Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  HERE BE WITCHES

  The Snowdonia Chronicles

  Book Two

  HERE BE WITCHES

  The Snowdonia Chronicles

  Book Two

  Sarah Mussi

  www.shrinebell.com

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Act One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Act Two

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Act Three

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  So Mote It Be

  Acknowledgements

  Author Biography

  DEDICATION

  To IDRIS GAWR, Stargazer,

  Overlord and Giant of Cadair Idris

  In the land of Merioneth in the parish of Dolgelley in the commote of Talybont is a mount or peak or large high hill that is called Cadair Idris. And on the highest crown of this mountain is a bed-shaped form, great in length and width, built of slabs with stones fixed thereon. And this is called The Bed of Idris. And it is said that of whoever lies and sleeps upon that bed, from sunset until sunrise, one of two things will happen to him: either he will be a hero or poet or bard of the best kind, or descend from that great mountain entirely demented.

  From The Giants of Wales and Their Dwellings

  Sion Dafydd Rhys, c.1600

  Peniarth Manuscript

  AS ABOVE

  29 February – Leap Year

  At the witching hour upon the eve of St David’s Day

  The girl turns her masked face to the summit, above her the air shudders. Just seconds left. If only she can time it right. Heart pounding, blood hammering, she poises herself. She pulls out the mirror, angles it, catches the reflection of the dark night and the stars.

  I can do this, she tells herself. I am the High Priestess. I am the Supreme One.

  Then she recites aloud:

  ‘Winds of time meet me here,

  Upon the stroke of midnight clear,

  Spin a girdle round the heavens,

  When the magick words are spoken,

  Let the future rush to meet us,

  Let the time between be broken,

  Hurry the hours, tear down the clocks,

  Speed up the procession of the equinox,

  O winds of time, hear me say,

  Let tomorrow be today.’

  She beckons to the rest of the coven. Twelve girls – faces covered with masks, clad from head to toe in black cloaks, tall hats, dark skirts – all close in. They trace a circle widdershins around a great cauldron set on a smouldering fire. One girl, petite and pretty, chants:

  ‘Oh mighty dragon of the fire,

  Grant me the power that I desire,

  Power of water and air from the sky,

  And earth and fire that let you fly.’

  But the Supreme One steadies the mirror, whispers instead:

  ‘Oh mighty dragon of the ice,

  Grant me the power in measure twice,

  And take thee, thy human sacrifice.’

  The girls stop and hold out their left hands. And on each palm is marked a star. They hold them up to the night sky, baring them towards the constellation of Draco, in which the Pole Star – Polaris, the North Star – shines, and they recite:

  ‘Air and water, fire and earth,

  In darkest night we wait your birth,

  By light of moon, or ray of sun,

  Let Merlin’s magick be undone,

  The hour has come of this leap year,

  The time is right to reappear,

  Forever you were, forever you shall be,

  By Draco’s grace we set you free,

  Oh mighty dragons whom this spell release,

  Crack open the fortress of Dinas Emrys.’

  The moment strikes midnight.

  The Supreme One breathes on the mirror, clouds it over with her breath, cries out, ‘AS ABOVE – SO BELOW, SO MOTE IT BE!’

  The mountain slope shudders. The cauldron boils over. The face of the full moon darkens. There is a roaring and far away the sound of many stones cracking.

  Then the mountain splits wide.

  An appalling shriek rents the air. Yellow eyes glint through the darkness, teeth crash, talons scrape. A fetid stench slams into the night. And under their feet a ravine opens. A yawning cliff, dropping sheer, smooth, treacherous. And from the lip of this abyss a fearsome creature crawls out.

  ‘Welcome back O White Worm of Wessex,’ breathes out the Supreme One.

  The dragon blinks at the girls. It unfolds its huge wings and stretches them out, like some nightmarish butterfly emerging from a hideous chrysalis, then it shakes its spiny neck. Its hooded eye settles on the petite, pretty girl.

  In an instant she slips. The earth beneath her gives way. A booming, a shrieking tears at her ears. The ground over the old dragons’ lair caves in all around her.

  The girl skids out of control. She falls. She screams. She stretches out her arms.

  ‘Help!’ she cries. ‘Somebody help me!’ But none dare, as heart bursting, body falling, twisting, turning, she plummets down over the cliff edge.

  ‘SO MOTE IT BE!’ roars the dragon.

  Down plunges the girl. Down into the dark cavern.

  Down on to the sharp crystals.

  And as the girl’s heart is pierced, the crystals shatter.

  At that moment, the whole of the mountain shakes, as if some deep power has been unleashed. There is a rush of heat, a blur of speed. Something passes out of the lair and, like a shooting star, fires up towards the sky. A sudden mist descends; through the darkness the girl-witches see ragged shapes like dark riders galloping away towards the summit of Snowdon.

  The air grows cold.

  The mountain is still.

  The witches blink.

  There is no dragon after all. Only their sister-witch impaled upon the rocks below.

