by James Nicol
Arianwyn looked out of the train window at the rushing-past world that seemed to be all river and fields and trees. ‘My dad will be coming,’ she said softly, ‘but my mum, well – she died when I was little.’
The clicking knitting needles fell silent and Hettie blinked up at Arianwyn. ‘I am sorry, my flower – that’s terrible.’ She reached forward and patted Arianwyn on the knee. ‘Was she a witch as well?’
‘Yes.’ Arianwyn nodded, her throat unexpectedly tight.
‘I’ve got two children, and neither one of them showed the slightest inclination towards being a witch. But my grandson, Jack – now, he is going to make a fine witch in a year or so.’ The knitting doubled in speed for a few moments and Arianwyn thought Hettie had finally said all she wanted to say when she suddenly reached forwards again with the tin of mint imperials. ‘Sweetie?’ she asked.
And at that very moment Hettie lurched forwards in her seat and the tin of mint imperials flew from her hand, the sweets all falling into Arianwyn’s lap as most of the passengers gave a gasp or cry of shock. She heard the screech of brakes as the train came to a dead stop.
‘Crumbs, whatever do you suppose that was?’ Hettie asked as she sat back in her seat.
Arianwyn turned and pressed her face to the glass of the window – hoping somehow to see past the long snaking curve of the train. She could see they had just pulled on to a bridge when they had stopped, so perhaps there was something wrong with the tracks on there.
‘I’m sure it’ll just be sheep or cows on the track, flower, nothing to worry about,’ Hettie said warmly, scooping up the fallen mint imperials from Arianwyn’s seat and the floor.
Arianwyn settled back in her seat and pulled out the notebook again, but nothing made sense, not the glyphs or her notes. She reached for the package of sandwiches her grandmother had given her and was just unwrapping them when there was a commotion in the doorway of the carriage. Two train guards, the moustached man and a younger man, stood having a rushed conversation. ‘But I saw her in here earlier, Mr Andrews. I’m sure of it,’ Arianwyn heard. They both scanned the carriage and when the younger guard saw Arianwyn his eyes lit up and he pointed with excitement and hissed excitedly, ‘Yes! There she is, told you, Mr Andrews.’ And he pointed straight at Hettie. ‘She’s the witch from Stanbury Hill.’
Every pair of eyes in the carriage turned to Hettie, who went almost as pink as her cardigan.
The train guards moved over to stand beside Hettie. She folded her knitting in her lap and looked up at them both. ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’
‘Could you come along with us please, Mrs . . . er?’
‘Cummings, flower. Hettie Cummings.’ She smiled.
‘Mrs Cummings, would you come with us please?’ the moustached train guard said in a loud and officious voice.
Arianwyn stood up; she was just a bit taller than the train guard, which made him stop and give her a second glance. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘What do you want with Mrs Cummings? She hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘I never said she had!’ the train guard barked. ‘Now please take your seat . . .’ He fell silent as his eyes caught on Arianwyn’s silver star badge. He nudged the younger man whose eyes widened at once. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, pointing at Arianwyn, ‘you’d best come with us as well. You can leave your bits and pieces here.’ And with that he marched out of the carriage.
Hettie gave Arianwyn a questioning look as they followed the two guards.
The next carriage was filled with more people who stared curiously at Arianwyn and Hettie as they hurried through after the train guards. The carriage beyond that one was the buffet car, where a few people looked up from their lunches as the party dashed on. Finally they found themselves in what seemed to be the mail car, full of sacks and piles of parcels all neatly tied with string and sat in boxes and crates. There was also luggage stowed overhead and piled by the door. The guards stopped and turned to look at Hettie and Arianwyn. ‘You are both witches, yes?’ the moustached guard, Mr Andrews, asked.
‘Yes,’ they replied in unison.
The younger guard took the opportunity to speak now in a hurry, his face bright red. He was clearly thrilled that his day-to-day job of being a train guard had suddenly taken on a very new and exciting element. ‘There’s something odd on the bridge and we don’t know what it is or if it’s safe to continue—’
‘Yes, thank you, Marcel!’ Mr Andrews snapped. ‘This might well be confidential information you are divulging, I suppose you are aware of that?’
