Greenwitch (8 page)

 

 

SIMON BURROWED DEEPER INTO THE SMALL COSY CAVE BETWEEN
pillow and bedclothes. “Mmmmmff. Nya. Go away.”

“Oh come on, Simon.” Barney tugged persistently at the sheet. “Get up. It's a super morning, come and see. Everything's all shiny from the rain last night, we could go down to the harbour before breakfast. Just for a walk. No-one else is awake. Come on.”

Growling, Simon opened one eye and blinked at the window. In the clear blue sky a sea gull turned and lazily drifted, arching down on unmoving wings. “Oh well,” he said. “All right.”

In the harbour, nothing moved. Boats hung motionless at their moorings, their mast-images unrippled in the still water. There was a sea-smell of creosote from nets draped for mending over the harbour wall. Nothing broke the silence but the clatter of a distant milk-van somewhere high up in the village. The boys pattered down rain-patched steps and through narrow alleys, down to the sea. The sunshine on their faces was already warm.

As they stood looking down at the nearest boats a village mongrel trotted up, sniffed amiably at their heels, and went on his way.

“Rufus might be out too,” Barney said. “Let's go and see.”

“All right.” Simon ambled after him, content, relaxed in the stillness and the sunshine and the gentle swish of the sea.

“There he is!” The rangy red dog came bounding towards them across the quayside. He pranced about them, tail waving, white teeth grinning as the long pink tongue lolled out.

“Idiot dog,” said Simon affectionately as the tongue curled wetly round his hand.

Barney squatted down and gazed solemnly into Rufus's brown eyes. “I do wish he could talk. What would you tell us, boy, eh? About the painter from the Dark, and where he took you? Where was it, Rufus? Where did he hide you, eh?”

The setter stood still for a moment, looking at Barney; then he cocked his narrow head on one side and gave a curious noise that was half-bark, half-whine, like a kind of question. He swung round, lollopped a few paces along the quay, then stopped and looked back at them. Barney stood up slowly. Rufus trotted away a few more steps, then again turned and looked back, waiting for them.

“What on earth?” said Simon, watching.

“He wants to show us!” Barney hopped nervously up and down. “Come on, Simon, quick! He'll show us where the painter hides, I bet you, and we shall be able to tell Gumerry!”

Rufus whined, questioning.

“I don't know,” Simon said. “We ought to get home. Nobody knows where we are.”

“Oh come on, quick, before he changes his mind.” Barney grabbed his arm and tugged him after the lean red dog, already trotting away now confidently across the quay.

Rufus led them straight across the harbour and round into the road that ran inland from the Grey House and the sea; the road was familiar at first, leading back through the narrowest
part of the village, past quiet cottages sleeping behind lace-curtained windows, and once or twice a modest house grandly labelled
PRIVATE HOTEL
. Then they were behind Trewissick, in the hedge-rimmed farmland that curved around the white cones and green ponds of the clay-burrow country, until, far inland, it met the moors.

Simon said, “We can't go much farther, Barney. We shall have to turn back.”

“Just a little bit more.”

On they went, along silent roads bright with the springtime green of newly full trees. Simon looked around him, with the flickerings of unease in his mind. Nothing was wrong: the sun warmed them; dandelions brightly starred the grass; what could be wrong? Suddenly Rufus turned off the road into a narrow, leafy lane; a signpost at the corner read
PENTREATH FARM
. On either side, the trees reached their branches up and over to arch in a leafy roof; even in full daylight the lane was shadowed, cool, with only a faint dappling of sunshine filtering through the leaves. All at once Simon was filled with an immense foreboding. He stood stone-still.

Barney looked over his shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know, exactly.”

“Did you hear something?”

“No. I just . . . it's as if I've been here before. . . .” Simon shivered. “It's the funniest feeling,” he said.

Barney looked at him nervously. “P'raps we really should go back?”

Simon did not answer; he was staring ahead, frowning. Rufus, who had disappeared round a corner in the lane for a moment, was bounding back again in a great unexplained hurry.

“Into the trees, quick!” Simon grabbed Barney's arm, and with the dog close behind them they slipped into the thicket of
trees and brush that edged each side of the road. In there, picking their way carefully from tree to tree to avoid rustling footfalls, they inched forward until they could see the part of the lane that lay ahead, round the corner. They did not speak or whisper; they scarcely breathed, and at their feet Rufus crouched still as a dead dog.

There ahead, the trees were no longer thick, the land no longer a leafy tunnel. Instead they saw a wide field scattered with large single trees and clumps of scrub. Across it, the lane was no more than a grassy track, two wheel-worn ruts, winding away to where the trees grew thick again. It did not look as though many people used the path to Pentreath Farm. And there was no sign of any farmhouse. Instead, clear ahead of them in the sunlit field, they saw a caravan.

