Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  ‘Hey George,’ calls Rhiannon, ‘now you’ve got a shining white charger, you are most welcome to carry me off.’ She leans out of the cottage window, showing far too much cleavage.

  I think of a snappy retort, but I don’t say it. I am practising being much nicer. George grins at Rhi and shouts back, ‘Aw, Rhi, you are too kind’.

  Two more ponies – one, a grey mare with dappled markings, the other black as coal tar – trot out of the small herd. The black pony pounds the ground beside Keincaled, the chestnut, he snorts and puffs. Great clouds of white steam mushroom out into the snowy air.

  One is for Rhiannon, I guess, but the other? Is Gran coming too?

  Gran lifts up her copper piping. ‘Diolch, fy rhai annwyl,’ she croons towards the band of ponies.1 ‘We will look after your dear ones and return them to you. And forever it will be sung upon our side of the mountain that the Welsh ponies of Snowdonia came to the rescue of Y Ddraig Goch in his hour of need.’

  The ponies lift up their heads and whinny and neigh, as if they have understood her every word.

  ‘Now,’ she turns back to us and waves her piping in the air. ‘Come on, look lively. You must trust these ponies. They have come of their own free will and are ready to carry you to the summit of Cadair Idris. But they will not suffer you to harness them; and they will not be spurred or whipped. And should any of them decide that they no longer wish to carry you, you must accept their decision, for they are friends and not servants.’

  The front door opens, Ceri rushes out, bounding through the snow like crazy. She jumps up and around in front of the ponies, all tail-wagging and doggy-dancing and yip-yapping.

  Rhiannon comes out too, dressed in the most fetching of snow-suits. It’s bright pink with snazzy bits. It would definitely have looked truly bizarre on Gran, but Rhi somehow makes everything look glam.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ She waves her arms about and pirouettes.

  Well Oswald won’t have any trouble locating us wherever we go then, will he? She’s probably visible from outer space.

  I shudder. I open my mouth to say something. I close it again. I. Am. Going. To. Be. Nicer. Besides, Oswald has dragon vision; he can probably see the rings round Jupiter with his eyes shut anyway.

  George helps Rhiannon on to the dapple-grey pony. Gran stands upright in the porch, looking for all the world like a small female Gandalf in a velvet skirt and paisley shawl.

  ‘Is the black pony for you, Gran?’ I say. I’m really hoping she’ll come with us. I know George is strong and all that, but Gran knows so much more – I’d feel a zillion times safer.

  Gran shakes her head. She stretches out her hand. The black pony, moves closer, nuzzles it like an old friend.

  ‘I am not going with you,’ she says. ‘I am too old to ride ponies over mountains. I would only slow you down.’

  ‘Then the black pony?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ advises Gran. ‘These ponies know what they are about. And by the way his name is Widow-maker.’

  ‘Widow-maker?’ says Rhi.

  ‘Yes,’ says Gran. ‘On account of those who have tried to catch and ride him.’

  I blink. Wow.

  ‘But though I am not coming, I have been thinking of your safety,’ she says, ‘and I have a gift for both of you girls – should you need it.’

  ‘Typical,’ sighs George, as he springs on to the back of the white cob. ‘The only thing I ever get is orders.’

  Gran ignores him, rather superbly. ‘For you Ellie,’ she says, ‘I have prepared this. It’s a powder made of the insects I spoke of.’

  I stretch my hand out rather gingerly. I am not sure I want insect powder.

  ‘Do not fear,’ says Gran through her piping. ‘I have made a dust from their shells; they cannot harm you. The Coraniaid hate these creatures and the time may come when you will need to throw this dust in their eyes.’ She nods wisely and hands me an old plastic-topped yogurt pot, full of something brown and icky looking. ‘And on that note, don’t forget your piping.’ She hands each of us a fresh length of copper piping, as if the bits we’d been using were past their sell-by date. ‘Never discuss anything of importance except through these. As you have seen, your lives may depend on it.’

  The extra bits of plumbing are duly handed round. It occurs to me that we’ve probably enough between us to plumb a small cottage, if we fancied it.

