by Ross Lawhead
If I knew what your name is, my sweet one,
I would call you and you’d come to me.
Is it David or Dexter, or Dennis?
Damien, Douglas, or Del?
Is it Darryl, or Darren, or Darrick?
Dashiell, Dustin, or Don?
Is it Duncan, or Dylan, or Dideron?
Dudley, or Dixon, or Dan . . . ?
“Stop that,” Gemma said, entering the room.
Once more, the witch wheeled up, flew out the window, and was gone. But this time, Gemma saw an angry red eye glowering at her amidst the black cloth.
Gemma went to the window and shut it. Something had to be done.
The next day Gemma went to the school library. She spent a little time online but found a lot of things that were confusing, and more that were contradictory. She signed off and went to look for a book on witches.
There were not many to choose from—three, in fact. She flicked through them all and decided to check the oldest one out. Back at home, she read it cover to cover. Then she picked up the volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that her uncle had given her.
A plan started to form. All of the myths and legends, if you looked at them from the right angle, lined up, and it was easy to find your way through them after that. Tomorrow would be Saturday. She would have to go to the shops to get some materials, but the plan should work. It should work.
The next Thursday night Gemma slipped into Gabriel’s room just as it was still light outside. It was just before Gabe’s bedtime. Preparations only took a couple minutes. She retreated to her room and waited, reading one of her books.
She heard her mother carry Gabe up and put him in the crib. She heard the door close and then footsteps down the stairs. Gemma rose quietly and went to her little brother’s door.
She had only been standing there maybe five or ten minutes when she heard the scratching at the window. Holding her breath, Gemma heard the catch click and the window swing open.
She tried to picture the scene in her head: the window hanging open, the witch perching on the window sill, spotting her brother, then what would she do? Climb over? Leap across?
There was a shrill scream from inside the room, and Gemma flung the door open. All she caught was a flicker of black fabric outside the window.
“What’s going on up there?” Gemma heard her dad call up.
“Sorry, Dad. I thought I saw a bat.”
“Well, did you?”
“No, it was just a moth.”
Her dad muttered something and then said, “Go to sleep, Gemma. Get ready for bed.”
“Okay.”
Gemma went into Gabe’s room; he was fine, just a little bemused. She was surprised that he wasn’t crying, but, she reminded herself, he was special. She smiled at him and he smiled back, showing all eight of his teeth. She closed the window and then went to the top of his crib. Along the rungs, so the tips were only just exposed, were the clusters of brass pins that she had taped where she had seen the witch’s feet perch. Six of them were tipped with blood; not a lot, just a few pearls on each.
From her pocket, Gemma pulled a small glass bottle with a cork in it that she had bought at the supermarket. She’d tipped the contents—cloves—into the garden, so that it was empty. She had bought it especially because of the size and the cork. She didn’t know if the cork was important, but she didn’t intend to take chances.
She also took out a pair of tweezers and, uncorking the bottle, removed the bloodied pins from the tape and put them in the bottle. Then she corked it, removed the tape and the unbloodied pins from the crib, gave her little brother a pat, and left the room.
The next week she did the same routine, only the preparations were a little more difficult. She had already done the hardest part—pounding nails into the ceiling—before her parents had come home, but now she had to stand up on the changing table to reach up to them in complete silence. Plus, she had to do this after Gabe had been put down, since this time her trap would certainly be noticed.
She managed it, however, and withdrew just as it grew dark enough outside for the streetlamps to come on.
She stood in position just outside the door and didn’t have long to wait before she heard the creepy scratching and picking sound once more. The window unlatched, swung open, and there was a pause of about three seconds before she heard flapping and grunting.
Opening the door, she caught sight of the witch, her hair entangled in half a dozen strips of flypaper that she had hung from the ceiling. Seeing Gemma, the witch fell backward, out of the window, pulling several of the flypaper strips with her.
But three still remained.
Her parents didn’t seem to have heard anything, so climbing up on the changing table, she very carefully brought down the strips and carried them into her room. She would have to remove the nails later, she thought. Or maybe not. The strands of hair that she removed, she put in the bottle, along with the bloodied pins.
The next week was the last and the easiest stage of the plan. It was also the riskiest, and the most frightening, and Gemma had no clear idea of what would happen next. It was also the last chance she would have, since the witch was now up to the letter G in her name-calling rhyme.
She went into her brother’s room with a large pair of scissors and positioned herself just beneath the windowsill. The light in the room became dimmer and dimmer. Just as it was dark, she heard the scraping and scratching and tilted her head back to look up at the window.
In the paper-thin gap between the window and its frame was a long, thin finger with a long, thin fingernail, edging up toward the latch.
Taking a breath, she pulled open the scissors—big ones from her mother’s desk—leapt up, and snipped off the fingernail, right near to the tip of the finger.
Like a blind worm, the finger wavered and then withdrew.
Gemma bent down and picked up the sliver of nail. Then she looked out the window. The witch was there, her large, bulbous nose pressed up against the window pane.
“Hello, dearie,” the witch crooned.
