by Anne Forbes
Neil and Clara slipped off their carpets with the ease of long practice and after a hasty greeting to the MacArthur, ran over to the dragon.
The carpets dipped gently and flew to the side of the cavern where they rolled themselves up against the wall; ready and waiting until called again.
“It’s grand to see you looking so well,” the MacArthur smiled. “Country life seems to be agreeing with you. How are you getting on in your new house?”
John MacLean looked at him shrewdly. “Not too well,” he admitted, “but I think you probably know that already,” he added with a smiling glance at the crystal. “That’s why we’ve come. We need your advice.”
“You mean about the witches?” the MacArthur said.
“Yes, about the witches,” the Ranger agreed, settling himself comfortably in his chair. “One of them gave Clara a real scare.”
Janet looked at the MacArthur expectantly, waiting for his reply, for he was just the person to solve what she referred to as “the witch problem”.
Neil and Clara, still chatting to Arthur, dragged cushions forward to sit alongside Archie, Hamish and Jaikie who were lounging casually against the dragon’s massive side. Clara looked over at her father and nodded at his words. “She wasn’t a snow witch,” she said, tucking her long, brown hair behind her ears. “They are beautiful, but this one was really ugly; she had a hooked nose and her clothes were black.”
“She was an Earth Witch, then,” Jaikie said knowledgeably. “The Earth Witches wear black and the Wind Witches wear grey.”
Grey! Neil and Clara eyed one another in quick understanding. It must have been Wind Witches that they had seen searching the trees near their house.
“Really?” Janet MacLean said, looking over at him in surprise. “I didn’t know there were different kinds of witches.”
Archie nodded. “They’re a jealous lot,” he remarked, “always squabbling.”
The MacArthur nodded. “They don’t get on with one another at all,” he agreed. “We knew you’d be having problems with them the minute Merial died.”
“You mean Muriel,” the Ranger corrected him with a smile, “my sister-in-law.”
“No, I don’t,” the MacArthur said with a sidelong glance at Archie, Hamish and Jaikie. He paused momentarily, well aware of the consternation he was about to cause. “I mean Lady Merial, daughter of Lord Jezail of Ashgar, one of the greatest magicians in Europe.”
There was a blank silence as the MacLeans gawped, open-mouthed at this disclosure.
“You’re … you’re not having us on, are you?” John MacLean said eventually in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
The MacArthur shook his head.
Neil and Clara glanced at one another; but while Neil looked as amazed as his parents, Clara became suddenly thoughtful. She had always been close to her aunt. They’d got on well together and if she really was a magician’s daughter then that would explain quite a lot; for their conversations had often been about magic. It must have been about a year ago, she thought, when they’d been on a picnic. The others had gone for a walk but she had stayed behind to help clear up and her aunt had quizzed her about her firestone pendant. She remembered how she’d blushed when her aunt had called it a magic stone and then smiled at her in a most peculiar way as though she’d guessed at all her adventures with the MacArthurs. And there were the odd comments she sometimes made as well. “Did you know that witches,” she’d once remarked, “can’t cross running water. They have to use bridges.” Yes, she thought, it was quite possible that Auntie Muriel had been a magician’s daughter.
Still looking stunned, the Ranger searched his memory for details. “David met Muriel in Austria when he was on a skiing holiday,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t remember him ever calling her Merial, though,” he added, a frown creasing his brow as he looked at the MacArthur. “According to him, her father disapproved of their marriage and more or less cut Merial off, there and then.”
“Now we know why,” his wife interrupted.
“Well, yes,” John continued, “but having said that, it didn’t seem to worry her. They came back to Scotland, settled in at Craiglaw House and were perfectly happy.”
“She was lovely,” added Janet, still sounding flabbergasted, “a thoroughly nice woman. I can’t believe she had anything to do with witches or magic.”
“Why did you say that we’d be having problems the minute she died?” Neil queried, remembering the MacArthur’s opening remark.
“Ah,” the MacArthur said, “that’s where things start to get complicated. You see, Merial’s father, Lord Jezail, doted on his daughter and when she was young, he gave her a magic talisman as a gift.”
“What’s a talisman?” Clara asked.
“It’s a magic token. In this case, an engraved silver clasp that’s worn round the arm. It not only protected Merial from hexes and spells but gave her control over the witches. They’re spiteful, you see, and left to themselves they’d delight in calling up storms and the like — especially at harvest time when the farmers need good weather to bring in the crops.”
“I never saw Muriel wearing anything like that,” Janet mused thoughtfully. “Did you, John?”
Her husband shook his head.
“She probably kept it hidden in case you sensed its magic,” the MacArthur said reasonably, “and you might have done, you know. After all, she knew that you wore firestones.”
“She did?” They all looked at the MacArthur in complete astonishment.
“But … she never said anything to any of us …” Mrs MacLean looked completely bewildered.
“No, but she asked me about you all the same, and I think she was pleased to hear that you had helped us in so many ways.” Seeing that Mrs MacLean was still upset, he added gently. “She might have found it easier to say nothing, Janet,” and, as Mrs MacLean opened her mouth to disagree, he said quickly, “I know you might find it hard to accept but I think she’d have found explanations difficult. Anyway,’ he pointed out, ‘she knew that I would explain things to you afterwards.”
