by Eoin Colfer
Stake?
Pyre?
No one even uses those words any more.
But it was not any more, she realized. It was way back when. And, in the way-back-when, things were a little different from how they would be in what Chevie thought of as my day.
Here guns fired one bullet at a time if the barrel didn’t explode in the shooter’s hand.
People locked prisoners in stocks and used words like ‘thee’ with a straight face.
And perhaps more seriously and relevant to her present situation: they burned witches at the stake without a whole lot of evidence that those being burned were witches in the first place.
Though, in her case, she had fallen from the sky and she did have cat’s eyes, which was about a million times more evidence than Garrick usually needed. By all accounts the Witchfinder generally threw a bit of a wobbler, pointed at some unfortunate female, pronounced her a witch and that was the end of it as far as the good people of Mandrake were concerned. All a female had to do was look a bit different or have her own opinion.
Why am I surprised? she wondered. It wasn’t as if things were any different in her day. Persecution still flourished all over the world and on a much grander scale.
Half the world’s people are starving and the other half are trying to ethnic-cleanse each other.
But Garrick was taking it to a new level. He was done fooling around with witches and warlocks. If the whispers of his plans were correct, he was leapfrogging right over ethnic cleansing to global cleansing.
One of the guards had swaggered back and forth on the dais in front of her, saying how her witchcraft would be of little use against a cannonball of pure silver that would destroy hell itself.
Hell itself being Smart’s inter-dimension.
So Garrick was planning to destroy the wormhole.
And as Riley might say: That particular trick only works the once.
Garrick was taking no chances with Chevie’s security. The stake was ringed with militiamen with pikes and rifles, ready for any assault on the prisoner; silver rings and bracelets had been threaded along her restraints in case the wormhole got grabby; and the great Witchfinder himself restlessly patrolled the outer wall, possessed of a fidgety excitement that made him irritable one minute and gregarious the next, so that men stepped from his path, uncertain how he would react to their presence.
There are no women or girls outdoors, Chevie noticed. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Garrick could name any woman a witch at any moment and there were enough zealots in this town to make sure the accused were quickly under lock and key.
Overhead the rift was clearly visible in the sky, though it could easily be mistaken for a sunset-tinged wisp of cloud, unless a person watched it for a minute and realized that, though it undulated and yawned, it resisted the easterly wind and remained fixed over Mandrake.
The U-bend, thought Chevie. The end of the world.
It was difficult to take that notion seriously.
It’s been done to death. I saw a dozen movies last year about the end of the world.
The rift was hazy scarlet around the edges but grew darker inside, with a slash of deep blue night at its centre, and on occasion it seemed as though something flashed across that dark patch. When that happened Chevie felt a yearning to be there, inside the wormhole and at one with the creatures, but she knew that this was just the quantum foam in her system acting like some kind of magnet.
Kind of the opposite of the silver cannonball Garrick intends to blast in there.
She squinted into the evening sky, thinking, Which would be one helluva shot. That’s gotta be a thousand feet, there’s a brisk wind picking up, and the cannons around here aren’t actually precision instruments.
Chevie was afraid, of course. Terrified really, and, though she tried hard not to be consumed by terror, sometimes it broke through her armour of bravado and manifested itself as violent spasms, which rattled her silver chains and shook the stake in its mount. Chevie did not want to give her tormentors the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to a shivering mess, but she was still an adolescent, after all, and the traumas had been building up inside her over the past series of adventures.
Strangely, though, the shakes did not consume her entirely and Chevie found that she was able to hold it together reasonably well most of the time, even though she was cold, hungry, dying of thirst and lashed to a stake for imminent burning.
I’ve been desensitized to life-or-death situations, she realized. And I still believe that Riley will come to rescue me.
After all, he had done it before against extremely steep odds.
‘How now, miss. Does it hurt thee?’ said a voice from below, and Chevie looked down to see the man Woulfe standing at the base of the pyre studying her.
‘Does what hurt me?’
The mason seemed embarrassed to ask. ‘The witch eyes. It would seem that they rightly belong in another skull. That of a mouser, say.’