Marcel blushed and mumbled an apology. ‘Sorry, Mr Andrews.’
Mr Andrews continued the story. ‘As Marcel has said, we need someone to check what it is and if it’s safe to continue – the driver has stopped until someone qualified can make that decision.’
‘Us?’ Arianwyn asked.
Mr Andrews nodded. ‘You are the only witches on board.’ He didn’t sound entirely thrilled about that.
‘Well, come on then, flower, let the dog see the rabbit and all that!’ Hettie smiled and winked at Arianwyn.
A few moments later, having clambered rather inelegantly out of the mail car, Arianwyn and Hettie were following the two guards once more as they walked very carefully between the engine – which was still steaming and hissing – and the low wall of the bridge. A light drizzle was falling, but aside from that the view was quite stunning. A fast-flowing river rushed far below the arches of the bridge while the banks either side were covered in thick pine forest. The sky was grey and stormy.
As they cleared the engine they could see ahead for the first time: the tracks going straight on and on. But about a hundred metres ahead of the engine, suspended over the tracks, hovered a shimmering, fizzing mass of magic.
A sudden strange feeling came over Arianwyn’s knees. She reached out to steady herself on the side of the bridge.
It was a pocket of magic, that was clear. And it wasn’t that unusual. But it was strange that it was visible – and not just to Arianwyn and Hettie, but clearly to Marcel and Mr Andrews as well.
It fizzed and popped, and the air crackled around them all.
‘Do you know what that is?’ Mr Andrews asked, pointing at it.
Arianwyn looked at Hettie, who nodded and swallowed hard. She had sensed it too.
‘Well?’ Mr Andrews asked.
‘It’s a pocket of magic – a seam of magical energy,’ Arianwyn said slowly. She paused as her senses now picked up something else, something different, something that surrounded the magic, combined with it . . . no . . .
Polluted it.
Chapter 8
WHAT AN AFTERNOON
omehow, the seam of magic had become entangled with hex. ‘Wait here!’ Arianwyn warned the two guards. She began to walk forwards, stepping carefully over each thick, wooden railway sleeper.
The seam of magic flickered and flapped in the air like a loose hair ribbon or a scarf caught in a breeze. Its magical energy seemed to roll towards her in waves, tickling against her skin. The other sensation, the hex, was rough and urgent and was trying to drown the pure pulse of natural magic. It was like hearing two different pieces of music playing at the same time.
‘What’s happened to it?’ asked Hettie. ‘Is that seam of magic infected with hex?’
‘That’s what it looks like.’ Arianwyn paused and sniffed the air, her nose full of the rancid reek of dark magic.
‘Oh dear,’ Hettie sighed beside her. ‘What do we do now?’ She stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her pink cardigan and puffed out her cheeks, making a sound a bit like a horse.
‘D’you need any help, miss?’ Marcel called from his position near the engine.
‘No, it’s . . . fine,’ Arianwyn lied, her voice clear and bright to mask the untruth. She caught the look Hettie gave her. ‘We don’t need to frighten them,’ she added quietly.
‘Right-o,’ Hettie agreed, though she looked terrified herself.
Arianwyn carried
on forwards, but slower this time – trying to piece it all together: what she could see, what her senses were telling her. She heard Hettie following behind her, muttering to herself about glyphs and what sounded like a recipe for beef stew. What would it mean if hex was now infecting natural magic? She had never heard of anything like this before. Her palms were sweaty with fear, even in the cool drizzle.
‘What would have happened if we’d just gone through that on the train?’ Hettie asked, knotting her hands together.
‘Well, you know, normally nothing, since nobody would have noticed unless they were a witch. But if this seam of magic truly has been infected by the hex then who knows what might have happened,’ Arianwyn said.
She peered over the edge of the bridge at the tree-covered hills and the river rushing past far below, searching for answers. She looked up next at the grey sky and finally back to the seam of magic, which had now turned from purple to a bright green. Little flecks of bright light flashed from it and then tumbled across the ground like blossom gusted by a spring breeze.
