Chapter 20
Emet (Truth)
‘After his sacrifice, the villagers honoured the Witchfinder by building him a grand mausoleum and naming their community after him,’ Tinsmouth said. ‘It really was the least he deserved.’
‘You know his story?’ Jake asked.
‘Bits of it. No full record of the Witchfinder survives, just scraps of information. We know for a fact that he was the last true practitioner of Oldcraft. He had a natural instinct for magic, an understanding of its raw power. Some say he did not even need spells and incantations to work his will—conjurations came as easily to him as walking and breathing.’
‘And he wasn’t taken in by the demon lie?’
‘Not him.’ Tinsmouth smiled. ‘He was blessed with two rare gifts. The first was his magical ability; the second was a sensitivity towards Evil. He could feel its power, see it plainly for what it was, and he was repulsed by it. This instinct was nurtured by his father, who was a preacher man and well-versed in the wiles of demonkind. His abilities led Hobarron into the life of a witchfinder.’
Jake remembered his dream in which he had walked inside the Witchfinder’s skin. Tinsmouth was right—the man had had a feel for evil.
‘But why be a witchfinder?’ Simon asked. ‘I’ve read about people like that. They were vicious men, accusing innocent people of witchcraft so that they could claim their reward.’
‘On the whole, you’re right,’ Tinsmouth said. ‘People like Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, were at best depraved lunatics, at worst money-grabbing murderers. Hobarron did not ask to be called “witchfinder”, however, and his work brought him into direct conflict with Hopkins and his kind.
‘When there was an accusation of witchcraft, Hobarron would go to the town and use his ability to sense demonic evil. He was a hard man and, if he found a witch truly had conspired with demons and had worked evil spells, he would gladly stand back and watch her hang. If, however, he believed the woman was innocent or, like him, a practitioner of Oldcraft, he would use all his powers to rescue her from the gallows. In this way, he probably saved hundreds of people. Each time he did so, he risked his own life, for it would have been very easy to accuse Hobarron himself of witchcraft. Despite the dangers posed to him by Hopkins and others, he found his work relatively easy. Stupid witches and their miserable demons were no match for him.
‘And then he was summoned to a little village on the coast. There he found the greatest evil he had ever known … ’
‘You know about the Demontide. You are aware of the danger facing not just this village but the entire world. It is your duty to tell us the whereabouts of Jacob Harker.’
‘Why do you want to hurt him? What good will it do?’
‘Those are questions, not answers.’
The cane lashed down and Rachel cried out. Another angry red welt blossomed from the flesh on her arm.
Alice Splane raised the stick again.
‘If you talk, I will stop.’
‘I won’t tell you where he is.’
Thwack!
After being dragged from the library, Rachel and Eddie had been taken to Holmwood Manor. They were now seated in the great hall, their hands tied behind their backs. Those Elders that had abducted them stood on the staircase while Alice Splane did her best to get the truth out of Rachel. Their faces remained as hard as the stones from which the old building had been constructed. Only Mrs Rice and Dr Saxby flinched at the sound of the cane.
Now, as Alice turned to her son, Mildred Rice cried out. She bolted forward but the others managed to hold her back.
‘Come now, Edward,’ Alice said, ‘you are a good boy, I know that. I’m sure you want to help us find Jake.’
‘M-maybe,’ Eddie stammered. ‘But is Rachel right? Do you want to hurt him?’
‘Just tell her, Eddie!’ Mrs Rice shouted.
‘You should do as your mother says, she only wants the best for you.’
‘Don’t listen, Ed,’ Rachel murmured.
‘But why do you want to hurt him?’
‘You’re just a child, Edward,’ Alice Splane purred, ‘you wouldn’t understand.’
Eddie swallowed hard. ‘You people are no better than the witches and the demons,’ he said. ‘You think you’re good but you’re bad.’
Rachel stared at her father. ‘He’s right, isn’t he, Dad? I wondered why Jake wouldn’t let me talk to you about all this. He was trying to protect me from the truth. That it’s you, the Hobarron Elders, who are the real monsters.’