‘A mouser? Oh, cat. You mean cat?’
Woulfe nodded. ‘Aye. Cat. Those are cat’s eyes lodged in your sockets, miss, and I was idly wondering whether or not the mismatching of eyes with sockets was a cause for mortal agony?’
Listen to this guy, thought Chevie. His patter is worse than Riley’s.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The mismatching of sockets and eyes is not a cause for mortal agony. If you really want to know, I can actually see a lot better in the dark. Not that I need cat’s eyes to see that water jug you’re holding.’
Woulfe looked at the jug as if he’d just realized it was in his hand. ‘Ah yes, I come bearing water, for even witches deserve mercy is the truth of it.’
‘That we do,’ said Chevie.
Woulfe took a step backwards. ‘You would admit it? I thought perhaps you were simply an unfortunate abomination.’
‘Take your pick,’ said Chevie wearily. ‘But leave the water.’
Woulfe came closer warily. ‘So, witch or no. Which is it?’
Chevie met his eyes. ‘It is whatever Garrick says. Ain’t that so, Master Woulfe? I can’t believe you people. This guy strolls in here and you hand him the keys to the city.’
‘He battled the man-lizard!’ objected Woulfe. ‘And others besides. Monsters all. Master Garrick delivered us from evil and he aims to seal the gates of hell forever.’
Chevie chuckled bitterly. ‘Yeah, because that’s how you seal things: shoot silver cannonballs at them.’
Woulfe climbed the makeshift steps up the pyre until he was level with Chevie. There was no anger in his eyes, just pity and maybe a shadow of fear. Chevie got the feeling that he was not afraid of her.
‘I am not a witch,’ she told him. ‘I just came here through the same tunnel as Garrick. He lost his complexion temporarily; I lost my eyes and got these ones. This time a few days ago I was as normal as … your daughter. She is your daughter, right? That cutie with the blonde hair? I saw her when they dragged me in here. Before Garrick scared all the women off the street.’
Woulfe lifted the spout of the jug to Chevie’s lips and poured a glug. ‘Yes. Elizabeth. Lizzie, as she is commonly known. There was some suspicion on her last year but it was unfounded, praise God.’
Chevie felt the cool water slide down her gullet. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m glad Lizzie isn’t tied up here beside me. I bet she’s a good kid.’
Woulfe smiled. ‘A kid? Yes, a giddy goat betimes. Indeed, she has a mischievous spirit.’
‘That’s what my dad said about me. Well, what he actually said was that I was a pain in the butt, but he meant mischievous spirit.’
It flashed across Woulfe’s features, the image of his daughter up here – which was of course Chevie’s plan.
Hostage Psychology 101. Plant the seed of doubt. Make the true believer believe the real truth.
Maybe I can rescue myself, she thought, which was premature, for at that moment their budding conversation was cut short.
‘See, master,’ said a voice. ‘He br
ings refreshment to the witch.’
It was Godfrey Cryer, the walking wounded, loath to miss the adventures. And there beside him was, of course, Albert Garrick.
‘Have I not said it?’ said Cryer, bobbing with excitement. ‘Lizzie Woulfe is a witch, and now she enchants her father to give comfort to her fellow witch. They both must pay.’
Garrick, cleaned up and decked in a sombre buckled hat and finery, was in high spirits and actually patted Cryer’s head. ‘Now then, Constable. The only thing that good Master Woulfe is guilty of is human kindness.’ He coughed into his fist, a sign that a quotable line was on the way. ‘ The quality of mercy is not strained …’
Unfortunately for Garrick, he chose just about the only William Shakespeare line that Chevie had picked up in high school and so she could not help but complete it.
‘ It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, isn’t that right, Master Witchfinder?’
Even Chevie’s impudence could not dampen Garrick’s spirit, as he was having himself a royal old time back here in the seventeenth century.
He wagged a finger at Chevie. ‘Silver-tongued, you see, Constable? It is common among devils, witches and many travelling players.’
‘And witchfinders,’ Chevie added.
Garrick was enjoying the feisty exchange. ‘My words droppeth from heaven, witch, while your vile utterings are whispered into your ear by the prince of darkness.’
