Denny cleared the door as best he could, as a burning beam fell from the ceiling. Tamar leaped and caught it one handed, to gasps of wonder, interspersed with coughing fits. She pole vaulted with the beam, which was still smouldering, and aimed a flying kick at the door, which crashed off its hinges.
More than one person had lost consciousness by this time, so Tamar and Denny ended up carrying them out.
Tamar found herself the subject of much pointing and whispering.
‘Such strength, in a woman, it’s not natural.’
‘And she wasn’t afraid of the fire at all.’
‘Did you see? She flew on that beam.’
‘She’s a witch.’
‘Where did she come from? She’s not one of us.’
‘But – she saved us.’
‘With her supernatural powers, she’s in league with Lucifer.’
‘And who is he? Her familiar, in his human form.’
And the inevitable – ‘Get them.’
The townspeople were advancing on them; there were suddenly a lot more of them, and their faces were lit up with cruelty – born of fear, but also a desire for entertainment.
‘Witch – witch – witch.’
‘Put her to the test, fetch the pricker, he’ll find the mark.’
‘Aye, the mark of Satan, she’ll have it, mark my words.’
‘Well, that’s gratitude for you,’ said Denny. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Give ‘em what they want,’ said Tamar grimly. ‘It won’t be my first ducking. You get out of here.’ To his horror, she turned him into a cat; his clothes, along with the Athame, fell in a heap on the ground; he crawled out from among them and scampered away as the roar of the crowd escalated. ‘Witch – witch – witch – witch!’
A man in a tall black hat, with an air of authority, obviously the witch pricker, appeared. Tamar was surrounded and dragged away.
Denny crept forward to his discarded clothes and found the Athame among them; he tried to use it to turn himself back, but it would not work; apparently, only Tamar could turn him back. He watched in horror as she was stripped; the mob was searching, so he gathered for a mark on her body. The Witch Pricker would then stick a pin in it, if it did not bleed, that meant she was a witch. The mark was not found, but the pricker said that this was inconclusive; the evidence against her was such that she would have to face the ducking test. Hadn’t they all witnessed her familiar turn from a human to a cat? And she had been seen to fly on a piece of burning wood.
The ducking test apparently meant that she would be weighted down and thrown into the river. A witch would float, protected by her lord, Lucifer, an innocent woman would drown. If a woman should survive the ducking, thus proving that she was a witch, she would be hanged. Heads I win, tails you lose.
Tamar was bound hand and foot, and weighted down with a bag of stones around her neck, and she was thrown into the river – she sank immediately.
Denny shot forward with a cry, well, it came out as more of a yowl. He felt the indignity of his position as a burly man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
‘It’s the witches familiar,’ shouted a woman.
‘Drown it,’ called another.
Denny squirmed and twisted frantically, scratching up the face of the man as best he could.
‘Look at it,’ said someone. ‘Such venom, that’s no ordinary cat. Throw it in after the witch.’
Denny was stuffed into a sack, which was also weighted down with stones. Without the Athame, he was completely helpless. He suddenly felt weary and stopped struggling; he was thrown into the water. He felt a strange sense of calm; he even saw the funny side. Here he was – a cat in a sack, sinking to the bottom of a lake. Of all the ways to go …
* * *
‘Who’s that then?’ said Stiles pointing at a tall robed man with an ascetic look about him ‘A Christian priest,’ Hecaté told him.
The priest gazed calmly at them and then spoke. ‘The Lord be praised, for Heaven is more wondrous and beautiful than ever I could have dreamed.’
Hecaté and Stiles looked at each other in disbelief. It was clear the man believed himself dead for some reason, but … Heaven? Here?
‘The mind is a powerful deceiver,’ said Hecaté. ‘His faith has led him to see angels in the faces of the clouds.’
‘What?’ said Stiles uncomprehendingly.
‘He is seeing what he expected to see when he died, rather that what is really here,’ she translated.
‘But he isn’t dead,’ said Stiles. ‘Is he?’ he looked worried. It was bad enough that he was here at all without him being a ghost too.
