by Matt Ralphs
‘Mary’s comingtoseeussoon,’ Hecate added, interrupting Hazel’s thoughts. ‘She’s bringing that book on herb-lore I was telling you about.’
Hazel rolled her eyes. ‘Great,’ she muttered.
‘It’s got a very informative section on toadstools that I think you should read,’ Hecate said with one eyebrow raised.
‘I said I was sorry about picking the wrong sort,’ Hazel bristled. ‘I didn’t mean to poison us with that pie.’
‘I know,’ Hecate smiled. ‘I’m only teasing.’
Hazel watched the dormouse waddle towards the fruit bowl and tried to calm her angry mood. It was too nice a day to spoil with an argument. ‘Is it true Mary’s familiar died last month?’
‘It was Gander’s time to pass on,’ Hecate said.
‘So she’s all alone?’
‘Well, she has us.’
‘But she lives alone. She must be so lonely.’ The dormouse was struggling to climb into the fruit bowl so Hazel gave his portly bottom a lift and he tumbled inside.
‘Mary’s a tough old bird and used to her own company.’
‘But she’s blind and getting old, Ma. I think it’s sad – no one should be alone all the time.’
Hecate sat down at the table and took Hazel’s hand. ‘I’m sure you have a suggestion to remedy this, as usual?’
‘Well . . . why don’t I go and stay with her – keep her company? Just for a day or two? When she comes to visit I could go back with her and—’
‘You know you can’t leave the Glade,’ Hecate said.
‘But it’d just be for a couple of days . . .’
‘No, Hazel. No. We can’t go beyond the Border Hedge. We’ve talked about this.’
‘We haven’t, not properly.’ Hazel pulled her hand away. ‘You’ve told me we can’t leave, but never explained why.’
‘You’re too young to—’
‘I’m nearly twelve!’
Hecate jabbed her finger on to the table. ‘Exactly.’
‘I just want to know why you’re keeping me here like a prisoner.’
‘But . . . this is our home.’ Hecate’s face fell. ‘I thought you loved the Glade?’
‘I do,’ Hazel said. ‘But I’ve been stuck here my whole life. I want to see the rest of England. I want to meet other people apart from you and Mary. Why don’t you understand that?’ She yanked at her red curls in frustration. ‘I mean, are you really going to keep me here forever?’
Hecate looked down at her clasped hands. ‘You don’t know what it’s like out there.’
‘Then tell me. I just want the truth. I deserve to know.’
‘My little girl’s growing up.’ Hecate smiled sadly and ran her hand down Hazel’s cheek.
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Ma.’
‘Perhaps it is time you knew.’ Hecate plucked the startled dormouse from the fruit bowl. ‘I’m going to let this fellow go, then take a dip in the pool to clear my head. We’ll talk when I get back.’
2
A DEMON AT THE DOOR
Demons are unholy creatures in endless forms most foul.
Glimpses of the Demon Underworld
by Grand Magus David Ellefson
Hazel watched through the doorway as Hecate skirted the pool and put the dormouse down by a willow tree. What is it about England that frightens Ma so much? she wondered. The prospect of finally knowing was as exciting as it was terrifying.
Dandelion seeds sailed on the breeze and hunting swallows swooped and dived over the glittering water. Hecate, her hair burnished in the sun, waded waist deep into the water. The scent of honeysuckle drifted into the kitchen, carrying with it a faint coppery undertone that Hazel couldn’t quite identify.
As the smell got stronger, it awoke a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She stood up, banging her leg on the table and upsetting the fruit bowl. Apples rolled and fell to the floor with heavy thumps. Hazel reached the door in time to see something under the water break away from the bank and glide up behind her mother.
A creature with a domed, eyeless, bone-white head slipped through the surface of the pool. Higher it rose – tense, poised, its clawed fingers folded like a praying mantis ready to strike.
At last Hazel’s throat loosened and she cried out, but before Hecate even had a chance to look around, the creature pounced, grabbing her throat and waist and lifting her clear out of the pool. She thrashed and struggled as it dragged her towards the far bank, her legs kicking up silver arcs of water.
