Witch Finder

by Unknown

  ‘I’m not a fool. There is no way men and women would work willingly in those conditions, no way they could work. Sebastian, they’re dying. They are rotting away as they work, eaten up by whatever poison is in those matches. You’ve chained them, haven’t you? It’s magic keeping them at their posts, day in, day out.’

  ‘You know nothing about it,’ he said. His voice was cold and flat as river ice, as cold as his eyes.

  ‘What you’re doing is illegal, more than illegal – it’s inhumane, madness. Let them go.’

  ‘And if I won’t?’

  Possibilities raced through her head: she would leave him, she would break off the engagement. Somehow, she thought, none of these would sway him.

  ‘I will disgrace you,’ she said flatly. ‘I will tell everyone we know. I will denounce you to the Ealdwitan.’

  ‘You think they will listen to you?’ he sneered. ‘A chit of a girl against the word of a Chair?’

  ‘A woman,’ she spat, ‘giving evidence against her own fiancé. But in any event, it will not be a case of taking my word for it. If they come here, there will be no question. Their eyes will give them all the evidence they need. They will break you.’

  ‘You ungrateful little wretch.’

  He stood and began pacing the room. When Rosa stood too, he wheeled round and screamed, ‘Sit down, damn you!’

  Rosa sat immediately and then a surge of anger shot through her and she jumped back up.

  ‘No! Why should I?’

  ‘You are to be my wife, and you will obey me.’

  ‘I am not your wife and I never will be! I don’t love you, I never loved you. I would rather marry—’ A sob rose in her throat, choking her. ‘I’d rather marry a – a stable-hand.’

  ‘You are mine,’ he said softly. ‘And I will see you dead before I lose you to the arms of another man.’

  Rosa opened her mouth to answer.

  ‘Tówierpe!’ he spat, and instead Rosa flew backwards into the chair, with a force that knocked all the breath from her body. Before she had time to recover he was across the room, crouching beside her with something in his hands. It was cord, the cord they used for tying up the bales of matchboxes.

  She felt it bite into her wrists and began to struggle with all her strength.

  ‘Áhíewe!’ she screamed, and a blast of flame shot towards him. Sebastian howled, reeling back, clutching at his face. When he lifted his hands away Rosa saw that his lip was bleeding, his cheek slashed to the bone.

  ‘You’ll pay for that, you bitch.’

  He pulled off his cravat and bound it round her mouth, silencing the half-worked spells on her lips. It didn’t stop her kicking, but he soon had her bound hand and foot to the chair. She felt the heat of the fire on the side of her face and looked at him, hoping he could read the hatred in her eyes.

  But he only knelt in front of her, staring at her. His blue eyes, just inches away from hers, were bloodshot.

  ‘Until death do us part, Rosa, my darling,’ he said softly. Then he stood and left the room.

  For a moment Rosa did nothing. She breathed through her nose, trying to calm her pounding heart and pull her magic together. The cords were biting painfully into her wrists and she strained at them, yanking uselessly. Nothing happened – only the pain in her wrists and ankles increased. Sebastian had bewitched the knots – these bindings would not break without magic. But she had none left. The long search for the factory and then the fight with Sebastian – it had taken her very last effort. And she could not speak anyway. She remembered Mama saying: It’s not the words on your lips that are important, Rosamund, it is the words in your head – try to grasp that, for heaven’s sakes. But there were no words in her head, just a silent scream of fear.

  Far away she could hear sounds, crashes, as if machinery were falling to the ground. Cries of fear too. And then: the smell of smoke.

  The heat of the forge blazed bright and Luke sweated as he hammered the red-hot metal, the sweat running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes like tears.

  William wasn’t back. No doubt he had met a friend and they were drinking. Another night Luke might have gone out himself to the Cock to find them. Not tonight. Tonight he was glad to be alone, hitting something as hard as he could.

  But nothing – not even the hot, bright flames of the forge – could chase away the shadowy memories that seemed to be crowding into his skull.