“About the witches?”
The MacArthur nodded. “About the witches,” he agreed. “The Earth Witches, that is, for the Queen of the Earth Witches was actually her cousin by marriage. She took Merial under her wing when she came to Scotland and that’s how Merial joined the ranks of the Earth Witches. She used the talisman’s magic well and more or less ruled with the queen. And because of their close relationship, the Queen of the Earth Witches quite naturally assumed that she would inherit the talisman when Merial died.”
“You mean Merial left the talisman to someone else?” Janet asked.
“No, she didn’t.”
“What did she do with it, then?” queried Clara.
“That’s the problem,” gestured the MacArthur, unhappily. “She’s hidden it somewhere. The witches are combing the countryside for it. They’re searching houses, farms, fields and woods. Everywhere and anywhere that Merial might have visited.”
“So that’s why they were searching our house,” Janet sounded grim. “It would be the first place they’d look.”
The MacArthur nodded.
“Do they have anything at all to do with the crop circles that have been appearing?” Neil asked, sounding serious. “Dad and I saw one of them being made and there was no one in the field.”
“Yes, that was the witches,” the MacArthur nodded.
“Neil said that his firestone got really heavy,” Clara added curiously.
“The witches would be working beneath the field,” the MacArthur explained. “That’s why his firestone was affected.”
“One of the men went into the field while the circle was being made,” the Ranger said. “He passed out but seemed okay when he came round afterwards. It was really weird. Everyone knew that something strange was going on. The newspapers are full of it and everyone in the countryside is nervous.”
“Nervous?” echoed Neil. �
�Scared, you mean!”
“But why are the witches making crop circles anyway?” Janet asked.
“It’s the custom,” the MacArthur explained. “The witches made them as a … a tribute to Merial. To honour her departure from this world. They couldn’t let her passing go unnoticed, you know. She was a lady of importance in her own right.”
“Someone was looking at the crop circle through a crystal,” Neil said. “Dad and I recognized the light.”
“Was it you, by any chance?” his father asked.
The MacArthur nodded his head. “Yes,” he said, suddenly serious, “we were, of course, watching. As, I’m sure, were many others from the world of magic — including, I should imagine, her father, Lord Jezail.”
8. Scarecrows
The poacher stood still and silent in the dark shadow of the trees, avoiding the slanting beams of moonlight that penetrated the leafy thickness of the wood. The quiet, rippling gurgle of the river sounded softly in the background as he glanced around, suddenly alert as he sensed that something was wrong. He turned his head slowly, this way and that, catching the breeze and the smell of the earth. After years of poaching the odd salmon from the Tweed, he’d developed a strong feeling for the land and knew the breath of the wood.
A strange unease gripped him. Maybe a gamekeeper on the prowl, he told himself, although he knew instinctively that it was nothing so ordinary. Again he turned his head and tested the wind. Nothing, he thought, his eyes searching the trees. And yet he knew within himself that there was someone or something close by, watching him. Then he saw it, standing on a slight rise over to his left; a large dog with a rough, grey coat. Must be a stray, he thought, living in the wild, off rabbits and other small creatures. It stood still, watching him and as he met its cold, blue-eyed stare the friendly words that had risen to his lips, remained unspoken. A wolf! It was a wolf! He stood his ground, not daring to move and, heart thumping furiously, watched as the animal turned and loped off among the trees.
What was it about the wood, he wondered tensely, looking round searchingly. Fear still gripped him and the sight of the wolf had sent panic bubbling through his veins. Conscious of the hefty salmon he carried in a twist of rough sacking, he turned and moved stealthily through the trees towards his cottage. Treading softly and warily, he was conscious that all his senses were sharp, tense and alert; tuned into every small rustle of sound and every movement of the trees.
It was when he reached the edge of the wood that he saw him, a still figure in the shadowy moonlight; the uniformed figure of a policeman leaning casually against a tree. Relief flooded through him. A copper! Thank goodness for that! In the state he was in, he’d half expected some strange daemon or spectre of the wood. Nevertheless, he groaned inwardly, knowing that the game was up; to be caught poaching was a serious offence.
The still figure, however, made no move towards him until it dawned on him that there was something decidedly odd about the policeman. Moving closer, he reached into his coat pocket and, taking out a powerful torch, shone the beam into the man’s face. He gasped in horror and swore aloud as he saw the figure clearly — for it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow dressed as a policeman; the painted turnip face and straw body looking remarkably life-like in the shadowy glimmer of the moonlight. Kids, he thought furiously, angry at the scare he’d had. Some kids must have brought it into the wood.
To his dismay, he found that he was more seriously disturbed than he’d thought. His hands were shaking violently and in a sudden fit of revulsion, he hurled the stuffed figure, in a swinging tangle of arms and legs, into the bushes and hurried towards the scatter of trees that fringed the wood. Making his way through them, he clambered over a wire fence, jumped a ditch and reached the path that led to his cottage. He strode along swiftly, anxious now to get home but it was only as he drew closer to his house that he saw them; dark figures prowling round the old barn at the back.
