But then, one dark, moonless night, Marcia got out through the skylight, went up onto the moor, and killed a sheep. There was a bloody trail leading back to the house where she’d dragged the carcass behind her. Luckily a fresh fall of snow before dawn obscured the tracks, so the farmer was none the wiser. I imagine he put the loss down to wolves or the wild dogs that sometimes ran in packs on Anglezarke Moor during the winter.
Meg gave her sister a good talking to and told me that she’d promised never to do it again.
It was just a few weeks later that Marcia first came downstairs.
I had been sitting next to Meg, facing the fire, when I heard unexpected sounds on the stairs: the clip-clop of shoes. I turned and saw Marcia peering at us from the doorway. It was as if a savage animal, a predator, had suddenly dressed itself in human clothes, producing a creature that was breathing too rapidly and noisily and still hadn’t learned how to stand properly.
“Come here, sister, and sit beside us. Warm yourself at the fire,” Meg invited.
I was shocked by the change in her appearance. Lamias are slow shape-shifters, and the weeks Marcia had lived at the house and the long hours she’d spent in the company of her sister had altered her form significantly toward the domestic. She was wearing a pair of her sister’s pointy shoes and one of her dresses. The garment’s hem was knee length and cut away at the shoulders, and I could see how Marcia’s arms and legs had fleshed out. Her hair had been cut neatly, too, and her long, deadly claws were the only visible aspect of the feral that remained. Her face was almost fully human, with a wild, savage beauty.
Marcia sat herself down and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes. She licked her lips before giving me a twisted smile.
“We could share him, sister, couldn’t we? A man between us. Why not?”
“He’s mine!” Meg retorted. “I don’t share my man with anyone—not even my sister!”
I think that was what hardened Meg against Marcia, what spurred her to alert me to danger in the middle of the night.
“Marcia’s not in the attic!” she told me breathlessly. “She’s gone out onto the moor looking for food.”
“Not another sheep,” I groaned, swinging my legs out over the edge of the bed and starting to pull on my boots. It seemed that Marcia, despite her changed appearance, still had much of the feral lamia’s inner urges.
“No. It’s worse than that. Far worse. She’s after a child. One she spied at the farm when she killed that sheep. I thought I’d talked her out of it!”
“How long has she been gone?”
“A few minutes at most. I heard a noise on the roof and went up to the attic and found her missing.”
Marcia’s tracks were easy enough to follow across the snow-clad moor. Meg went with me, offering to help as best she could.
“If she kills a child, they’ll find her eventually. She’ll never get away with that, and we’ll have to move again,” Meg complained.
“That may well be true, but we should be thinking of the poor child. The child and the family!” I retorted angrily, increasing my pace. Would we be too late? I wondered with a sinking heart.
The footprints led through the farm gate and into the yard. Then we saw Marcia crouching in the shadow of the barn, looking up at a window—no doubt the bedroom of her intended prey. I breathed a sigh of relief. We could still save the child.
“No, sister, you’re going too far!” Meg called out, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the household. “Come back with us now!”
But bloodlust held Marcia in its grip; she was beyond words. She hissed at us, then looked up at the bedroom again. Suddenly she kicked off her pointy shoes, surged forward, and scampered straight up the sheer wall of the house, her finger- and toenails gouging into the stone.
She smashed the glass with her left fist, then seized the window frame and plucked the whole thing, wood and remaining glass panes, from the wall and hurled it down into the yard, where it fell with a tremendous crash. She climbed into the bedroom, and I heard a child cry out with fear. The next moment she jumped out through the window again, down into the yard, and landed facing me, carrying the child under her arm. It was more baby than toddler, and it was screaming its lungs out.
“Give the child to me, Marcia!” I commanded, my left hand targeting her with the blade of my staff, my right reaching out toward the baby.