Huh, Gemma thought, unimpressed. She even talks like they do in the storybooks. “What do you want with my brother?” she asked.
“You don’t need him. Why would you want two brothers? Less attention from Mummy and Daddy. Less love. Why not give him to me?”
“I’m going to stop you.”
“With pins and flypaper? I’ll find out his name eventually. And if not him, then another.”
“No,” Gemma said, putting her hand in the pocket of her bathrobe. “I mean I’m really going to stop you—for good. You’re not going to steal anyone’s baby—ever.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” the witch asked.
Gemma took the small bottle from her bathrobe and held it up.
“Oh.” A look of uncertainty passed over the witch’s face. “Don’t be—wait a second.”
Gemma uncorked the bottle and stuck the fingernail in it, corked it again, and shook it.
The witch gulped. “Pins and flypaper,” she murmured, automatically raising a hand to her hair. “Let’s talk about this . . .”
Gemma leaned over and picked up her brother.
“I could knock on the door and talk to your parents. Adults always believe other adults. They would stop this foolishness.”
Gemma turned back to the witch. “My parents are out tonight; my big brother is ‘watching’ me. I bought him a Top Gear DVD this morning and gave it to him half an hour ago. He told me himself that he’s going to ignore anyone who’s at the door tonight.”
“Well then, I guess you’ve got me, dearie. Just bury that bottle under your front door and I won’t be able to ever enter the building again. You win.”
Gemma smiled. “I have a better idea,” she said and turned. As she left the room, Gabe smiled and giggled at the face of the witch pressed up against his window.
The TV was emitting the sounds of souped-up motor engines. Anthony was oblivious, as usual, to
anything other than what was directly in front of him.
She went into the kitchen and found that the witch was standing outside the kitchen’s French windows. Startled, Gemma took a step backward. She gripped the bottle tighter and moved forward.
“In the stories,” Gemma said, “the witch-bottle has to be thrown in the fire. The doorstep works as well, but that won’t get rid of you for good.”
“I think I picked the wrong sibling in this house. I’ll tell you what, why don’t I make you a deal? Come with me, and I’ll tell you all of my secrets. I’ll give you power you would never know otherwise. You’ve obviously got the knack. I will train you to be the mightiest witch in all the land.”
“I’m curious,” Gemma said. “Do I know you? I mean, are you someone that lives on the street? Someone local?”
“I’ve seen you many times. Sometimes as often as every day. I’ve watched you grow up.”
Gemma held up the bottle and pressed the cork in as firmly as she could. In her arms, Gabe shifted and gave a little grunt.
“In the stories they always threw it in the fire, so that it would burst. I don’t have a fire. But I think this will work.”
She opened the door of the microwave and placed the bottle on the glass plate.
“No!” screamed the witch.
Gemma shut the door, set it to high, and turned the timer, switching it on.
The witch screamed and writhed outside in the garden, as if she were the one in the microwave. Gemma watched her as she withdrew into the corner. She wrapped her arms tightly around Gabe and then crouched down.
The witch’s screams became shriller and shriller, mounting to a crescendo as the bottle in the microwave burst.
Gemma expected a flash of light, and maybe another explosion, but the only thing that happened is that the door swung open and banged against the kitchen wall. Bits of the bottle tumbled onto the counter. Gabe began to cry.
“What’s going on in there?” Anthony demanded, pausing the DVD.
“Nothing,” Gemma said, gently shaking Gabe. “Just dropped something.” She went to the window and looked at the body of the witch, lying stretched out in the garden. She was dead, apparently.
“So clean it up.” The DVD started again; motors revved. “And put Gabe back to bed.”
“Sure,” Gemma said. She considered what she should do with the body in the back of the house . . . Bury it somewhere? That sounded hard, not to mention dirty. Burn it? Drag it around the shed and hide it?
Then she realised that she didn’t have to do anything. She could just leave it there. It would give her mother a fright in the morning, of course, but then the police would come, take it away, and that would be the end of it. No one would possibly connect the death to a broken bottle and some minor damage to a microwave. She wondered who the witch was. They changed their faces when they were doing their witchy things, and when they were killed their faces turned back—rather like werewolves—that much was a consensus in the stories.
She took Gabriel back up to bed and then went downstairs again to use the dustpan and brush, unable to stop smiling over the satisfaction of her victory. She looked out the window, and the witch was still on the ground. She would have to wait until daytime to find out who she really was, since she certainly wasn’t going outside now. But if it wasn’t one of the teachers at her school, she was going to be very disappointed.
_____________________ II _____________________
“Lies? What do you mean ‘lies’?”
“You could have gone home—you could always have gone home. But we needed to send you on that quest. We needed to try—we needed heroes.” Modwyn opened up her palms.
“But we failed. We didn’t kill Gád.”
“It was not about him—not exactly. We just needed you to survive.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. What happened to you? What—” Freya looked down at the stone knife that she still gripped in her white-knuckled fist. Her eyes went to the bloodless gap in Modwyn’s own chest. She looked to Vivienne, clearly gobsmacked, and then to Frithfroth, and found him backed against the door frame, a look of near terror on his face.
