The Witch of Glenaster

by Jonathan Mills

  And so when she fell into her long sleep they still avoided Glenaster, and would not cross the Soar, and made the sign to ward off evil whenever they came near it. But no word, nor whisper, no fire-drake or Watcher; no wolf, assassin, or warlock was heard of for nearly a thousand years.

  Until now. Until my own lifetime.

  “How are you going to kill her?” I asked Thomas, as we stood resting for a while, beneath a crippled fir tree, the wind rifling through our clothes.

  He turned to look at me, surprised for a moment. Then he came to himself, and almost shrugged.

  “I think there is a way,” he said, “but it is probably only a small hope.”

  I pushed the hair out of my eyes.

  “You plan to draw her away from Glenaster…?”

  He frowned, as if unsure how to reply.

  “There are roads that lead into the frozen north, beyond the Witch’s home, where nothing can live,” he said quietly. “It is a long journey, but you can find your way back south of the river eventually, if you know what paths to take.”

  “But you would have to make her follow you…”

  He laughed a little then, and nodded.

  “Yes. Yes, you would have to make her follow you. Otherwise, there are – prophecies of various kinds…”

  “Like the one you spoke of in Salem Forest?”

  Thomas cast a sideways glance at me, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes, prophecies like those.”

  “Then you do believe in them…!”

  I was almost shouting, and Thomas gestured for me to keep my voice down.

  “Then you do believe in them,” I repeated, whispering. He looked up at the sky for a moment.

  “I believe in chance, and coincidence perhaps; but one cannot predict the course of future events from a century or more’s distance, it just isn’t possible. Insofar as there are stories about the Witch, that say how she might be killed, well they may have some truth to them, I cannot say. But trusting in such stories is fools’ work, and I prefer to trust in what I know. If the Witch lives, she can be killed. That is all the knowledge I need. All else is hearsay.”

  And he wrapped his coat tighter against the cold, and was silent for a while.

  “What about the Veil?” I ventured, and my voice shook. He hesitated a little before replying.

  “So you have been listening to the stories, then, Esther… Then you should know that the Veil disappeared many years ago; and even if it were to be found it would be of no use, for no one can remember now how to use it, and its spellcraft is lost forever. It is just an old book, like any other.” And he did not speak any more about it.

  The medicine had made me feel much stronger, and we walked a good ten miles further, and crossed into Glenaster before dark. And it was then we came upon the madman.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  He was sitting with his back to a tree stump, eyeing the world with his fingers; for over his eyes was tied a red scarf, and a great crop of beard fell away from his face. His thin hands reached out at the air like the legs of a dying insect, and his mouth worked away in a gulping motion, like a fish. He must have heard our approach, for he turned his head sharply towards us as we rounded a bend in the road, and we were not making much noise.

  We had been following an old pathway that looped back and forth through thick woodland at the head of the valley, and were looking for shelter for the night. Once or twice we had had to hide ourselves when we had caught sight – or thought we had – of Watchers, travelling in small groups of two or three. Occasionally we saw streaks of golden light, high in the roof of the heavens, so bright it pierced our eyes; and we knew there were fire-drakes there, a long way above, soaring like angels, beautiful and terrible, and that death followed in their wake.

  The dark woods and scrubland of Glenaster were almost a relief after the hard wastes of the Lessening Lands, and though I was afraid, the illness and cold I had felt so keenly seemed to abate, and new energy returned to my limbs. Even so, Thomas warned me not to step too unwarily, or let my guard down too easily, and so I followed him carefully and quietly, and like hunters we advanced.

  A good two miles into Glenaster, we passed the Aching Point, the rock that marks the beginning of the Last Road, where it departs from the Sundering Way that runs east to west across the Far North; and it was there we got our first view of the valley floor, far below, its broad plains snaking to the horizon, its slopes rich and dense with trees.

  “There lies Glenaster, the vale of the smallest flower,” said Thomas, and he wept quietly for a while, and I said nothing, but only held his hand. And so we walked on, and now, as the path began to wind down to the bottom of the valley, we came face to face with the only human we had seen since crossing the Soar. The madman’s mouth fell open, and he spoke.

  “I’m not interested in your wealth, you understand,” he said, addressing us as if we were already midway through a conversation. “But I did notice your smell” – and here he sniffed – “and I couldn’t help noticing you smell different from the others. Tell me, have you come far…?”

  I wanted to reply, but Thomas signalled me not to, and said to the old man:

  “We have come far enough, friend. How long have you been here?”

  The madman seemed puzzled by this question.

  “How long? How long? Is it me, I wonder…? The birds of the air seem to think so, and the fishes of the sea… But she keeps me alive now only for her sport, and so I have lost count of the number of years, or weeks, or days. There were fifty of us set out from Forell, back before the frost… so long ago I forget… and I am all that remains, I think… Do you have any crisps, I wonder? It is so long since I ate crisps. So long since I ate proper food of any kind…” He smacked his lips, and slowly shook his head, pulling at his beard and muttering. “Tell me you have crisps…” he said. And he began to weep then, a low, keening moan that came from the pit of his stomach, and he rocked backwards and forwards, clutching his head.

