by Cliff McNish
And then a different spell suggested a bat.
Instantly her bird eyes shrivelled. Rachel sent out sonar clicks, and from a wrinkled, scrunched-up head she witnessed a place more beautiful than anything she had ever seen with her own or bird eyes. It was a fabulous new world, a bat world, without colour, but where each blade of grass, every tuck of air, had an exquisiteness of texture she had no words to describe.
You don’t need these primitive wings to fly, her spells said. Just point your feet!
Giddy with excitement, Rachel transformed back into a girl and simply kicked her shoes through the air.
The turbulent wake of a supersonic jet caught her eye.
Catch it! Rachel commanded. A shifting spell willingly obeyed. The air lurched, flinging Rachel forward. There was no sensation of flight. Within a heartbeat, less than that, she stood on the nose-cone, peering in the cockpit. The pilot blinked in disbelief at the girl smiling at him through the window.
Rachel allowed the jet to fly on and focused on a remote cumulus cloud. How far away? she asked her information spells. 0.73 miles, they answered smoothly. Take me there! A shift took control, drawing her to the cloud – and then she shifted onto another cloud, and another, pushing herself to ever greater distances: a mile; five miles; ten; fifty. How about eighty!
Rachel chucked herself recklessly about the sky.
Eventually she stopped, skidding to a halt. Remember what you came out here for, she told herself angrily. Mum and the others are unsafe at home. Start searching for signs of magic …
How could she find the most gifted children? Magic has a distinctive smell, her spells reminded her – hunt out its scent. Her own nose was hopeless. Rachel allowed the spells to take charge. They grew her nostrils until each split into a soft, fleshy flap, like fragile petals that wavered in the breeze.
She sniffed – and immediately noticed the faint aromas of children’s magic.
Some of the smells were sharp and pungent, others musky, fragrant, ripe or a mixture of these things, and all the traces were weak. To find those like Paul actively using magic she needed to search a wider area and shift faster.
Rachel made herself relax, permitting the magic to flood through her veins. The feeling thrilled: it was nervy and wild, like breathing immaculately clean air after a lifetime of mustiness. She had felt flashes of the same exhilaration when she fought Dragwena on Ithrea, but fear had spoiled any pleasure she might have enjoyed then. Now she turned confidently into the wind. Closing her eyes, she forgot about clouds. She sniffed for the tiniest vestiges of magic – and launched herself at them.
In great leaps she shifted, leaving home far behind. Cities blurred past. Seas surged up to meet her and receded like dreams of seas. Her body hugged a coastline, and she touched the wet rocks where a child had recently tried his first spell. But he had gone, and Rachel shifted again. Following a striking scent she entered a different country where the air was hot and the smells new.
Her shift had carried her to southern France.
Feeling exposed, she hid as a fly, settling on the needle-leaf of an Aleppo pine tree. She was in the mountains of Provence. At this time of the year, early summer, the air was already dry and hazy. Heat shimmered from the burning Gorges de la Nesque cut into the high mountains. And barely visible amongst the elegant pines on the steep slopes Rachel found a boy. He might have been four years old, probably less.
In a flawlessly blue sky he had created a rainbow.
It towered above the mountains, violet and red and yellow stripes dripping like paint onto the land below. ‘Plus grand, plus haut!’ he shouted, laughing at the sun.
Rachel translated as best she could with her shaky French – ‘Bigger! Higher!’ – and felt elated. There’s no danger here, she thought – just a boy learning to use his newly awakened magic. Changing back into a girl she approached him with outstretched arms.
‘Don’t be scared,’ she said, as he pulled back in surprise. ‘Je suis Rachel. Qui es tu?’
The boy stared intensely at her, then cursed when he realized he had forgotten about his rainbow. He squinted up to see all the colours vanish. Stamping his feet and scowling, he ran off down the mountains, his sandals slapping the hard soil.
Rachel considered following him – but a stronger scent had already attracted her attention. She hurriedly shifted again. This time, disguised as a wasp, she came down in Dortmund, Germany.
