The Ragwitch

by Garth Nix

  “You don’t have to laugh at me!” shouted Paul, suddenly angry at this vast head, and the smallness of himself and his answer. “You could just say it was no good! You don’t have to laugh!”

  The Head slowly stopped laughing, and the huge yellow eyes once again gazed at Paul.

  “Your answer is sufficient,” said the Master of Air, his great mouth spreading with every word. “‘Because’ is as vast as the Air itself, and like the Air, it covers all else. I like it. And…because…of that, I will help you. Cup your hands, Paul.”

  Paul stared back at the Head, wondering if he’d heard right. It was like guessing every question in a multiple choice exam, and getting ten out of ten. Slowly, he cupped his hands.

  At first, nothing happened, save for a tickling sensation in his palms. The tickling grew, and became a breeze, contained within his hands alone. And then it became an icy gale that forced his arms back and forth, with the strength of it in his grasp. But he didn’t let go, and when the gale blew away to nothing, he opened his cupped hands. Inside was a single sky-blue feather as light as the air.

  “That,” whispered the Head, “is the Breath. Guard it well, and use it at your need.”

  “But what will it do for Julia?” asked Paul anxiously, tucking the feather into his belt-pouch. “And what do you mean by the Breath?”

  The Head only smiled, and the birds began to take voice again, screeching and whistling. But there was no answer from the balloon, none of the enthusiastic shrieks of Quigin, trying to master his trade. In fact, as Paul looked around, there was no sign of Quigin at all. At some time while Paul was talking to the Master of Air, the Friend of Beasts must have fallen from the basket.

  Then Paul heard Quigin’s voice, high above his head, just like when they’d first met. Looking up, Paul saw that Quigin lay directly under the balloon, and was looking intently through one of the yellow silk panels.

  “What are you doing?” asked Paul. “I thought you’d fallen out. I wish you wouldn’t—”

  “Paul,” interrupted Quigin, sounding very puzzled. “I think that Master Thruan’s dead.”

  “What?” asked Paul.

  “I think that Master Thruan’s dead,” replied Quigin, frowning. “All the lifting spirits are leaving the balloon, and they couldn’t do that if Master Thruan was alive…though now I come to think about it, he did say not to fly too high…”

  “You mean we’re going to crash?” shouted Paul. “Can’t you stop the spirits leaving?” Already he could see orange shapes drifting out through the silken panels—and the balloon did seem to be dropping.

  “No, I can’t,” said Quigin. “Still, at least we got to see the Wind Moot!”

  “Can’t you get the birds to hold us up or something?” shouted Paul. The balloon was definitely falling, and so many of the spirits were leaving the balloon it was starting to collapse into itself. And to make matters worse, the Master of Air’s Head sounded like it was going to sneeze again!

  “They’re not listening!” shouted Quigin, after a series of frantic whistles. “They’re arguing about the right to ride the Northwest Winds!”

  “Try again!” Paul shouted back, anxiously looking between the balloon and the Head. Although they were dropping rapidly, the Head was keeping level with them—and it kept sucking the balloon closer with every intake of breath, the mouth gaping open wider and wider.

  “It’s going to sneeze!” shouted Paul, as the balloon swung up against the Head, the basket tickling its nose.

  “Uh…uh…uh,” gasped the Head, and then it sneezed, an enormous explosion of air and sound that deafened Paul and Quigin, and picked up the balloon, throwing it through the air, faster than the swiftest hawk, out over the eastern sea, across two hundred kilometers or more.

  “His name was Thruan,” said Julia, shivering. She dug her hands into the comforting turf, adding, “He was the last one that She got. She just…She just looked at him, and said his name, and he…he was dead.”

  Lyssa nodded, and rested a cool hand on Julia’s forehead. It felt odd, but somehow comforting, like the pleasant shade of a tree on a warm summer’s day.

  “Lie still, Julia,” said Lyssa, bringing up her other hand to push Julia carefully onto the turf. “Lie still. Nothing can harm you here, behind the braided holly.”