‘He believes he is,’ said Hecaté.
‘From the fire and sword wielding hands of the infidel, I was delivered unto the sanctuary of the kingdom of Heaven,’ confirmed the priest in lugubrious tones.
‘Great!’ said Stiles. ‘So, what are we supposed to do with him then?’
‘And his dog,’ he added, suddenly noticing a Great Dane sniffing around the back of the chair.
‘I doubt it is his own dog,’ said Hecaté, as if this was relevant.
‘Who cares? How do we get rid of them?’
‘I imagine they will go on their own like the other,’ she said.
Stiles laughed. ‘Oh boy is he in for a shock,’ he said. ‘World’s first “near death experience”. He won’t be too happy to find out he’s not in Heaven after all will he?’
Hecaté frowned. ‘That is true,’ she said. ‘It could cause problems.’
‘Changing history and all that?’ asked Stiles.
‘Precisely,’ Hecaté affirmed.
‘Well, there’s not really a lot we can do about it is there?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if we can keep him here… no … no, no, no!’
* * *
Tamar floated along the riverbed, waiting for the townspeople to disperse; it was calm down here, cool and refreshing. She had, of course, given herself a handy set of gills. She could vaguely hear shouting, but, through the water, could not make out the words. ‘Celebrating no doubt,’ she thought, scornfully. ‘No wonder I never liked mortals much – until Denny. I hope he’s all right.’
After a while she got bored, the scenery under water palls quickly, fish and weeds, and more fish, with some more weeds. Deadly dull, so, she decided to swim upstream and climb out, somewhere away from public view. She dragged herself, inelegantly on to the shore – just in case anyone was around, and lay gasping on the bank. Just in time, she remembered to get rid of the gills.
She sat up and looked around. She could not see anyone, so she manifested herself some clothes, and dried her hair. Ah – magic – so much more efficient than a hairdryer.
Now, blonde or redhead? She had to go back and find Denny, but turning up, back in the town, looking like herself was definitely a bad idea. Blonde, she decided, the more contrast with her usual appearance, the better – and blue eyes, for that Nordic look.
She made her way back to the town. Now that she was no longer either in a burning church, or being harassed by a bloodthirsty mob, she had leisure to look around a bit; she thought she might be in Plymouth. Any minute now, the Spanish Armada might be sighted. ‘Oh, well,’ she thought. ‘I’ve already seen it.’
There was no sign of Denny, not a black cat in sight, in fact. ‘Why did I do that? What a stupid thing to do.’ But she did find his clothes; the Athame, however, was gone.
* * *
From inside the bag, slightly muffled, Denny heard an authoritative and cultured voice demanding loudly to know just what these people thought they were up to. The bag was swung through the air, and daylight appeared as the bag was opened. Denny saw a pale faced man looking curiously at him.
‘You people were about to drown this cat.’ It was not a question.
‘My lord, it is no ordinary cat, it is a witches familiar, sir.’
‘What nonsense,’ said the man contemptuously. He sighed. ‘When will you peasants learn to do without all
this ridiculous superstition?’
‘We saw it change from a man into a cat, sir. The witch did it.’
‘And where is this witch?’
There was a silence.
‘I asked you a question,’ snapped the man. ‘Where is this supposed witch?’
A small boy came forward. ‘At the bottom of the river sir,’ he said, before he was hustled away by what was presumably his mother. Denny had a first class view of their discomfiture, from his rescuer’s arms.
‘I see,’ said the man coldly. ‘There will be no more of this, do you understand? I forbid it.’
The men in the crowd touched their caps; the women curtseyed clumsily, as they all said. ‘Yes sir.’
The man stalked away, holding Denny in his arms; abruptly he stopped and turned round. ‘If I understand your superstitions correctly,’ he said, ‘If the alleged witch has drowned, then, even according your stupid beliefs, she was not a witch, isn’t that correct? So, why would you drown what is clearly, even by your standards a perfectly ordinary cat? You might want to think about that.’
