Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

‘What is that thing?’ Bramley whispered.

  The figure circled the girl like a vulture deliberating which part of its prey to peck first. Hypnotized with horror, Hazel watched as it slowly peeled off one of its gloves and reached down with long white fingers.

  Gathering a crackling ball of magic around her fist, Hazel stepped out into the mouth of the passage. ‘Leave her alone!’ she cried, turning side-on in readiness to wield.

  The figure swivelled towards her. Hazel’s firelight illuminated a long beak-like nose and two flat, unblinking eyes. Before she could decide if what she was seeing was even human, it unbent to its full, obscene height. Up it rose, slender, menacing, taller than Titus, taller than any man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  ‘Witch!’ it hissed, unfurling one of its long fingers towards her.

  Terror crawled up Hazel’s spine and tried to make her run, but she stood where she was, drawing strength from the fire that crackled around her fingers. She narrowed her eyes and made her voice as strong as she could.

  ‘That’s right, I’m a witch – a Fire Witch – so leave her alone before I burn you up.’

  The figure stayed quite still for what seemed like an age and then seeped silently back into the shadows, taking the smell of sour milk with it. A whisper drifted from the darkness – ‘Another time’ – and then it was gone.

  ‘What was that thing?’ Bramley said, quivering from nose to tail.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hazel said, hurrying down the passage. ‘But we need to get this poor girl out of here before it comes back.’ She pushed the hair away from the girl’s face and let out a cry of horror. ‘Oh, Bram, look. It’s the beggar girl we met this afternoon.’

  The girl was only skin and bone but Hazel was panting by the time she’d carried her up the steps and through the back door of the tavern.

  ‘Mr Treacher,’ she called. ‘I need help, quickly!’

  Mrs Treacher emerged from a room at the end of the corridor. ‘What’s all this racket . . . ?’ The duster dropped from her hand when she saw the girl in Hazel’s arms. ‘Oh goodness, what’s happened?’

  ‘I found her in a passage nearby.’ Hazel shouldered her bedroom door open. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘Of course. Oh, the poor little thing . . .’

  Together they lay the girl down on the bed and covered her with blankets.

  ‘What happened to her?’ Mrs Treacher said, clasping the girl’s hand.

  ‘She was attacked by . . . something. What it was, I don’t know.’

  The colour drained from Mrs Treacher’s face. ‘I think I’d better get my husband,’ she said, and hurried from the room.

  ‘She’s still not come round,’ Bramley said, emerging on to Hazel’s shoulder and peering at the girl. ‘Give her a shake.’

  ‘She’s been frightened nearly to death,’ Hazel murmured, noting that under the layers of grime the girl’s hair was a rich red colour similar to her own.

  ‘You saw how tall it was? And that face . . . It wasn’t human, surely?’

  Hurried footsteps approached the door, and Bramley only just managed to dive back into Hazel’s hair before both Treachers burst into the room.

  ‘. . . and Lizzie said she found her lying right near where the others were found,’ Mrs Treacher was saying to her frowning husband.

  ‘Others?’ Bramley whispered. ‘What others?’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, what a terrible to-do,’ Mr Treacher said, rubbing his hands fretfully on his apron. ‘Lizzie, can you tell us what happened?’

  As Mrs Treacher gently washed the girl’s face and hands, Hazel recounted the events, being careful to leave out all mention of her magic.

  ‘The figure crept away when I shouted at it, then I picked the girl up and carried her here as quickly as I could.’

  Mr Treacher puffed out his cheeks. ‘That was brave of you. Very brave. You probably saved her life.’

  ‘Mrs Treacher,’ Hazel said. ‘You mentioned there were “others”. What did you mean?’

  Wife and husband shared a look and then Mrs Treacher, still running a cloth over the girl’s forehead said quietly, ‘There have been deaths in Southwark, all children, their bodies found in alleys . . . No one knows how they died. Most people are too scared to go out at night.’

  ‘We’ll spread the word tomorrow about this fiend who stalks our streets,’ Mr Treacher added.