  Julia closed her eyes and relaxed, feeling Lyssa’s hand stroking her forehead, across and up to the right, and then across and up to the left, like a longways cross. Then, Lyssa began to sing, a gentle lullaby of ships and the sea and the rolling of the grey-green waves. She began to count the waves, and Julia tried to follow, but was asleep before the count reached twenty.

  When Julia awoke, Lyssa was standing next to her, watching the globe. She was singing to herself again, but it was a song that echoed power, and was not at all a lullaby.

  “Good morning,” said Lyssa, breaking off her song as she noticed Julia’s open, if sleepy eyes. “If it is morning in the outside world.”

  “I think so,” mumbled Julia. “How long have I been asleep?”

  Lyssa smiled, and said, “I do not think Time runs true here, Julia. But perhaps, half a day.”

  Julia nodded, wondering at how rested she felt after such a relatively short sleep. Then she remembered that it was her first real sleep since before she found the Ragwitch—since then, she had only managed brief naps riddled with waking nightmares. She felt hungry for the first time too, but this passed quickly, and soon she felt the familiar dulled appetite of her strange life—neither hungry nor content, but something unpleasantly in between.

  “Now you are awake,” said Lyssa, “I think you should tell me how you come to be here.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Julia, hesitantly. “In a way, this is all my fault.”

  Slowly, she began to tell Lyssa about the midden, and finding the rag doll encased in the ball of feathers. Lyssa stopped her every now and then, to ask quite difficult questions, and she was especially interested in the midden, saying, “Even in her banishment, She contrived to be close to some power. A Hill of Bones would be such a place—particularly without its human guardians. Under certain stars and a sea wind, Her prison would be weak, and She could attract…you…”

  “It’s funny,” said Julia, “but I don’t really remember finding the doll. I mean, I know I did, but I can’t remember anything properly, until I woke up here inside Her…”

  Julia continued telling her story without faltering, until she got right up to the events of the night before, with the moon hanging low over the Namyr Steps, and the people who had tried to hold the gorge.

  “What happened then?” prompted Lyssa, as Julia hesitated after describing the entrance to the Steps, and the beginning of their slow descent into the gorge.

  “She just killed them,” whispered Julia, tears starting in the corners of her eyes. “The Gwarulch and the Angarling didn’t have to do a thing. She just walked down saying their names and pointing…and they died.”

  “You’re sure She said their names?” asked Lyssa. “And they died?”

  “Yes,” sobbed Julia, now openly crying. “But they didn’t stay dead! She called them again, and they got up—but their faces were all white and sunken, and they moved like Her! And their eyes didn’t move at all—they just stared ahead, all red and empty!”

  “So,” said Lyssa, grimly. “I have heard of such. They are not really dead, but their minds are sleeping. She has Glazed them, and they are now Glazed-Folk, to serve Her till their bodies fail. But tell me—how was She attacked?”

  “A…Wizard,” mumbled Julia, through her tears. “Thruan—the one who almost got away. And, Lyssa—every spell he cast against Her only hurt me!”

  Lyssa frowned, and said reluctantly, “That is an old spell, and one I thought forgotten. But here, dry your tears.”

  She gave Julia a large handkerchief, pulled out from one sleeve of her dress. It smelled faintly of fresh green leaves, and absorbed tears far better than mere cloth. Julia dabbe
d at her eyes for a while, and then whispered, “She told me that I was Her curse-ward, and spell-shield, and that every spell against Her would hurt me instead. And they did…”

  “Well, we shall have to put a stop to that,” said Lyssa cheerfully, taking back her handkerchief to mop up a few missed tears. “I have been thinking, while you were asleep, and there is something we can do against Her. It will be very dangerous, but…”

  “I don’t mind!” interrupted Julia, “I wish I could kill Her!”

  Lyssa smiled sadly, and said, “I doubt anyone could do that now. But perhaps we can trouble Her, in our way…”

  It was still cold on the lowest of the Namyr Steps. The Ragwitch lay sprawled against it, as if upon a throne. Behind Her, the Angarling stood, one every two or three steps, looking like natural projections from the rock. Around them, Gwarulch were still looting the dead, or beginning to build campfires for their grisly luncheon.