The man talked to Denny as he walked, although, of course, really he thought he was just talking to himself. ‘Fools!’ he was saying, ‘when will they learn? Poor kitty, you had a narrow escape, there. What a pity I did not arrive earlier, and save that poor woman’s life. Your owner, I suppose. Well you can come home with me, you’ll be safe there. I hope you’re a good mouser. Witches indeed! What nonsense! Well, they will not do it again; they would not dare to disobey me.’
He took Denny, now renamed Tinker by the cook, to the kitchens of his vast home. The cook went into transports of delight, at the “pretty kitty” that she seemed to assume was female. Denny, naturally, took umbrage at this, and went into a corner to sulk, there being no escape possible at the moment. Denny had never owned a cat, or any pet, not after he killed the class hamster, by accidentally vacuuming it up, so he was not certain, but he thought he might be let out at night. People did that he was sure. Unless those noises outside at three a.m. really were children screaming. And even in Denny’s old neighbourhood, he doubted it – not every night.
He was frantic to get away; he had to get back and find out what had happened to Tamar, get the Athame back and get the hell out of here. Two young kitchen maids appeared, and made a fuss of him, which was not an altogether unpleasant experience, ‘if only they knew,’ he thought, amusedly. But he had to focus, look for an open window – how could there not be an open window? It was like a furnace in here.
‘Actually, it’s kind of comfortable,’ he thought. He was getting sleepy; he moved a little closer to the stove, ‘Ah, that’s it.’ He settled down with his nose on his paws and fell asleep.
* * *
Tamar was wandering through the town. Asking for her cat did not seem like a smart move; neither did asking for her “ceremonial knife”, which, since it had undoubtedly been found by someone in Denny’s discarded clothes, would put her back in the river tout de suite.
‘Where the hell is he?’ she muttered under her breath.
She wandered through the streets until a red-faced man stopped her. ‘There you are wench,’ he snapped. ‘Where have you been? You’re late.’ And before she could stop him, he had dragged her into a tavern. ‘Get to work, you lazy slut,’ he growled. Obviously, he had mistaken her for someone else. Apparently she had inadvertently made herself look exactly like a girl called Sally. This was confirmed when the other barmaid, Lucy, called her by that name. Since she did not want to draw undue attention to herself, she decided to go along with it, and hope that the real Sally did not suddenly turn up.
She had been balancing trays and schlepping backwards and forwards for six hours, putting up with insults, innuendoes, and inappropriate fondling, before she finally snapped.
A large bearded man with a face like a boar and breath like a direct line from a sewer grabbed her and pulled her onto his knee, he slurred something at her with a gust of beery breath, and tried to kiss her. She had had enough; with a well-practised move, she stood up, and flipped him over her head.
‘Pig! – Keep your filthy hands off me, privy breath,’ she snarled. The whole tavern was staring at her in silence. Uh oh.
‘Witch!’ shouted a man, pointing at her. Others took up the cry.
Here we go again.
She was hustled outside. Since it was dark, they lighted torches and marched her toward the town square, others joining the procession, bringing along pitchforks to prod her along with. The witch pricker was awakened, and hurried along after them in his night-shirt.
‘Twice in one day,’ she thought, ‘that’s got to be some kind of record.’
They tore her bodice from her shoulders, and a loud voice was heard over the top of the crowd’s chanting. ‘STOP!’ The crowd parted and Tamar saw a thin, pale, well-dressed man, ‘Let that woman go,’ he ordered.
‘But she’s a witch,’ protested the fat man, whom she had attacked.
‘Do you dare to defy me? I said let her go.’
Reluctantly they stood away from her. The man came forward. ‘Come with me,’ he said, it did not sound like a suggestion.
‘Thank you sir,’ said Tamar, ‘but …’
‘Come along now,’ reiterated the man. ‘Do you want to be strung up?’
Tamar shrugged; she followed the man.
