Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  I peer out of the car window, trying not to let my imagination run wild. It would be only too easy to think something is moving among the rocks outside; something that is managing to keep just out of sight.

  We’ve barely moved a few more yards up the track, when George points to his right. ‘Look! Something is watching us!’

  I swing round and look out. Perched on a big rock is a bird. Its head is thrust to one side and it’s staring straight at us. Its eye is round and dark and does not blink.

  ‘It’s a carrion crow,’ mutters George.

  I shudder. I hate crows. I hate the way they tear out the eyes of newborn lambs. I hate that.

  As we pass the rock, the crow doesn’t move. Not one of its feathers stirs. It doesn’t blink its eye even. But after we pass, it makes one elated hop and lets out a shrill caw. A horrid feeling curls itself into my stomach. That shrill caw feels like an announcement, an update for other things, hidden in the mist, waiting for us up on the mountain. I remember Gran’s reading: ‘This crow or raven is an ill omen, a warning, or an ambush.’

  ‘Let’s stay on our guard,’ I whisper to George.

  ‘It took us about an hour to walk there.’ Rhiannon says bravely. I can see that she’s trying very hard not to let that crow frighten her too. Something inside me starts to relent. After all, she was my very best bestie.

  ‘An hour?’ I say.

  ‘About that, I think,’ says Rhiannon. ‘Maybe more.’

  I smile. Rhiannon’s not a mountain girl, like me. She doesn’t know every rock and tussock. Plus she doesn’t know all the shortcuts either. The whole coven must have taken the long way round to reach the Maen Du’r Arddu – the Black Stone. The idea of a bunch of girls all dressed up as witches, traipsing through heather and bracken, getting stuck in bog, going cross-country from the Llanberis path, makes me smile.

  But I don’t indulge myself. I don’t turn to Rhiannon and say, ‘Cripes! That must have made you all very muddy and cross. Why didn’t you use your broomsticks?’ You see, I haven’t totally forgiven her yet. Although I think I might be softening a little.

  ‘I know a shortcut,’ I say. ‘We’ll park the car at my place, and take the path through the upper pasture, it’ll save a load of time.’

  George looks doubtful. He pulls a face. He steers the Land Rover along the twisting track.

  ‘I’m not really sure, Ellie,’ he says. ‘That may not be such a good idea. Why don’t we wait and go tomorrow morning, at first light?’

  Tomorrow? At first light?

  Is he loony?

  I am sooooo not going to agree to that. But I take a moment to think of the best way to convince him.

  ‘Let’s figure out how far we’ll have to go,’ I say.

  ‘We’ve got about an hour,’ says George. ‘After that the sun will go down behind the mountain and it’ll get very dark.’

  ‘Try to describe exactly where you went,’ I say to Rhiannon. I’m buying a bit of time. Trying to think of a way to convince George.

  ‘Well, we just kept on going past your place up as far as the track would go,’ Rhiannon pauses. ‘And then we kept on going towards that dark brackish sort of lake – under that black cliff. You know that place,’ says Rhiannon.

  I know that place very well. Clogwyn Du’r Arddu, the Black Cliff of the Darkness; one of the most frightening places on Snowdon.

  ‘The Supreme One said it was a magical spot, that the stone had ancient properties, and if we buried the dragon’s heart there, it would stay protected by the darkness of that cliff and some old witchy stuff … ’ Rhiannon’s voice trails off.

  I know exactly where she means.

  ‘That’s the Maen Du’r Arddu. The Black Stone of the Darkness. And the witch associated with it was called Canrig Bwt. Anyway it’s way before you get to the Black Cliff. It’s not far up past my place,’ I say to George. I look at him. I place my hand on his shoulder, ‘I think we can make it within the hour.’

  Crikey. I am such a liar. There is no way we can get up to the Black Stone and back before it’s pitch dark.

  ‘Please, let’s go there straightaway,’ I say.

  I think George hears the desperation in my voice. I think Rhiannon hears it too. She stops sniffling and says, ‘OK’ in a sad, surprised sort of way.

  ‘Righty-ho, then,’ says George.

  That’s the thing I love about George. He is always ready for anything, even if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

  ‘We’ll need to leave the Land Rover a bit nearer than your place, and cut across country,’ he says.