For an electrifying moment, Hecate locked eyes with her daughter. ‘Run, Hazel – run!’
But Hazel didn’t move. Rage such as she had never felt before exploded in her, boiling away her fear. ‘Leave my mother alone,’ she screamed as the world turned red.
The air around her crackled as her heart pumped so much magic through her veins she thought it would crack her skull in two. With a shriek, Hazel threw out her arms and unleashed a boiling wave of fire across the garden towards the pool.
The creature twisted on the spot, shielding Hecate as the firestorm broke across its back and staying silent even as its flesh burned and peeled away.
Hazel’s ferocious magic spluttered and died. She crumpled to the ground like a dropped puppet, raising her head just in time to see the demon disappear through the trees, cradling her mother as gently as a new-born baby.
3
BRAMLEY MOUSE
‘The biggest threat to us are the Wielders.
Wielders are always women, and their command
of magic is far greater than ordinary witches.’
Matthew Hopkins, Witch Hunter General
Hazel awoke, half drowned and gasping. Frozen from skin to soul she lay on the ground, one arm outstretched as if grasping for a lifeline. Thunderclouds growled, hurling rain, their bloated innards charged with lightning.
Ma, she thought. Where is she?
Her throat felt raw. Racked with thirst, she slurped from the puddle she lay in. The gritty water gave her just enough strength to wobble to her feet. Memories crashed down over her: the eyeless demon and her mother’s terrified face – but most vivid of all was the fire-magic pouring from her fingers. She lifted her hands, certain that they would be covered in blisters and blackened skin, but they were unscarred.
The grass and reeds around the pool were burned brown, and the air still carried the taint of brimstone and magic. Her magic. In the distance lay the forest, smeared across the horizon like charcoal on wet parchment.
What was that. . . thing? Why did it take Ma? Hazel wondered, scanning the land for any signs of them. Is she even still alive?
Tugging strands of sodden hair from her face, she ran back into the cottage and started throwing open drawers and cupboards. She filled a shoulder bag with bread, cheese, dried meat, a pocket knife, a small pouch of coins and a few spare clothes. Then she changed into a dry dress, her hobnailed ankle boots, shrugged on a red hooded cloak, hurried to the door – and froze.
The land outside the Glade was unknown to Hazel, and she had longed to see it. But now, when desperate need was forcing her to leave, she couldn’t even find the courage to step out of her own cottage door. She searched her heart for some hope, but all she found was doubt and fear.
‘Come on, Hazel,’ she whispered, clenching her fists. ‘You can do this.’
‘You’re not going out in that weather, are you?’ said a high-pitched voice.
Hazel spun around. ‘Who’s there?’
‘I am.’ The voice sounded annoyed.
‘Er, who . . . ? Where are you?’
‘You’re not very observant, are you? Look down. No, over here.’
Hazel gaped. Sitting on the upturned fruit bowl, with a look of twitchy indignation on his face, was the dormouse.
‘Close your mouth,’ he snapped. ‘It makes you look like an imbecile.’
Hazel found her voice. ‘You can . . . talk?’
‘Evidently.’
She bent down, sc
ooped him up and held him in the palm of her hand. His fur was warm and soft. ‘I don’t believe it.’
The dormouse stood on his hind legs and shook a claw at her. ‘How dare you pick me up without asking?’
‘You can actually talk.’ Hazel continued to goggle at him. ‘But how?’
‘With my mouth, of course. See how it moves in time with my words? Although, I grant you, before now I could only talk to other animals.’ He glanced around anxiously. ‘By the way, where’s that horrible lump of a cat?’
The air crackled with magic and Hazel nearly dropped the dormouse as flames erupted from his fur. Heat shimmered and his tail glowed like a hot poker, although all Hazel felt was a warm tickle. After a few seconds the flames died away.
‘What was that?’ she cried.
‘I don’t know,’ the dormouse wailed. ‘It’s been happening ever since I got caught in your little fireworks display down by the pool. I’m all magical, and I don’t like it. You need to be more careful who you aim at.’
