by Holly Bell
Mr Hanley-Page, of Vintage Vehicles at the other end of the village, stood a little distance from them and was the first to spot the newcomer.
‘Hello there, Amanda.’
She looked towards the source of the voice to see the dapper septuagenarian. What he lacked in height he made up for in style, and today was sporting a light linen suit topped with a straw boater. He waved his omnipresent cigar and tipped his hat, showing receding silver-grey hair and unshading his bright grey eyes. He stubbed out the smouldering Cuban roll, aware that it would do her asthma no favours.
‘Hello, Mr Hanley-Page. No Rolls Royce out for the occasion?’
‘No, I’m saving the Phantom for the great inauguration. And seeing that, as far as we’re concerned, it’s being built in your honour, I’ll take you for a spin in it afterwards, if you’re game.’
‘Thank you,’ answered Amanda, aware that this was no small boon.
‘I see you brought the motor. Still serving you well?’
‘Oh yes, Grandpa left me well provided for.’
‘So, what do you think of all this then?’ he asked, with a sweep his hand.
‘There’s not much to see yet,’ Amanda observed.
‘Well, they‘re about to start pegging out.’
‘What does that mean, please?’
‘It means measuring and laying markers to show where the foundations will be dug. D’you see that tall, beige tripod with what looks like a camera on the top?’
‘Yes,’ she said, following the line of his pointing arm.
‘That’s a laser station. That’ll give a straight line for the pegs, or posts. They’ll want to sink the posts down as far as the foundations will be dug. Probably about a yard, or a meter as they say these days.’
Amanda watched the men standing around and continuing to glance along the lane. ‘Why aren’t they starting?’
‘I expect they're waiting for — ah …’
Up the track, with the sound of a low breath, came a bright red Jaguar I-PACE driven by a man of middle years wearing sunglasses. As the vehicle passed, Amanda could see that the luxurious interior was handsomely upholstered in cream. He stopped near the builders and got out. He was of slightly below average height, with a pleasant, round, boyish face, thinning, short, light brown hair, and clad in a leather jacket that matched the seats of his car.
‘Flash Harry,’ muttered Mr Hanley-Page disapprovingly.
One of the group of builders advanced to greet the Jaguar driver, who took off his shades revealing dark brown, attractively engaging but rather anxious eyes. They were set under brows and nose that were perfectly straight, and counterbalanced by a circular, dimple-like well in his chin.
‘Damian, we were just waiting for you.’
‘Peter,’ said cream leather enthusiastically, ‘great to see you. Well, this is the big day!’
Amanda remembered something that Joan had said. ‘Ah, so that’s the Damian who came and talked to people in the pub about this project?’
‘I wasn’t there,’ said Mr Hanley-Page stiffly.
‘You don’t object, though?’
‘No. No, I’m all for asthma research. It’s just where they’ve chosen to build it. But what happened here was before my time.’
‘Who is Peter, do you suppose?’
‘The project supervisor most likely. He’ll be in charge of the marking out.’
Suddenly Damian turned to the villagers, and, with a well-modulated speaking voice, announced,
‘Good morning, neighbours. I’d like to thank you for turning up to be here for the first day of our project. Please feel free to ask any questions about the proceedings. The site office and some facilities will be arriving soon, and then we can offer you tea and coffee. In the meantime, let's enjoy the launch!’
‘Watching other people work, in other words,’ said Mr Hanley-Page.
Amanda observed how the laser station was used. It was too early to see the extent of the building and her attention wandered around the site, over to the villagers along the track leading north away from the site, then back towards the workers.
And that was when she saw him. She’d registered him only vaguely before, assuming he was part of Damian’s work crew. But now she observed him with attention for the first time.
He stood at a little distance from the builders and was watching them intently. There was something different about him. No hard hat for one thing. But the way he was dressed … He was the only non-villager wearing a suit-style jacket. Brown over a white shirt and tie, and there was something odd about his trousers. What was it? Turn-ups? No, that wasn’t particularly strange ... it was … it was …. Or was it something else about his clothes? Her eyes rose over his tie to his face. He was looking straight at her with a sort of interested, even pleased, air.
‘Barry!’
Amanda's attention was abruptly pulled back to the site, as one of the workers called out for assistance. His tall peg had hit an obstruction, and he needed someone to hold it while he banged it in. But all of the others were busy with other pegs and sightings. Damian took a few strides to his car, stripping off his leather jacket, slung it onto the back seat and was quickly in place to help. It could be seen that he wore sensible boots, jeans and work shirt.
‘Hm,’ grunted Mr Hanley-Page. ‘Seems he’s not quite so useless as I thought.’ He turned to Amanda. ‘So … when do you start at The Grange?’
‘The Grange?’
‘Yes, Miss de Havillande has some work for you. Hasn’t she told you?’
‘Erm ... no. Did she tell you? I thought you weren’t on speaking terms.’
‘Oh, between you and me that’s just banter. Keeps us both on our toes, don’t you know. That’s classified, mind you!’
Which means, thought Amanda, that only three-quarters of the village knows rather than all of it.
It seemed there was not much to be seen that day and she did have work to do.