  I tugged at Thomas’s sleeve, and was all for moving on, for the old man scared me, and I did not like to linger in that place. But my companion was clearly troubled by something, and he did not move.

  The madman seemed surprised to discover we were still there, and when his wailing was over he flinched slightly, perhaps wondering what our silence meant. Thomas drew down towards him, crouching near where he sat.

  “Have you seen the Witch?” he asked, quietly, so quietly I almost didn’t catch his words; and at this the old man reacted as if he had been struck, and nearly keeled over, and I realized he no longer had the use of his legs, for he seemed about to try and crawl away. Thomas grabbed him then, with a sudden ferocity that surprised me, and held the man in a tight grip, almost shaking him. His withered and wiry limbs thrashed about, but he could not escape, and cried out:

  “Mercy! I have nothing to eat but the insects and the birds! I have not lived like a man for years beyond count! This is all the life I have! Please do not take it from me. I am so wretched. Leave me some dignity…”

  But Thomas only pulled at the red scarf over the man’s face, and at this its owner gave a cry so shrill and terrible it sent the birds reeling into the sky; but it could not stop him revealing what lay beneath: two sunken pits where his eyes had once been, and above them, carved crudely but firmly into his forehead, the Third Eye, gazing blankly out from the damaged skin, pitiless and unblinking.

  I stepped back, and the madman again attempted to scurry away; but Thomas had now drawn his sword, and, holding him tightly about the throat, quickly brought its weight to bear upon the man’s chest, through which it burst like a new-born lamb, casting blood and gristle upon the tree stump, and emerging ugly and stained a thick crimson.

  I cried out, but quickly put my hand to my mouth to stifle it; Thomas shook the dying man off his sword, and his body slid squeaking to the ground. He then wiped down the blade, and returned it to its scabbard.

  “Come on, Esther,” he sa
id, and pulled at my arm; but I remained standing, looking at the dead man, and wondering how he had deserved such a death. But Thomas was insistent, almost dragging me away, and so we ran on into the forest, as the rain started to drip down through the trees like a curse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  “Why did you do that? He was just an old man!”

  I protested in vain, for Thomas and I were stumbling downhill now, the path deep in shadow from the trees above, and the darkening, leaden sky. He walked in front of me, but had ceased to pull me along by the arm, sensing the futility of forcing me anywhere. Besides, he and I both had nowhere to go.

  “You murdered him in cold blood!” I said, slapping my hand against his back. I think I hated him more than I ever had at that moment. “You could have let him be…”

  He stopped, turned and looked at me, the air now heavy with the scent of rain, the breeze cool and gentle in its wake.

  “I could not have let him be, Esther,” he said. “He was not just an old man: he was a servant of the Witch. Do you think she would let a man who had seen her face live freely in these lands, however old and crippled? She marked him as she has marked countless others – for death or slavery – as she will mark us if we are not careful; as she will mark all the peoples of the world if she has her way. That is how it is with her, Esther, don’t you see? I was releasing him from his torment.”

  I laughed in his face then, above the noise of the storm, and saw the sorrow written there. I knew I was being cruel, but couldn’t help myself.

  “Is that how you justify your actions, then, Thomas of Senningport? You kill a defenceless old man in the name of ‘releasing him from his torment’…? You cast yourself as one of the warriors of old, all wisdom and noble sacrifice; but really you are just a cheap killer…”

  He struck me hard across the cheek, and the slap sounded dully in the evening air, and sent cold droplets of rain spinning from my face. Tears of shame dug pins into my eyes.

  For his part, he seemed about to cry himself, and he wiped the wet hair from his face, and reached out to do the same for mine; but I would not let him touch me. Then he sighed, and shook his head.

  “Already the Witch is pitting us against one another, as I knew she would,” he said. “We will drive each other mad, or kill ourselves in the attempt. Perhaps you are right, Esther: I should not have killed that old man. But you must know he was already dead. And the paths we are about to take will be darker still. Will you shrink from killing the Witch if she appears as an innocent child, or begs you for mercy, or promises to return your parents to you, alive and unharmed? What will you do then? Have you any idea what it means, to kill someone, however evil? They fight, and they resist, and it is rarely clean. That is what it means to kill someone. So condemn me if you must, but do not think I ever find it easy to kill. I do not.” And he slumped against a tree, exhausted. And, after a few moments, I went up to him, and took his hand, and so we made our peace for a while, in that dark place.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  We sheltered for the night beneath a yew, broad and twisted with age, its wide arms keeping us dry as the storm bellowed on over the heavens; and we slept close in our blankets, sleeping fitfully, afraid to dream.

  The dawn rinsed the last of the cloud from the sky, and we returned to the pathway when we judged it safe enough. The ground beneath us was still wet and slippery, and it was unsteady going until we reached the valley floor; and from there we had a clear view at last ahead of us, and the way north, to where they said the Witch had her home.

  I was glad to be out in the open, and to feel the odd burst of sunshine on my face, despite the cold. But Thomas was watchful as always, and now and again he seemed to mutter to himself, and then would turn and look at me as if I were a stranger, or even an enemy; but soon this would pass, and he would be himself again. Still, I thought again of his words, that here in Glenaster our minds would not always be our own, and we might do and say things strange to us. And I felt a sudden shiver.