  ‘Now, for you Rhiannon,’ she says kindly, ‘I’ve suspected from the start, that you had a role to play in this quest, so I’ve searched the hills and found you an adder stone. You must wear it around your neck and use it when the time comes.’

  ‘A what?’ shrieks Rhiannon. ‘An adder stone?’2 She flaps her hands about. ‘But how will I know when the time comes?’ Rhiannon looks over at George, her eyes turned up to full volume of pukey manipulative patheticness wide and beautiful.

  ‘Now Rhiannon,’ says Gran sharply, all her gentleness gone. ‘Do not play games. You willingly joined a witches’ circle. You know they will find a way to use you, to control you, to force you to betray the mission – if they can. You are already familiar with the Dark Arts, and have used them to bring about much harm. You are known by those who would practise Black Magicke and they have put their mark upon you. The adder stone, sometimes known as a hag stone or witch’s stone will protect you and, trust me, you will definitely know when it is time to use it.’

  I love it!

  I mean: Oh dear, poor Rhiannon. A hag stone.

  LOL.

  I put my hand out to the chestnut stallion. He obligingly steps forward, nuzzles my palm and then headbutts me gently with his broad, intelligent forehead. He tosses his head as if to say, ‘get on already!’

  George comes closer. He puts his hands around my waist and lifts. It seems like the chestnut bends down a little, and there I am sitting on its back.

  George is very slow to remove his hands. Suddenly he says, ‘Oh Ellie, I think you left something inside’.

  ‘Huh?’ I look at him puzzled.

  ‘Do you want to jump down again and get it before we go?’

  ‘Or you could get it for me,’ I say.

  ‘Aw shucks!’ says George. ‘Rumbled.’

  I’ve got to say one thing about George: he certainly never stops trying.

  ‘You should have pity on me,’ he whispers. ‘It’s not fair; the lies a guy has to tell to get his arms around you.’

  I aim a kick at him but he’s too fast and jumps back, laughing.

  I can’t say I am an expert at bareback riding. I can’t say I’m an expert at riding at all. In fact I’ve only ever ridden a few times – and that was when Rhiannon’s dad decided tourists might like to have a go at pony trekking up Snowdon, about three summers ago. It was a great idea that never caught on.

  And I never got further than the bumping up and down stage of trotting.

  The chestnut lets out a little sympathetic whinny. He’s only a foot or so bigger than a sheepdog, but he carries himself with dignity. I’m sure he must feel eighteen hands high in his own heart. Well, at least it’s not far to fall.

  ‘Do not be fooled by looks,’ says Davey as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. ‘Welsh mountain ponies, though they are small, are strong and can withstand a level of cold and hardship that would stop any thoroughbred in its tracks.’

  They’ll need to. It’s biting cold and hasn’t stopped snowing. I lean down and pat Keincaled’s neck. ‘I trust you,’ I say.

  ‘Take the old Druids Way, Sior, to Blaenau Ffestiniog and on to Cadair,’ interrupts Gran. ‘I have used what arts I possess to shield you on this first leg of the journey, but you must hurry, for my charms are weak and will barely last the day. Sior, you do know the Druids Way, don’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t been your grandson for the last seventeen years and forgotten the old ways across the mountains, Gran,’ he says.

  ‘Well, if in the snow, you lose sight of landmarks, trust the ponies, for they have come from far to answer our call
– some even from as far as Carneddau – and they use the Way of the Blessed often.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’

  ‘Make sure you do. None from the Olde Deepe Magicke can attack you on that path,’ says Gran. Even Oswald cannot, though he may send others to confuse and trick you, to try to chase you off it.’

  ‘Right,’ says George.

  I bite my lip. I notice he has packed both his axes.

  ‘On the way, look for unexpected help. The Olde Deepe Magicke will have woken up all kinds of things, and not all of them are evil. And finally … ’ Gran counts things off on her fingers. ‘Trust nothing, trust nobody and never eat fairy food. That’s all.’

  ‘OK. All understood and copied,’ says George.

  I nod my head too.

  ‘Then the hour has come for you to leave,’ Gran says.

  First she crosses over to Davey. She places her hand on his pony and mumbles something through her piping. Then weirdly, she bows down before him on her old arthritic knees and says, ‘Lord be praised, that I have lived to see you. May your shadow forever bless the beautiful land of Wales.’