Where a girl, so young that she still required a bulky nappy, climbed an apple tree in a garden.
The child’s mother stood nearby, too shocked to move. From the tree top the baby held out her arms, calling: ‘Bär! Bär!’ At first Rachel thought the little girl must want her mother – then she saw the teddy bear lying in the grass. As Rachel watched, the bear’s stitched button-eyes blinked. It sprang up. On felt pads it skipped across the lawn and clambered up the tree trunk, flinging its furry arms around the girl.
Both baby and bear turned together to gaze at the mother.
Rachel shook her head, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps this wasn’t so strange. If young children experimented wouldn’t they start with their toys? There’s nothing actually sinister taking place here, she decided. Just a child at play.
While Rachel wondered how to console the distraught mother, a new scent hit her. It was different from the others. This smell was deeply rich and vast, as if a great shoal of gifted children had come together to make it. For the first time Rachel felt truly frightened. Could this be the magic of a single child?
Investigate, some of her spells advised. Flee, ordered the rest.
Rachel made herself shift towards the scent. She moved swiftly, back across France, skirting Spain, travelling southwards, until she reached a new continent: Africa.
The searing heat of the Sahara Desert blazed under her. She shifted at tremendous speed over the sand dunes, and became suddenly aware that her own gifts alone could never shift her at this pace. Something else had registered her presence. It knew she was out there, and drew her to it, a colossal, restless force heaving her into its own domain.
When she reached her destination Rachel felt herself almost yanked from the sky.
She staggered, a dazed girl, too shocked for a moment to think of concealing herself.
She stood in a Nigerian village, beside a round hut. The hut was made from mud bricks mixed with straw, and in the shade of one of its walls a baby boy sat on the baked soil. He was covered in beautiful yellow butterflies. Dozens of them rested contentedly on his fingers, his bare feet, his hair. They settled like jewels on his earlobes and his eyelids. The sight of so many insects should have been grotesque, but Rachel instinctively realized they were commanded by the baby. This little boy was the source of all the astounding magic that had drawn her here.
As soon as he saw Rachel the baby smiled. It was a simple, genuinely child-like smile of welcome.
‘Yemi,’ he said, pointing proudly at himself. ‘Yemi.’
Rachel cried out with happiness as an astonishing feeling surged through her. It came from Yemi. He could only speak a few words, yet his spells already knew a full greeting. The magic welled freely out of him, so instinctive and yearning, so grateful to find it was not alone in the world.
Without thinking about it Rachel ran across, swept Yemi up in her arms and threw him into the air.
Momentarily he hung above her head, not falling. Kicking his bare feet, he struggled to keep himself aloft. When he did fall it was the helpless way any other baby would fall. Rachel caught and held him close, whispering her name into his butterfly-thronged ears. He blew the Camberwell Beauties onto her. They fanned out, adorning her hair with their yellow loveliness.
Then a gasp from the hut made Rachel turn.
Yemi chuckled. ‘Fola,’ he announced.
Rachel saw a girl half-inside the hut, clinging to the door frame. Her hair was braided and daubed with flour, and she glanced fixedly at Rachel, seemingly in awe.
‘Hello,’ Rachel said
, withdrawing the spell-colours from her eyes to avoid frightening her. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. Did you see me arrive just now?’
The girl had trouble understanding Rachel’s language. Finally, she nodded. ‘Who are you?’ she asked in heavily accented English. ‘What you want with us?’ She spoke mildly, and with great curiosity, glancing at Rachel’s clothes and skin and hair.
Another voice, much harsher, coming from inside the house, shouted something – and Fola’s collar was tugged. She resisted, clearly wanting to linger with Rachel.
‘Is that your mum in there?’ Rachel asked. ‘Is she scared? She mustn’t be. I won’t harm Yemi. Please, if—’
The house voice rumbled menacingly.
‘You make Mama afraid,’ Fola said. ‘Yes, the two of you. Have you come take Yemi away?’
‘Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘Are you his sister?’
