Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  Pamela opened her mouth to protest, but Maud turned away. "Then do as you will," the old woman spat over her shoulder. "And consider what you have done to Master Vyvyan as you die."

  The women closed around Maud, and the group moved slowly forward. More shaken than she would admit, Pamela began to look for a rock or a stump from which she could mount. Behind her she heard a ragged singsong muttering begin. There was no raised object immediately available, and Pamela began to plod over the soaked ground toward the cliffs, where she might hope to find a mounting block among the tumbled rocks.

  At first there was nothing useful, but in the distance, rough-shaped shadows could be seen through the now-driving rain. Pamela moved in that direction, noticing nervously that the sky was darkening very rapidly and the wind rising. Fear made her regret what breakfast she had eaten, and she stopped to draw deep, steadying breaths.

  As the rain-wet, sea-tanged air filled her lungs, she remembered George's remark that these storms customarily had periods of remission and renewed violence. If George knew it, the witches certainly must, and they would use the knowledge to enhance their appearance of power. Pamela began to hurry. Even if the part of the coven opposed to Maud could not sing a storm, they could certainly gain importance by claiming credit for its results.

  Suddenly Pamela stopped dead. There was singing, or chanting, from behind those tumbled rocks. Her breath caught on a sob. She had been convinced of the hopelessness of her self-imposed task and of the wisdom of returning to Tremaire. If only the damned women had gone a hundred yards northward to sing their stupid spells, she would never have known about it. Now that she did know, she had to investigate, of course.

  Once again taking a sound grip on her riding crop, Pamela advanced cautiously to a straggling bush, to which she fastened Blue Lady. She had to make sure that these women did not have the abducted maid with them.

  Pamela cast a backward glance at Blue Lady. She hoped she would not pull loose from the bush if startled by a peal of thunder, but it was better to take that chance than expect the witches would not hear the noise the horse would make. The animal seemed to be standing placidly, and Pamela did not plan to be gone more than a few minutes. She wished only to peep over the rocks and be sure of what the witches were doing.

  Stealthily now she ran to the protection of a large boulder and peered around it. She damned the rain, which was falling more and more heavily, because it prevented her from seeing the faces clearly. She was sure, however, that these women were younger than the group with Maud.

  Slipping softly closer between the rocks, Pamela at last made out the faces of all but two. Of the two who squatted with their backs to her, the hair color of one was wrong, and the other, whose body she could see in half-profile, was not pregnant. The maid was not there. Pamela sighed softly with relief. To her chagrin she found that she had not wanted to find the maid. She would not have known what to do. She was afraid again.

  More hurried and less cautious now, Pamela ran back toward her original shelter. She was aware that a few pebbles had rolled under her feet, but she hoped that the rising wind and the singing would cover the sound.

  And then, the voices stopped. For a moment Pamela hesitated, undecided as to whether to hide or make a dash for her horse. Neither alternative had much value. The witches could find her among the rocks in a few minutes, as soon as they saw Blue Lady. On the other hand, since she could not mount unassisted, the horse would be little protection.

  The choice, she realized immediately, had never been hers. During her brief hesitation, a shower of rocks flew over her head to strike Blue Lady with a remarkable aim. Terrified by a shock she had never endured previously, the mare tore free of the bush and bolted.

  "Stop that!" Pamela cried, pale with rage.

  She leaped toward the horse, but Blue Lady was far beyond her reach, and she turned, riding crop raised threateningly, to face the half-circle of women who advanced toward her. There were eight of them, three on each side of a middle-aged harridan whom Pamela found even more repulsive than Maud. Her body was not so gross, but she was dirty and slatternly, and her expression could have curdled milk.

  Behind the evil-faced central figure was a younger woman, who seemed to be trying to stop the advance. Two more stones flew, striking the ground just at Pamela's feet with thuds sharp enough to warn of the force behind them. Instinctively Pamela stepped back. More stones. Pamela backed a few more steps.