  Davey looks a bit puzzled, but takes her hand and says, ‘When the hope of Wales is held in such a heart as yours, there is no fear for the future.’ He kisses her hand.

  I gawp. Then panic. This is way too Lord of the Rings for me.

  Gran comes next to me and mumbles again over Keincaled. I bend to kiss her goodbye. She whispers into my hair: ‘Expect trouble, but have courage. You must follow the path your heart dictates. It is your destiny. Seek by any means to get Idris’s help. Only he can get Draco to free Henry. But never forget the White One will hunt you to the bitter end. You have crossed him already and dashed his dearest desires – and you carry the heart of his enemy – both in its form in this world, and in its true form, for Henry loves you. Oswald would take great joy, for that reason alone, in destroying you – he has set his purpose upon it – but be brave, for those that have Y Ddraig Goch’s blessing will be blessed. You have seen how you bear a charmed life already. Now, to business, I have sought out the herbs of Blodeuwedd to protect you.’ Swiftly she ties a bunch of dried flowers into Keincaled’s mane. ‘Make sure they stay there until you are safely on the Druids Way.’

  For some silly reason, I feel my eyes tearing up. I love her so much. ‘Take care of Ceri,’ I gulp. ‘Tell Mum whatever you think best.’ Then I bury my face in the side of her cheek.

  Next she whispers her instructions to Rhiannon. Lastly, she turns to George. ‘Do not try to use rangers’ paths, Sior,’ Gran warns. ‘They are too dangerous; there is far too much chance that Oswald will find a way to attack you. Those routes offer no protection. Stick to the Druids Way and Sarn Helen – the old Roman road, they’re your best chance.’

  ‘Yes Nan, no Nan, three bags full Nan,’ says George. But I notice he is nodding his head.

  Gran merely smiles. Dear old Gran. ‘God bless you then,’ she says. ‘And if in danger, remember what I have said.’

  I am the last to leave. I ride the chestnut pony out after the others. I turn behind me to raise one hand in farewell to Gran. But the cottage is gone, quite gone, hidden by snow and out of sight.

  1 ‘Thank you, my beloved ones.’[back]

  2 An adder stone is a small rock or pebble with a naturally created hole running through it. Usually found on beaches, they were thought to possess magical properties. They were used as a cure for certain illnesses and ailments such as whooping cough, and were often worn as a charm to protect against witchcraft or evil.

  They were also thought to prevent nightmares. The name ‘adder stone’ is derived from the story of their origins: according to legend, the stones were formed from hardened snakes’ saliva, occurring as a result of a strange and rare phenomenon where a cluster of snakes would wind themselves together to form a living ball or ‘egg’. The resulting stone could be used to draw venom from a snakebite wound.[back]

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ELLIE’S PHONE Second Day of the Magic – 10 March 08.30

  Status: Scared and worried. Probably going to turn this phone off to save the battery.

  George takes the lead and heads his cob, Graine, out over our side of the mountain, towards the old Druids Way. The Way follows a ley line that runs across country, over wild peaks, from Yr Wyddfa to Blaenau Ffestiniog. After Ffestiniog it joins the route of Sarn Helen – an ancient Roman road which runs straight (ish) to Dolgellau and on to Cadair.

  On our side of the mountain, the Druids Way is not a clearly marked track, and though I have heard of it, I hardly know which way it goes. Many of the old ley lines – lines of power, along which legendary heroes once walked – cross and criss-cross the UK.

  I do not feel much like a legendary hero.

  A howling gale blows in from the north, straight off the peaks. ‘Which way do we go?’ I shout through it.

  ‘Down … this side … centre of Snowdon,’ George yells. ‘Across … marked by cairns … worry. Davey and me … here … protection.’

  I look at Davey who btw is v v v thin and weedy. I have my doubts.

  ‘Not loving this,’ complains Rhiannon loudly. She is right in front of me. ‘You could at least have asked me to wrap up warm when we went up to the Black Stone, Ellie. You knew it was going to be practically sub-zero. And this pink is so … pink. And as for my make-up … ’ Her tone is accusing.

  I remind myself to be patient. I do not make a remark about her face matching the snowsuit.