She spun on Modwyn and yelled, “What’s going on here? What are you?!” She shook the knife at the beautiful woman who had propped herself up on an elbow.
“Calm down, now.” Freya felt Vivienne’s hand on her shoulder.
“No!” She pulled away and looked back and forth between the women. “You tell me what’s going on here. Now!”
“I—I—truly thought she was dead,” Vivienne said.
“And I . . . was desperate,” said Modwyn tiredly, swinging her legs around to sit up. “Niðergeard was invaded. There was only one thing I could do . . .”
“Stab yourself in the chest?”
“I’m immortal. My ghost wouldn’t have moved on, but it couldn’t stay in my body either. It’s . . . a unique situation. I kept them out—I kept them all out, even Ealdstan. I was waiting for you. We all waited for you—for eight years. I didn’t think you’d stay away that long. I thought you’d come straight back.”
Freya looked down at the stone knife as Modwyn gingerly inspected the gaping hole in her chest.
Vivienne stepped forward. “Are you all right? Is there anything we can get you?”
Modwyn shook her head.
“There is so much you can tell us,” Vivienne said, “so much that is urgent. How were you able to stay here at all?”
“I killed them. All who would cross the threshold, whose souls were already dark and weak. When I . . . removed my soul from my body, I was able to affect the spiritual aspect of . . . others.”
“Are you saying that you took souls out of people’s bodies?” Freya fought to keep her voice level.
“No. But I could move them on. A soul is like a large rock. If it teeters on the brink, then just a gentle shove can send it into the pit.”
“Well, this just gets better and better. Thanks for not ‘shoving us into the pit,’ Modwyn.”
“There was no chance of that. I could feel how you were both different—conflicted. I let you and the other one, the simple one, alone.”
“The other one? You mean you didn’t know who we all were? You still don’t know?”
“No, but I am glad you are not with the other—he is simple and twisted inward. A yfelgóp, is that right? You came back with one of them? Was the yfelgóp escorting you, or you him? Please tell me, it is important to know.”
“Neither,” Freya said, her frown deepening. “That was Daniel you sensed.”
“Truly?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That is a pity.”
“Do you still sense him? Is he still here somewhere?”
“No. He . . . left. I let him go. Once he crossed the boundary of this building, he passed from my perception.”
“Modwyn . . . nider-cwen,” Vivienne said, her tongue catching slightly on the unfamiliar word. “Where is the Great Carnyx?”
“I am not certain I should tell you—if I knew. I heard you speak of Gád while you were in these walls. Are you not an enemy of Niðergeard?” Modwyn stopped and turned to Freya. “Do you not wish destruction to this place and the people in it?”
“How did you hear me?”
“It is not for you to know and difficult to explain even if I wished to.”
Freya shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I’m beginning to think that this situation is more complex than just a simple either/ or, good/bad situation. Just because I agree with Gád doesn’t mean I agree with what he’s done. I think there might be a way through this all without so much bloodshed, if any. Hopefully not more than has already been spilled.”
Modwyn smirked. “You have changed from the scared, wide-eyed girl who first arrived here. Perhaps Ealdstan was right to act as he did.”
The Rage rolled through Freya like a blast of heat. She leapt forward and slapped Modwyn hard across the face.
“How dare you,” Freya
spit out, clenching the knife and feeling a terrible urge to plunge it back into the queen’s chest. “How dare you put Daniel and me through what you did and not even feel badly about it. We were children!”
Even in the dim light of the lantern, the pink imprint of Freya’s hand was starting to show against Modwyn’s fine and pale skin. Modwyn lifted one hand, palm down. “I wish you . . . to understand why we lied . . . the circumstances behind what we did.” She seemed rattled, uncharacteristically discomposed.
Maybe I’m getting through to her, Freya thought.
“You’re right. It is a complex problem, and there are more sides than are first visible. And you two were a small part of that. Very small cogs in the big machine. Small, but vital.”
“There were others,” Freya said. “I saw some of them in a dream. How many were there in total? How many children did you send to their deaths on that dreadful quest?”
“I do not remember exactly.”
“That’s monstrous.”
“You do not share our perspective, the perspective of centuries. All die in time—some sooner, some later. Try to imagine—century upon century, unending years—all the same. And facing more, ever more. Stuck down here, trapped. Locked in a dark box.”
“You’re right,” Freya said with a fair amount of sarcasm. “How could I be so heartless? Pardon me if I feel no guilt. Are you going to tell us where the Carnyx is or not?”
“You are agents of Gád. I sensed your allegiances.”
Freya said, facing her squarely, “You’re not exactly helping to win me to your side. But anyway, Vivienne isn’t.”
“Blood does not lie.”
“Blood? What do you mean?” Freya said. “She’s Alex Simpson’s aunt. Alex is one of your people aboveground. I thought—”
Modwyn’s face was set. Her whole manner, Freya observed now, was in fact one of someone who might be undergoing some sort of interrogation. And Vivienne’s manner—was it deferential or quietly dominating? “What do you mean ‘blood doesn’t lie’?”