  She moved without thought, too outraged at the idea that these women would dare attack her to consider their purpose or evolve any plan of her own. Quite five minutes of stone throwing and backing passed before Pamela's surprise melted enough to permit reason to take the place of shock and rage. Since none of the rocks had hit her and she was closer than Blue Lady had been, it was plain that the women did not wish to hurt her.

  "Stop that," Pamela repeated firmly. "If you continue to behave this way, I shall report you to the authorities. I understand that you wish me to go away, and I am willing to do so. I have no interest in your…your weather-making activities."

  The youngest woman leaned forward and spoke urgently to the witch in the center of the group. Something about her was familiar to Pamela, but her streaming hair half-hid her face. The sense of recognition was wiped away almost immediately, because the next rock thrown hit Pamela's thigh painfully.

  She gasped and backed again, and another stone fell harmlessly at her feet. As long as she retreated, they would not hit her, yet they would not let her go away on her own. What did they want? To demonstrate their power? To make her run? Pamela knew she would have to do something to extricate herself from the situation, and, her mind busy with plans, she sidestepped to the right.

  The move had not been deliberate; it was in response to something Pamela knew only subconsciously, but the reaction was immediate. Two rocks hit her right arm; another struck her right hip. Pamela cried out sharply, with pain and with sudden, terrifying knowledge. She realized why she had moved to the right. The roar of the surf, even louder in her ears, had told her she could back no farther. Behind her was a drop of a hundred feet or more. The witches intended to drive her over the cliff!

  * * * *

  Not far away, St. Just reined his horse to an abrupt halt and lifted his head to listen. Was that a cry? The sound was not repeated, and he looked out toward the sea, gauging accurately how long before the second wave of the storm broke. He wiped the wet from his face rather ineffectually and turned his head toward the clutter of rocks south of him.

  They should be there. He hesitated, wondering if he should take the time to make sure the witches were out on the cliff. If they were not, he might run into trouble. Then he nodded at the memory of the half-heard cry. They were there, all right.

  Near him was an irregular break in the ground, centuries old, which contained a scrubby tree. There his horse would be both sheltered and moderately well hidden. He jumped off, tethered the horse, and moved forward a few feet more to where a rough crevice split the cliff until it appeared to end in a drop into the sea.

  St. Just leaped into it and started down along it, stepping carefully on rough patches of weed or bare mud. He was not overly concerned to be quiet. The rising wind would cover his footsteps if he did not send a rock crashing downward.

  The path seemed to end abruptly, but about eighteen inches below, a ledge protruded from the cliff. St. Just stepped down, turned at right angles to the sea, and stepped down again. Two more similar moves took him to another path, this one completely hidden from above.

  The wind was stronger now, but no particular danger to him, since it pressed him inward, against the cliff to his left. The sudden lulls held more threat, the unexpected relaxation of pressure having the effect of sucking him outward. St. Just, however, was accustomed to the vagaries of wind along the Cornish coast and continued along the path with surefooted caution.

  Quite suddenly a cave yawned. It was low, forcing the earl to stoop, but it continued a conside
rable way into the cliff. In some distant geological period, a whole stratum of rock had been washed away by the sea. Whether the sea had sunk since then or the cliffs been thrust upward was a problem that had puzzled St. Just as a boy.

  Now, however, he was concerned with human rather than geological vagaries. He paused, listening. Then he sighed with mild disappointment. The maid was not here. He had hoped she might be, because this was one of the more secret places of the witches, one he was not supposed to know.

  To be sure, St. Just made a thorough survey, although he did not go back far into the cave. The passages were endless, leading one into another. If one lost sight of the light at the cave mouth, one could wander in those passages until hunger and thirst brought the release of death.