  A hand, creeping across the floor like a spider.

  A girl’s lips, so soft he could hardly bear it.

  The sound of a fist meeting bone – and a girl’s cry.

  The feel of a brand in his shoulder.

  And then, as he began to twist the hot metal into shape, something else. The shape of a coiled snake, silver bright, on top of an ebony cane.

  He let the hammer drop, putting his hands to his head, as if he could keep out the horrors, but they forced their way, exploding in his head like fireworks. The crack of a bridge strut. The scream of a horse. Narrow brows furrowed, a coin in the sun. Blood on white skin. Hair like fire.

  Minna.

  Cherry.

  Rosa.

  Oh, God, Rosa.

  The memories flooded back, his skull felt as if it would crack. And then he knew – he knew what he had to do.

  The guard at the gate was a witch, although not a good one. The thin white wisp of his magic melded with the fog, disappearing into the night. Luke felt in his pocket for the bottle. The one he had taken to Knightsbridge was gone, probably still under the board in Fred Welling’s room for all he knew, but a moment’s search of William’s room had revealed a rough bundle in his chest. Unwrapping it, Luke found a knife, a bottle, a rag.

  Now they were in the pocket of Luke’s jacket, the rag twisted round the bottle so that the knife would not chink and smash the glass.

  His heart pounding, he pulled out the rag and the bottle, thankful for the meagre gas-light and the muffling fog. When he wrenched out the cork the fumes almost choked him, stinging his eyes and throat, but he splashed some on to the rag, stoppered up the bottle, and took a deep breath. Then he crept forward, hugging the wall.

  The witch did not see him until the last moment and, when he did, his eyes widened and his mouth opened – to call for help, or shout a spell? Luke didn’t wait to find out. He leapt at him, the rag clenched in his hand, and crushed it over the man’s mouth and nose. He was a big man, matching every inch of Luke’s six foot, but Luke had the advantage of surprise. The man clawed at Luke’s fingers, scrabbling for a hold, but the stuff in the bottle was too strong. His struggles slackened, his kicks and snorting gasps turned to spasmodic twitches, and at last he hung from Luke’s arms, limp as a sack of coal.

  Luke dragged him into the shadow of an arch and there pulled off the man’s greatcoat and cap. No point in sticking out more than he had to.

  Dragging them on over his jacket, he stepped out into the courtyard. It was dark, but not as dark as it should have been. There were flames coming from an upper window.

  Luke ran to the door and wrenched it open, a great wall of smoke coming out to meet him. He choked but, pulling his muffler over his face, he plunged in. In front of him was a hall, clearly empty, some kind of refectory. The sound of crackling and the smell of smoke was coming from upstairs. He took a deep breath and began to climb up towards the heat.

  The first thing that met his eyes at the landing was a huge, long room filled with men, women and children working a vast conveyor belt. They were choking in the smoke, their eyes watering, but they worked on.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Luke bellowed at one of them, a girl of about ten. ‘This place is burning down! Get out!’

  She shook her head and carried on scrabbling the matches into stacks.

  ‘Are you mad?’ He pulled off the muffler, the
better to shout, and choked against the smoke, but found the breath to shout again. ‘Get out, all of you!’

  They took no notice. Luke looked around him. There was a long iron pole behind the door, with a hook on the end, designed for opening windows too high to be reached with a ladder. He grabbed one end and brought it smashing down on the conveyor belt. There were cries of alarm from the workers and one of them, a girl with wispy pale hair, looked up, confusion in her eyes.

  ‘Whatcha doing, mister?’

  ‘Get out!’ he bellowed again. She shook her head dully, and he raised the pole above his head and brought it down again. The conveyor belt juddered but didn’t stop, and the girl reached, as if mesmerized, for another handful of matches. Luke could have screamed. Would they never stop work until the blasted belt stopped too?

  Suddenly he had a thought.