'Well, I must be off. Thank you for the tutorial, Mr Hanley-Page. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, dear. See you tomorrow.’
Amanda looked around for her erstwhile passenger. ‘Tempest! Coming?’
Her familiar had had enough of attempting to tease Churchill, and accompanied her back to the car. It was bright day but the sunlight between the thin trees was wan and feeble.
Amanda took a last look around for the strange man. But he was gone.
That night his image swam in and out of her unsettling dreams.
Chapter 6
Sunken Madley
Stand upon the granite heights of the Scottish city of Edinburgh, Dùn Èideann in the old tongue, and you will see the Roman road sweep left to the east. Follow it south as it keeps well away from the perilous Pennines, gives safe passage through the Yorkshire moors, stays west of the treacherous fenlands, and finds its way to the gentler climes of Londinium, now London.
But the capital of England is not our destination. For, some dozen miles north of the Tower of London, a lane switches back off the highway, and up into the village of Sunken Madley. Its name is a shame buried so deep, none but the very few have had the memory passed down to them. Even fewer remain who honour the magical legacy of the spring that rises now only as a pleasant note in a yellowing guidebook.
Here to the west of the lane and at the end of the village, where the Hormead Pearmain apple orchards take back the land from the houses, is a cottage. It was the home, passed down from teacher to apprentice over centuries, of the wisewoman of the village. Though few now carry that knowledge. To the rest, it is simply number 26 Orchard Row.
The last occupant ends her days without having found one worthy of receiving The Knowing, and the link seems broken. But not quite. Here comes a young couple, newly eloped, a Romeo and Juliet, fleeing the long feuds of their families, seeking and finding peace: she of the long chestnut locks and aristocratic bearing, he tall, kindly, of a clan of farmers but with the soul of
a knight.
Time passes, their children grow and leave, and now there is a baby playing with the daisies in the back lawn. Now you see her, now you don’t … until …. she makes a final return. She is three years old, and this is home. She toddles up the path from the back of the house, between the vegetable beds and the fruit trees to the door of the workshop. The knight, her grandfather, opens to her.
The couple adopts her, and she becomes Amanda Cadabra, both legal daughter and natural granddaughter to Perran and Senara.
Three years pass before her magical nature shows itself. And now her apprenticeship begins. From Granny, she learns to focus, develop and deploy her powers with simple toys. Granny brings out Wicc’huldol Galdorwrd Nha Koomwrtdreno Aon. This long-hidden primer grimoire of her Cardiubarn ancestors comes into the light of the dining room, the darker enchantments having been sealed by Perran. At the end of each lesson Granny closes the book, and reminds her little granddaughter, ‘You may read it, but no trying any spells on your own. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Granny.’
‘And above all, even if your grandfather or I am present, never ..,’
‘… use magic on a living thing,’ Amanda finishes off.
Amanda has a retentive memory. Often when Granny introduces a new enchantment, Amanda has already learned it. However, she soon discovers that theory is very different from practice.
‘It takes more than memory or more than words to execute a spell accurately,’ said Granny as she cleaned up on the day of the rising incantation. Certain enchantments can make bread rise, dough rise, and cakes rise if very carefully managed. Amanda had to wear a dust mask while mixing the flour with salt, yeast, oil and water. The fine dust could bring on one of her asthma attacks. On this occasion, her culinary efforts had not been successful, and it was clear that the unintended result was going to be flatbread rather than the split tin she was aiming for.
‘It hasn’t worked,’ Amanda said to Granny, who was observing from the kitchen sink where she was washing up.
‘What are you going to do?’ Senara asked casually.
‘I could try a spell,’ Amanda answered optimistically.
‘Go on then,’ said Granny, calmly.
Amanda looked from the oven to the table and back, sending her mouse-brown ponytail dancing from side to side. There was a loaf in each location. Two things to magic. She was going to need double power. And they hadn’t risen at all so it would require extra on top of that.
‘I think I’ll need the wand,’ she said decisively.
‘All right,’ said Senara, ‘you know where it is, dear.’ Amanda trotted into the dining room and brought the slender rod back with her. She positioned herself carefully at an apex to the oven and table. Flicking the wand from one to the other in a swift movement, she pronounced loudly.
‘Dahas, aereval!’
The bread in the oven erupted and the mass of dough on the table exploded all over the Amanda, Senara, the kitchen table, chairs, floor and even made it to the kitchen door.
‘Oops!’ cried Amanda. ‘I’m sorry, Granny.’
‘That’s all right, Ammy,’ said Senara placidly beginning the clearing up process.
‘Should I have just thrown it away and started again instead of resorting to a spell?’ asked Amanda, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper towels.
‘There’s no harm in using a little magic in baking. Making something with love is, after all, a form of magic. It gives more delight and nourishment than food made without it. A meal made with hatred and bitterness, by the same token can poison the person who eats it, or, at least, give them an upset stomach. It is all the same energy. Like electricity. You can use it constructively or destructively. What counts is the intent.’
‘I didn’t intend to destroy the kitchen,’ explained Amanda.
‘Of course not, dear. But you only thought through the logistics. A spell is more than language, more than an intellectual process. It is about feeling your way to what you want to achieve. You will learn that with time and practice.’
