Didn’t stay long, but it was good just to get a glimpse of him. Most witches want to see the Fiend at least once in their lives. Big, he was. Very big, with a tail, hooves, and lovely glossy black hair all over his body. And what a lovely stink he gave out—ranker than a tomcat. He’d appear right in the middle of the flames, and the coven members would reach out their hands to touch and stroke him, not caring about burning their arms.
I remember the night it all went wrong, though. The night when an enemy stole into our gathering. Nobody saw it coming. Nobody sniffed it out. The Fiend had just appeared in the flames and all our eyes were on him, not on what was dashing out of the darkness straight toward the fire.
It was a wild woman, her hair flying behind her as she ran. She carried three blades—one in each hand, the third gripped between her teeth. She burst right through to the edge of the flames before anyone could stop her, and threw a blade straight at the Fiend. I heard him scream, a shriek that split the sky above with forked lightning and made the stones groan beneath our feet.
But she wasn’t satisfied with that. Twice more she threw her blades. I wasn’t close enough to see, but they told me later that all three reached their target: the first one stuck in his chest, the second in his throat, and the third went up to the hilt in the left cheek of his hairy arse. The last would have been the worst for sure, but he turned away at the last moment.
Why he didn’t kill her on the spot nobody knows—certainly not we Deanes. The Fiend simply vanished, and the fire died down and went out in an instant, plunging us all into darkness. That was how the mad knife woman made her escape.
We raked three blades out of the embers of the fire. Each one was tipped with silver. We used our best scryers, but we couldn’t find out who the madwoman was or where she’d gone. She’d cloaked herself in powerful magic.
Later we sent assassins after her, three in all, over the space of a few days. Not one of them came back, and then the trail went cold and even the best trackers couldn’t find her. The Fiend didn’t appear to us for five years after that. It was a bad time. Really bad. Our magic was weak or didn’t work at all, and some of our coven died of wasting diseases. They say it was the Fiend taking his revenge on us because we hadn’t taken enough precautions against an intruder; we hadn’t kept him safe.
Why she did it nobody knows—at least, perhaps some do, but, if so, they ain’t saying. Got a glimpse of her face as she passed me sprinting toward the fire. She was young, hardly more than a girl . . . somehow, I felt I knew her. Seen her somewhere before. Almost had her name. Almost. It was on the tip of my tongue. . . .
They were good times until then. I miss being part of that big happy group. Most of all I miss the cursing and seeing the Fiend. Who knows, if I’d lived long enough, I might have become one of the coven and got to stroke the Fiend myself. But it wasn’t to be. The mad girl spoiled all that.
And there was something else. Didn’t see it coming, but my life was almost over.
CHAPTER II
My Doom
WE are all fated. All doomed. What is written will be. We witches can sniff out the future, see dangers approaching. But few of us see our own doom coming. I certainly didn’t.
Over seventy years ago, even before my mother was born, a quisitor called Wilkinson arrived in Pendle. Wanted to deal with the clans once and for all, so he brought priests, wardens, and thirty special constables. And they were all armed to the teeth and keen to kill witches.
Made his base in Downham, he did, and started to arrest suspected witches from all three clan villages—Goldshaw Booth, Roughlee, and Bareleigh. Not all clan members are witches, though, and he tried to sort them out using different tests. He swam a dozen of them. Three drowned and another died of fever afterward. Another three sank but were dragged out barely alive. The five who floated were tried, found guilty, and hanged at Caster Castle. But swimming never works, and only one of them was really a witch. Not that it bothered Wilkinson much anyway. He was a nasty, greedy man. He seized their houses and possessions, sold them, and kept the money.
After that he arrested lots more—mainly Malkins. Tested them with a bodkin this time; jabbed its sharp blade into their flesh until he found what he called the Devil’s mark, a place where he said they couldn’t feel any pain. All nonsense, of course, but they say that he enjoyed his work.