Cryer thought it was time to stick his oar in. ‘It will take more than water, Jeronimo Woulfe, to aid this witch. More than water indeed.’ And he giggled then, hunching with mirth, and seemed less a man and more a malicious goblin.
‘Leave Master Mason be,’ Garrick admonished his acolyte. ‘Perhaps he is wheedling a confession from the witch. Betimes water will crack a stone more effectively than fire.’
Woulfe allowed Chevie one more draught, then stepped down from the pyre. ‘This girl was deprived of a trial. Should she be deprived of sustenance too? And water itself?’
‘Witch-lover!’ spat Cryer. ‘I have said it before. Once this matter is dealt with, we will come calling on you, Master Woulfe, and your pretty Elizabeth.’
This was too much. Woulfe hurled the jug at Cryer with some considerable force and it happened to clip the constable’s injured shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards, cursing in a most ungodly fashion, which made Chevie smile for the first time in a while.
‘What time is it, Mr Woulfe?’ she crowed, which probably seemed like a straightforward question to anyone who had not been brought up playing the game in gym class.
Even Garrick laughed. All these matters were childish to him now. An entertaining distraction from the main event, which was not to say he was growing complacent. He had made that mistake once before and would not commit it again. There was no doubt in his mind that Riley would attempt some form of rescue, but for the life of him he could not imagine a way that the boy could thwart him on this occasion. After all, Garrick was virtually invulnerable now and soon even the creatures of the wormhole would bow before him.
Cryer held his shoulder gingerly; the fresh blood seeping through his clothes spoke of a reopened wound. ‘You will pay for that, Woulfe. You and that girl of yours.’
Jeronimo Woulfe was in no mood for the constable’s threats. ‘I ride to Huntingdon at first light. I will petition the council there for some assistance. The constable has gone mad, I will testify to it. He threatens good English women and all because he cannot get for himself a wife.’
Cryer’s face was purple with rage. ‘This is slander. This is heresy.’
Woulfe turned his anger on Garrick, past caring now. ‘This is who speaks for you, Master Witchfinder? This buffoon? I have seen things, I grant you. Monsters and perhaps witches. But this zany halfwit would burn the wheat with the chaff. He will not rest until Mandrake is a town of men. Were your mother present, Master Witchfinder, he would accuse her.’
‘I never would,’ swore Cryer. ‘Never.’
Chevie chimed in. ‘He would, Garrick, and you know it. The man’s a wack job.’
Albert Garrick patted the air, calming his audience. Enough was enough.
‘Very well. Now, now, everyone. The gates to hell hover above us and that must be the priority. Let there be no discordance among us.’
‘But, master,’ objected Cryer. ‘I bleed. My very blood issues forth.’
Garrick’s character had never been that of placator and, though he was of buoyant mood, his patience for fools was limited.
‘Constable!’ he barked. ‘Offer up your suffering. It is a small price to pay to witness the wonders that will happen here. The gates to hell itself shall be forever sealed, using this witch as our vessel.’
This was news to Chevie. ‘Wait a minute. I thought I was being burned alive and you were firing a silver cannonball. That’s what the goons said.’
And now Cryer ceased in his mewling, for he wished to observe the witch as she was told about the changes to the Witchfinder’s great plan.
Garrick laced his fingers and strolled to the foot of the pyre until his long face was inches below Chevie’s.
‘Burned at the stake, aye, that was the initial sentence. However, much as I have always been a man of my word, there have arisen some new circumstances, and it is a fool who ignores the truth, so the sentence of burning has been commuted.’
‘Praise God,’ cried Jeronimo Woulfe. ‘Good sense prevails, for I feel certain there is no evil in this poor wretch.’
Chevie did not waste a second on relief. If Garrick wasn’t going to burn her, it was only because he’d thought of something worse. If there was a fate worse than being burned at the stake.
‘What new circumstances?’ she asked.
‘Various,’ said Garrick, teasing her.
‘But there is a stay of execution, Master Witchfinder?’ pressed Woulfe. ‘Is that not the essence of it?’