  The Supreme One hides the mirror under her cloak, takes her birch broom and, wedging it against the rocks, uses it to help her climb down into the roofless cavern. She leaps the last metre to the rocky bottom, but does not check the bleeding body of her friend speared on the broken crystals. Instead she reaches down and picks from the cavern floor a blackened object.

  ‘Yes!’ she whispers. The Supreme One slips the charred object beside the mirror, nestles it close to her heart. She mutters to herself, ‘So you would challenge me, Ellie Morgan … ’ Her voice grows cold, chilling, spiteful: ‘We will see about that.’

  Then she turns. She reaches the fallen girl.

  ‘Is she OK?’ calls a voice from above.

  ‘No,’ replies the Supreme One. ‘She has passed beyond the veil.’ />
  Then through the dark morning she points a finger at one of the coven. ‘Seize her!’ she commands. ‘Seize Rhiannon!’

  Instantly, the witches obey.

  ‘You pushed her,’ accuses the Supreme One.

  ‘No!’ squeals Rhiannon.

  The witches start to chant. One holds Rhiannon. The others circle round her. The Supreme One climbs up out of the cavern. She grabs Rhiannon by the wrist.

  ‘You bring Ellie here,’ she says. ‘You bring her now! You pin this on her, or I’ll pin it on you.’

  Then she raises her head to the constellation of Draco shining far above her.

  ‘Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  By water, fire, earth and air,

  Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  Let those who challenge me, BEWARE –

  Fair is foul – foul is fair –

  FOR I HAVE DESTROYED THE DRAGONS’ LAIR!’

  SO BELOW

  ACT ONE

  Here be witches, so they say

  Two from the hill and nine from the plain

  One for her blood shed all in pain

  Summoned by She, from over the sea

  Here be witches

  Here they be.

  From the Coven Song of Dinas Emrys

  Anonymous

  Day One: 1 March – St David’s Day

  Wing a Pathway to the Stars

  ONE

  This is where it starts.

  Sweat streaming down my forehead, my hands clenched tight. Deep inside me, screaming that never ceases. For a split second, I can’t remember what I’m screaming about. Then it all comes flooding back: the dark hillside, the storm, the wind howling off white-topped rocks, bracken tossing.

  The riders in the mist.

  Dark shapes, cloaks tight around them, the screech of a landslide, rocks cracking open, sheer drops.

  I blink.

  I drag my sleeve across my forehead. I glance at the clock. Midnight. Did I actually drop off watching telly? OMG! I am now officially old aged!

  But I saw him. For one second I looked into Henry’s eyes. I know I did. (I’d have gone through a hundred nightmares for that alone.)

  I saw him.

  I try to hang on to the moment. Our eyes met. He said something. Snatches of words play in my mind, like cloud wisps drifting across mountaintops. I try to remember.

  Then my phone pings.

  Great.

  His face fades.

  The words evaporate.

  I reach across the sofa, scrabble about to find my phone. Just my luck. It’s bound to be George. Meeting eyes with Henry, after so long … and then George spoils it. Typical. He would ring me in the middle of the night, right when I’m having some kind of weird déjà vu, true love, visiony thing. Sometimes I think George has got a sixth sense; it’s called: Something Is Going On With Ellie Let Me Check Wot And Be A Pest.

  So I ignore it. But when it doesn’t stop, I reach over and press the Shove-Flipping-Off button.

  I glance at the clock again. I really should go to bed. It’s 00.10 and cold. The heating’s gone off.

  And then the phone pings again.

  Really, what kind of nutter never gives up pinging you? I’m not even going to bother acknowledging it.

  Inside George’s head (I’m sure he thinks in bold):

  Oh it was 29 FEBRUARY three seconds ago, when I know she was thinking of Henry and Not Me – why don’t I keep on pinging her just in case there is the remotest chance she wanted to ask me to marry her and forgot?

  I chuck my phone across the room on to the armchair. Then I drag a paper and pencil across the coffee table and try to draw a sketch of the dream. Those riders, like they were made of mist … Bit of shading, smudge it with fingers … And Henry. The way his face … his eyes … his thick wavy hair …

  The phone pings again.

  Whoever wants my attention isn’t giving up, are they?

  I slam the pencil down, get up to retrieve the phone from the chair. I shiver. It actually is very very cold.

  I pick up my phone, swipe it open.

  And while I’m doing that, it rings too.

  So I give in, press the green thing and scream, ‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT? THIS IS SO NOT FUNNY!’

  A faint, worried, female voice on the end says, through a zillion crackles, ‘Am I through to a Llanberis mountain-rescue volunteer?’

  Oops.

  Kick self in bum. I sit down on the sofa again, flick off the telly and angle myself under some cushions.

  Awwww-kward.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Em-barr-ass-ing.

  ‘Sorry. I thought you were my friend who is a dope, um, somebody else.’

  ‘I know it’s late but there’s been a landslide over by Dinas Emrys, and at least one casualty. I can’t seem to contact other members of the rescue team.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. A casualty? ‘No, of course. I mean, yes, you can’t get them, because they’re going to a mountain-rescue conference over in Leeds.’