‘We hide him very safe,’ Fola muttered. ‘Yemi no suppose to be out. Mama keeps him in, then he escape.’ She gazed at Rachel searchingly. ‘He know you de coming, didn’t he!’ She was tugged again. ‘Yemi, come!’ Fola insisted.
She reached out an arm, but Yemi did not want to leave Rachel. He held her tightly and kicked out at his sister.
‘No, do what she asks,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll come back. Soon.’ Her magic sent waves of reassurance through to him.
After a short tantrum Yemi reluctantly slid into Fola’s embrace.
‘She no won you to come back,’ Fola said sadly. ‘Mama said that. Don’t come back. Leave us alone.’ But she gave Rachel a brief smile before drawing Yemi into the hut. The door was barred and a fierce argument started inside. Rachel shifted away from the house, still tingling from the pleasure of just being with Yemi. For a while she drifted in the upper sky, thinking about him. His magic was so passionate, so joyful. Was he unique?
Before she could even begin to answer such questions another trace of magic demanded her attention. She wanted to rest, get back home and discuss what she had learned with Morpeth. However, she didn’t want to ignore such a forceful scent – and this time it was familiar. She shifted.
And came down in Alexandria, Egypt.
Here, in the broad harbour where the river Nile meets the Mediterranean, there was chaos amongst the fishermen. These were tough, swarthy men used to the hazards of the sea, but nothing in their gritty lives had prepared them for this.
From the wet decks of their boats, the fish caught that day were slithering across to attack them.
8
The Stone
Angel
Rachel saw the cause at once: on a jetty, close to the banks of the sea, stood a plump boy with spiky hair.
‘Paul!’ She shifted alongside him. ‘What are you doing? Stop it!’
He turned despairingly towards her. ‘I ca-can’t! I daren’t!’
Trembling, apparently fighting his own hands as they danced through the air, his fingers continued to orchestrate the biting fish.
‘Get away from me!’ he begged. ‘I might – No! No!’
Suddenly he pulled in both arms hard. All the fish leapt from the boats – at Rachel.
She hastily created two counter-spells: one to deflect most of the fish into the water; another to rid them of the fury.
‘What’s happening?’ Rachel demanded. ‘Paul, who’s making you do this?’
Before he could answer Rachel felt his body ripped away. One instant Paul was in front of her; the next he’d vanished, and as before the trail of magic was dead.
The fishermen crossed their hearts and watched Rachel from the empty boats.
A few of the fish had landed close to her. Their mouths opened and closed, and inside the soft jaws Rachel saw something she recognized: teeth; teeth that were curved, triangular and black – the teeth of a Witch.
She fell to her knees on the wooden boards of the jetty, gasping for breath.
Dragwena is dead, she told herself. You know that. She is dead.
But no fish on Earth had ever possessed a mouth filled with curved teeth like this. The triangularity and blackness could only mean one thing – another Witch was here.
The first three children, she realized, were using magic harmlessly enough. Paul’s pattern was the same one she had seen with the Labrador – a deliberately cruel use of spells. But now she was certain Paul himself was not responsible.
Rachel could not wait to get away from the fish still flopping on the jetty. Shifting rapidly towards home, she was more than halfway back when a new scent struck her like a punch. It came from the opposite side of the world. She reeled in the sky, wanting so much to ignore it and get back, worried more than ever about leaving Morpeth, Eric and Mum without her protection. But something about this scent would not be dismissed.
Following the trail of magic Rachel streamed southwards. She passed over the equator, deep, deep into the southern hemisphere, leaving the sun’s warmth far behind.
And alighted in a Chilean graveyard.
It was night in this part of the world – and winter. Snow had recently fallen. Rachel hurriedly transformed into the first bird she associated with cold weather – a robin – hoping that she blended in. Puffing out her chest feathers, she gazed about. The graveyard was enormous. Neglected tombstones lay flat on the ground; others poked up at odd angles, as if even the dead souls beneath had tried to push their way out into a cosier place. A fullish moon squatted near the horizon. All around Rachel the scent of magic was almost unbearably concentrated. Surely not another child, she thought. It must be a Witch. A trap?