She hesitated, and maybe she would have done as I instructed. But all at once the farmer burst out of the front door brandishing a big stick, his wife at his heels wailing as loud as a banshee. He went straight for Marcia, but she swiped him with the fingers of her free hand, the talons laying open his forehead to the bone. He fell to his knees, blood running into his eyes, while his wife screamed even louder and started tearing at her hair.
Seizing her chance, Marcia raced off across the farmyard, and I immediately gave chase. She started to climb, heading up toward the moor tops. She seemed to be pulling ahead, even though I was running as fast as I could. I glanced back. Meg was quickly catching up with me. When she drew level, I shouted out angrily.
“If your sister kills that baby, I’ll put my blade through her heart! Do something now or she’s dead!” I warned, and I meant every word.
In response, Meg began to surge ahead of me. I was slowing because of the deepening snow, but she was starting to close on her sister. I lost sight of them as they passed beyond the brow of one of the lower slopes. When they came into view again, there was a series of bloodcurdling yells and screams.
They were fighting: clawing, biting, and scratching so that blood sprayed out onto the snow. But where was the baby?
To my relief, I saw that it lay on the ground to one side, still crying loudly. My first instinct was to pick up the child and get it away from the danger of that furious fight. But then the two witches broke apart, and I saw my chance.
With a flick of my wrist, I cast my silver chain toward Marcia. It was the one I’d inherited from my master—though I also had the one that had once bound Meg in the abhuman’s tower. It was a good shot, and it dropped over Marcia’s head and bound her tightly, bringing her down into the snow.
Meg wiped the blood from her face, went over to pick up the child, and started to whisper in its ear. I don’t know what she said, but it was effective: within seconds it became silent, closed its eyes, and nestled against her neck.
I hefted the bound Marcia into position over my left shoulder and headed back toward the farm. When we arrived, the mother cried louder than ever at being reunited with her baby, but they were tears of joy.
“Thank you! Thank you! I never thought I’d see my little girl again!” she said between sobs. “My poor husband, though—he’ll be scarred for life!”
I wondered how grateful she’d be if she knew that I’d been harboring her baby’s abductor in my own house? So with Meg walking silently at my side, I trudged back to my house, deep in thought. Once inside I told Meg what I intended.
“Down in the cellar there are graves and pits ready for boggarts and witches. So far they’re all empty. My master, Henry Horrocks, had them prepared for the work he was doing locally. But after staying here for a while, he decided that he didn’t like this house, so they’ve never been used—”
“No! Please, John, don’t put my sister in a pit. Don’t do that. . . .”
“I’ll give her just one chance to avoid a pit, and one chance only. There are rooms on the upper levels of the cellar. She can stay in one of them—she’ll be comfortable enough there. The iron gate on the cellar steps will give us extra security, so effectively she’ll be sealed behind that gate and the neighborhood will be safe.”
So that’s what we did. A lamia has more resistance to iron than other witches, but the gate was very strong; Marcia was in a secure place. Of course, Meg insisted on seeing her sister every day. The chatted in her room below the gate, and Meg often took her fresh meat and offal from the butcher. Marcia couldn’t summon birds down there, but she a
te a lot of rats—as I could see from all the skins Meg had to clear up.
The winter moved on, and the days began to lengthen. I did a few jobs locally, including moving on a troublesome hall-knocker boggart and slaying a ripper with salt and iron. I realized that there was a lot of work to be done on Anglezarke Moor, but Chipenden also needed my help. Could I leave Meg here while I paid the village and its surroundings a short spring visit?
Eventually the decision was made for me, but in a way I didn’t expect. It began in a similar fashion to the difficulties in Chipenden. A few words were exchanged between Meg and the local women. This time the constable didn’t get involved, because the people of Adlington had a strong sense of community and believed in sorting things out for themselves.
