Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  I am officially shouting now.

  Rhiannon is officially crying.

  George is officially shushing.

  I am officially NOT going to stop.

  ‘I don’t even know why I’m sitting here. YOU ARE TOTALLY NOT MY FRIEND ANY MORE!’ I shout. ‘You are TOTALLY TOTALLY TOTALLY NEVER going to be my friend again!’

  I can feel that spring inside me getting more and more wound up.

  ‘Plus, I lost my bike because that creepy man in stripy pyjamas nicked it.’

  ‘Now, let’s take this calmly,’ says George.

  ‘Take this CALMLY?’ I screech back at him.

  ‘Don’t start on George,’ says Rhiannon again. ‘And I’ll buy you a new bike.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ I say. ‘And STUFF your new bike.’

  I mean. Does she think she can buy me off? I don’t need her to buy me a stupid new bike, just because she has money. (I do actually. But that’s not the point.)

  ‘A GIRL DIED!’ I yell. ‘And do you know I’ve got to go back to court on 20 March to tell the world why I didn’t kill somebody that, hang on, I Didn’t Kill!’

  ‘I know you didn’t kill her,’ says Rhiannon.

  Hallelujah!

  ‘Quick George, get out your phone. My battery is flat – guess why. I want that on tape. Say that again,’ I say.

  George pulls out his phone. ‘This is important evidence, really Rhi,’ he says.

  Rhiannon looks at George. Her chin quivers. Her throat is doing all sorts of sad swallowing stuff. Tears are welling up and wobbling in her eyes. Do I Care?

  ‘I know you didn’t kill Fiona,’ says Rhiannon quite clearly into the phone.

  I am flabbergasted. I didn’t expect us to actually get that on record quite so quickly. A surge of relief swells through me. Well, that will deal with one of the witness statements. Only another eleven to go …

  ‘Now,’ says George, ‘I know everybody is upset, and actually to tell you the truth, I’m quite upset too – but we’ve got into something, way bigger than whether or not Ellie’s going to get a bike back. Even bigger than being arrested.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say to Rhiannon. ‘Bigger – much bigger. Do you know anything about these mountains? No, you do not. But you think it’s OK to go tramping over them and casting spells and waving wands, as if you are in some stupid primary-school play.’

  ‘Elles,’ says George, ‘blaming Rhi right now, isn’t going to help. It’s wasting time.’

  Time. Yeah, he’s right. We’ve only got three days and today is nearly over. Hastily I glance out of the conservatory. It seems to be getting dark already.

  ‘Where is Henry?’ I force Rhiannon to look at me. ‘What did you do with him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Rhiannon ‘What’s Henry got to do with this?’

  I remember that Rhiannon actually doesn’t know much about what happened at Christmas. For starters she doesn’t know that Henry is – in point of fact –a dragon. So I try a different tack. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘tell me, exactly, in complete detail, everything about last night. Go over and over it, as if I am brain dead, again and again. Let me help you. Start here: you went up to the mountain. You chanted magical spells. You sped up time. The mountain cracked open and then what?’

  ‘It was just awful,’ wails Rhiannon. ‘Fiona slipped and fell.’

  ‘And? Yes?’ I say, ‘Then what happened?’ I shudder. That poor poor girl.

  ‘The S.O. – that’s the Supreme One, went down into the crevasse and … ’

  Rhiannon pauses.

  ‘Yesss?’ I add.

  ‘I’m trying to remember,’ wails Rhiannon. ‘It was soooo awful. She seemed to be looking for something … ’

  ‘Yesss?’ I continue.

  ‘Well, I think she found it, because she held something up.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’ I say.

  ‘It was sort of a lumpy and black and … nothing really. I thought it was a rock. That’s all.’

  ‘Did you see any … ’ I hesitate, but Henry is more important than whether Rhiannon thinks I’m mental, so I continue. ‘Did you see any dragons by any chance? A red one perhaps?’

  Rhiannon looks at me. Her eyes go wide and weird. She pulls a random expression with her mouth. She rolls her eyes. She looks at George for help.

  God bless George. He just nods his head, like it’s a perfectly sensible question.

