sense of exultation. I was stronger than all of them. I was free of Lizzie. Free to do as I wished.
I was powerful, strong, and invulnerable.
Nobody could touch me.
Not Lizzie. Not even Grimalkin.
It was dark by the time I reached the village of Roughlee. I climbed up through the trees toward the cottage of Agnes Sowerbutts. I’d been happy here. I would be happy again.
Didn’t I deserve some happiness after all I’d been through?
A light was showing at the window to the left of the front door. I had a secret call that I used to let her know I was on my way. It was the cry of a corpse fowl, slightly modulated so that Agnes would know that it was me and not the random call of a night bird.
But I didn’t bother to use it this time. I just willed Agnes to know that I was here. And it worked. The door to the cottage opened wide, and I could see her standing in the doorway.
I walked right up to her and gave her a big grin.
She didn’t smile back.
She slapped me very hard across the face.
“You little fool!” she cried angrily.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE DARK MOON
“WHAT is it, Agnes? What have I done wrong? You should be happy!” I said, my eyes filling with tears. It wasn’t the pain. The slap had hurt, but much worse was the way Agnes was looking at me.
She took me by the shoulder and dragged me inside the cottage, slamming the door behind us.
“No witch flaunts her power like that, or it will consume her. And so much power, too. I can smell the stink of it evaporating off your skin! Tell me everything!” she demanded. “Something’s happened, something momentous. Tell me all of it!”
So I sat on a stool in the kitchen, facing Agnes, and told her everything I could remember: the leather egg, the meeting with Betsy Gammon, the water witches capturing the children to be sacrificed. Then I told her of my decision to flee the house.
“I was scared, but I knew I had to do something. I was so desperate, I decided to go and ask for the help of the local spook. But the thunder and lightning started, and the rain came down, and I needed shelter. I saw a light ahead and thought it was a farm. When I got closer, I saw that it was a strange black barge on the canal; the light came from candles on the deck. The rain should have put them out, but it didn’t. . . .”
Next I told her how I’d stepped onto the barge and climbed down too many steps to see the large throne before talking to the mysterious bargeman.
“What was he like?” Agnes demanded. “Tell me all about him.”
“Well, he was invisible at first. Said he couldn’t be here in person, but that one day, with my help, he might be able to sit on that throne. For a couple of seconds he appeared above it. Hardly older than me, he was, but he had a smiley face and golden hair. However, it was the way he behaved that got to me. He was kind and friendly, and looked at me like he really cared about me. Ain’t many people ever looked at me in that way. Told me I had power inside me and didn’t need no spook to help those children—I could do it myself!”
“Did he tell you who he was, Alice? Did he give you his name?”
I shook my head. “He said he was one of the unseen princes of this world.”
“You foolish girl! It was the Fiend himself, if I’m not mistaken,” Agnes cried, shaking her head.
I looked at her in astonishment. “That can’t be true! The Fiend’s ugly and old, with a sly look on his face. He has big curved horns, too—everyone knows that.”
“No, girl, there’s more to him than that. He can make himself large or small and change his shape to whatever he wants. He could become a handsome golden-haired boy in the twinkling of a maiden’s eye—as many have found out, to their cost!”
“But why would the Fiend have used me to save those children? He’s of the dark, and yet he helped me to thwart the dark. Why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, it does. It makes perfect sense if you just think about it. He recognized your guilt and remorse for what you’d been involved in. He sensed your desperation to put things right. So he gave you what you needed. Child, he must want you very badly.”
“What do you mean—want me?”
“He wants your soul, child,” Agnes told me. “He wants your allegiance. He wants you to stand at his side and fight the light. Some witches are relatively weak. All they can do is charm away a wart or poison an enemy. Others have a power that can be developed throughout their lives. Lizzie’s such a one. She works hard at getting stronger. Each year that she lives, her power grows. But there are a few witches, a very few, with extreme innate power; rare ones who are born incredibly strong. And that’s what you are, Alice. I’ve always known. And the Fiend wants you to use your power to help him. That’s why I wanted to look after you and bring you up. I wanted to keep you away from witches who’d awaken those dark abilities within you. But Lizzie took you away . . . and now it’s come to this!
“Listen to me. You can’t use that power for anyone or anything, or it will destroy you. It comes from the very heart of darkness, and if you use it willy-nilly as you’ve just done, it will seize you for its own and take your soul. Show me your mark!” Agnes commanded.
“What mark?” I asked.
“Don’t try to hide things from me, child. Show me the secret mark that tells of your potential.”
I began to tremble. I knew what she meant, but I didn’t even want to think about it. In Pendle, every female child with the potential to become a witch had such a mark. It was a sign of what she could become.
“Where is it, child?”
I pulled up my skirt above my knee to reveal the dark stain on the outside of my left thigh. It had been a thin crescent when I last looked.
“A bit,” I admitted. It definitely seemed thicker now.
“Each time you use magic,” Agnes told me, “it will grow larger. The use of dark magic has a cumulative effect on the user. Eventually that crescent will become a full dark moon, and then you will belong to the dark entirely. Your soul will be hard. All human compassion will have left you. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“But what can I do, Aunt?” I cried. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Survive, Alice. That’s all you can do. That’s all any of us can do. But you can’t use that power—certainly not in the way you’ve just done. You must limit its use. Better not to use it at all.”
“But Lizzie will want revenge for what I did to her!”
“What did you do?” Agnes asked.
So I told her how I’d saved those children, how I’d killed some of the water witches and driven the rest off, how I’d drowned Betsy Gammon.
“What about Lizzie? She wouldn’t just let you walk away after that. What did you do to her?” demanded Agnes.
“Paid her back for what she often does to me,” I replied. “I summoned a dozen sprogs and set ’em to work on her. Didn’t like that one little bit, did she? She’ll come after me, for sure. Those water witches, too—they’ll want revenge. Without the use of my magic, I’ll be helpless. Could be dead and buried before the week is out, Agnes.”
Agnes buried her face in her hands. She didn’t speak for a long time, but then she looked up at me. “Yes, you are in great danger. There’s nothing for it . . . despite my misgivings, you’ll have to use just a bit of your power one last time. Only a bit, mind. Just wish confusion on Lizzie and those slimy sisters. Wish them to forget your part in everything. Make them forget that egg ever existed.
“It’s a risk, using your magic even once more, but I can see no other way. I’m not strong enough to keep you safe from her, so go back to Lizzie and continue your training for now. It may not be forever. Sometimes things change when you least expect it; one day you might be free of her.”
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