  At least one casualty …

  ‘I mean, some have gone already, and my mum is going really early tomorrow – I mean today – it’s part of her certificate. She can’t go out now though, alone, she’s off rota … ’ My voice peters out.

  A landslide at Dinas Emrys?

  I don’t add: nobody thought there’d be an emergency, not tonight, not in the middle of winter, after midnight, on St David’s Day. It’s traditional not to go on the mountain … not this side of it anyway.

  Dinas Emrys? Henry?

  The line crackles. ‘I see.’

  ‘So there’s only me and my friend the one who is a dope on our side of the mountain … you’ll have to phone the emergency services – the police,’ I say.

  What if it’s Henry?

  I continue, ‘Or there’s the Caernarfon team … on second thoughts, it might be best to call them … Dinas Emrys is right by the main road just up from Beddgelert.’

  I’m not thinking straight.

  ‘OK, thanks. Sorry to ring your number. I’ll get on to Caernarfon right now,’ she says.

  ‘OK,’ I say. I don’t add – but how did you get my number? Because the words ‘Dinas Emrys’ are sending shock waves right through me.

  Dinas Emrys, you see, is an old fortress on the far side of Snowdon, which also happens to house a dragons’ cave. And also happens to be where Henry, my Henry, the boy I’ve promised to love forever, is lying entombed.

  Don’t ask. I will explain.

  Then I noticed the other twenty-two missed calls.

  And pings.

  Rhiannon

  Ellie. OMG. Someone’s died. I don’t know who else to message. You’ve got to come and help me. I’m up at Dinas Emrys. I CAN’T TELL MY DAD. EVA. There’s been a DISASTER. This is V V V urgent and V V V V V V V V terrible. Hire a cab – I’ll pay. Anything. JUST GET ME AWAY FROM HERE. I’m so scared. Please come ELLIE.

  More calls …

  More pings …

  And …

  Rhiannon

  Ellie? I’m SO not joking. IS YOUR PHONE ON SILENT OR WOT? I’ve called and called you. YOU HAVE TO COME. Don’t tell anyone esp. George. There are these shapes in the mist. Delete these messages. And HURRY.

  More calls …

  And …

  Rhiannon

  My battery is dying. I’m scared. I’m waiting for you. ELLIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?

  I read the pings.

  My mobile buzzes half-heartedly with an alert: Low Battery.

  I ping her back.

  Ellie

  Hang on Rhi I’m coming – can I call anyone? What should I tell them? How bad is it? Do you need police? Be as quick as I can – but need to charge battery/do stuff to be safe … it’s a long way – but I’ll hurry xxx

  But really, don’t you think we should call your dad?

  I reread the pings.

  An electric shock jolts across my chest. I try to breathe. A landslide. Dinas Emrys. Shapes
in the mist. Someone dead?

  Henry?

  My déjà vu just goes mental.

  I must get there. I must check the cave. And what does Rhi mean ‘V V V urgent and V V V V V V V V terrible’?

  My heart pounds. Even though I’m shivering, another sweat breaks out across my back – it turns icy. Then I shiver some more. And because it’s so cold I pull the knitted patchwork blanket over me and don’t do anything at all except shiver. Because you know how it is, when you get that sudden fear on you – you hardly know what to do. Grab things. Keep on shivering? Go and do something? Think first? Everything gets in the way.

  If I’m going to get over to Dinas Emrys, I’m going to have to take my bike. I mean, hire a cab? At this hour? Is Rhi out of her mind? Everything in Llanberis will be closed. I’d have difficulty even getting a taxi from Caernarfon in the middle of the night. No, I’m going to have to cycle all the way up through the pass, up to the top and then down the other side towards Beddgelert. So I better get going.

  Slight problem: phone has low battery.

  Emergency Rescue Rule Book (LMS&R Hand Book. Section 33): ‘Emergency rescue recovery missions in serious weather: NEVER set out without a fully charged battery on a minimum of two mobiles or handheld devices.’

  OK, I only have one and it is flat.

  Stay calm and charge your phone, Ellie. Rhiannon is such a drama queen: Miss V V V Urgent and V V V V V V V V Terrible. She’ll just have to wait. I mean. The landslide hasn’t toppled on her, has it? Why isn’t she calling Caernarfon? (Perhaps she has … ) I totally understand why she can’t tell her dad. What the hell is she doing over at Dinas Emrys anyway?

  With my Henry.

  Perhaps it really is awful.

  Arrgh! I need to hurry.

  Think it through, Ellie, I tell myself. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. It will take you at least three quarters of an hour, maybe longer, to bike it. It’s all the way up past Nant Peris. (It will take definitely longer.) It will be dark. It will be cold. Grab something to eat. Carbohydrate load. Poor Rhiannon, she must be terrified. Take your daysack. Think it through. No good setting off before you’ve thought it through. Rhi is going to have to wait. The emergency services will get there soon. They can take her home. (But I’m still going, you know. What about Henry?) If the emergency services can’t take her, she can ride pillion over the back wheel. We can freewheel into Beddgelert, ditch the bike … wait for a bus … are there night buses? Take extra bike lights.