by Dan Davis
In the distance beyond the thatched houses and market stalls and over the roofs of the tavern there was shouting and crying. The soldiers stopped them at the edge of a marketplace with empty stalls in the middle and shuttered shop fronts around the outside. For such a big town, there were not many people about and those that were seemed tense. Archer wondered if it was just his imagination and really it was he that was tense because he did not know how to safely escape the soldiers.
‘What’s all that noise?’ Ralf asked a young Morningtree woman walking by carrying a basket of bread.
‘They’re taking a poor girl to be drowned,’ she said as she stopped to answer. She had towheaded hair and grey eyes.
‘They’re taking a witch, Baker,’ said an older man who had been walking with her. ‘There’s a trial. They’ve gone and set up some strange device by the pond. Some device for drowning witches, so they’re saying.’ The man scowled. ‘Nasty business.’
Archer and Weaver exchanged glances. Weaver’s eyes were glowing green and he felt his own burning with the white cold.
Weaver twisted out of Ralf’s grasp and darted off down the alley between two shops.
‘Hey!’ Ralf shouted.
‘Get after her then, you fool,’ shouted the other soldier, who was called Radish. Weaver’s one disappeared after her down the alley, his boots slapping on the cobbles.
Archer eyed the bow and quiver of arrows on the other soldier’s back. ‘Don’t you get any ideas,’ Radish said, his knobbly hand gripping Archer’s shoulder. ‘He’ll get that little...’ A man screamed in the alleyway. The sound cut off. Archer looked up at Radish, whose bulging eyes were wide open.
‘Ralf?’ Radish shouted. ‘All well down there, Ralf?’
Nothing.
Radish swallowed.
He pushed Archer forward. ‘Go on down there, lad,’ he said, then raised his voice. ‘I’m coming down there, Ralf. Don’t you shoot me.’ He shoved Archer before him into the narrow space between the shops. Above, the walls arched together to meet above. Icy water dripped from the roof and trickled along a gully down the centre of the dirty cobbles. The winter sun was blotted out and the wind died away. The alley curved slightly, bending round to the right. ‘Ralf? You got her, Ralf?’ Radish pushed Archer forward further along the alley where it widened into a dark and irregular but rather wide space where jumble of buildings joined up. There was a row of rotting barrels down the left wall.
There was something lying in the middle of the alley. It was too dark to see properly but it was man-shaped.
Archer stopped short.
Radish unslung his musket from his shoulder and levelled it at the shape. ‘Ralf, that you? What you playing at? Did you slip and hit your head or something, you clumsy oaf?’ The shape did not move. ‘Come on, get up, you fool.’
A shadow on the wall between two rotting barrels turned into Weaver.
She charged right Radish, swinging a musket by the barrel and smacked it into the soldier’s leg, throwing him over onto his back, next to the unconscious Ralf. Archer’s bow and quiver, which Radish had on his back, were flung away into the darkness. Weaver continued her swing through and up and then she swung it downward right at Radish’s face, the butt of it whipping down like lightning. The soldier somehow got his musket up to block her strike. The muskets clunked together.
Radish thrust out an arm and swept Weaver’s feet out from under her. She fell backward and cracked her skull into the ground, dropping her musket clattering into the shadows. The soldier rolled sideways and swung his musket into Weaver’s belly, knocking the wind out of her. Archer ran for where he’d seen his bow fly away but the scrawny Radish rolled to his feet, faster than Archer expected and he stuck out a foot, tripping Archer into the filthy cobbles. The impact jarred right through Archer’s body. He found himself on the ground, exposed and vulnerable, so he forced himself up. Before he could get to his feet, Radish threw himself onto Archer’s back. Archer squirmed out of his grasp and rolled himself over just in time to see a huge gloved fist come smacking into his face.
There was a weight on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t take a breath, there was something crushing the life from him.
‘Move,’ a muffled voice came from somewhere nearby. ‘Help me push, you idiot,’ the voice said and he knew it was Weaver.