  The day grew quickly dark, even for winter, and we were still out in the open when the light started to fade from the sky. And it was then, as we were looking for shelter, that we heard the singing.

  It was a kind of song different to the ones we had heard before, for it seemed to roll and flicker in and out of earshot; and though at first it seemed one voice, after a while it sounded like many more.

  Thomas, who was walking a little way ahead, stopped short when he heard it, and turned to me; and as the singing continued I could see him become agitated and disturbed, and his fear only served to increase my own, his growing strangeness making me wonder what I would do should he turn against me – as he had warned me he might – and how I would kill the Witch without him.

  We stood together in the narrow light of the sunset, and I was glad to have him there, despite everything, for what happened next set a chill in my blood.

  Gradually, at the fringes of the valley floor, where it met the treeline, soft shadows began to stir in the darkness; faint rumours of figures that grew, and took shape, until it was impossible to blame the apparition on a mere trick of the light, as when one’s eyes adjust to the growing dark.

  They flickered like broken sunlight, grey and indistinct but undeniably present; and, as we watched, they began to step out from the trees and move clearly into our field of view. There were many of them: men, women, children, several hundred people at least, and all their eyes fixed on us; and the singing seemed to come from their throats, yet none moved their lips that I could see. And we saw that they were entreating us, beseeching us even; and it took me far too long to realize we were being drawn towards them.

  Or rather, with them: for the distance between us and the ghosts did not lessen, but we walked together, in parallel, along the valley floor. And for a long time we could say nothing.

  Thomas called to me then, as if in warning; but his words were so faint I could barely catch them, and they sounded like the distant cry of someone impossibly distant. Instead, I listened to the song of the dead, as it grew nearer and nearer, till it seemed to be coming from inside my own head. And then I did hear him: and he was mouthing the same word over and over, a word that sounded at first strange and unused, but then with repetition became more clear, until finally it took on a note of urgency that was the more terrifying because its pitch did not increase.

  “Eleanor.”

  Eleanor was the name of his long-dead wife.

  I wanted to run up to him then, and drag him away, and tell him this was false hope, we were deceived; the Witch was only tricking us, and would bring us to ruin. But then I saw, translucent and faded, but as clear as the grass beneath my feet, the face of my mother; and her eyes looked like they had been crying.

  Now it was I who was transfixed, and I wanted to go to her, and feel her warmth against my chest, and to tell her I had been longing to come home, and how much I missed her. As we walked, I saw her reach out her arms towards me, and it was more than I could bear not to be able to fill them, for my feet would not move from their course, and all we could do was shadow each other, the immoveable gate of death between us, that no one passes through except once, never to return. But even as I thought these things, her appearance started to melt away, as mist into the trees, and my heart was heavy with sorrow.

  So absorbed was I in my grief that I did not notice that I had stopped moving, or that Thomas had appeared at my side.

  “Esther,” he said, softly, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. But with a shake I threw him off, and realized my eyes were drunk with hot, angry tears. Wiping them with a sleeve, I noticed that the ghosts had all disappeared; where there were faces, I saw only leaves and shadowed moss; where bodies, only dead tree-trunks and silvered branches. They had never been there at all.

  “Esther,” Thomas said again. “We have to get under cover. There is another storm coming in, from the east.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  We had spent far longer in
the company of those strange, ghostly companions than we had thought, for the night was deep upon us by the time we found shelter, and the rain was raking the ground in great sheets that arced along the valley. Our legs felt especially weary, and when we looked back down the hill we saw why: we had managed to walk, in our spellbound state, a good league or more, and were now deep into Glenaster. The rain brought refreshment to the earth, but little comfort to us. It was all we could do to keep warm.

  We slept huddled beneath a stiff-backed oak, where the tree canopy was thickest, and shivered in our blankets. I began to wonder if we were getting ill; we still had plenty of food, which was edible if little else, and Thomas had filled our canteens with water from a stream when we had first crossed into Glenaster; but, physical strength notwithstanding, I did not know anymore if I had the will, let alone the stamina, to destroy the Witch. I felt I had aged a hundred years, wandering the northerly places of the world, and I did not suppose I would see my home again.

  The morning sank into the ground as the night retreated, but the rain at least had stopped, and continued holding off long enough for us to dry our clothes, and get warm by climbing further up the valley’s steepening sides. After a couple of hours I had worked up a sweat; but there was a deep rattling in my chest.

  By late in the morning we had crested the side of the valley, and turned north along it, by stony pathways, and through close-packed conifers, our feet springing against the needle-bedded earth. It felt good to be up high, and making good progress, though more and more I had to wonder: towards what? Or whom? Would we even recognize the Witch if she appeared? And what if she didn’t? Might we simply walk through Glenaster, and emerge on the other side? For none of these questions did my companion provide an answer, for Thomas was increasingly silent, as he had been for several days now. I did not know why: perhaps his shame at deceiving me; perhaps a spell of the Witch’s that put a seal on his lips. Whatever the reason, I found I grew increasingly distrustful, even afraid, of him.