Garrick steepled his fingers, one of his favourite stage poses. ‘Of burning at the stake, yes. And of death? Who can say what will happen to a witch in the realm of hell? Perhaps her master can save her, perhaps not. My plan is to send the witch back from whence she came.’
Woulfe glanced towards the rift, which had grown visibly larger in the last minutes.
‘Simply release her?’
Chevie doubted it.
‘There is a little more to the strategy,’ Garrick admitted, drawing it out.
‘Please, Master Witchfinder. Won’t you reveal your machinations? You are employed by the town council, after all.’
‘Oh, we are far beyond cash and prizes, good Jeronimo. We are in the realm of souls now. Souls and their saving, I say to you. Every soul in England.’
Woulfe paled and his hands clenched by his sides, but to the mason’s credit he asked again, ‘Your strategy, Master Garrick, if you would?’
Then suddenly Garrick switched personas, from indulgent father-figure to absolute ruler. ‘You would know my plans, Master Woulfe? You would share my burden? Have you the stomach for what needs to be done?’
‘If it needs to be done, absolutely. Yes, my resolve is firm, Master Witchfinder.’
Garrick took three quick steps and suddenly he loomed over the mason, and it seemed to Woulfe that the air grew colder.
‘Look to the heavens, good Jeronimo. What do you see?’
Woulfe’s eyes flickered skyward and he could not help but flinch, for the rift was growing larger and seemed closer, with sinister flickerings within. ‘I see hell, Master Garrick. Hell being visited upon us here in Mandrake.’
‘I would cut short that visit, Master Woulfe. I would snuff out the flames.’
Chevie had a point to make. ‘You’re gonna shut down hell, Garrick? Where are the sinners supposed to go? Vegas?’
‘Indeed, Witchfinder,’ said Woulfe. ‘Where now must the freshly damned dwell?’
Garrick scowled, as this was a legitimate question that he had been hoping Woulfe would not happen upon. Bluster was his only response.
‘You would prefer the sinners from ages past to inhabit our bodies?’ he demanded. ‘You would prefer your Elizabeth to succumb to the forces of evil?’
‘Nay,’ said Woulfe. ‘Never.’
‘Then the gates must be sealed.’
‘And how then? By cannon-shot? Burn the witch, and fire the ordnance, is it?’
‘That was indeed my plan, but I had misgivings. The entire strategy was entirely too fraught with uncertainty, in point of fact, and I was more than a little perturbed, but then my constable, godly Godfrey, happened upon a surer strategy.’ Garrick graciously yielded the stage with a sweep of his arm. ‘Enlighten the witch, Constable.’
Cryer was proud of his plan and delighted to share the details. ‘As you command, master.’ He elbowed past Woulfe and clambered along the base of the pyre until Chevie could smell his fetid breath.
‘You are, witch, familiar with the tale of Troy?’
Chevie planned to ramp up the attitude and say something along the lines of: Yeah, sure. Brad Pitt inside a horse? That Troy?
But just at that moment she became overwhelmed by the entire situation. Funny how she had held it together reasonably well until the constable’s breath hit her nose and tipped her over the cliff. Perhaps her subconscious had already figured out what Cryer’s plan was.
‘If you remember your classics, witch, the Greeks could not breach Troy’s defences. Wave after wave of their finest warriors they sent crashing against the mighty walls, only to have them cut down by arrow and spear, until at last Odysseus had the notion to build a giant wooden horse with a band of soldiers inside, and through such chicanery the Greeks tricked their way inside the walls.’
Woulfe stepped up behind the constable. ‘Please, Cryer, is there a need for such relish? Make your point. It is the very devil of a job to wring details from the pair of you. Might I remind you, that you are public servants both.’
Cryer, emboldened by the supernatural situation, actually pushed the mason roughly. ‘I am a servant of man, Woulfe. The time for councils and governments is past. Judgement Day is upon us, I say to you, and we shall all be judged by our actions this night.’
‘Enough!’ shouted Woulfe. ‘You posturing buffoon. Hell is bearing down on us, man. Speak plainly.’