  Hazel was about to question them further when the door opened and Titus walked in with a bundle under his arm. He took in the scene, face unreadable. ‘So, Lizzie, what have you been up to now?’

  Agreeing without question to look after the girl, the Treachers carried her to a spare room with such care that Hazel’s heart burst with warmth towards them.

  After their footsteps had disappeared Titus leaned back on the windowsill and folded his arms. ‘Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I? You’d better tell me what happened.’

  Hazel sat on the bed with Bramley on her knee and related everything that had happened since they’d parted. The old Witch Hunter listened carefully, eyes bright under his craggy brow.

  ‘A beak, no mouth, and strange, round eyes,’ he murmured. ‘Could it have been a mask?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hazel said. ‘The passage was dark and it all happened so quickly.’

  ‘What about you, Master Mouse? What do you remember?’

  Bramley’s whiskers twitched. ‘I remember smelling sour milk just before I saw it. Horrible.’

  Titus tugged on his beard. ‘And the Treachers said there have been other deaths that might be related to this?’

  Hazel nodded. ‘Yes, so I think we should go out and look . . .’

  Titus held up his hand. ‘Stop right there, girl. You’ve got enough on your plate without taking this thorny problem on as well. Leave it be.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Hazel. Just for once will you listen to what I say? I’ll investigate your mysterious skulker myself, all right? It’ll give me something to do while you’re away.’

  Bramley tugged her ear. ‘He’s right. You need to rest, get ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh all right, but be careful, old man,’ Hazel said. ‘Whatever that thing is, it’s big.’

  ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’ Titus tapped the bundle at his feet. ‘There’s boys’ clothes in there, and scissors to cut your hair.’

  Bramley looked aghast. ‘But her hair – that’s where I live.’

  ‘I’ll make sure there’s enough left for you to nest in,’ Hazel said, running her finger down his back.

  ‘And make sure the Treachers don’t see you dressed as a boy – that would throw up far too many questions,’ Titus added. ‘Did you practise your story for the Witch Hunters? Got it all straight?’

  Hazel picked up the bundle and began to undo it. ‘Yes, and Bramley can whisper in my ear if I forget anything.’

  ‘All good, all good . . .’ Titus muttered. ‘Now get a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Titus.’ Hazel gave him a grateful smile. ‘Wish me luck for tomorrow.’

  ‘Luck be damned,’ he growled. ‘Use your wits if you want to survive.’

  After cutting her hair to just above the shoulders – a task she found surprisingly distressing – Hazel crawled into bed and stared up into the darkness. Bramley lay on the pillow next to her, snoring gently with his mouth open.

  Tomorrow she would be facing down men who would kill her if they knew what she was. She had her story off by heart, the skills to lie and just enough mastery over her magic to keep it hidden, but still her heart thumped like a drum in her chest.

  It was this waiting. It gave her too much time to think, to worry about Bramley, her mother, even Titus.

  I just want to get on with it, she thought, closing her eyes. And get it over with.

  Sleep took her sooner than expected. It had, after all, been a long and eventful day.

  7

  THE WHITE TOWER

  Can it be believed that s
o many monsters of

  nature carry the shapes of people?

  Essays on the Witch Plague by Heinrich Kramer

  When Hazel woke the next morning it took her a few moments to recall where she was. And then, with a rush of adrenalin, she remembered.

  Today I stick my head in the dragon’s mouth. I hope it doesn’t bite.

  She judged from the sun’s position that it was about seven o’clock. The selection was at ten so she had three hours to get to the Tower of London. She put on the clothes Titus had bought for her – black woollen breeches, linen shirt and a short, buttoned jacket – and muttered ‘My name is William Lowe, I come from Putney, and I’m the son of a rat-catcher’ over and over again.

  ‘Not bad,’ Bramley yawned from the pillow. ‘Being a boy suits you.’

  ‘And the hair? Is it all right?’

  Bramley cocked his head. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Should I cut more off?’

  ‘No!’ Bramley squeaked. ‘You’ve got to leave me somewhere to hide.’

  Hazel jammed a baggy cloth cap over her head. ‘There. The disguise is complete.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Bramley said, looking around in mock surprise. ‘Where did Hazel go? Hazel, where are you?’

  ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’ She whisked him up and deposited him on her shoulder. ‘Let’s wake the grouch.’

  There was no answer when she knocked on Titus’s door, so she poked her head inside. He was asleep, still fully dressed on top of the bedcovers.

  ‘He’s still got his boots on,’ Bramley said disgustedly.

  Hazel closed the door and headed outside the back way.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye?’ Bramley asked.

  ‘No. Let him sleep. He’ll only want to come with me, and what would be the point of that? We’ll have to leave him behind when we get to the Tower anyway.’

  ‘And you hate goodbyes.’

  ‘I do. I really do.’

  Hazel hurried on to Southwark High Road and across London Bridge. The streets were busy with morning trade and people hurrying to work, but as she darted her way through the crowd with Bramley behind her ear she found the going easier than it had been the day before.

  I’m getting used to the heat, bustle and noise, she thought as she turned down a lane skirting the riverbank eastwards towards the Tower. But I would give anything to be back in the Glade again with Ma.

  ‘I wonder how the girl is this morning,’ Bramley said, breaking her train of thought. ‘I hope she wakes up.’

  ‘Me too. Poor thing. It’s just as well we were there last night, or who knows what would have happened.’

  ‘Yes, we were very brave, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Bram. You especially.’

  Nerves stole Hazel’s appetite but she knew she had to eat to keep her thoughts lucid, so she bought a bread roll filled with salted pork and ate it as she walked.

  She descended some steps on to a street with a view of the Thames and a seemingly endless line of moored ships – a blessed relief after the built-up confines of London Bridge. Ahead rose the pale stone pile of the Tower of London, its layers of fortifications and the White Tower itself glaring in the sun.

  Bramley tugged her ear. ‘There are some boys over there by that gate – perhaps they’re waiting for the selection too.’

  Gathering her courage, Hazel hurried across the pavement and joined them. A few of the older boys looked her up and down, but appeared to decide she wasn’t much of a threat.

  ‘This lot seem to think you look like a boy,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Try talking to one of them.’

  Hazel sidled over to a small, nervous looking lad standing a little apart from the rest. ‘Hello, my name’s Will,’ she said as gruffly as she could. ‘Are you here for the selection?’

  ‘What’s that voice all of a sudden?’ Bramley hissed. ‘Stop it – you sound ridiculous.’

  Hazel coughed and reverted to her normal tone. ‘Sorry about that – got a bit of a cold.’

  ‘I’m Anthony,’ the boy replied. ‘Yes, I’m here for the selection.’ He was shorter than Hazel, and thin beneath his ragged clothes.

  Before she could reply one of the gate-tower doors creaked open. ‘Someone’s coming,’ one of the boys whispered as a tall, middle-aged man wearing a fur-lined cloak over his Witch Hunter uniform strode towards them. Two guards followed, grinning through their helmet visors.

  ‘Clear the way, you beggars and scoundrels,’ the Witch Hunter said. ‘Go on, be off with you, you raggedy lot.’

  The boys shuffled nervously and some took a few paces backwards. Hazel stood her ground, sensing that this was some sort of test.

  ‘Guards!’ the Witch Hunter said. ‘See ‘em off or spike ‘em with your swords, I don’t care which.’

  ‘No one respects fear, so don’t show any,’ Bramley whispered as the guards advanced. ‘And this old windbag is all bluster.’

  The boys backed further away, leaving Hazel exposed with Anthony standing behind her. The Witch Hunter glared, but she refused to wither.

  ‘I’m not a beggar,’ she said, holding out the flyer. ‘I’m here for the selection. I want to work for the Order.’

  Anthony held up his hand. ‘Me too.’

  The Witch Hunter regarded Hazel for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said, and marched back towards the gate, his cloak sweeping the ground.

  Hazel and the rest followed him through the gate and out on to a walkway. On the left rose a huge stone wall encircling the White Tower, and on the right a wide embankment sloped down to the river. Ahead was a heavily guarded bridge spanning the river to Cromwell Island.