‘I did that to you?’
‘Yes.’ The dormouse shook his head in disgust. ‘There I was, minding my own business, when you hit me with your stinky magic. None of my friends are going to speak to me any more, and I don’t blame them.’ He glared at Hazel, whiskers splayed. ‘I blame you.’
She plonked herself down in a chair and stared helplessly at him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know I could cast any kind of magic till today. It just sort of bubbled up. At least it didn’t hurt you.’
The dormouse sniffed. ‘Well, try not to let it happen again.’
After an awkward pause Hazel said, ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Of course I have a name. All animals have names. Mine’s Bramley, after my favourite food.’ He stared pointedly at the spilt apples.
Hazel put him down on the table, picked one up and cut off a slice with her knife.
‘Ta,’ Bramley said.
‘I’m Hazel. Hazel Hooper.’
‘Well, Hazel Hazel Hooper, seeing as you saved me from that cat earlier – I suppose I can forgive you.’
Hazel stared through the door towards the forest. ‘I must go,’ she said, almost to herself.
‘Nonsense. Look at that downpour. It’ll wash you away.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Well, don’t blame me if you catch a chill,’ Bramley said, rubbing his paws along his whiskers to clean off drops of apple juice.
‘I’ve got to find my mother. But what can I do against that . . . thing?’
Bramley plopped on to Hazel’s lap and looked up at her. ‘More than you think – you’re not just an ordinary girl.’
‘I’m not?’ Hazel frowned.
‘You cast magic, didn’t you? So that means you’re a . . . ?’
‘A Wielder.’ Saying the words sent a thrill down her spine. ‘I’m a Fire Witch.’
‘Correct! Now, I’m going to make a nest in your hair,’ he said, clambering up her dress and poking his head into her dark red curls. ‘I assume you have no objections?’
‘Are you coming with me then?’
‘Well, obviously.’
Hazel shook her head. ‘But why?’
‘I can see that I’m going to be the brains in this partnership,’ Bramley said. ‘Go on, think.’
‘Oh, I see! You’re my familiar.’
‘Lightning strikes at last,’ Bramley said, burrowing further into her hair.
‘But how . . . ?’
‘Well, I heard stories when I was a pup about animals who were struck by magic and started talking to witches. I always hoped it would never happen to me.’ He reappeared above Hazel’s other shoulder. ‘Oh, this one appears to be much the same as the other one,’ he said with a note of disappointment.
‘I see,’ Hazel said. She supposed that the company of an irritable rodent was better than no company at all. ‘I suppose we’d better make the best of things, hadn’t we? And yes, you can make a nest in my hair as long as you promise not to poo in it.’
‘What do you think I am – a common rat?’ Bramley pressed his warm fur against her skin. ‘Now let’s get going, if we must.’
‘I think . . . I think the thing that took Ma was a demon,’ Hazel whispered.
‘A demon, eh?’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Are they all as ugly as that one?’
‘I don’t know, but ugly or not we’re going to track it down.’ Hazel picked up her bag and stepped into the rain.
‘I had a nasty feeling you were going to say that,’ Bramley said.
4
THE BORDER HEDGE
Some witches are able to command the
natural world for honest purposes, such as
healing animals, or creating bountiful harvests.
A Study of Benevolent Magic by Titus White
With Bramley clinging to her ear, Hazel followed the demon’s trampled trail through the trees, unsure if the tang of blood hanging in the air was real or imaginary. All she knew was that if she allowed herself a single backwards glance at the cottage, her courage would shatter and she’d hide under her bed and never come out.
I’ve got to think about Ma, she thought. I must be strong for her.
She emerged from the shadows of the orchard into a meadow, feeling small as she stared up at the roiling black clouds. Drizzle hung indecisively in the air.
Scolding herself for wasting time, she waded into the rain-battered reedgrass and down the slope towards the Glade’s border. Ankle-deep mud sucked at her boots and soon she was red-faced and panting.
‘Will we be gone long?’ Bramley asked from somewhere deep in her hair.
‘What?’
‘From the Glade, I mean. When will we be coming back?’