A breeze!
That was just what they needed!
Wind could move the seam of magic away.
‘Any thoughts, ladies?’ Mr Andrews had come up behind them and stood on the tracks surveying the view before them, his eyes wide in wonder and fear.
‘We need to move it,’ Arianwyn said.
Pretending to be more confident than she felt, she turned towards the seam of magic. Everything on the far side of the bridge was viewed through its flickering green light, like it was underwater. She heard Hettie’s crunching footsteps behind her. ‘OK,’ Arianwyn said. ‘So we need to summon Briå together and use it to move the seam from the bridge.’
She wasn’t sure why she had taken charge of the situation – but despite being the senior witch, Hettie didn’t seem to be coming up with any ideas. ‘Ready?’ Arianwyn asked and after a nod from Hettie she raised a shaking hand and began to sketch the air glyph into the gap of open air between herself and the seam of magic.
As Arianwyn and Hettie finished the quick sketch of the glyph together, the seam flashed, more sparks of energy flying all around.
It was now or never. Arianwyn moved her hands and at once felt the breath of a faint breeze on her skin. A magical breeze whispered across her face, moving her hair. The two witches twisted their hands in unison, the spelled breeze increasing at their command. The seam of magic rippled like a snake moving through water. And that’s when Arianwyn realized her mistake: the glyph was pulling on the nearest seam of magic to create the spell. And the nearest seam of magic was, of course, the one immediately in front of them, riddled with hex.
Instead of moving west off the bridge and out over the river, the seam of magic fluctuated, as though it was shaking something off. Then it began to move straight towards Arianwyn and Hettie, flickering and fluttering.
‘Snotlings!’ Arianwyn muttered as she stumbled back.
‘Er – is it meant to be doing that?’ Mr Andrews shouted. ‘LOOK OUT!’ But in their rush to move away, Arianwyn and Hettie collided and Arianwyn tripped and fell against the hard metal of the railway track. She threw out her hands to save herself, the grit and stones scraping at her palms. Hettie had fallen back against the wall of the bridge and sat there panting, her eyes fixed on the seam of magic, which was moving quickly towards them . . . and then past them, and on towards the train!
‘No!’ Arianwyn cried as she scrabbled to her feet.
‘What do we do?’ Hettie called, following Arianwyn, a little slower, as she hurried after the seam of magic.
Marcel and Mr Andrews dived clear as the seam picked up speed, hurtling towards the gleaming blue and gold engine. Arianwyn watched in horror as the seam was swallowed up by the train. There was a loud hiss, and seconds later billows of bright green steam pumped out of the engine’s chimney along with a burst of bright, fizzing sparks that crackled in the air.
Then everything fell silent.
Was that it? Arianwyn glanced at Hettie, who began to smile in relief, certain of their success. But a few moments later a shrill scream broke the silence. It was coming from one of the carriages.
They raced back and climbed quickly into the train the way they had come, back into the mail car, but its tidy stacks of parcels, letters and luggage were a distant memory. Everything had toppled over and lay scattered across the floor. Some of the trunks and cases were bulging, before exploding open, ejecting their contents into the carriage like strange seed heads going pop!
‘Oh, jinxing-jiggery!’ Arianwyn groaned as letters swirled around her like a paper blizzard.
There was another cry followed by a shout followed by a scream in one of the other carriages, and without thinking Arianwyn scrambled over the tumble of trunks and hurried through the door into the dining car.
She ducked just in time as a plate smashed into the carriage wall beside her. People watched in surprised silence as a finely dressed woman wrestled with a tablecloth on the floor of the dining car. Worryingly, the tablecloth appeared to be winning. Arianwyn dodged another two side plates and a spinning fork and hurried forwards. She summoned a stunning orb and hurled it straight at the possessed tablecloth. There was a soft thwump and the woman who had been so valiantly wrestling with it gave a small cry of shock and delight when it gave up the fight and slipped to the floor, an ordinary tablecloth once again and nothing more.
‘Oh, thank you!’ the lady cried, stamping on the twist of fabric for good measure.
