Fire Girl (9 page)

The horses raised their heads as Hazel approached; she barely came up to their knees. She had never seen horses before and was strangely comforted by their quiet strength and earthy smell. She
laughed as one of them whickered and sniffed at her neck.

‘Begone, beast!’ Bramley yelped.

‘What was that noise?’ David said.

Hazel froze. ‘What noise?’

‘A sort of squeaking, like a mouse.’ He frowned at her. ‘Was it you?’

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Hazel said, anxious to change the subject. ‘Come on, introduce me to your beautiful horses.’

David shrugged. ‘Hazel, meet Hercules and Ajax,’ he said. ‘They seem to approve of you, so that’s a good sign. Most of the money we earn goes on their food, but without
them we’d be stuck – quite literally. Best horses in England, aren’t you, boys?’

Hazel circled the wagon, running her fingers over the flaking red paint. The wood panels and ornate iron edging were pitted and scratched, and in some places had been burned. It looked as if the
wagon had been driven through a battle and only just made it to the other side. A crooked chimney issuing smoke poked out from the roof like a mushroom.

The narrow arched windows and grotesque gargoyles leering from each corner gave it the look of a miniature gothic cathedral – albeit one with a dragon-shaped swivel cannon mounted on the
roof.

David opened the back door and climbed up the steps. ‘Come in; close the door behind you.’ He bent down by a pot-bellied stove and gave the embers a stoke. ‘You’ll soon
warm up in here.’

Hazel gawped at the cluttered interior. Lanterns cast a buttery glow on the walls and arched ceiling. Labelled trunks were stacked in piles: ‘Tools and Accoutrements’, ‘Powders
and Tinctures’, ‘Traps and Snares’, and one mysteriously called ‘Misc’. Half-open drawers overflowed with clothes and blankets.

A barrel stood in one corner, stuffed with rolls of parchment – maps, Hazel guessed – a brace of swords, a musket and a huge soup ladle. On the far wall was a workbench strewn with
tools, doubling as a step to a hatch leading out to the driver’s seat.

She perched on the lower bunk bed and examined shelves and cabinets filled with books, papers and scrolls.
What a wondrous mess
, she thought, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and
stew.

‘Can you see any apples?’ Bramley whispered, having settled in his usual place behind her left ear.

Hazel jumped as what she thought was a misshapen pile of hairy cushions in front of the fire turned out to be shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. He opened a brown eye and appraised Hazel in a
friendly way before clambering to his feet and giving her a thorough sniff. She endured the examination, mindful that the dog was nearly as tall as she was.

‘Don’t worry about Samson,’ David said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. ‘He may be as big as a pony, but he’s got a heart of gold.’ Samson gave
Hazel’s face an appreciative lick. ‘There, see? He likes you.’

A shadow appeared by the door. ‘Never mind the dog, boy.’ Titus glared at David, his eyes glittering behind a curtain of straggly hair. ‘Where the devil’s my hip
flask?’

‘You’ve only just got out of gaol,’ David said. ‘Now is not the time for drinking.’

‘Hip flask!’

Hazel flinched as Titus banged his fist against the doorframe, causing a painting of a sailing ship to crash to the ground.

‘Have you tried your
hip pocket
?’ David said with a sigh.

‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I tried . . .’ Titus felt in his pocket and withdrew a battered flask. He downed the contents in one swallow.

‘Boss, listen, we’ve got a job. Paid work.’

‘Work? What work?’

David spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Hazel’s mother has been kidnapped by bandits in the forest. She’s employed us to find her.’

The furrows on Titus’s brow deepened. ‘Hazel?’ he said. ‘Who in the devil’s bloody name is Hazel?’

David rolled his eyes.

‘I am,’ Hazel said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘And you, Mr White, owe me an apology.’

David stared at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. Hazel ignored him, giving the old Witch Finder her fiercest glare.

Slowly, like a bear anticipating a meal, Titus turned his shaggy head towards her. ‘Apologize? What the hell for?’

‘For strangling me,’ she said, cheeks flushing with anger. ‘
And
calling me a slop-sprite.’

‘Don’t lose your temper,’ Bramley hissed. ‘You’ve got to control your magic. If you don’t, we’re both for the pyres.’

‘You’re still breathing, aren’t you?’ said Titus. ‘And you look like a slop-sprite to me.’ He held out his hand to David. ‘Give me the money.’

‘But . . . it’s all we have left.’

Titus climbed up the steps and loomed over David, who backed away until he fell into a chair. Despite his age, the old Witch Finder was still strong. ‘Money,’ he growled.

David poured a few coins into Titus’s palm. ‘I’m keeping some back,’ he said. ‘We need to eat as well as drink, you know.’

Titus grunted, pocketed the money and barged out of the wagon.

‘The man’s a nightmare,’ Bramley murmured.

‘Is he always like that?’ Hazel asked.

‘Not
always
,’ David replied.

‘When will he be back? We need to get moving.’

‘He’ll be back as soon as he’s found something to drink,’ David said with a sad smile. He lifted the lid from the stew pot, releasing a rich smell of spiced meat.
‘Would you like something to eat?’

Hazel’s stomach rumbled despite her anxiety. Her meagre meal in the forest seemed a long time ago. ‘Yes, please.’

David ladled stew into two bowls. ‘I’m afraid we can only afford umbles. We’ve been living on the ragged edge of poverty for too long now. Meals are included in your fee, by
the way.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, taking a spoonful. ‘It’s pretty good.’ They ate in companionable silence. Hazel glanced at David and noticed that he was trying, without much
success, to grow a moustache. She smiled as Samson clambered to his feet and laid his huge slobbery head on her lap.

‘Urgh! What a dreadful beast,’ Bramley whimpered, burrowing deeper into her hair.