‘How should I know?’ Hazel snapped, realizing she had no plan, no idea what was going to happen to them both.
‘All right, don’t tie a knot in your tail.’ He wriggled out of his nest and settled down on her shoulder. ‘Now, where are we going?’
‘I don’t know that either,’ Hazel replied. ‘I’m just following the trail. Why don’t you think before you ask stupid questions?’
‘Have you always been so bad tempered?’
Hazel took a deep breath and started to count to ten.
‘Well?’ Bramley persisted.
‘Only since I met you.’ An angry bloom of fire rippled over her skin before vanishing with a hiss.
‘You need to learn to control your magic,’ Bramley said, his own fur sparking in return. ‘I can see travelling with you is going to be a very trying experience.’
Hazel’s clothes were soaked through by the time she emerged from the meadow on to a puddle-strewn path.
‘What,’ said Bramley in a squeaky voice, ‘is that?’
They looked up at an immense hedge, stretching out of sight in both directions, as tall and solid as a Bronze Age earthwork. Glossy leaves overlapped like dragon scales, and brambles with inch-long thorns threaded through the foliage like parasitic worms.
‘The Border Hedge,’ Hazel whispered. ‘It surrounds the Glade. There’re no gaps or gates in it – believe me, I’ve looked hard enough.’
‘You never tried to cut your way through?’
Hazel shuddered. ‘That would be very dangerous.’
‘Why?’ Bramley said, sniffing the air suspiciously. ‘It’s only a plant.’
‘Not just any plant. Ma enchanted it to keep things out of the Glade.’
‘Oh. What sort of things?’
‘She never told me. Bad things, I suppose.’ Hazel rubbed a leaf between her thumb and finger; it felt warm and waxy. ‘Sometimes I think I can hear it breathing, almost like it’s alive. Can you feel it?’
‘What nonsense!’ Bramley squeaked, diving behind Hazel’s ear and trembling.
‘Look,’ Hazel said, spotting a buckled mass of branches near the ground. ‘This is where the demon must have come through.’
She lowered her hood, shook out her red curls, then crouched down to peer through the hole in
the hedge. As her eyes adjusted she saw an endless labyrinth of vicious-looking brambles fading to darkness. She rocked back on her heels. ‘But how did it get past the enchantment? Only Ma and Mary know the spells to grant safe passage.’
‘Please tell me there’s another way through,’ Bramley said. ‘Dormice are allergic to the dark. It makes us come out in bumps.’
‘I thought dormice were nocturnal?’ murmured Hazel, frowning into the dark.
‘Well, not this one!’
Hazel gently plucked the tiny mouse from behind her ear and held him up to her face. ‘I don’t have any choice, Bramley. I’m going in and that’s the end of it. If you want to stay behind . . . well, this is your last chance.’
Bramley huffed but didn’t say anything.
‘Right then.’ She tucked him securely into a small pocket at the top of her cloak and took a final look back at the Glade.
Her heart broke for the second time that day; the landscape she loved was lost behind a drab curtain of steel-grey rain, and her mother’s magic that had fed the plants and flowers was being washed away into the mire. The end of the Glade had come, wrapped in a cloak of cloud and thunder.
I’ll be back, she thought, and like a swimmer preparing for a dive, took a deep breath and plunged into the Border Hedge.
The air turned humid as she forced her way through the outer skin of leaves into the Hedge’s innards. She groped forward, straining her eyes against the gloom, keeping one arm above her head to keep trailing brambles out of her face.
Bramley’s muffled voice emerged from the pocket. ‘In the unlikely event of us ever making it out of this hedge, what can we expect to find on the other side?’
‘England.’
‘What’s an “England”?’
‘It’s not an “an”, it’s an “a”. A country.’
‘Oh,’ Bramley said. ‘And how big is a England?’
Hazel frowned as she forced her way through a tangled net of foliage. ‘I don’t know. Ouch! Damn these brambles.’
‘And you’ve never been there?’
‘No,’ she said, wiping away a trickle of blood from the back of her hand. ‘Ma created the Glade before I was born.’