The weight on his chest shifted, then crushed him, then shifted right off to the side and he could breathe again. He could see Weaver’s bruised face looking down at him. Archer looked to the side and saw that she had pushed the unconscious Radish off Archer and onto the cobbles next to him. He was heavier than he looked.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘While he was busy punching your face into jam I snuck up and cracked his head with this musket,’ she said, proudly.
She helped him to his feet. He swayed and she held him upright. The left side of his face felt like a sack of beans. He squinted in the dark of the alley at the figures of the two soldiers.
‘Are they dead?’ Archer asked her.
Weaver shrugged. ‘Doubt it.’
‘How did you do that?’ he asked her, still swaying.
‘What part?’ She was pretending to be nonchalant but he knew her well enough to know that she was feeling pleased with herself.
‘Beat up two grown men?’ What a great fighter she was. ‘And two men used to violence, at that.’
‘Well,’ Weaver shrugged again. ‘They ain’t used to my violence.’
Then Archer heard again the sound of the cheering and yelling of a great many people. It was not far away.
‘That woman said they were drowning a witch,’ Weaver said, her eyes glowing in the darkness.
‘No they’re not,’ Archer said. ‘Let’s go save her.’
The Trial by Water
The brutes carried her through the streets to the pond. In front were Hopkins, Stearne and Magistrate Thurloe. Behind her came the rest of Hopkins’ people, like the two witch prickers and behind them was an endless procession of shouting Vale folk.
The two brutes holding Writer up were giants compared to her. No matter how she struggled they held her fast by the arms and held her suspended between them. It was like being gripped by a tree or buried in stone for all the good fighting against them did.
The noise was incredible. She wasn’t sure who was shouting or what they were saying but she thought most of them were on her side.
‘Leave that girl alone!’
‘Get out of our town!’
‘We need the Alchemist!’
Writer wished she could remember one of the Alchemist’s spells. If only she could remember every word of the basket spell, even. Something that would crush Hopkins and Stearne or turn them into frogs or anything. But she knew from bitter experience that if you got even a single word wrong then the spell would not work.
And so they came swiftly to Morningtree Pond. Ordinarily it was a very pleasant spot. Often she had played on the short grass that ringed the pond, or peered through the reeds to catch a glimpse of nesting coots. The water birds had all been chased away by the approaching crowd. But there was something else, something unusual. It was a device of some kind on the far side of the pond by the water’s edge It was roughly made from green wood, like a very large letter A with long wooden beam extending at right angles from the apex of the A, attached with ropes and pulleys. At one end of the beam had been fastened a small chair.
Stearne strode away from the procession and around the pond up to the device and began checking it over, pulling at the ropes and joints. The brutes followed more slowly with Writer between them. They dumped her on the damp, cold earth next to the device. The ground had been churned up by countless footprints that had then frozen hard. There was a thin film of ice on the edge of the water. The wind was still but the cold nipped the skin on her face and arms.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Hopkins shouted across the pond to the huge crowd on the Morningtree side
. ‘Good people of the Vale. This court of law has decided the final piece of evidence required to secure a conviction on the charges of malicious witchcraft and alchemy is the Ordeal by Water.’
After a nod from Hopkins, the stinking brutes lifted her up like she was a ragdoll and shoved her into the tiny chair that sat on the beam. She twisted and writhed against the men yet her strength was as nothing compared to their iron grip. For a moment she was tempted to plead with them, to ask them for assistance, if only to stay their hands for a time but peering into their black eyes she saw no compassion there and certainly no pity. They seemed bored, if anything and she remembered that they had done this very thing to many people before. To them, this was simply a job. She might as well plead with the sun to not set. The brutes secured her ankles and wrists to the legs and arms of the chair by hinged iron bands that clicked into place and fastened with a heavy iron pin. The metal was cold as ice. She shivered.