* * *
The man told her that his name was William Tracey and that he was the Squire in these parts; that is – he owned the land and most of the local people. He asked Tamar her name – she told him it was Sally – and offered to put her in the kitchens.
Since she had had enough of drudgery and had things to do, she considered declining, but it would seem ungrateful to a man of this type, not to mention, suspicious. She would have a certain amount of freedom to search while being under William’s protection, and, as soon as she had found Denny, she could leave.
He took her to meet the cook. While listening, or rather pretending to listen, to the interminable list of rules and instructions, her attention wandered, and she saw the cat, asleep by the fire. The cook followed her gaze. ‘Oh that’s Tinker, he’s a nice pussens – yes he is.’
‘Tinker?’ snorted Tamar, before she could stop herself. ‘Poor Denny,’ she thought. ‘What a come down.’
The cook bristled. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, oh, no, nothing. It’s just, I think that may be my cat, his name is D – Dodge.
‘Your cat?’ said William, interestedly. ‘So, you are the witch that was ducked earlier today? And you survived I take it, so they tried to duck you again. Am I correct?’
‘In a manner of speaking – sir,’ she said.
‘Witch?’ exclaimed the cook. ‘Sir I mean no disrespect, but I cannot have a witch in my kitchen sir, the girls …’
‘Whose kitchen?’ asked William, mildly enough.
The cook bobbed a curtsey, ‘Sir I …’
He interrupted her. ‘Mrs. Trott, you know I do not approve of all this superstitious nonsense. There are no such things as witches; this girl is no more a witch than I am. I take it, you do not accuse me?’
‘Oh sir, you will have your little joke.’
‘I assure you, Mrs. Trott, I see nothing amusing in the murder of innocent women, in the name of religious intolerance, for that is what it is as I have tried to tell you. These so-called witches are merely followers of the ancient religion of this country, although they themselves have forgotten it. They are Pagans Mrs. Trott, nothing more. No matter what they, or you, believe, they no more have magic powers that that kettle. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Yes sir.’
William looked at Tamar, ‘I do not believe I have convinced her,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you came with me for now. There will be gossip no doubt, but nothing can prevent that anyway. I sense that if I leave you here, you will have a hard time of it.’ He stalked away. Before she followed him, Tamar grabbed Denny, stifling th
e cook’s protest with the hardest look anyone had ever received.
* * *
Denny was asleep by the fire; William was questioning Tamar, and lecturing her on the folly of believing in witchcraft, which she found amusing at first, but then, increasingly tedious. She was getting restless; she wished to be off, and the longer Denny was a cat, the harder he would find it to adjust to two-leggedness again.
He told her that the people believed that their ancient religion was witchcraft because their lives were so dull and oppressed it gave them something to live for, some excitement, some rebellion. Tamar yawned; she already knew all this, and she hoped he would take the hint and suggest they retire. When he did not, but continued to go on and on about ridiculous superstition, she was tempted to turn Denny back into a man, right there. That ought to shut him up. Not that she disliked him, she agreed with most of what he said, and the world would be a better place, if there were more men who believed in tolerance, as he did. But still … so dull, so oblivious, and so intensely stuck-up. For all his admirable qualities, he was a typical, upper class twit, only not so stupid.
Eventually he decided to retire for the night and he showed her upstairs to a guest-room. She took Denny with her, and turned him back the moment they were alone. Then she sorted him out some clothes.
‘What’s with the new look?’ he asked.
She explained. He was not surprised.
‘I lost the Athame,’ he told her, it was in my clothes.’
‘I know, it isn’t now, somebody must have gone through them and picked it up.’
‘You’re kidding! What are we going to do?’
Tamar hung her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I don’t know what came over me. How did you end up here?’
He told her. She hung her head, again. ‘You were almost drowned? I’m so, so…’
‘Sorry, I know. Look it doesn’t matter now, we have to find the Athame – even if I didn’t want it, which I do, we can’t leave that kind of power in some peasant’s hands; it’ll change history in the worst way.’
Tempus Fugitive Page 5