She hopped cautiously among the mossy headstones. Nothing moved in the graveyard. There were no people tending or walking between the wilderness of graves, or obvious pathways guiding the way through. Rachel nervously flitted between a few scattered trees. Their branches were heavy with snow that crackled under her claws. Suddenly she wished for a sign of human life – any sign at all – a voice, or even a footprint to indicate that loved ones really did visit this place. There were no such reassuring signs. The snow hugged the ground as if it had always done so, and the moon watched Rachel in the spaces between the graves. It was entirely still and frozen and silent.
Eventually Rachel found herself drawn to one remarkably beautiful statue at the centre of the graveyard.
It was a stone angel.
There were further angels dotted at intervals, but this particular angel was different. It seemed new – freshly made – and the sculpture work was so fine that the smooth lines of the face appeared virtually human. Curious, Rachel flew warily towards it.
The statue was a female angel – a girl – and it knelt exactly as a living girl might kneel on the ground. But then Rachel noticed that it had no wings. And instead of the usual prayer-like pressing of hands together, this stone girl had folded arms.
The figure looked, Rachel thought, as if it was bored.
She glanced around. There were no children here, or Witches, nothing obvious to fear; there was only a great magic, centred on the unusual statue. Rachel shook off her robin shape, moved to within a few inches of the face and reached out her hand.
‘Don’t touch me,’ whispered the angel.
Rachel froze – and saw the stone eyelids slowly open. The rest of the girl’s face remained fixed. For a moment the two girls simply gazed at one another: stone at flesh. Then Rachel felt something probing her mind. A welcome greeting, similar to that from Yemi? No, she realized. It was infinitely more sinister than that – a measuring spell, trying to judge the strength of her magic.
Rachel prevented it – and saw the girl’s eyes widen.
‘How did you do that?’the girl asked, trying to hide her surprise. Her voice was flat – clipped and unfriendly – and it had no fear of Rachel’s magical gifts. ‘Tell me how you blocked my spell,’ she insisted. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘What if I refuse?’
‘I’ll hurt you. I mean it.’ The girl watched Rachel’s reaction closely.
‘Hurt me?’
Rachel tried to sound unconcerned. ‘Why should you want to do that?’
‘You might attack me, that’s why.’
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Target practice, maybe,’ the girl said, shrugging. ‘Can’t be too careful. You’re strong, like me, I can tell. Have you tried out your spells on other children yet? You know, experimented on them?’
‘Experimented?’ Rachel felt her heart race.
‘Oh, don’t go all weak-kneed,’ sighed the girl. ‘Don’t tell me you’re squeamish when it comes to other children. What a good girl you must be. How disappointing.’
She dissolved her stone body and stood up, twirling in the snow as if to display herself.
Rachel could now tell that they were about the same age and height. In all other ways they were different. Pale-complexioned and angular, the girl’s thin fingers and wrists jutted from her grey pullover. Her fine hair was perfectly white – almost transparent – falling lankly over her narrow shoulders. Eyebrows that were bleached, nearly hairless, shone in the moonlight. But the girl’s most astonishing features were her eyes. They were a washed-out blue, lighter in colour than any Rachel had ever seen.
‘I’m Heiki,’ the girl said. ‘What do you make of me, Rachel?’
Rachel gasped. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘A secret. Are you afraid?’
‘Do you expect me to be afraid?’
‘Of course,’ said Heiki. ‘The other children were afraid.’
‘Did you harm them?’
‘A few.’ She laughed. ‘Not much. Most kids are pathetic, not worth the trouble. Are you like them, Rachel? Or can you fight?’
Rachel paused. What was she to make of this girl? Her accent was odd, not English, though she spoke fluently.
‘Where are you from, Heiki?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Haven’t you even learned that yet? We don’t belong anywhere any more, Rachel. Special ones like us can go where we want. And we can do what we want. Have you used your magic against any adults yet?’
‘Have you?’ bristled Rachel.