‘It is an indisputable fact,’ Hopkins was saying to the crowd across the pond, ‘that the best way to discover a witch is the Ordeal by Water. Eminent scholars have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that a witch shall always float upon the surface of the water. This universal law occurs for two reasons. The first is that witches are known to be unnaturally light, as can be demonstrated here.’ One of the brutes pushed her chair high up above his shoulder with one arm.
‘Rubbish!’ an old woman shouted from across the pond.
‘Try that with me,’ a fat man shouted and a few people laughed.
The brute lowered her again, a dumb, mindless expression on his face. Writer wanted to blast him to pieces with a spell but even if she knew one, she could not even move an arm.
‘The second reason,’ Hopkins continued without acknowledging them. ‘Is also undeniable truth. Water is the purest element. An element so pure that it shall reject the presence of the guilty out of hand. A witch cannot be drowned.’
‘So if she’s innocent,’ a woman shouted out. ‘She’ll drown?’ There was much muttering at that.
‘No, good woman,’ Hopkins answered. ‘We would never allow that to happen. My bailiffs here are renowned experts at carrying out such a test and if the girl does indeed begin to drown they shall pull her from the water forthwith.’ He turned to his man with the mechanical arm. ‘Is that not right, Stearne?’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Stearne said, with a mirthless chuckle. He winked at Writer. The sight made her shudder.
‘Very well, you may begin,’ Hopkins said to him and stepped backwards out of the way of what was about to happen.
Stearne and one of the brutes grabbed hold of the ropes attached to the back end of the beam and heaved on them. The far end of the bar came down towards the ground and her end shot up so that she was lifted upwards into the air to above the head height of the brutes.
They were going to do it. It seemed utterly absurd. It was as though she would wake up and find it had all been a terrible nightmare.
Across the pond the crowd were shouting loudly, their faces twisted and angry. It was odd, she noted, that she could hear no specific words from them. And they appeared to be moving slowly. The colours of the town over the heads of the crowd, the painted plaster on the houses seemed to almost glow with vividness and the smell of smoke and food cooking was acrid and pungent in her nostril. It no doubt followed that the terror she was feeling produced some effect on her senses that enhanced them. It was interesting, she thought, and warranted further study. Then she was gripped with the cold horror that she would not live to study anything. She would not live to uncover the secrets of the world or learn magic or grow older or see the world or anything.
She reached out with her mind, as she had done before with the jug of water in her prison. But the people were shouting and cheering and screaming abuse at her or perhaps at Hopkins and Stearne and Magistrate Thurloe and the men and the women with them. She tried to block everything out but she was too panicked, her heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing was fast and shallow.
Hopkins waved his hand at Stearne.
Stearne and the brute swung her out over the surface of the water. It was the deep end of the pond and the water was black and green and the dirty ice by the bank glinted in the pale winter sunlight.
Hopkins glanced at her, a triumphant smile on his face. He nodded to Stearne.
This is actually happening, she thought. There’s no time, no time to reach out to the water, no time to control it. No time to save herself.
She fell.
A Failed Rescue
Archer raced through the cobbled streets towards the sound of shouting crowds with Weaver close on his heels.
The huge noise was coming from the other side of town and they clattered through the streets, their boots slapping on the cobbles as they twisted and turned their way between the shops, taverns and houses toward the pond.
All at once they turned a corner and the road was filled with people. Wall to wall grownups, backs and bums. The crowd was packed in and there was no obvious way through. Archer stopped dead and Weaver bumped into him.
‘What are these idiots doing?’ she said, clinging to his arm and panting in his ear.
‘There’s no way through them,’ Archer said.
‘Everybody move!’ Weaver bellowed. One old man turned round, gave them both a contemptuous stare and tutted before turning back. ‘What are you all doing here?’ she cried.
The old man turned round again. ‘Drowning that witch,’ he said, and pointed over the heads of all the people in front of them. ‘Out by the pond.’
Archer gasped.