  Over the ridge, where the bracken grows really thick in a red-brown carpet, I catch a glimpse of my place. Mist clings to the lawn around the house. The air lies still and heavy over the buildings, as if a thunderstorm is waiting to explode. Only the whine of the windscreen wipers punctuates the silence, as they clear the sleet settling on the windscreen.

  It is only as we go past the end of the long drive up to the farmhouse that I remember.

  ‘Wait!’ I shout.

  ‘What?’ says George.

  ‘The newborns!’ I say. ‘We brought them in because of the cold.’

  ‘When? Where?’ asks George.

  ‘The lambs,’ I say. ‘I was supposed to feed them. They’ll be thirsty, hungry. We must go up to my place right now.’

  ‘OK,’ says George, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  See what I mean?

  Mr Totally Lovely Nice Guy.

  ‘We’re not going to be able to get to the stone anyway,’ says Rhiannon from the back of the Land Rover.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because the Supreme One laid charms all around it. And she wrote words in the air, which will protect it ’til she comes back. And she said she’d put the watchers on it too.’ Rhiannon’s voice shakes a little.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to try,’ I say.

  We start the long drive up towards our farm. Grey stone walls blend into grey mist. I fret about the lambs; remember how this morning they were all so warm and cuddly.

  As soon as we get into the yard, I know something is wrong.

  Firstly there is a thick, sweet smell of something earthy, like the scent of fox. And secondly, the shed to the newborns is unlatched. I know I didn’t leave it that way.

  And then I notice tracks in the snow.

  The tracks of dogs, many dogs – and we only have one dog, Ceri, and she should be in the farmhouse.

  My heart beats faster. A horrible cold shiver goes down my back; all those tiny, little, snuggling, sweet-smelling lambs.

  And Ceri?

  It’s absolutely quiet.

  Not a sound.

  Only the distant call of that crow again. And it should not be silent. The whole yard should be filled with the sound of bleating: the soft snuffly snorts of the mother ewes, the tiny mewings of newborn lambs.

  Only silence.

  I race to the sheds.

  ‘Wait! Hang on Ellie!’ calls George. ‘Don’t go in!’

  Rhiannon screams.

  I wheel around. There, to one side of the shed, is the carcass of a ewe, ripped open from her neck right down to her belly. Blood smears the snow. Her throat has been chewed out.

  ‘No!’ I cry. ‘NOOOO!’

  My heart. I can’t think. Breathe. I can’t breathe. Not my lambs. I can’t stop myself. I race to the sheds, yank at the door. It’s already flapping on its hinges.

  Inside I smell it: blood and death.

  The smell of suffering.

  I flick on the shed light.

  It’s the worst mess I’ve ever seen: every single one of our ewes, mauled to pieces. Every single one of our new lambs …

  My babies.

  My sweet cuddly little newborn babies.

  My hands start shaking, my knees dissolve, can’t seem to hold me.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  All my little ones.

  My heart pounds.

  I can’t belie
ve it.

  ‘Steady,’ says George. He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘We need to get out of here fast,’ he says.

  ‘NO! My little lambs,’ I cry. ‘Maybe one’s left. Please, let me look. Maybe one’s survived.’

  ‘Ellie,’ says George, ‘this wasn’t done by any stray dog. Look at the way they’ve been savaged. Even an Alsatian couldn’t rip their heads off like that. And can’t you smell it? Whatever creature did this, is still around.’

  I don’t listen. I struggle through the mess. Lift limp, still-warm carcasses – Oh still so warm.

  Maybe cuddled beneath one is a tiny, surviving baby lamb?

  ‘Let’s get out of here. Please Ellie.’

  But I shake George’s arm off. I pull and tear and sob and there’s sheep’s blood on my hands and fleece stuck to my fingers and there’s nothing. Nothing. I hear the Land Rover door slam. I hear Rhiannon screaming. And I can’t stop searching. I look again and again among the strewn bodies. I kick the straw aside. I pull at bloody carcasses hoping for a live, nestling newborn …

  Nothing.

  Not one.

  All slain. All throats ripped out. All bloodstained coats.