Meg still liked to go shopping, but I’d employed the local odd-job man, Bill Battersby, to bring me bulk supplies of potatoes and other vegetables up from the village to save her the trouble of carrying them. It was he who gave me warning of what was happening. To begin with, it was nothing that I hadn’t heard before: accusations of using curses, a woman suffering night terrors; another too afraid to venture beyond her own front door. But then there was something new. . . .
“She’s after someone’s husband. The villagers won’t stand for that. Your Meg has gone too far!” Battersby warned.
“What do you mean? Make yourself clear!” I demanded, my heart already torn by his words. I knew precisely what he meant but couldn’t bring myself to believe it.
“She’s taken a fancy to Dan Crumbleholme, the village tanner. His wife, Dolly, spied them together. And there are reports that they’ve been seen kissing behind the tannery. Folks won’t stand for it. They think she’s used witchcraft to turn his head. If it happens again . . .”
I sent Battersby away with bitter words, still unable to believe that Meg would betray me by seeing another man. But I’d noticed that she’d taken to shopping later, when the sun was about to go down—something I could see no reason for. So the following afternoon I resolved to follow her.
I noticed that she had put on a pair of pointy shoes that she’d only bought the previous week. It was the first time she’d worn them, and I remember thinking how attractively they set off her ankles. I kept my distance but was always in danger of being detected. A seventh son of a seventh son has a certain immunity against the powers of a witch, but Meg was exceptionally strong, and I had to be vigilant.
Meg did her shopping, being the last customer at each shop she visited, and I began to feel better. No doubt she just shopped late to avoid the throng of local women and the opportunity for quarrels and disputes. But my relief was short-lived. She went to the tannery last of all. Worse, rather than knocking at the front door, which was already locked for the night, she went to the rear of the premises.
I didn’t wait long before following her. I had hardly gone round the corner when the back door slammed and I saw Meg walking toward me.
“What are you up to, Meg?” I demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she protested. “I wanted some soft leather to stitch myself a new bag, that’s all. The shop was shut, but I knocked on the back door and Dan was kind enough to take my order even though his business has just shut for the night.”
I didn’t believe her. She seemed flustered, which was unusual for Meg. We quarreled bitterly, and following the heat of our exchange, a coldness came between us to rival that of the winter top of Anglezarke Moor. It persisted, and three days later, despite my protests, Meg went shopping again.
This time the village women resorted to violence. Over a dozen of them seized her in the market square. Bill Battersby told me later that she’d fought with fists like a man, but also scratched like a cat, almost blinding the ringleader of the women. Finally they struck her down from behind with a cobblestone and, once felled, she was bound tightly with ropes.
Only a silver chain can hold a witch for long, but they rushed her down to the pond and, after breaking the ice with stones, threw her into the deep, cold water. If she drowned, they would accept that she was innocent of witchcraft; if she floated, they’d have the satisfaction of burning her.
Meg did float, but facedown, and after five minutes or so became very still in the water. The women were satisfied that she had drowned and didn’t really have the stomach for burning her anyway. So they left her where she was.
It was Battersby who pulled her out of the pond. By rights she should have been dead, but Meg was exceptionally strong. To his amazement, she soon began to twitch and splutter, coughing up water onto the muddy bank. He brought her back to my house across the back of his pony. She looked a sorry sight, but in hours she was fully recovered and soon started to plot her revenge.
I’d already thought long and hard about what needed to be done. I could cast her out; let her take her own chances in the world. But that would have broken my heart, because I still loved her. And I had to make allowances, because it wasn’t all Meg’s fault. You see, she was an exceptionally pretty woman, and it was natural that men should be attracted to her. The temptations for her were consequently greater than for most women, I told myself.
My knowledge of a special herb tea seemed to be the answer. It is possible to administer this to keep a witch in a deep sleep for many months. If the dose is reduced, she can even walk and talk—though it impairs the memory, making the witch forget her knowledge of the dark arts. So this was the method I decided to use.