The old woman turned round. ‘You can’t even see nothing,’ she said. ‘Waste of time.’
‘You’re right, love,’ the old man said. ‘Might as well have stayed at home and had them pickled onions.’
‘What’s happening now?’ the woman called out.
‘Strapping her into some sort of contraption,’ someone unseen in front called back. ‘So they’re saying, anyway, I can’t see nothing.’
Archer felt his anger growing and a cold wind howled down through the streets, whipping people’s hats from their heads and buffeting their cloaks.
‘Archer, wait,’ Weaver said, grabbing his arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to blast these stupid people out of the way,’ he said. ‘Stand back.’ He pulled more air in from above, channelling it through the street.
But, Archer,’ Weaver said. ‘There’s hundreds of them.’
‘So what?’ Archer said to her, shaking her off. ‘What do you care about them, anyway?’ The wind grew stronger and the people at the back were getting pushed forward into the people in front of them. ‘They’re all just going to watch them drown her and none of them will do anything.’
‘I know but if you knock them down you’ll just have to clamber over their bodies anyway,’ Weaver said, grabbing him again, pulling him over to one side of the street. ‘Come on, climb up this wall, get up on the roof, it’s not high. I’ll boost you up.’ She moved to the building and made a cradle with her hands.
The wind died away to nothing and Archer ran to her, shoved a dirty boot into her hands and climbed up the wall, reaching upwards. She lifted him up and he grasped on to the edge. The roof was thatched with old reeds so he got a good grip and pulled himself up onto it, scrambling and kicking his legs. He scurried up the side to the top of the roof, pulling handfuls of reeds as he went.
And there she was.
He looked out over a sea of heads. Beyond was a wide pond. There, on the far side, sat Writer, in some kind of strange wooden device. There were men around it who pulled on some ropes and Writer just dropped like a stone into the water.
‘No,’ he cried.
Cold Waters Rising
She felt the waters beneath her rise up under her.
As she fell, she reached out and felt every drop in the pond below, every drop of the uncountable multitude. She felt the way they flowed together, drop l
inking to drop linking to drop in a never ending dance, right there in her mind’s eye. They flowed through her in an endless stream. The water was under her and around her and pushing her up.
Voices were screaming and shouting.
There was a sudden silence.
Writer opened her eyes. For a long moment she was very confused. It was like she was dreaming. She was still on the stool, on the beam and she was floating in the air. She looked down between her knees and there was a column of water flowing up from the pond to the base of the chair, pushing her up, holding her up. Then she knew she was not floating in the air. She was floating on top of the water, on top of a column of icy water that she was pulling up from the pond below, taking her weight, holding her up so that only her lower body was wet.
Stearne and the brutes below her on the bank were backing slowly aware from her, eyes as wide and round as plates. Magistrate Thurloe and the two women also backed up away from her. The crowd across the water were still silent.
Hopkins was below her, staring up, open mouthed. He rubbed his eyes and stared up again and shook his head. He raised one shaking hand to point at her. ‘You see?’ he shouted at the crowd. ‘A true witch. Evil incarnate. She will bring doom down upon us all.’
‘Oh, be quiet you silly little man,’ Writer said and she pulled another column of water from the pond and slammed it into Hopkins, knocking him onto his back. The water drained away and Hopkins was left coughing and spluttering in the mud. He rolled over and crawled away from the bank. ‘Come back,’ he cried to his men who were backing their way across the green towards the fields beyond. ‘Stearne. Seize the witch.’
Stearne hesitated, caught in indecision.
‘A real witch, Stearne,’ Hopkins shouted. ‘Think what that would be worth.’
‘Hold up, lads,’ Stearne said. Writer saw the brutes stop backing away. ‘It’s just water,’ Stearne shouted at them over his shoulder. ‘Water can’t hurt you.’ The brutes came shuffling toward her with Stearne leading the way. ‘Just think what they’ll pay in London to see her do this.’