However, the clans weren’t going to stand for that. Not them. So they banded together in a temporary truce and collected their dead. Buried them under the loam in Witch Dell with the others. Somehow Wilkinson and his men were tricked into passing through the dell. Don’t know how the clans did it. Nobody seems to remember that.
It happened after dark, as they were traveling back to Downham. The dead witches were lying in wait, desperate for blood.
Wilkinson survived, but over half his party were slaughtered. Their bodies were recovered later—but in broad daylight, of course, with the bright sun overhead. All the dead had been drained of blood and their thumb bones were missing.
The quisitor was in fear for his own life, so he made a hasty retreat from the district. But they weren’t finished with him yet, were they. The Malkin clan used a powerful curse, and within thirteen months every last one of Wilkinson’s men was dead, including him. Some died in accidents; others just vanished from the face of the earth—probably victims of witch assassins. Wilkinson’s own death was particularly horrible. His nose and fingers fell off, and his ears turned black and withered away. Scared of dying but scared of living, he was. So he tried to hang himself but failed when the rope gave way. Driven mad with pain, he drowned himself in a local pond. So the clans’ revenge was complete. Didn’t think anyone would ever try it again.
Became too sure of ourselves, we did. All of us—me included. Well, I paid the price for that and no mistake. Didn’t see my own doom coming, did I?
One morning I was begging at a farm gate on the outskirts of Downham. This was the third time I’d been back in less than a week, and I’d scared that old farmer good and proper—threatened to make his crops fail and his livestock be struck down with foot and mouth. The first time I’d just asked for eggs; the second, a leg of lamb; but this time I’d come for his hoard of coins.
Farmers are always moaning and crying poverty, but most of them have got something squirreled away. “I want money this time,” I told him. “Nothing less will do.”
“I have no money,” he protested. “I can scarcely make ends meet. You’ve already taken the food out of my children’s mouths. . . .”
“Ah, you have children,” I said, giving him a wicked grin. “I do hope they thrive! How many have you?”
At that his hands began to shake and his bottom lip to tremble like a withered leaf in an autumn gale. I could tell that he really loved those children of his.
“Two girls,” he said, “and another child on the way.”
“You’re bit old to be a father. Got a young wife, have you?”
There was a movement in the doorway, and a woman came out into the late evening light and started to peg out her washing. She was less than half his age but a bit of a dumpling and not at all pretty.
“Give me your money, or it’ll be the worse for you,” I threatened.
The farmer shook his head, his expression a mixture of despair and defiance. He was on the fence now and didn’t know which way to jump, so I made up his mind for him.
“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that little defenseless unborn your wife’s carrying in her belly, would you? And what about her? Is she strong? What if she were to die in childbirth? How would you manage this farm alone, as well as raise young children?”
“Be off with you!” he cried, raising his stick.
“Give you a chance, I will. Be back tomorrow at the same time. Don’t want all your money—I’m not greedy. Half will do. Have it ready or suffer the consequences!”
Should have sniffed out what was coming. A stinky wind blows from the future, but I didn’t even get a w
hiff.
Next evening the old farmer was waiting for me at the gate, but his hands were empty. Where was my bag of coins? I wondered angrily.
“Made a big mistake, you have!” I warned him, curling my lip. “Got a nasty curse ready for you, old man. I’ll make the flesh drop off your young wife’s bones. . . .”
He didn’t reply. Not only that, he didn’t even look scared. Well, maybe just a bit nervous, but not what I’d expected. I opened my mouth to begin the curse but suddenly heard footsteps behind, running toward me. I turned and saw half a dozen big men with clubs approaching, spread out in a big arc and cutting off any hope of escape.
Right! I’d show him. I leaped the gate and ran past the farmer toward the house. His wife was inside—and, even better, his children. I’d take them hostage, use them to make my escape. I slipped my sharp knife—the blade I used to take thumb bones—down my sleeve into my left hand to be ready. Let ’em know I meant business. I’d almost reached the back door when I was brought to a sudden halt.