  ‘We must get out. Now,’ insists George. ‘Stop, Ellie. Listen!’ George grabs hold of my arm.

  And I do stop. I lift up my head and I hear it. A long, drawn-out, eerie howling.

  And I remember Ceri.

  Ceri, our dog, stuck in the farmhouse.

  ‘Ellie, I’m telling you,’ George drags me. ‘We need to leave, get back into the Land Rover.’ He opens his backpack, removes his axe.

  ‘I’m going to get Ceri.’

  I don’t wait for an answer. I race to the farmhouse. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something glinting through the mist. I scrabble for the key above the lintel and open the front door.

  Thank God! Thank God!

  Ceri jumps up at me, licks my face, wags her tail, winds around my legs, barks, turns round in circles and throws herself repeatedly at my chest. I have never seen her so pleased to see me. She’s shivering all over, looks in a terrible state.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘I’m not leaving you here.’

  I grab her lead. I grab her. I don’t stop for anything else. I slam the door behind me. George and Rhiannon are there. We turn; get past the barn and the race for the Land Rover.

  But it is too late.

  The whole yard field is filled with them.

  Cadaverous. Deadly.

  I’ve never seen anything like these things before.

  Huge wolf-like creatures.

  ‘Stand back,’ says George. He brandishes his axe above his head.

  But the wolves glide eerily towards us.

  FIFTEEN

  ELLIE’S PHONE 1 March 17.15

  Status: No coverage … No coverage … No coverage …

  There are more than half a dozen of them, thin, ragged. They creep towards us. The lead wolf is huge. His coat is flecked in silver, his muzzle dark, jaws open. He snarls, flashing huge incisors. Flecks of spittle hang on his coat.

  All of them have wiry bodies; their heads long, pointed; ears flattened against bony skulls; mean white eyes; gaping mouths reveal rows of sharp teeth, drooling tongues. Their fish-white chests are stained wet with lambs’ blood.

  ‘Stay back.’ George pushes me behind him. Ceri whimpers, hides between my legs, nearly trips me up. Rhiannon screams.

  Heart racing, suddenly dizzy, I clutch at the farmhouse wall. George brandishes his axe. I stare at the creatures.

  Are they wolves? But we don’t have wolves on Snowdon.

  We don’t have wolves anywhere in Britain.

  And they don’t seem to care about the axe.

  They don’t seem to care about anything in fact.

  The smell of death is everywhere. Rhiannon shrieks in impossibly high-pitched bursts. The lead creature doesn’t stop, doesn’t even waver. He just lets out a series of snarls, darts his eyes around and howls, hackles raised.

  His fangs shine in the gloom.

  George can’t fight them all.

  One of the creatures lunges. For a second we’re rooted to the spot, but only for a second. Instinct kicks in. We race across the lawn towards the Land Rover.

  ‘Stop!’ yells George, he swings his axe low and wide around him, the creatures back off a little, crouch down and wait. He points.

  I understand.

  Rhiannon seems to be hyperventilating.

  We’ve been cut off. There is no way we can make it to the Land Rover, or back to the safety of the farmhouse.

  ‘Take the upper path!’ screams George. ‘Get away from the buildings!’

  The path that leads to the mountain.

  But I see what he means. Barns, high walls, no escape routes.

  But surely they’ll outrun us?

  I spin around, looking for some place, somewhere safe to get to. There’s nothing, just open farmyard, dead ends and hillside, beyond the dark sweep of the mountain.

  Uphill and not down.

  ‘Make for the top pasture!’ I yell. I’m going to try and trap them in the lambing pen.

  I edge to one side, press my back against the gate catch, make sure it’s open.

  ‘I’m going to sprint across the pen,’ I hiss at George. ‘Hold Ceri back. When they follow, dart out from the cover of this barn and slam the gate shut. Then head up on to the mountain.’

  ‘No way Ellie,’ says George.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m on home territory,’ I say. ‘I can do this.’

  I don’t wait. I don’t need George’s permission. Gently, I push open the pen gate. I flex my legs slightly. George throws another axe slash at the wolves. I turn then I’m through the gate, and sprinting across the lambing pen.

  I know they want me; I know wild animals.