Alice looked at Malcolm Saxby. The doctor bowed his head in a silent assent. The cane whipped through the air.
‘As I say, there is no full account of Hobarron’s time as a witchfinder,’ Tinsmouth said. ‘A few old books hint that he kept a diary, but if so it has never been found. And so we can only be sure of a few details.’
Jake shivered again. The little room seemed colder than ever. And yet perhaps it was the sense of foreboding that made him tremble. Ever since the Witchfinder’s name had been revealed, he had felt as if he knew the story that was to come. Knew it even better than the storyteller perhaps …
‘It was the summer of 1645 and the height of the English Civil War, the bloodiest and most brutal conflict in our history. Neighbour was fighting neighbour, brother killing brother. Hunger and fear stalked the land. When people are afraid they often cast around for someone to blame. Usually their victims are those that live on the outskirts of society: the hermit, the madwoman, and the witch. There is no record of what brought Hobarron to the village … ’
‘He’d heard there was a witch-hunt going on,’ Jake said. ‘He came to stop it.’
Tinsmouth gave Jake a curious look. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I dreamed it.’
‘Fascinating … Well, whatever the reason, as soon as he stepped into the village he knew that something was wrong. The evil there was stronger than any he had felt before. By some means he traced it, not to the common people, who were so often targeted as witches, but to a group of wealthy landowners. There were thirteen of them in all. Their spiritual leader was a man called Marcus Crowden, the youngest son of a rich family. He had appeared in the village the previous winter, drawn there by dark forces. In social terms, the head of the coven was Lord Tiberius Holmwood.’
‘We’d guessed that Crowden and Holmwood had been friends,’ Jake said, ‘but I didn’t realize Tiberius was a coven member. I thought he had founded the Elders.’
‘So he did. You see, the members of the original Crowden Coven were just a bunch of idle young lords and ladies dabbling with magic. They didn’t know what they were getting themselves into. It was only when Hobarron came to the village and showed them Crowden’s true purpose that they began to understand.’
‘And what was his purpose?’
‘Years before, Crowden had summoned a powerful demon to do his bidding. It took the form of his nightmare box. The demon whispered to him that, if he came to this village, he could use the combined magic of a coven to open a doorway into the demon world. When the Demontide broke across the earth, all of demonkind would serve him. And so he had recruited Tiberius Holmwood and his friends to help him. When Hobarron told the coven the truth, Tiberius cast Crowden out. He tried to help the Witchfinder, but there was nothing Tiberius could do. Hobarron had to face Crowden alone.
‘The rest of the story we can only guess at. It is believed that Hobarron went down to the cavern and that a contest of some kind took place. Crowden lost and was imprisoned for ever in the Veil—that realm of nothingness that exists between the worlds of the living and the dead. Unfortunately, the Coven Master must have already summoned the Doorway into existence, and now the demons were ready to break through. Using all his magical ability, Hobarron managed to seal the Door, but at a cost. He had used a powerful freezing spell and the effects of it began to overwhelm him.’
‘I saw him,’ Jake said. ‘A figure frozen in ice.’
Tinsmouth nodde
d. ‘He had given his life to save the world, but he had not been wholly successful.’
‘Once in every generation the Demontide returns.’
‘That’s right. Because he had already used so much of his magic in the battle with Crowden, the Witchfinder had only been able to seal the Door, not destroy it. Every twenty-five years it had to be resealed using the blood of the Witchfinder.’
‘But Hobarron was dead.’
‘He had an heir. A little girl called Katherine Hobarron. She later married one of the original Crowden Coven, a man called Gerald Seward. And so the blood of Hobarron continued through the generations. According to a set of instructions handed down from Katherine’s mother, each time the Demontide threatened, the youngest member of the family would be taken to the Door. Their blood would be spilled across it, sealing off demonkind for another twenty-five years. Due to the dark nature of the Door the blood had to come from an innocent—a child … ’
‘All those children were murdered?’