‘You’re very wise, Granny,’ the little girl observed.
Senara smiled down at her granddaughter and Amanda remembered Granny’s lesson.
From Grandpa she learns the Cadabra ways with wood, from carpentry to furniture restoration, handed down through generations.
As her magical skills increase, she grows increasingly frustrated with Perran’s insistence on learning her trade without them.
However, thanks to the wisdom of Ms Amelia Reading, her grandparents’ greatest friend and fellow witch and Amanda’s confidante-in-chief, Amanda survives the magic fever. She receives The Hat, and, finally, at the age of 13, the Cadabra’s hereditary spellbook: Forrag Seothe Macungreanz A Aclowundre - For the Making of Wonderful Things.
It is a landmark in Amanda’s mystic career. The next day, at her eager request, training begins.
‘Magic,’ said Perran, as he sat opposite his granddaughter, both of them atop high stools so they might lean on his workbench and sip their cups of Earl Grey tea at intervals, ‘is different to what Normals think.’
Amanda had no idea what Normals thought about magic. Or anything else much for that matter. She tilted her head enquiringly, swaying her plaits, the orange ribbons catching in the lapels of her green boiler suit.
He continued. ‘It is less frightening, more difficult and a greater responsibility than they imagine.’
Grandpa had never said much about magic before. Amelia had told her that he was every inch the equal of Granny in his knowledge and expertise, and had once accomplished a legendary deed.
‘Now Lesson 1. I mentioned this yesterday: security. What does magic leave?’
Amanda thought, not even sure that she understood the question. Seeing her puzzled expression, Perran supplied the response.
‘It leaves a trace, a sort of … smell. Most would say it tastes of tin and smells of sandalwood. So,’ — Grandpa took her over to a workmate — ‘here we have solder, made of ….’
Amanda knew the answer to this. ‘Tin.’
‘Good, Ammy. We put the soldering iron next to the solder. And in the incense burner over here on the windowsill …?’
‘…sandalwood?’
‘Yes, it clears the air, the energy.’
‘I get it, Grandpa, people will see these things, and it will explain the … the trace.’
‘Exactly. So you can start working with magic then, can you?’
‘I suppose so?’
‘Not yet, pet. First …,’ said, Grandpa getting up and going to the back doors of the workshop. Amanda followed him out to the back gate. ‘We check the lock on this.’ Perran led her back in. ‘We check these back doors are bolted’.
Amanda went ahead of him to the front door, saying, ‘and we check that this is locked?’
‘That’s right. The window pane in it is frosted so as long as you’re not weaving spells right behind it, you’re fine. There are no sight lines from any of the windows to the neighbours' windows or gardens.’
Amanda nodded.
‘The three checks are …?’ Grandpa asked.
‘Back gate, back doors, front door.’
‘Good girl. And there endeth the lesson for Day One.’
The next day, when Amanda came into the workshop, Grandpa said, ‘Now for the next question. He took a two-by-two length of pine and clamped it into the vice attached to the bench. Perran put out a range of hammers from a light, delicate one she’d first used as a four-year-old to his most massive mallet. He placed a line of nails from half-an-inch to four-inches long beside them. They sat down with their beginning-of-day mugs of tea at the bench.
Grandpa asked, ‘What’s the Wicc’yeth for hammer, hit?’
‘Frapka,’ answered Amanda without hesitation.
‘Very good, Ammy. Now. See this medium hammer here, lass? Imagine there are three weights you can apply to a hammer blow: light, medium an
d heavy.’
‘Yes,’ Amanda said slowly.
‘How many medium taps would it take to hammer this one-inch nail into this piece of mature pine?’
Amanda looked blank. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Right. And if you don’t know then the magic won’t, the hammer won’t. When you tell that hammer, frapka, you need to have in your mind, how heavy the stroke, the number of impacts, the resistance of the wood. Different sorts of pine, of different states of maturity, and that goes especially for oak, will need more taps or pressure.’
‘I see,’ said Amanda. ‘It’s a lot more complicated than I imagined.’
‘Now do you understand why I made you wait to use spells in the workshop? Why you had to learn everything the Normal’s way?’
‘Yes, Grandpa,’ she said nodding. ‘I do. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Would it have made you any less frustrated, love?’
She laughed ruefully. ’No, Grandpa, no it wouldn’t. You know me too well!’
‘All right, then. Shall we start?’
‘Yes,’ Amanda said eagerly.
‘Let’s begin with some gentle taps of this hammer and count together. Are you ready?’
’Yes, Grandpa.’
‘Raise the hammer off the bench.’
That was well within the scope of her levitation skills. She didn’t even need the words, she just had to intend it. Without touching it, Amanda floated the tool and made it hover with the head touching the nail.
‘Gently, then, Ammy. Say the spell.’
‘Frapka ynentel.’
Nearly twenty years later and it was automatic. It took little spell power to simultaneously have brushes stirring glue and paint, a saw sawing, a hammer rapping, a plane planing as she sang along to her iPod.
Amanda had never had to tax her magical capacity.
But the time was coming.
Chapter 7