A man was standing just inside; behind him lurked another one holding a large stick. Swaggering confidently, they both came out into the yard in front of me. By then other men were climbing over the gate behind me, and within moments they’d surrounded me. I tried to fight, I really did. I spun and slashed at them with my knife, but there were too many of them, and the blows they dealt were savage. One of the first knocked the knife from my hand; then they rained down on my back and shoulders. I crouched low, trying to cover my head, but they found it eventually. There was a flash of light and then darkness.
I was the first they captured that day. In the end five of us were tested down at the pond. By chance I’d chosen to beg from that farm on the very day that a witch finder had called at Downham—the first such visit to Pendle by a quisitor since the days of Wilkinson. The farmer had gone to warn him, and then they’d set their trap and awaited my return.
How come I chose that day and that place? It was my doom. It had been fated to happen.
Swimming is terrifying. We witches can’t cross running water, but lakes and ponds are usually no problem. I’d even been known to kneel at the water’s edge and wash myself once in a while. Not in winter, though—far too cold then. Dirt keeps out the winter chills.
But it’s very different when your hands are tied to your feet. I was the third they swam that cold January afternoon. The first woman floated. She was just a clan member and lacked the craft, but that didn’t bother them; dragged her out of the pond, they did, and threw her up into the back of a wagon.
The second one sank like a stone—and she was a real witch, one of the Malkins. The Fiend didn’t bother to save her, did he? Told you swimming don’t work. They took their time getting her out of the water. By the time they did, she’d stopped breathing, so they chucked her body back into the pond, where it sank for a second time.
Then it was my turn. Two of them swung me back and forth before letting go. I hit the water hard. Was going to try and hold my breath, but that cold water was too much of a shock. I gasped and opened my mouth. The dirty water rushed in. I seemed to sink but must have been floating facedown. I could see the dead witch below me through the murk, hair drifting over her open mouth and bony nose, dead eyes staring up at me. I choked for a while, but then it didn’t hurt anymore. Gave up, I did. I was going into the dark. Well, why not? I’m a witch. That’s where I belong.
Next thing I knew, I was lying facedown in the mud, pond water gushing out of my mouth. Then I was sick as a dog over one of the men’s boots. Gave me a good kicking for that, he did, before bundling me into the back of the wagon.
They called three of us witches and rushed off toward Caster. Weren’t going to risk the wrath of the clans this time, were they? Wanted to get us away from Pendle and into the safety of Caster Castle.
Thrown into a dark dungeon, I was. And all alone. Not that I wanted the company of the other two. One was a Mouldheel, the other a Malkin—clan enemies. Dark and damp it was down there, with water dripping from the ceiling and just a bed of filthy straw to lie on. They couldn’t even leave me in peace to enjoy my misery, though. Came for me at midnight. Dragged me along a corridor and into a room with a big wooden table. Clamped my wrists and chained my arms. Weren’t satisfied with testing me once.
“Before we kill a witch, we have to be doubly sure she is one,” said the quisitor. “We’ve used swimming. Now it’s time for pricking!”
Really loved his work, that one. Matthew Carter was his name, and he smiled as he stuck that long pin into me. The more I groaned and flinched and shrieked, the more he loved it. I fainted more than once. Soon my body was hurting all over and I couldn’t tell when he was jabbing me and when he’d stopped. Said he’d found the Devil’s mark then. True enough, I’d a birthmark just below my knee. About the same size as a copper coin, it was, and this was where he said the Devil had touched me; a place where the Fiend protected me and I couldn’t feel pain. It was enough for him. I was proved a witch twice over.
They were going to execute us just after dawn—that’s what he told me—and I spent the long night in that dungeon shivering with cold and fear. Couldn’t face being burned. Not that. Please not that! The pain was supposed to be terrible. And a witch can’t come back after burning. She has to stay in the dark forever.
They took us out at first light into the yard. It was a miserable morning with heavy drizzle falling out of a gray sky. I remember there were three seagulls on a nearby roof—one for each witch about to die. But then my spirits lifted because I saw what awaited us in the far corner of the castle yard. It wasn’t a fire. It was a gallows. They were going to hang us. That meant I’d be able to come back. . . .