  Rhi shakes her head. ‘No dragons.’

  ‘So what did you see?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, first of all, I heard a shriek. It was horrible. Then I thought I saw yellow eyes. And I thought I heard giant teeth or claws scraping. And then there was a horrible smell. And it looked like – from the lip of the abyss – some foul creature was crawling out. It had huge wings and a spiny neck and hideous eyes.’

  ‘Like a dragon?’

  Rhiannon twists up her mouth. ‘Sort of, but it wasn’t cute and cuddly and red and like the Welsh Dragon. It was like a worm, but like obviously way bigger. But … ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But then Fiona fell in, or maybe she had already fallen – it’s like it all happened at once, like time had somehow come to a full stop. There was crashing and screaming and a kind of earth tremor – I think I imagined all that, because you know, I was in shock and we’d all drunk some potion. And I don’t actually think the worm thing did crawl out of anywhere – in fact the Supreme One said it didn’t, and we were to forget any visiony thingies because that was just the potion.’

  ‘Ha!’ I say. ‘Your Supreme One is trying to brainwash you. Something crawled out of that den all right.’

  Rhiannon lifts one shoulder, then lets it fall.

  ‘Was there anything else, Rhi?’ says George. ‘Try to remember.’

  ‘There was a rush of heat, like something shooting past towards the sky. Then it got all misty.’

  ‘But no Red Dragon?’ I insist.

  I can’t believe it. Henry was in the lair. If Oswald the White Dragon was there and crawled out, what happened to Henry?

  For one dreadful second I imagine he died and Oswald ate him, but the thought is so foul, it makes me want to vomit.

  ‘But that wasn’t actually all,’ says Rhiannon, very quietly.

  ‘OK,’ I say patiently, ‘tell me the rest.’

  ‘Do you promise to keep it a secret?’ asks Rhiannon.

  ‘What?’ I ask, less patiently.

  ‘You see, if the Supreme One finds out that I told you … ’ Rhiannon’s voice trails off. Her eyes dart around the room. She makes the sign of the cross over her heart, which is weird, because she is not religious, although apparently she is a witch.

  ‘We promise,’ says George.

  ‘I don’t know if I do,’ I say. ‘If it affects Henry, I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘Please?’ Rhiannon looks so pitiful, like she’s truly afraid of something.

  If I don’t promise, she might not tell me.

  ‘OK,’ I say. I have my fingers cunningly crossed behind my back.

  ‘Well, after the police took you, and I’d finished making my statement, we – I mean the whole coven – all had to meet up again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Today, up on the mountain – behind your place.’

  ‘Behind my place?’ I say? ‘Why?’

  ‘We all had to go out to this rock thing and bury something.’

  ‘Bury something?’ I realise I’m parroting everything Rhi says.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘we had to go and bury that black thing.’

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘We had to put everything else on hold, and I was really tired.’ Rhiannon’s voice develops a slight whinge.

  ‘Where exactly?’ I say.

  ‘Do you know the place you went to?’ says George.

  ‘Of course I do,’ says Rhiannon.

  ‘Right,’ says George, ‘we’re going to dig it up. Get your hat and coat and gloves, because it’s cold out there. Y
ou’re coming with us to show us the place, right now.’

  ‘RIGHT NOW?’ screeches Rhiannon.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Right. Now.’

  It’s obvious Rhiannon doesn’t have a clue how serious this is. She doesn’t have a clue what they buried either.

  Neither do I for that matter, though I’m beginning to work it out.

  ‘Apart from burying the black thing, did you cast a spell or anything again?’ I ask. I figure if they did, it’d be better if we knew about it.

  ‘Yes,’ mumbles Rhiannon.

  ‘Can you remember it?’

  ‘Mostly,’ says Rhiannon.

  ‘So?’

  ‘We had to chant –

  “Round and round and round we go

  To bury our secret down below

  At the Black Stone, where legends start

  We inter the dragon’s heart.”

  ‘Or something like that, but better.’

  The dragon’s heart?

  A cold shiver goes through me.

  ‘You went to bury a dragon’s heart under the Black Stone?’ I ask.

  I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t understand anything. I don’t want to think that a blackish lump was the shining heart I remember.