  The storm was now whipping itself into a new fury, and St. Just hurried toward the outer ledge. There he paused, wondering whether he should return and shelter in the cave or make a dash for the nearest cottage. It would be unpleasantly cold and damp in the cave, he decided. He turned half-right toward the path, tensed, and leaped suddenly sideways in the other direction.

  A rock, flung from above, struck him a numbing blow on his left shoulder. With the agility of a trained athlete, St. Just flung himself backward; with the intensity of a hunted animal, he lay perfectly still. A moment later another stone, much smaller, struck the ledge several feet to the right.

  Very slowly St. Just rose to a crouching position, facing the path. Above him on the cliff a man turned toward the crevice that led to the cave. He took two steps toward it, then looked over his shoulder. A gasp of fear was wrenched from him, then a low curse, and he set off running as fast as he could inland.

  Meanwhile, St. Just had risen to his feet, his face puzzled rather than anxious or angry. He turned his head slowly from the position where he had originally stood to where he had been when the first rock hit him. Then he looked across to where the second rock had struck.

  Chagrin replaced puzzlement on his face, and he moved hurriedly up the path, jumping the steps. His head cleared the edge of the crevice in time for him to see a flicker of a dark coat as a man dodged behind an outcrop of rock. He opened his mouth to call, then shut it. A fat riding cob lumbered out on the other side of the rocks but was lost to view almost immediately.

  Simultaneously, St. Just was aware of women's voices raised in an altercation. He sprinted for his horse, leaped into the saddle, and spurred him rapidly in the direction the cob had taken.

  * * * *

  After the single cry of pain and fear, Pamela became mute. Now that she knew what the witches intended, she could feel an impact more painful than the bruises the stones had left. The pressure of combined wills, driving her to her death, raised a panic that nearly achieved its purpose. Pamela whimpered softly, flooded with the desire to turn and leap onto the tangled rocks below rather than face the inexorable force driving her back step by step.

  That single, pitiful breath of sound saved her. Shame and fury that she, Pamela Hervey, a noblewoman in her own right, had been brought to whimper before a bunch of ragged, dirty peasant women, totally blocked her terror. She gasped for breath and ran forward toward the encircling women, her whip raised to strike. The rain-soaked, voluminous riding skirt tangled her legs, and with a cry of despair, Pamela fell forward into the arms of her enemies.

  Chapter 12

  Pamela felt her hat torn off, felt hands tangle in her hair, grasp at her clothes. But now, although there were eight against her, she was not nearly so frightened. Fury at the indignities visited upon her person at first wiped out every other emotion. Then, as a shriek of pain was drawn from one woman in response to a vicious kick that Pamela launched, she was stimulated to fight in earnest.

  She rolled over, lashed out with both feet and whip so violently that the women were surprised into drawing back a trifle, so that she was able to leap to her feet. The quick success surprised her somewhat, but she realized that these witches were, first of all, unused to opposition, and second, afraid of personal combat.

  They would never have touched her had she not fallen right into the group. It was also clear now that they were not really united in the way the women with Maud had been. The youngest witch, whom Pamela recognized with sick shock now as Hetty's maid, in spite of her disheveled appearance, was crying, "No! No!" and trying to draw one after another away. On the faces of others there was fear and uncertainty.

  Nonetheless, Pamela knew her danger had grown even more acute. Having attacked one of the gentry, who had powers beyond the ordinary folk, the witches had laid themselves open to reprisals. It would be more important than ever to silence her permanently.

  The vile-looking leader stooped for a stone. Pamela reacted instantly by charging with raised whip. Startled, the woman dropped the rock and backed away.

  "Mrs. Potten," Pamela cried, "you will hang as your grandmother did if you harm me. You fools," she spat at the others, "will you let her make you guilty with her in a quarrel that is not yours?"

  There was a momentary hesitation. The witches' faith in their leader had been even further shaken by her retreat from Pamela, but Potten's wife was no fool.