Moving quickly, he dumped his fish by the gate and taking a short cut through the field, crept up on them. What he couldn’t figure out was what they were after, for there was nothing in the barn worth stealing; even the old tractor didn’t work.
As he got nearer, he took the flashlight from his pocket and clicking it on, lit up the stooping, searching figures that seemed to be everywhere, poking about in all the corners.
He’d grabbed hold of the nearest one before his brain told him what his eyes had seen and it was then that he screamed in horror for it was not a man that he held in his grasp but a scarecrow. A scarecrow dressed as a cowboy with a painted bag as a face, straw arms and a body stuffed with what felt like rags. And it was alive.
“I stopped off at Norham to get the newspapers,” John MacLean said to his wife as he came into the living room, “and the Mason’s Arms is absolutely heaving with reporters.”
“Is it this scarecrow business?” Janet queried, looking up from her sewing. “They’ve even had it on TV.”
“Do you think it’s the witches’ doing?” Clara asked.
“Looks like it,” her father replied.
“What’s everyone saying?” Clara queried. “I mean, scarecrows coming to life is really something!”
“Seemingly, it all started last week during the Norham Scarecrow Festival. You know that each house makes its own scarecrow …”
“They’re marvellous,” Janet added, threading a needle carefully. “I saw them last year when I was visiting Muriel.”
“Well, at first they thought they had a practical joker in the village because one morning people woke up to find that the scarecrow in their garden wasn’t the one they’d made. They got quite angry, especially when they found that the same thing had happened all over the village. And we’re not talking about one or two scarecrows here, you know. Norham’s a big place. Anyway, there was a good deal of bad-tempered muttering as people found their own scarecrows again and got themselves sorted out.”
“And?” asked Clara curiously.
“Well, the next night, the same thing happened again, so they formed a committee to police the village at night, to see who was mucking them about.”
“And did they catch anybody?”
“Well, no, they didn’t,” her father said. “Apparently, the entire committee fell asleep on the job.”
“Fell asleep?” Mrs MacLean echoed incredulously.
Her husband nodded. “And once again all the scarecrows were sitting outside the wrong houses in the morning and,” he shrugged, “nobody could understand how all that moving around could happen without at least one of the committee waking up.”
“Well, that figures,” Clara grinned.
“Mmm, I think they came in for a good deal of stick,” her father nodded. “Of course, it’s probably the witches’ doing. I reckon they’re using the scarecrows to help them search the countryside.
“There was some talk of a tramp hanging round the place as well; an old man with grey hair. Some people blamed him but most of them thought he wouldn’t have had the strength. Then the local poacher arrived in the middle of it all, scared out of his mind. Said he’d seen a wolf down by the river and found scarecrows searching his barn. Live scarecrows! The countryside’s buzzing with it!”
“I’d much rather have scarecrows than witches!” Mrs MacLean declared.
“They’d be stupid to come here again,” Clara pointed out. “We’re wearing our firestones and we’d see them the minute they appeared.”
“I think the witches had already given the house a good going over before we even moved in,” her father said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t worry. They’ll be concentrating on other hiding places now.”
“Good riddance,” snapped Janet MacLean, finishing her sewing and biting off the thread.
“You know, I think I’ll wear my firestone when I go to school,” Clara said thoughtfully. “If there are any witches around, I want to be able to see them.”
John MacLean looked at her thoughtfully. “You might well see witches at school,�
� he warned. “Your aunt taught at Netherfield, remember? You never know, she might have hidden the talisman there.”
“That’s true,” Mrs MacLean said, looking at Clara in sudden dismay. “I didn’t think of that!”
9. Netherfield
“How was your first week then?” was their father’s first question as they dumped their heavy bags in the boot of the 4x4. “Do you think you’re going to like it?”
“It’s great,” Neil said, rushing round the car to grab the front seat. Clara made a face at him but opened the back door and clambered in, still feeling strange in the green blazer and kilt that formed the school uniform. She looked back at the imposing building, picking out her bedroom window in one of the four huge towers that stood at each corner of the building.
“Clara was homesick,” Neil remarked as his father manoeuvred the car carefully through the mass of cars and buses in the car park.
“Were you, Clara?” her father said in surprise, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.
“The first few nights were a bit lonely,” she admitted.
“Would you like to share with somebody?” her father questioned. “I’m sure it could be arranged. Your mum and I thought you’d like having a room to yourself.”
Clara shook her head. “The other boarders are all primary kids. Anyway, I’m getting used to being on my own.”
“You missed me, that’s what it is,” Neil grinned.
Clara promptly stuck her tongue out at him, loath to admit that, in actual fact, she had missed him!
“By the way, your mum plans to take you into Berwick tomorrow,” their father interrupted before Clara could retaliate further. “We stopped there on our way down from Edinburgh to stock up with groceries and she saw a shop that sells posters; all your kind of stuff … you know, pop stars, footballers … that sort of thing. She thought you might like to buy some of them to put up in your room.”