  And I know dogs. They have some kind of hardwired instinct, which tells them ‘chase’ when they see something run. These wolves are no different. Sure enough, they chase, howling into the wind, like banshees.

  Into the lambing pen.

  And I run like I’ve never run before.

  The pen is not too wide; perhaps only twelve metres across, but it feels like the longest twelve metres I’ve ever run. At every stride I expect to feel fangs sink into my legs, feel the weight of some huge wolfish thing bring me down. My breath comes in gasps. My chest burns.

  I … make … it … to the other side.

  Hallelujah!

  I put one hand on the top rail, and the other on the side paling. I gate-vault over the far fence and I’m amazed at my own agility.

  Number one: after the stress I’ve gone through, I didn’t think I had the energy left.

  Number two: I have never been able to gate-vault over a fence successfully. (Although I’ve always wanted to.)

  I don’t even experience landing on the far side. I hear the gate click to. George did it. We did it, bought ourselves a few minutes.

  George yells, ‘Run for the hills!’

  I wish I’d said, ‘Run for the hills’. It’s one of those lines that afterwards you’d laugh about. A long time afterwards.

  If there ever was going to be an afterwards.

  We run.

  We fling ourselves through a gap into the top pasture, and we’re bursting up the slope in a flurry of frosty dead red bracken.

  How long will the lambing pen hold them?

  I’m almost at the last fence. Almost. George isn’t far behind. I look back at him. I’m thinking: Run. Hide. Run. Hide. Run! Hide! Don’t let them break out.

  Suddenly he is right beside me. ‘Keep going, Ellie,’ he hisses. ‘I’ll help Rhiannon.’

  I leap from a drystone wall, I burst through the heather, don’t bother with anything else. Ceri is beside me, yelping, her tail flat against her back legs. I’m halfway through the top pasture. I pull at sedge and leap stones. I tear into undergrowth, swerve sround boulders, rip through air like a lightning flash.

  Footsteps crash behind me. T
hem? Rhiannon? Is she OK? Must be George. Brave George.

  I can hear ragged breath right at my back. Something’s howling. Up ahead is just mountain. I weave between boulders, zigzag, leap, twist. Once they’re out, how fast can those creatures run? The ground’s covered with trailers, dead, twisted stems. Treacherous. If I slip, I’ll fall down. A wailing, shrieking tears past me. Christ they’re out! They’re coming.

  Holy hell!

  Our only chance is to get across the slope. Make it to the Black Stone. Keep going. I topple a pile of rocks, kick on turf. My lungs can’t take it. One chance. Gasping, coughing. My chest. My chest. On the other side of this slope is the Black Stone: down, round a corner, past boggy streams.

  One chance.

  Get there.

  Just run.

  Just pray.

  Just make it to the stone.

  Rhiannon needs help. Stop? Help her? I know she’s been horrible, but she is my friend.

  Where is George?

  Stop then. Check.

  There’s a deafening howl behind me. I look back. They’ve broken a gap in the pen. The wolves are through into the upper pasture.

  The last farmyard fence may delay them for a bit.

  Rhi and George are only ten metres behind me.

  ‘There!’ I point at the bank ahead. ‘Get to the Black Stone. Climb it.’

  I run. Take the slope. Jump over boulders. I’m in the air. I scream. My arms are outstretched in front of me. I hit the mountainside still running and tumble forward.

  Get up. Keep running.

  Through white icy mist, I see it. About thirty metres above us, and to our right – a high, black-topped, flat-shaped boulder standing out against the sky: the Black Stone – the stone where the witches buried Henry’s heart.

  Make for that! Climb on top. We’ll hold them off. Beat them back.

  I’m splashing through icy swamp: Oh My God. So cold. Stumble. Freezing water over the tops of my shoes.

  I flounder up the hill. Head diagonally across the mountain slope; make for the bottom of the stone. ‘George,’ I yell. ‘C’mon!’

  Behind him the wolves are streaming out of the farmyard. Some are trying to leap the last fence.

  Finally, George, half dragging, half carrying Rhiannon, catches up.

  The stone is huge and hard to climb. I lace my hands together and yell, ‘You first, George. You’re stronger. I’ll give you a leg up, then haul us up?’ George steps on my makeshift step-up. I hold hard, push.