‘Oh no. The bloodletting was a symbolic act, but powerful in magical terms. At first, only a little blood was needed. As the centuries passed, however, and the Sewards married into other families, so the true blood of Hobarron weakened. More and more of it was necessary in order to seal the Door. Then, one generation ago, the Elders found that they could no longer keep the Door closed. Not without a terrible sacrifice.’
‘They needed all Luke Seward’s blood,’ Jake murmured. He remembered the brown smears he had seen on the stone door. ‘But Luke had a sister. Why not use some of her blood and some of his?’
‘The blood cannot be mixed. It must be pure. This sacrifice shook the Elders to their core. I don’t think they ever really recovered,’ Tinsmouth said. ‘For some, like your father, the Elders of Hobarron had become the very thing they despised: destroyers of innocent life. Oh, they comforted themselves, saying that they had no choice, that it was either sacrifice the boy or face the end of mankind … Your father once told me that, if humankind is faced with a choice like that, and it chooses to murder a child, then it has given up its right to survive.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Simon said, ‘surely if someone just went to Crowden and explained it to him. That if he opens the Door the demons won’t serve him, that they’re using him … ’
Tinsmouth shook his head sadly. ‘Don’t you understand? Marcus Crowden would not listen. The man lost his mind many years ago. He has lived for centuries in the nothingness of the Veil—hundreds of years with only his demon to whisper to him. He has no idea about Oldcraft and the true nature of magic. No idea about the plans of his “servants” and of what waits behind the Door.’
‘Surely he knows what waits. Demons … ’
‘More than mere demons,’ Tinsmouth said. ‘An evil so great even the Coven Master would shrink from it. There is a prophecy that, if the Door is opened, He will walk the earth once more. The oldest evil—the Demon Father himself.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Don’t ask. I won’t think of it,’ Tinsmouth snapped. ‘It won’t happen. Your father has seen to that.’
‘You mean his work on the weapon?’
‘Adam and Claire Harker’s miracle. It was an ingenious plan, to create a weapon of science and magic. The greatest defence against demonkind for over three hundred years.’
Jake’s mouth ran dry. In his mind’s eye, he focused on the image he had seen in the blueprint: the machine with dozens of wires running out from it. The box with a mysterious word stamped onto its side:
INCU
In a trembling voice, he asked:
‘What is the Hobarron Weapon?’
Tinsmouth shook his head in disbelief.
‘But, Jake, surely you have guessed?’
The magician stared at the boy.
‘You are the weapon.’
Chapter 21
A Flight of Witches
The truth slammed into Jake with the force of a hurricane.
He was the Hobarron Weapon.
Every instinct screamed that this was so, and yet how could it be? The weapon was a machine. It had been constructed inside a laboratory by scientists overseen by his mother and father. It had been designed to stand against the Demontide, perhaps to end the threat of demonkind for ever. How could any of this apply to him?
‘I don’t underst—’
The door creaked open and an icy chill crept into the room. The same sensation that Jake had felt as he stood before the canal bridge on the night of his mother’s death began to crackle inside him once more.
Tinsmouth shot to his feet.
‘Stay here.’
Jake reached out and grabbed the man’s arm.
‘Don’t go out there. She’s waiting.’
‘You sense her.’ A sad smile spread across the magician’s face. ‘That’s good.’
The bell jangled and the front door flew open. A bitter wind moaned through the shop. The magic carpet hanging from the ceiling fluttered, as if it was about to come to life and soar away.
‘You can’t face her alone,’ Jake said.
‘I must.’ Tinsmouth stared into the darkness of the shop. ‘It’s time I made amends.’
Before Jake could protest any further, Tinsmouth waved a hand before his eyes. Lips mouthed a silent incantation and the muscles in Jake’s arms and legs gave way. He was about to topple to the ground when Tinsmouth caught him. The man whispered in his ear.
‘I’m sorry for the nightmares.’
Jake’s eyes drooped and he felt himself drift into a troubled sleep …
Tinsmouth handed the boy to Simon.
‘Hurry, there isn’t much time.’