Can’t say it was pleasant, though. Not nice to be swinging on a rope, panting for breath, with your face going purple and eyes bulging. That’s the last thing I saw: the Mouldheel witch hanging next to me, gasping out her last breaths. Then my sight dimmed and everything went dark. All I could hear was my own heart thudding. At first it was going so fast that the thumps all merged into one. Then it grew tired. It was faltering . . . slowing . . . missing beats.
Funny thing, dying. Strange, the last memories you have. I saw the madwoman run past me again on her way to throw her knives at the Fiend. Suddenly I recognized her. Knew her name! It was—
But then I died.
CHAPTER III
My Revenge
THE Deane clan collected my body from the castle yard and took it back to Pendle. They buried me in a shallow grave in Witch Dell and covered the bare earth with rotting leaves. Then they left me to enjoy my new existence.
I remember sensing something above, so I stretched up my arms into the chill night air. I sat up and my head burst through the covering of earth. The dell was lit with a silver light: I was looking up through the branches of a tree toward a yellow orb. It was the full moon. That was what first summoned me back to this world.
My next need was blood. Never had I felt so hungry. I began to crawl through the dell, sniffing for prey. There were no humans within range, but I soon caught a few juicy rats and a field mouse. The rats took the edge off my appetite. Very small, the mouse was, hardly a mouthful, but I couldn’t remember anything tasting so delicious. I was a bone witch but had drunk blood before—though none tasting like that. It’s so much better when you’re dead. You don’t need ordinary food anymore. What good are potatoes and cooked meat to a dead stomach?
That food, little though it was, gave me strength. Now I could stand . . . walk . . . maybe even run? So how would I feel if I managed to catch a man, woman, or child and drink human blood? Some dead witches ain’t that strong and the most they can ever do is crawl. I felt sure I’d be one of the stronger ones.
So I slid under my covering of leaves again and lay on my back for a while, just my nose and eyes peeping up through them. Lying there, I suddenly noticed just how much my head itched. I kept having to scratch it. That’s the problem with spending so much time close to t
he ground and hiding under dead leaves. Things get into your hair and make their homes there.
You get lots of time to think when you’re a dead witch. And my first thoughts were of revenge. At first I decided just to kill that farmer and his dumpling wife; the children would be really juicy. But that would be too easy. There was someone else I really owed for what had happened. Matthew Carter had tortured and murdered me; brought my happy life to an end. I wouldn’t enjoy sabbaths no more, would never get to stroke the Fiend.
Deserved the same back, he did, and more. But how could I get to him? I now knew he was based in Caster. It was a long way there—could be done, but surely there had to be a better way. . . .
Didn’t take me long to work it out, so I set out for Downham right away. I was going to have a serious talk with that old farmer.
I still wasn’t as strong as I’d have liked, but I made my way slowly north, keeping Pendle Hill to my left. Just before dawn I managed to catch a couple of rats and settled myself down under a hedge to while away the daylight hours.
It was long after midnight the following night before I arrived at the boundary of his farm. The first thing I did was kill one of his pigs. It was a small plump pink thing, and it squealed almost until the moment it died. That started the farm dogs barking; must have been chained up, or they’d have caught my scent. Pity, that. I could have managed to drain a dog or two. But I have to tell you that pig blood is quite tasty. Next best thing to draining a human.
That little squealer made me feel a lot stronger. I walked up to the front of the farmhouse and pulled the door right off its hinges. Somewhere above, a child started to cry; it was soon joined by another, and it wasn’t long before the old farmer came to the top of the stairs in his nightshirt, the stub of a candle in his trembling hand. He saw me standing in the open doorway, gave a cry of terror, and ran back into the bedroom. I heard him slide a bolt into place. Not that it would do him much good.
I followed him upstairs and leaned hard against the door until, with a creak and a crunch, it flew open. By then his wife was making more noise than her children, who were still screaming from the next bedroom.
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