  Yanking the knife from his pocket, he scattered aside the handfuls of matches and began to saw at the thick India rubber of the conveyor belt. It was hard, almost impossible – as soon as he made one good cut the machine pulled the fabric from his hands, and he was faced with a fresh, undamaged stretch. He hacked and hacked, fighting against the hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him. The crackle of flames sounded louder than ever.

  Should he just give up? Leave them to it?

  With one last effort he raised the knife above his head and stabbed it viciously through the material of the conveyor belt, deep into the wooden support beneath.

  It held.

  The relentless force of the conveyor belt pulled on, but now it was destroying itself, its whole force ripping against the knife in its guts. A long rent began to appear in the centre of the belt. Then, suddenly, it stuck. The knife had come up against a join in the belt, stitching too strong to slit. There was a shriek as the belt pulled tight, the metal gears bending and whirring. The whole roomful of workers had stopped, watching, hypnotized as the machine strained and screeched its protest. Then, with a deafening bang, the belt snapped, throwing matches high into the air, raining down like hail on their backs.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ gasped the pale-haired girl. ‘What’ve you done?’

  ‘Get out!’ he roared at her. This time she blinked. And then she nodded and ran.

  There were murmurs as the others watched her go – and Luke shouted, ‘Well? What are you waiting for? D’you want to burn?’

  It was as if his words burst a dam and one after another they began to stumble and then run towards the door, making for the courtyard and the relative safety of the Thames.

  Luke pulled the knife out of the belt and started to run in the other direction, deeper into the factory.

  Bodies pushed past him, making for the door, and he scanned every face that passed, looking for Minna – but she wasn’t there.

  ‘Minna!’ he shouted above the noise of footsteps and the far-off crackle of flame. A girl, about his age, stumbled into him and he grabbed her arm. ‘I’m looking for a friend, Minna Sykes. D’you know her?’

  ‘Dipping room,’ she gasped, and then pushed past him.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Down the corridor, on yer right. Lemme go, mister.’ She tore her arm out of his grip and ran.

  The long, low room was almost empty now, but he could hear the roar of machines from next door and he ran in to find the workers still labouring in spite of the smoke, choking as they tied the matchboxes into parcels. Now he knew that the spell was bound up in the machines it was easier. He didn’t waste time begging or trying to shake them out of their indifference, he just went straight for the belt with his knife. There was the same grinding, shrieking roar, like the dying screams of the machine, and then it snapped and the workers were dazed and staggering like new-woken drunks, the room ringing with his shouts as he harried them towards the stairs.

  The smell of smoke was very strong now and he could hear the crackle of flames, but above it was another smell, something acrid that tore at his throat. And still he had not found Minna – or Rosa. Had she come back here? Back to Sebastian’s waiting arms?

  He tried to remember her parting words as he ran up the corridor, the muffler pulled high across his face to try to shut out the bitter, choking fumes, but he could not. All he could remember was the horror in her eyes as he raised that hammer and she ran.

  Down the corridor. On your right.

  There was a door. It was marked ‘no entry’. There was smoke and the red glow of flames coming from the crack beneath. Luke touched it with his hand and it was hot. He pulled off his muffler, wound it around his hand, and grabbed for the handle.

  Inside, Hell met his eyes.

  Wherever the fire had started, it was close to this room, and the flames were eating at the dividing wall and flickering up through the floorboards, attacking the joists beneath. But – impossibly – the workers still toiled, stirring at the great vats of chemicals that bubbled in the centre of the room, a white mist rising off the surface.

  Luke stepped forward, ready to slash at the dipping racks, up-end tables, douse the stoves. He would free this last group and get out.

  Then he stopped.

  Standing between the vats was a man, his figure just a black outline against the smoke – but Luke did not need to see his face to recognize that tall silhouette. It was Sebastian Knyvet.

  Luke swallowed. He thought about running – but what if Minna were here, in this last room? He couldn’t fight his way through all this and then run without even freeing her. But if Knyvet saw him . . .