  "You are fools." It was only a whisper, but somehow it carried clearly over the wail of the wind. "We have gone too far to go back. Who's to know we hurt her? Stone her and drop her over. What the rocks do to her will hide our work. And for a stranger to fall from the cliffs in a Cornish storm will surprise no one. The pentacle delivered her into our hands. If we do not use that power, it will turn against us."

  Every superstition and buried resentment the women had was touched. Pamela's cause was lost, and she knew it. Though some were sickened, fear and determination hardened in the faces around her. She glanced around, seeking a sign of weakness, but Hetty's maid was gone. Perhaps she had gone for help, but Pamela doubted it, and besides, help could not come in time.

  Several of the witches now stooped to find stones. Pamela ran at them, struck right and left with her riding crop. Those whimpered and retreated, but still a thrown rock hit her shoulder, drawing a gasp of pain from her. Pamela knew she could delay the inevitable but not escape it. Sooner or later a stone would hit her head and render her unconscious, or she would faint from pain and exhaustion.

  The knowledge gave her no desire to yield, nor was she afraid any longer. The single emotion that she felt was regret that she could not take these tormenting fiends with her. Eyes burning, she rushed and struck, rushed and struck, using the full strength of her powerful body.

  One blow laid the witch Potten's cheek open; another left a moaning fury with a disabled arm. They were drawing farther away, out of range of her short leaps, and she could not really run because of her hampering garments. Again they were ranged in front of her and her back was to the cliffs. Pamela dared one swift glance behind to be sure that a step or two backward would not send her over the edge, realized how painfully little she had gained by her attack, and turned to face the final onslaught.

  The witches were gone. Gone! For one horrible moment, fear of the supernatural, belief that the witches had really disappeared into thin air or had flown away, nearly sent Pamela plunging into disaster. Then a cool, detached voice tinged with distaste set the world spinning firmly on its axis again.

  " 'Pon my word," George remarked, "you are as bad as Vyvyan. Thought you were a woman of taste. What are you doing here in this condition?"

  "Did you see the witches?" Pamela gasped, her first necessity being to assure herself she had not made up the dreadful things that had happened.

  "No," George replied, dismounting, "but that don't mean anything. Probably off in those rocks. Did they annoy you?" he asked calmly, leading his horse toward her.

  "They tried to kill me."

  "No? Really? Well, glad I came along. Told you not to mess about outside. Must get you home now. Another big blow due soon."

  At the same moment that George was helping Pamela onto his saddle, St. Just was reining his horse to a skitterin
g halt on the road. Neither in the direction of the village nor that of Tremaire was anything visible. It was not surprising, because the rain was falling in sheets and the road was by no means straight. St. Just cursed furiously, but not for long. He turned his mount's head toward the village and spurred him forward again.

  Beyond his remark that he had told her not to mess about outside, George said no word of blame or disbelief about Pamela's story. His only commentary was silent, in that he kept his eyes turned away from her as if there were something indecent about her.

  Of course, she was soaked through with rain, and filthy with mud, her hat gone, her hair streaming. That might pain George sufficiently to make him avert his eyes; guilt might also do so. He had told her not to go out, but he did know her fairly well and might guess she would not obey him.

  Had this whole scene been set up to frighten her? No, there was no purpose to that, but it might have been arranged to enrage her so that she would tell St. Just she had been attacked with intent to kill. His natural reaction would be to start a real witch hunt, thereby setting the local people against him as well as some of the witches.

  She could hold her tongue, but if George intended St. Just to know, he would tell the tale himself, and somehow, in his languid, half-amused fashion, he would make it seem worse than it was.

  They arrived to find Tremaire in an uproar. Blue Lady had returned to the stable riderless, and frantic arrangements were being made to search for Pamela. The fact that the men were willing to do so touched her deeply. They knew the danger of the weather, and more, they were ready to ride out in spite of their superstition and fear of meeting the witches. Pamela was responding as well as she could to the anxious queries directed at her when she was interrupted by a small irritable whirlwind.