Hazel nodded towards a metal contraption propped up on the workbench. It looked like a large soup bowl with delicate brass levers sticking out from the sides. ‘What’s
that?’

David picked it up and set it carefully on his lap. It looked heavy. ‘It’s one of the boss’s inventions. He used to make things like this all the time back in the
day.’

‘What does it do?’ asked Hazel.

David grinned. ‘It’s a demon trap. We call it the Grinder.’

Hazel looked at the contraption with renewed interest. ‘Will we use it to catch the demon that took my mother?’

‘It depends. The Grinder can only snare lesser demons –
daemon-minimus
to give them their Latin name. Boggarts, goblins and suchlike. As for bigger demons –
Bladecatchers, Gullahtooths – well, they’re another matter entirely.’

‘Oh,’ Hazel said, not really understanding what he was talking about.

‘Let me show you how it works.’ He pointed to the levers. ‘Every type of demon is unique, so the trap needs to be set correctly for the specific demon you want to catch. You
tell the Grinder about the demon – weight, height and disposition – by pressing these levers.’

Hazel leaned closer and saw that the levers were inscribed with words like ‘Fat’, ‘Muscular’, ‘Scaly’, ‘Angry’ and ‘Murderous’.

‘Now,’ David said, ‘when the information is collated we press the “Set Trap” lever.’

‘And then?’

‘The Grinder releases an aura that the demon can’t resist—’

‘What’s an aura?’

David thought for a moment. ‘Well, it’s a bit like a smell, I suppose. Imagine the best smell you can think of.’

Hazel thought of the way her mother smelt of flowers after a day tending the garden, and felt tears prickling behind her eyes.

‘So the demon senses, or
smells
, the aura and comes running – it can’t help itself.’ David tipped the contraption up so Hazel could see an array of sharp-toothed
cogs inside. ‘The demon is snared and pulled inside towards the grinders and then,
splat!
Its mortal body is destroyed and its soul flung back to the demon world. Well, that’s
the theory anyway.’

‘Amazing,’ Hazel said, struggling to understand.

‘It really is. I wish the boss would teach me how to build such things.’

Hazel put her bowl down. The stew had warmed her stomach and her eyelids drooped. As she surrendered to sleep, she was dimly aware of David guiding her to a soft nest of cushions by the fire and
covering her with a blanket.

The breed of witch known as Wielders are born

with an innate magical talent, which they can

use to great and usually destructive purpose.

The English Witch Plague
by Jacob Sprenger

H
azel woke and tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pressed her to the floor. It took a few panic-stricken moments to realize that Samson had fallen
asleep on top of her, so she lay still, letting her heart slow down as the dog gently snored.

‘He doesn’t mind me sharing his bed,’ she muttered, untangling herself from his limbs and brushing dog hairs from her dress. ‘What a good-natured creature he
is.’

‘He stinks,’ Bramley said from behind her ear. ‘I could hardly breathe under there.’

Hazel passed Bramley some berries from her pocket, poured a cup of warm milk from a pan on the fire and sat down at the table. The wagon creaked and swayed like a ship rolling on a heavy sea.
Clanging pots and rattling dishes created a cacophonous medley that beat time with every lurch.

I must have been exhausted to have slept through that,
she thought.

Titus lay collapsed in sleep, his long legs hanging over the edge of the bottom bunk with one boot on and the other discarded on the floor. In his arms he cradled an empty bottle; the air around
him reeked of cider. Hazel gave him a cautious prod with her boot but he didn’t stir.

‘What a state he’s in,’ Bramley sniffed. ‘Still, we’re on the move anyway. It’ll be good to leave that awful town behind.’

‘David must have set off when Titus got back.’ Hazel wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and peeked out of the window. ‘I’m glad we met him. I think he’ll be
able to help us.’

‘You’re getting gooey-eyed over him.’

‘I’m
not
getting gooey-eyed,’ Hazel hissed, anxious not to wake Titus.

‘I know I’m right because you’re angry.’

‘Rubbish. It’s the opposite. I’m angry because you’re wrong – as usual. David’s going to help us find Ma and that’s all I care about.’

‘Oh yes?’ Bramley said, leaping on to the table and pointing at the slumbering Titus. ‘And what about him? He’s nothing but a dangerous liability. A drunken Witch Finder
with an evil temper.’

‘You’re such a nit-picker,’ Hazel whispered, refusing to admit that Bramley had a point. ‘It’s obvious that David’s the one who’s really in
charge.’

‘Mmm, well, the boy seems more capable than his master, I’ll give you that,’ Bramley conceded. ‘But you’ve chosen treacherous allies, Hazel. If they find out
you’re a witch . . .’

Hazel scooped Bramley up and held him close to her face. ‘I know. I’ll be careful, all right?’

‘You need to be
extra
-careful,’ Bramley wagged a claw at her. ‘I’ll be very angry if I get killed because of you.’

‘You’re a huge nag for such a small mouse.’

Bramley jumped into her curly red hair. ‘I do my best,’ came his muffled reply.

Hazel stared out of the window as the wagon rumbled through the darkness. The lantern glow struggled through the whirling fog, lighting up the road and the fields beyond. She
was grateful for the fire’s warmth; it looked cold outside.

The hatch above the workbench sprang open so suddenly that Bramley barely managed to hide behind Hazel’s ear in time.
He’s pretty nimble for a portly mouse
, she thought,
trying to keep a straight face as his whiskers tickled her neck.

‘Ah, you’re awake,’ David said as he poked his head inside. ‘Had a nice sleep? Good. We’re out of Watley now and heading for Wychwood. Time for us to get to
work.’ He pointed to a shelf over Hazel’s head. ‘There’s a book there that might interest you.’