  Henry’s heart?

  Surely not.

  But then, I remember that anonymous text I got up on the pass.

  So where is your BF then? I told you Hands Off or it was WAR. Well, eat your heart out GF cos his <3 belongs to me now.

  A shiver runs down my spine: ‘his <3 belongs to me now’.

  And the Maen Du’r Arddu. The Black Stone of the Darkness.1

  No Henry. A blackish lump. Broken crystals. Evil Sir Oswald. Blood of a sacrifice. An interment. At the creepy Black Stone. A heart that was mine.

  Was meant to be mine.

  What does it all mean?

  ‘Pull your boots on, Rhiannon.’ I say. ‘You’re taking us to exactly the place where you buried that dragon’s heart, and you’ve got a decision to make: either you’re on our side, with George and me, or you’re the enemy.’

  1 There is a Black Lake, a Black Precipice and a Black Stone of the Swarthy – Llyn Pur, Clogwyn Du’r Arddu and Maen Du’r Arddu near Lower Llanberis. In ancient times, some used to worship at the Black Stone and it is sometimes called ‘Black Pete’ or ‘Pierre du Diable’ – The Devil’s Stone.[back]

  FOURTEEN

  ELLIE’S PHONE 1 March 16.47

  Status: EXTREMELY WORRIED

  Recent updates:

  Sheila

  Ha ha ha – I heard you are in MASSIVE trouble. Lol.

  It’s absolutely dreadful in the Land Rover.

  Rhiannon is sitting in the back, looking even more puffy-eyed and tearful than ever. Every few metres, she makes a low little moan and whimpers out, ‘I am so sorry’.

  Like that fools anyone.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she blubs.

  Puke.

  ‘The Supreme One threatened me.’

  Zillion eye-rolls.

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I was scared she’d push me in the hole.’

  Bored now.

  ‘And I didn’t mean it. I was always going to take my statement back.’

  Whatevs.

  ‘Please don’t tell the Supreme One.’

  Yawn.

  To which George, being the darling he is, tries to cheer her up by saying, ‘Nobody is going to push you in a hole or bully you, Rhi. Not with me around. But you shouldn’t have done it. Firstly, because that poor girl’s family won’t know what to believe. Secondly, it really is very serious. Thirdly, it’s going to look bad – you withdrawing your statement when eleven others haven’t. Also, it’s really upset Ellie.’

  Yes. It. Has.

  I am sitting in the front and not listening to all her moaning. I am not feeling sorry for her. That is because I have not forgiven her. Not yet. Especially when she says: ‘Do you think the police will charge me for wasting police time, then?’

  It is so obvious she is still worrying about herself and not worrying about Fiona – or Fiona’s family, or me, and how all her stupid witchy stuff has led to this. So therefore she’s not really sorry at all. Plus she just doesn’t want George to think badly of her. Plus she probably won’t change her statement if the Supreme One has another go at her. That is the entire sum of how much I matter to her. Full stop.

  ‘Who is the Supreme One anyway?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know,’ moans Rhiannon. ‘She always had a mask on and spoke in a weird voice.’

  ‘But surely you noticed something?’ asks George.

  Rhiannon starts weeping again and complains that he’s sounding ‘cross’.

  I do not sigh. I do not roll my eyes. I do not forget that this is not about Rhiannon or me.

  ‘So how did this Supreme One persuade you and the others to join this coven?’ I say.

  ‘She contacted me online,’ whispers Rhi.

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What, and told you to go up to Dinas Emrys in the middle of the night?’

  Rhiannon sends me an evil look. Then rolls her eyes in the direction of the back of George’s head.

  Ah, I get it.

  A love spell.

  Oblivious, George carries on driving. He tries to keep everybody cheerful. He starts saying, ‘Oh well, at least we are all together’. And then, ‘At least we’ve started to put the problem right’.

  Until I have to mutter, ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, shut up!’

  Rhiannon shakes her head at me and makes Please Don’t Tell George eyes.

  I just want answers: ‘Well, what do you know about the Supreme One, then?’ I ask. ‘Who is this person who can destroy a dragons’ den?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ sobs Rhiannon. ‘I told you, she always wore a mask.’