  In front of the Ragwitch, the Glazed-Folk stood, their faces already shining with the pale hue of the dead, their eyes red-washed and inhuman. Thruan stood a little way in front of them, his mouth gaping open.

  “This Paul,” hissed the Ragwitch. “Describe him.”

  Thruan’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came forth. The Ragwitch hissed again, and Thruan began to speak, his voice rasping and slow, devoid of all emotion.

  “He…he…he…ten, eleven…brown hair…he walks slowly…and worries…about his…sister Jul…”

  “Enough!” spat the Ragwitch, climbing ponderously to Her feet, swaying slightly on the wet limestone of the Step. “Oroch!”

  Oroch came quickly, running nimbly down the steps, his black form like a shadow leaping across the white steps, dodging between the Angarling.

  “Yes, my Mistress?” he asked, red maw panting.

  “Send any Meepers we can spare to the east,” ordered the Ragwitch. “To Aillghill and beyond. They are to find a yellow balloon—and capture those in it.”

  Oroch bent his head, and started back up the Steps, but the Ragwitch laid Her hand across his head, one bloated finger at each temple, and Her middle finger across his black-wrapped head.

  “And send messengers to My Gwarulch in the east.”

  “With what message, Mistress?” whispered Oroch, trembling beneath Her grip. “What are they to do?”

  “Tell them,” She said, lips arching back to show the rows of teeth. “Tell them to hunt. Tell them to hunt…a boy who travels in a yellow balloon.”

  10

  The Memory/A Village by the Sea

  WE MUST GO FARTHER into the Ragwitch’s mind,” said Lyssa. “This small area around the white globe is only a tiny part of Her consciousness—a prison, separate from the rest of Her mind.”

  “I’ve tried getting out,” said Julia, still sniffing back a few tears. “I swam for ages and ages, and I still ended up back here at the globe.”

  “Ah, but you didn’t have a prisoner’s friend, did you?” said Lyssa, smiling. “Remember, I am not a prisoner here—and if I can escape, so can you.”

  “But won’t She just call me back?” asked Julia. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I have to go when She calls—or part of me anyway. Does my body stay here when I’m with Her?”

  “No,” said Lyssa. “We don’t really have bodies here. And this place doesn’t really exist—not like the real world, with good earth, and trees, and flowers.”

  “Except for the turf,” said Julia. “And you…the rowan tree.”

  “That’s just a reflection of the real tree,” said Lyssa. “But it’s your way out of here…and She will never know. Look!”

  With a sudden flick, she drew a single hair from Julia’s head, quickly transferring it to her left hand. In her right hand, she held a rowan twig, with a holly berry stuck on the end, and a long blade of grass tied lengthways across it.

  “Ean, Tall, Yither, Wuin,” sang Lyssa, as she wound the hair around the twig. Then, with a clap of her hands, she threw the whole thing into the yellow flame, crying, “Tan!”

  And there were two Julias.

  “I won’t!” cried the Julia that had just appeared, stamping her foot. “I’ll never like your monsters! And I don’t care if I get hit by spells!”

  “That’s me!” exclaimed the original Julia. She’d always wondered what she looked like rightways round, instead of same-side backwards like in a mirror.

  “I hate you,” said the second Julia, out into the darkness. She stamped her foot again, stepped out of the ring of holly, and swam off towards the globe. Julia watched, fascinated, finally understanding what she did wrong with her left leg when she was swimming.

  “The twig-maid will deceive Her for some time,” said Lyssa. “But, like all things of Nature, she will not be able to endure so close to her. And then, the Ragwitch will know I am here…so, we had best begin our journey now.”

  Julia smiled and nodded, happy at being saved from being drawn back into Her senses. Even if it was only for a few days, the relief from not feeling those bloated limbs was like a second Christmas. Better still, she wouldn’t have to endure Her thoughts, or see the results of Her actions.

  “Julia,” said Lyssa, for the second time in a slightly louder voice. “Please—you must listen to this. We are going to enter the main part of the Ragwitch’s memory, and there are things that you must, and must not do.

  “Firstly, the place we are going to will seem to be real. I mean, it will seem to us like there are real trees, and plants, and birds, and people. But you must remember that it is not. What you see might change its form and nature in a second—and there will be many things you cannot see.