It was very difficult to get the dosage right, and painful to see Meg so docile and mild, her fiery spirit (something that had attracted me to her in the first place) now subdued. So much so that, at times, she seemed a stranger to me. The worst time of all was when I decided to leave her alone in my Anglezarke house and return to Chipenden for the summer. It had to be done lest the law catch up with her. There was still a danger that she might be hanged at Caster. So I locked her in a dark room off the cellar steps, in so deep a trance that she was hardly breathing.
“Farewell, Meg,” I whispered into her ear. “Dream of the garden at Chipenden where we were so happy. I’ll see you in the autumn.”
As for her sister, Marcia . . . despite my former promise to Meg, I hired a mason and smith and had her bound in a pit in the cellar. I had no choice. I could not take the risk that she might eventually break through the iron gate. Without human companionship or contact with a domestic lamia, she would slowly shift her shape until she became feral again. And she wouldn’t starve. She would never run out of rats—they could always be relied on.
I left for Chipenden with a heavy heart. Although I’d experimented through the winter, I still worried whether or not I’d gotten Meg’s dose of herb tea right. Too much, and she might stop breathing; too little, and she could wake up alone in that dark cell with many long weeks to wait until my return. So I spent our enforced separation riddled with sorrow and anxiety.
Fortunately, I had calculated the dosage correctly and returned late the following autumn, just as Meg was beginning to stir. It was hard for her, but at least she didn’t hang, and the County was spared the harm she could have inflicted.
But a lesson must be learned from this, one that my apprentices should note carefully. A spook should never become romantically involved with a witch; it compromises his position and draws him dangerously close to the dark. I have fallen short in my duty to the County more than once, but my relationship with Meg Skelton was my greatest failing of all. This is a tale that had to be told, and I’m glad the telling is over.
Always beware a woman who wears pointy shoes!
Dirty Dora
MY name is Dirty Dora Deane and I’m a dead witch.
Some call me dirty because I spit thick slimy gobs of spittle to mark my territory. But I’m bad, not mad; have a reason for all I do. When I sniff that spit, I know I’m home and safe in the dell. Sniff it in the dark, I can, when I’m crawling back on my hands and knees.
Although I’m cold and dead now, and live under the rotting leaves
in Witch Dell, I’m still strong enough to leave it, and I want to tell my tales while I still can. Most nights I hunt for blood, but once or twice a week I go back to our cozy cottage, where my sister, Aggy, still lives. We chat together about the old times while my damp clothes steam in front of the fire; then, after Aggy has combed the beetles out of my hair, I spend a bit of time jotting down my memories. It’s not easy, because I find it difficult to remember what happened and I want to get it all down before it’s all gone out of my mind—or I can’t write no more. Don’t know which will happen first. Never can tell with us dead witches. Sometimes the mind goes completely. Then again, it could be my hands that drop off so that I can’t hold a pen. More than one dead witch crawls round the dell with pieces of her body missing. One ain’t even got a head!
Now I only remember three things properly. Three chunks—that’s all. The rest has gone.
CHAPTER I
My Sabbaths
I’LL start by telling you about my sabbaths. The ones I enjoyed as a girl and a young woman.
The four main ones are Candlemas, Walpurgis, Lammas, and Halloween. They’re the nights when the Pendle witches meet. Not together, mind. The different clans don’t see eye to eye; they gather in different places. We Deanes usually meet on the outskirts of our village and build a big fire. The thirteen members of the coven form a circle around it, warming their hands. Other witches from the clan stand farther back, according to their age and power.
We kill a lamb first, slitting its throat and covering our hands and faces with its warm blood. Once its carcass has been thrown into the fire, we start with curses, shrieking them up into the sky to fly out toward our enemies or make their bodies wither and rot. Exciting, it is. Loved that more than anything when I was young.
But Halloween was always my favorite Sabbath, because that was when the Fiend sometimes paid a visit. Got lots of names, he has. Some call him Old Nick, but people who ain’t witches usually call him the Devil.
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