  You see. I am being much nicer.

  ‘Don’t you think George looks lush on a horse?’ she sighs, when she sees I’m not taking the bait.

  ‘Pony,’ I correct.

  ‘Stallion,’ she whispers breathily and titters. I’m not sure if she’s referring to the pony or George.

  We skirt the top pastures and climb the ridge that runs behind the cottage. On the far side of Moel Cynghorion we descend. The snow is deeper than ever here. The ponies have to high-step, like they are doing some dressage routine with elevated goose-steps to make headway. Their tails swish on the snow, their hooves crunch into drifts.

  The wind drops. We struggle on. From time to time, something breaks with a snap, like the sound of ice cracking; Rhiannon’s grey mare snorts, or Keincaled breathes out in a rushy blowing of air.

  A shadow falls over the mountain. I look up; grey sky. I listen intently. Yes. There! I’m sure of it; something beating the air.

  Despite my extreme-arctic-weather, Canada-goose-down-filled parka, a shiver runs through me. I reach out and touch the herbs that Gran has tied into Keincaled’s mane. Please let them work.

  Even the ponies feel it. There’s an urgency in their movement; despite deep drifts, they don’t ease up.

  Just let the charms hold him off ’til we reach the Druids Way.

  Oh, please let us reach it.

  We keep heading south.

  We leave Snowdon behind us.

  I’m not sure how long we can keep this speed up.

  Hour after hour.

  After hour.

  —

  Around midday, George says, ‘Let’s make for that stone wall. There.’ He points at a distant place, a long way away.

  I squint my eyes up until I can see a low, crumbling, snow-capped stone wall. It’s bounding a belt of woodland following the contour of a far hill.

  ‘How much further is that?’ complains Rhiannon. ‘And btw, have we actually got to ride all the way?’

  I want to say, ‘No, you can walk,’ but I don’t.

  ‘We could stop there,’ says George uncertainly. ‘Have a little rest – if you’re tired?’

  George is so lovely. He’s trying so hard to make the journey easier for her.

  Unlike me who’s thinking: if you hate riding so much, why the heck did you insist on coming?

  I think I say something to that effect out loud. Oops.

  Bad Ellie.

  ‘You sound all cross and horrid,’ Rhiannon sulks. �
�And you don’t tell me anything. You’ve known for ages all about these dragony, magical things and you know I love all that stuff. And I wanted a pet unicorn, but you never tell me anything.’

  I snap back, ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know anything, that way you can’t tell anyone’.

  ‘Oh thanks!’ Her voice is laced with hurt.

  I ignore her.

  ‘At least George’s gran believes in me. She gave me an adder stone for a reason.’ Rhiannon sniffs loudly.

  ‘Be on your guard,’ says George. ‘Between us and the wall is open ground. It gives me a creepy feeling: it’s way too exposed.’

  Actually everywhere is creepy. There is no traffic on the road below, no planes overhead, no baa of sheep – only the howling wind off the mountaintops.

  ‘George is right,’ says Davey. ‘If we carry on over these slopes, we’re bound to be seen.’ He looks up. ‘I wish those birds weren’t flying so near either. It’d be much better if we could get down there by that woodland – get into a bit of cover.’

  I look up. He’s right. A small flock of birds is wheeling in a tight circle right above us. They’re jet black. A murder of carrion crows.

  George and Davey move off at a swift pace. Rhi and I follow.

  As we move, they move.

  Every now and then one of them lets out a deep, hoarse cawing.

  I shiver. I remember my tiny slaughtered newborn lambs. The birds and the wolves hunt together, don’t they?

  A sixth sense flares up in me. ‘We should hurry,’ I call. Something suddenly screams out in my head: DANGER! DANGER!

  ‘George!’ I shout.

  Keincaled feels it too. He needs no encouragement to race forward.

  The wind whips at my face, carrying the sound of distant howling. My heart pounds. An icy sweat breaks out across my forehead.

  ‘GEORGE!’

  ‘Don’t leave me at the back!’ wails Rhiannon.

  Above us, the birds form a bullet-shaped cloud.

  The black pony, Widow-maker, starts rearing and snorting.

  My throat goes all dry. ‘George?’ I try to croak out.