But just as Arianwyn thought she was making progress a chorus of cries came from beyond the next door.
The next carriage was in even more disarray. But now that the seam of magic was in sight, hovering in the middle of the carriage, the passengers backed up to the walls, keeping as much space between themselves and the magic as they could. But the seam wasn’t moving now; it had come to a stop.
‘Quickly,’ Arianwyn said, turning to Mr Andrews. ‘We need to get the train across the bridge as soon as possible.’
He gaped at her, unsure.
‘Hurry!’ she said.
There was no sense in trying to move the seam again, as that had clearly made things worse. But she hoped now that the seam would stay put as the train moved on and cleared the bridge. There was a sudden click-pop sound as a case burst open and a whirlwind of socks, shirts and underwear filled the carriage like a blizzard, making it impossible to see. Arianwyn didn’t dare try to stun the luggage in fear of hitting a fellow passenger. ‘Open a window, quickly – anybody!’
She heard the slide of a wooden frame and then the clothes were suddenly funnelling out through the open window and across the bridge, lost to the world.
As the last sock vanished the carriage suddenly lurched, once, twice, and then she could see out through the window that the train was indeed moving at last.
Everyone held their breath and watched as the seam of magic slipped slowly through the end of the carriage and back outside. It shifted just above the train tracks for a few moments and then it twisted, tumbled in the air and rolled out over the bridge and into the open air above the river. The train moved off over the other side of the bridge and then Arianwyn could see nothing more.
‘I’d better let the stationmaster at Bunton Loxley know about all of this,’ Mr Andrews said, straightening his tie and jacket.
‘Can you ask him to notify the C.W.A. as well, please?’ Arianwyn asked as she rested against the carriage wall.
Mr Andrews nodded as the train gathered speed.
The passengers gave a collective sigh of relief and excited chatter and nervous laughter filled the carriage. Arianwyn flopped down into a seat beside Hettie just as the final suitcase popped open, showering everyone with a selection of fine dresses, hats and various silk underclothes.
‘What an afternoon!’ Arianwyn sighed.
‘Sweetie?’ Hettie asked, offering the tin of mint imperials once again.
Êmparris – The Glyph of Silence
; Êmparris is the feyling word that means silence – or more specifically to sink into or be surrounded by silence. The glyph generally produces a small spell sphere that appears translucent to the point of being nearly invisible. It is easy to increase the size of the sphere and it is the spell orb that either absorbs all the sounds near to it, or – if you are inside the sphere – stops any sound from travelling outside of it.
The spell sphere can travel through physical objects such as walls and floors and does not appear to have any influence or damaging effects on these or electrical equipment.
THE NEW BOOK OF QUIET GLYPHS BY ARIANWYN GRIBBLE
Chapter 9
CINNAMON MUFFINS
t was dark when Arianwyn finally reached Lull, and the rain was falling heavier than ever. She had transferred from the train to Beryl, Lull’s town bus, for the last hour or so of the journey.
Mr Thorn kindly drove her straight to the door of the Spellorium and then helped her inside with her luggage, even though there really wasn’t that much of it. ‘Nice to have you back again, miss. How’s our Salle getting along in the big city?’ Mr Thorn asked, his little white moustache wobbling as he spoke, his cheeks bright from the cold night air.
‘She’s really well, Mr Thorn, and the play is fantastic,’ Arianwyn said as she bent to scoop up a pile of slightly damp letters and notes from the doormat.
‘Well, I’d best be off. Mrs Thorn’ll be waiting up. Goodnight, Miss Gribble. Good to have you back.’ Mr Thorn waved as he headed out of the Spellorium. The door closed behind him, the bell charms ringing gently as they tapped against the window.
Arianwyn leafed through the papers from the doormat. She recognized the bold handwriting of the mayor’s secretary, Miss Prynce: a list of jobs she would need to attend to after being away. And there was a note from Estar too: his strange handwriting filling a small square of paper.
My dear friend,
I hope your father is well and you are home safe and sound. I have decided to go back to Edda for a while to help with things there. I’ll be back soon so we can continue working on the quiet glyphs, though.