  It seemed like an eternity as they both stood, frozen as the flames flickered around them. Could Knyvet see him? He couldn’t tell. His shape was wreathed in smoke and flame, his face hidden.

  And then Sebastian moved. He grabbed the lip of the cauldron closest to him, seeming not even to notice the scalding metal on his bare hand, and heaved.

  Toxic, boiling chemicals flooded across the floor, hissing and spitting, throwing up an acrid white smoke that made Luke gasp and retch and the workers fall back. A girl almost staggered into his arms and Luke caught her reflexively.

  ‘Luke?’ she gasped.

  ‘Minna!’

  It couldn’t be the phossy jaw – not yet, surely? But it looked very like it. Her face was swollen and livid, and the tooth that had given her so much trouble was missing; where it should have been there was a bloody gap for the phosphorus to enter, rotting the bone from within.

  ‘Get out,’ he said urgently. Minna shook her head, looking back at the dipping racks with an expression almost like longing, and Luke wanted to slap her.

  ‘Get out, Minna! There’s no more dipping – this place is burning down – can’t you see?’

  The flames were licking at the dipping racks and the drying frames now, the dipped matches bursting into flames as the heat began to reach them. One of the racks collapsed in a shower of sparks and miniature explosions.

  ‘Get out!’ He took her shoulders and shook her, trying to reach her through the thick cloud of spell and stupor.

  She opened her mouth – and then shut it again and nodded once. Then she stumbled from the room.

  Luke watched her go and then turned back to try to persuade the others. It was too late for some; there were bodies on the floor overcome by the smoke. But others were staggering out into the corridor, making for the stairs further from the inferno.

  Another drying frame went up with a roar. The fire’s heat was becoming intolerable. It had taken hold now – there was no hope for the factory. He had to get out, or burn with it.

  Luke turned to go. As he did, he cast one last glance at Knyvet, wondering if the man was planning to burn.

  He had turned. He was standing in the centre of the room, wreathed in flame and smoke. His head was bare and his pale hair was bright in the dancing flames. And there was something in his hand. Someth
ing that made Luke stop dead in his tracks.

  An ebony shaft. A twist of silver. A shape that had dwelled in his nightmares for so long: a coiled snake.

  The Black Witch.

  No. He shook his head, the smoke swirling in his skull, making him numb and stupid. It was impossible. Sebastian was far too young to be the witch he’d seen.

  But that cane – it was unmistakeable.

  Then Knyvet spoke.

  ‘So you came back for her.’

  Luke felt frozen. His face was burning, but his hands were cold as ice. As cold as Knyvet’s blue, blue eyes.

  ‘You. Where did you get that cane?’ he managed.

  ‘You’ve come all this way to discuss gentlemen’s accessories?’ Knyvet laughed. His smile was horrible to see; he had been slashed all across one side of his face, so that the bone gleamed through the flesh, pink and white in the burnt skin.

  ‘The cane!’ Luke snarled.

  ‘Much as I’d like to discuss fashion with you,’ Knyvet gave that horrible death’s-head smile again, ‘I fear I must leave.’

  Luke looked behind them, at the stairs. The exit was gone, the stairwell filled with flames – a great hole where the landing should have been. Something shifted beneath their feet and a joist gave way with a groaning crash. Luke clutched at a table, but Knyvet turned towards the window, pointed his cane and shouted a spell in some kind of foreign tongue, words Luke didn’t recognize. Glass and bricks flew outwards like an explosion, leaving a jagged hole in the wall, large enough to jump from, if you were a fool, or suicidal. The night air whistled in, fanning the flames higher.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Sebastian drawled. ‘How lovely that you and Rosa can be together at the end. Such devotion.’

  Luke went cold.

  ‘Oh.’ Sebastian began to laugh. ‘You didn’t know? She’s having a little tea party upstairs – tied up, as you might say. Unfortunately our delightful afternoon was brought to a close by her announcement that she intended to expose my family’s practices and bankrupt the factory. Not the act of a devoted fiancée, wouldn’t you say?’