  I’m in, Hazel thought, feeling a wobble in her legs. But will I make it out?

  The Witch Hunter stopped by an archway, through which Hazel caught a glimpse of a lawn and a portion of the White Tower’s massive foundation stones.

  ‘I am Sir Edward Grimstone,’ he said, resting his hand on an ornately carved pistol holstered by his side. ‘It’s my job to decide if any of you are fit to work for the Order. My first impression is that none of you are, but as a professional I am bound to go through the motions.’

  One boy waved his hand. ‘Sir Grimestone—’

  ‘It’s Grimstone, idiot!’

  The boy cringed. ‘Sorry, Sir Grimstone . . . but will we get to meet him?’

  ‘Him?’ Grimstone’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘By “him” I suppose you mean General Hopkins? You will meet him, but only if you make it through the selection process. Follow me.’

  He led them through the archway into the grassy courtyard. The White Tower loomed up over them, crossed-hammer pennants fluttering from the heights. A pavilion stood against a wall, and inside six stern men sat behind desks. Hazel didn’t like the look of them one bit.

  ‘Those men are interrogators,’ Grimstone said. ‘They have interrupted their normal duties on Cromwell Island to assist me with this selection. They are going to subject each of you to a thorough examination to find out if you are fit in mind, body and spirit to serve the Order.’

  ‘I hope it’s not too thorough,’ Bramley squeaked, burrowing deeper into Hazel’s hair.

  Perhaps I should have left Bram behind, Hazel thought. For his sake as well as mine.

  ‘Right,’ Grimstone said. ‘Six of you – in you go.’

  No one moved.

  Grimstone jabbed Hazel in the back. ‘Go on then, if you’re so eager to prove yourself.’

  ‘This is it,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Do it just like we practised.’

  Hazel stood up straight and marched up to the nearest desk.

  8

  SELECTION

  ‘Every old woman with a wrinkled face, a hairy lip, a gobber

  tooth, a squint eye, or a scalding tongue, and with a dog or cat

  by her side, is not only suspected, but pronounced as a witch.’

  Minister John Gaule

  Hazel stood at attention in front of the interrogator’s desk with her hands
clasped behind her back.

  I need to appear smart and obedient, she thought. I reckon that’s what the Order wants from its apprentices.

  ‘Name?’ the interrogator said without even looking up from his ledger.

  ‘William Lowe,’ Hazel said.

  ‘William Lowe, sir.’

  ‘Oh, sorry . . . er, sir . . .’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Eleven and a half, sir.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Putney, sir.’

  ‘Father’s occupation?’

  ‘He’s partnered in a business, sir. Saxondale and Lowe’s, Rat-Catchers.’

  The interrogator looked up at her with rheumy eyes. ‘Bit small, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m stronger than I look,’ Hazel replied, standing as straight as she could.

  ‘Physically unimpressive . . .’ His quill crawled laboriously across the page.

  ‘But very keen,’ Hazel added, already feeling that things were not going her way.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He stood up. ‘Take your jacket off and raise your arms over your head.’

  Hazel did as she was told, feeling Bramley scramble deeper into her hair. Please don’t find him, she thought as the interrogator, who smelt unpleasantly of garlic, felt under her arms and scrutinized behind her ears.

  ‘No sign of plague,’ he said. ‘Stick out your tongue . . . Mmm . . . Well you seem in reasonable health.’ He sat back down and wrote another line across the page. ‘Now tell me, what is your dominant humour?’

  Hazel looked blankly at him. ‘My dominant what?’

  ‘Humour, boy, humour.’ His inky quill hovered. ‘I need it for my ledger.’

  ‘What’s he on about?’ Bramley whispered.

  ‘Are you sanguine, choleric, melancholic or phlegmatic? Well? Which is it? Come on!’

  ‘I’m, er, melon . . . melon . . . I’m a melon,’ Hazel hazarded.

  ‘A melon, eh?’ The interrogator narrowed his eyes. ‘So you don’t know about the four humours?’

  Hazel deflated, realizing it was useless to bluff. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ignorant as well as feeble.’

  ‘But I’m very—’