The shopkeeper pulled aside a curtain that covered part of the back wall, revealing a doorway.
‘Whatever you hear, whatever you see, don’t try to help. Go quickly.’
Simon bundled Jake through the door and into a back alley. The passage was narrow and strewn with cardboard boxes and bags of rubbish. Overhead, the sky had darkened and twilight shadows stole along the tiny backstreet. Surely it couldn’t be night already! Simon looked up and saw that, to the west and the east, the sun continued to shine down. It was only here, in this little patch of Marmsbury Cove, that an unnatural darkness had descended. It was as if a storm had gathered over Lion’s Head Parade, and yet there were no clouds in the sky. The shouts and cries from the crowds on the seafront had also vanished. Everything was silent, still, waiting …
Simon carried Jake to the end of the alley. He was about to move on into the street when he saw the witch. Outwardly there was nothing unusual about her—she was just a frumpy, grey-haired old lady leaning on a stick—but it was her voice that made Simon tremble. He had heard it before.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’
At first Simon thought she was calling to him. Then he saw the door of the magic shop open and Mr Tinsmouth step out.
The old lady’s face darkened and she pointed a gnarled finger at the magician. Every shred of malice that she could muster went into the shriek—
‘TRAITOR!’
Tinsmouth closed the door behind him. He stepped into the road and faced the demented old woman.
‘You are right, Mother,’ he said. ‘I have been a traitor. I have betrayed my parents, my conscience, and my humanity. And now I am ready to answer for my treachery.’
‘You speak very prettily for a dead man,’ the witch sneered.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I followed Jacob Harker here. Imagine my surprise when I saw the name over the shop door: S. Tynsmawfe. We were so proud of you, Sidney. The story of your victory against the Hobarron Elders has become legendary within the Coven and in the demon world beyond. You were the most promising dark witch I had ever known. Your ability was beyond Ambrose Montague’s and Tobias Quilp’s. One day you might even have surpassed my own talents … ’
‘Undoubtedly.’
There was no hint of arrogance in Tinsmouth’s voice. He stated i
t as a simple fact.
‘So, tell me,’ Mother Inglethorpe said, ‘what happened to you? Why did you become the Elders’ pet?’
‘A dear friend held up a mirror and showed me what I had become. What the Coven had made me. It was as simple as that.’
‘Ungrateful child, we gave you your demon, your powers.’
‘What power I had was not yours to give,’ Tinsmouth countered. ‘Demons do not hold the key to magic. We find that key inside ourselves.’
‘Ah, I see it now,’ Mother Inglethorpe smiled, ‘the Elders tortured you for so long you lost your wits. Magic without demons! Impossible. Even those illusions we might conjure as children come to us through the invisible world of demonkind.’
Tinsmouth shook his head. ‘They have deceived you, as they have deceived many who feel the trace of magic in their souls.’
‘Enough. I will not bandy words with a halfwit. You will tell me now what you and the boy have discussed.’
Silent seconds slipped by. The witches faced one another like a pair of duellers, each holding their ground.
‘Always a pity,’ Esther snapped, ‘to have to bring pain to an old friend.’
Her mouth moved but no words came out. Something throbbed beneath her clothes, flinched and moved up to her throat. Suddenly, the thing burst free, as if it had leapt clean out of her chest. It landed on the road, a creature about the size of a small dog, and fixed its eyes upon Sidney Tinsmouth.
‘Say hello to Miss Creekley. You remember her, don’t you, Sidney?’
‘I do not converse with demons or listen to their lies.’
Simon gaped at the sight. During his captivity, he had caught glimpses of the bird-demon that accompanied the librarian wherever he went. That vulture had been hideous enough, but this creature struck true terror into his heart. He could feel the little hairs on his arms and neck shiver to attention.
The demon’s body had taken the form of a large, powerful spider. Eight legs, barbed with vicious spikes, clicked across the road. Stripes of black and marmalade orange ran across the creature’s body and down to its thorax. This egg-shaped segment pulsed, as if it housed a monstrous heart.
Dawn of the Demontide Page 19