  ‘Well, try and tell me what you can,’ I say.

  ‘Her mask was all lacy and it had like raven wings, like a carnival sort of type-thing. We all wore masks too,’ wails Rhiannon.

  ‘Yes, but was she tall, small, fat, thin … ’ I am not being facetious. I really want to know.

  Rhiannon suddenly yanks at George’s arm, as if she’s had a eureka moment. The car swerves. ‘WE ALL WORE MASKS! Do you think she knows who I really am? Like my address and everything? She only knew my username, so maybe she doesn’t!’

  ‘Hardly,’ I say. ‘If she can destroy half of Snowdon, and awake all the Olde Deepe Magicke, I think she can work out who you are.’

  ‘What was your username?’ asks George more kindly.

  ‘Rhiannon,’ says Rhiannon.

  ‘I rest my case,’ I say.

  Rhiannon slumps back, starts sniffing again.

  We leave Llanberis and head up towards our farm. Around us, the mountains close in. Clouds settle on the peaks. I don’t like the way they are gathering over the summit of Snowdon. Even the nearby slopes seem to be rapidly disappearing into sheets of rolling white mist.

  ‘Will you know the way?’ I ask Rhi. ‘Cos, it’s gonna be very misty.’

  Before she can answer, George butts in: ‘What about her voice?’ he asks. ‘Did she have an accent? Or a lisp … ’

  ‘No, she spoke through an interpreter,’ moans Rhiannon.

  ‘An interpreter?’ I say (tbh, quite snappily – I know – please don’t judge. I can only say in my defence that I’d had a bad day).

  ‘Not a person,’ says Rhiannon. ‘A sort of pipe thing. It looked like a long piece of brass, or some kind of copper horn. It changed her voice.’

  ‘So,’ responds George, ‘she’s not the only one who wants to stop the Coraniaid from hearing her plans, then.’

  Cripes. We’ve not been using the copper piping! Gran is going to be sooo mad with us.

  ‘The what?’ says Rhiannon.

  I don’t bother explaining. It’s all too much. Plus I’m not sure I can get Rhiannon up to speed, the mood she’s in. ‘So whose side is this Supreme One on
?’ I say, mostly to George.

  I thought there were only two sides. Henry’s and mine: with Granny Jones and George and everyone good and lovely. And then Oswald’s side: with everyone revolting and evil.

  But suddenly I think of the Brenin Llwydd and his grey riders. Whose side are they on? And are they gathering, watching our Land Rover right now, deciding where and how and when they will swoop down on us?

  ‘How long have we got until dark?’ George asks in a worried voice, as we pull off the main road and on to our side of Snowdon. ‘How far exactly, up the mountain, did you bury this thing, Rhiannon?’

  He seems to be calculating whether to drive on past my place and head for Gran’s.

  I, for one, am totally sure that we should not stay out after dark. I am sure Gran would say COME HOME RIGHT NOW. In caps. But if a coven of hateful witches has buried my Henry’s heart out on the mountainside, I am not going to leave it there for one second longer than I have to.

  And after all, I reason to myself, I went out last night, I biked all the way up through the pass, and I survived.

  Didn’t I?

  I force myself to forget about the terrible howling, forget about rockfall. If I can get on my bike at midnight on 29 February and brave all those scary things to save Rhiannon, what more can’t I do to save Henry?

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ says Rhiannon suddenly. ‘It’s like we’re being watched.’

  I don’t contradict her. I too have the same weird oppressive feeling, like something really is watching us.

  I shiver.

  The mists close in. The bracken, dark red against the snow, looks like dried blood.

  George doesn’t laugh, either. He frowns and draws his eyebrows together. Have I told you before that George has the most amazingly fantastic eyebrows? Well, he has (though I still don’t fancy him – obvs). Right now, they look like a kid’s drawing of a seagull; all meeting in the middle, in one, long, dark, expressive line.

  Anyway, all of a sudden, as he frowns, he pushes his shoulder blades back against the car seat and rubs them, as if they’re sore. I know that movement. It’s one I make sometimes, when I get the feeling that something is running its fingers down my spine.