  “I can only give you this to use against them.” Turning aside from Julia, Lyssa seemed to reach her hand into the yellow flame. Golden sparks rose briefly from her fingers, showering outwards like a brilliant firework. And then the sparks and flame were gone, and the green turf was suddenly blue in the harsh light of the distant globe. And in her hand Lyssa held a wand of yellowed wood that held the hint of golden sparks and the bright and cheerful flame.

  “Touch that to anything that threatens you, or anything that you are unsure of,” said Lyssa, giving the wand to Julia. “Not only will it drive dangerous creatures back, it will also reveal the true nature of things.”

  “What sort of creatures could be in Her mind?” asked Julia, reluctantly taking the wand. “And aren’t you coming with me?”

  “In answer to your first question,” replied Lyssa, “you will encounter Her memories. The part of Her mind to which we will travel is Her distant memory, and it is populated with all the creatures, landscapes and people of Her grim past. And, yes, I will be going with you. But only to the very beginning of the memory.”

  “But why?” exclaimed Julia, close to tears again. “I thought…”

  “Here,” interrupted Lyssa, “I am as I choose to be—just like the outside world. But in Her memory, I already exist. I am very old, Julia. Older than the Ragwitch—I was ancient when She was North-Queen. But She remembers me, how I was when She walked in human form. And inside Her memory, that remembrance will rule my shape and form.”

  “But why does that mean you can’t come all the way?” asked Julia.

  “Because,” said Lyssa, smiling sadly, “She remembers me only as a Rowan. In Her memory, I will stand with my sisters on Alnwere Hill, roots drinking from the deep waters of the Pool.”

  Julia bit her lip hard, ashamed to be crying again, but upset at losing her only companion so soon. Lyssa smiled again, and took her hand, saying, “Come—we must go, before the twig-maid joins her consciousness.”

  “But where?” asked Julia, looking around at the blackness and the single white globe.

  “Why, into the globe,” replied Lyssa, pushing off into the darkness. “But I shall guide you along a different path.”

  The first, hesitant rays of sunlight were just striking the sea as Paul, Quigin and Leasel crawled onto the soft sand of the beach. A few hundre
d meters behind them, out past a long sandbank, the wicker basket bobbed on the waves, securely anchored by the yellow-panelled balloon which was now full of water.

  Paul coughed again as the last little rush of a wave pushed up against his nose and throat. He knew he should go a little farther up the beach, but it was so easy just to sink into the sand.

  The Master of Air’s sneeze had carried them just out past the land, and Quigin had used the reserve bottle of lifting spirits to slow their landing—or crash, as it turned out to be. Paul had only just had time to kick off his boots, before they were plunged into the sea, last-minute gulps of air knocked from their lungs, and nothing but choking water all around them.

  Another wave washed past, more foam than water, but it was enough to make Paul crawl a little farther, before he collapsed again.

  “Just a little rest, Julia,” he muttered, feeling fingers pulling at the back of his neck. I only want a little rest, thought Paul dimly. Julia can swim all day with her friends, but I’m tired. I don’t like the pool…

  Paul coughed again, and made a feeble effort to crawl a little farther, and then collapsed, waves foaming at his ankles.

  I’ve drowned, thought Paul, as he felt consciousness returning. He seemed to be a long way underwater, and the surface was only a dull, rippling light above. He kicked desperately upwards, and the light seemed to get closer and closer, but he absolutely had to take a breath…and then the light somehow changed, and hardened, turning into the smiling face of Quigin.

  “Quigin!” said Paul, waking up, and focusing on his friend’s face. “You’ve got a black eye!”

  “I think you kicked it when we fell,” said Quigin, lightly touching the bruise. “It could have been worse.”

  “Yeah,” said Paul, propping up on one elbow to have a look around. He still felt fuzzy in the head, but that was a lot better than feeling drowned. He saw that he was lying on a straw-stuffed pallet that was leaking in one corner—though that might be due to Leasel, who was sitting near his feet, looking guilty. Quigin sat on an upturned cask that smelled rather strongly of fish.