It stood tall and glittering and handsome: a real old-fashioned Gipsy caravan, of a kind they had never seen before except in pictures. Above the high wood-spoked wheels rose white wooden sides, sloping gently outwards, up to the curved wooden roof with its cone-hatted chimney. At each corner between roof and walls, brightly-painted scrollwork filled the eaves. In the side walls, square windows were set, neatly curtained; leaning down from the front of the van were shafts for the horse that stood grazing quietly nearby. At the rear, a sturdy six-rung ladder led up to a door painted with ornate decorations to match the scrollwork: a split door, of the kind used in stables, with the top half hanging open and the lower half latched shut.

As they crouched behind the trees, breathlessly staring, a figure appeared in the doorway, opened this lower door and began descending the steps of the caravan. Barney tightened his grip on Simon's arm. There was no mistaking the long wild dark hair, the snarling brow; the painter was even dressed exactly as he had been both times before, like a fisherman, in
navy-blue jersey and trousers. He swallowed nervously at the impact of the man's nearness; it was as if there were a cloud of malevolence all around him. Barney was suddenly very glad that they were deep in the trees, out of all possible sight. He stood very still indeed, praying that Rufus would not make a sound.

But although indeed there was no sound anywhere in the clearing, except the clear morning song of birds in the trees, the dark man paused suddenly at the bottom of the caravan steps. He lifted his head and turned it all round, like a deer questing; Barney saw that his eyes were shut. Then the man turned full in their direction, the cold eyes opened beneath the lowering brows, and he said clearly, “Barnabas Drew. Simon Drew. Come out.”

No thought of running away came into their minds, or anything but unquestioning obedience. Barney walked automatically forward out of the trees, and felt Simon moving with him in the same unhesitating way. Even Rufus trotted docile at their side.

They stood together in the sunlit field beside the caravan, facing the dark man in his dark clothes, and although the sun was warm on their skin it seemed to them that the day had become chill. The man looked at them, unsmiling, expressionless. “What do you want?” he said.

Somewhere in Barney's mind, as a spark flickers and finds tinder and blazes up into a flame, a small light of resentment flared suddenly into a crossness that burned away fear. He said boldly, “Well, for one thing I'd like my drawing back.”

Beside him he half-saw Simon shake his head a little, like one pushing away sleep, and knew that he too was clear of the spell. He said more loudly, “You stole my drawing, down in the harbour, goodness knows why. And I liked it, and I want it back.”

The dark eyes contemplated him coolly; it was impossible to read any emotion behind them. “Quite a promising little scribble, for your age.”

“Well, you certainly don't need it,” Barney said; for a moment he spoke with admiration, thinking of the real power in the man's painting.

“No,” said the man, with an odd, grim half-smile. “Not now.” He moved back up the steps and through the double door; over his shoulder he said, “Very well, then. Come on.”

Rufus, who had stood stock-still from the beginning, began a low rumbling growl deep in his throat. Simon put a hand down to quiet him, and said, “That wouldn't be very sensible, Barney.”

But Barney said lightly, “Oh no, I think it would be all right,” and he moved towards the caravan steps. Simon had no choice but to follow him. “Stay, Rufus,” he said. The setter folded his long legs and lay down at the foot of the steps, but still the long low growl went on eerie and unbroken; they could hear it soft in the background like a reminder of warning.

The dark man had his back to them. “Look well at the Romany vardo,” he said, without turning. “There are few of them to be seen any more.”

“Romany?” said Simon. “Are you a Gipsy?”

“Half Romany dial,” the man said, “and half gorgio.” He turned and stood with arms folded, surveying them. “I am part Gipsy, yes. That's the best you'll find these days, on the road at any rate. Even the vardo is only part Gipsy.”

He nodded at the roof of the caravan, and they saw, looking up, that it was edged all about with the same brightly-painted scrollwork that decorated the outside, and that tools of some small kind hung all over one wall, with an old fiddle and an oddly-striped woollen rug. But the furniture was shiny-cheap and modern, and the chimney was not a real chimney, but only
a vent for carrying away hot air from above the neat electric stove.

Then they saw suddenly that the ceiling was painted. From end to end, above the bright conventional curlicues of the scrollwork, a huge churning abstract painting was spread above their heads. There was no recognisable form to its shapes and colours, yet it was a disturbing, alarming sight, full of strange whorls and shadows and shot through with lurid colours that jarred on the senses. Barney felt again the power and the nastiness that had leapt at him from the canvas he had seen the man painting in the harbour; up on this ceiling too he saw the particular unnerving shade of green he had found so unpleasant out there. He said suddenly to Simon, “Let's go home.”

“Not yet,” said the dark man. He spoke softly, without moving, and Barney felt a chill awareness of the Dark reaching out to control him—until without warning a faint hissing sound that had been vaguely puzzling him erupted into the boiling of a kettle, and a shrill whistle filled the room and made a sense of evil suddenly ridiculous.

But Simon had felt it too. He looked at the dark man and thought:
you keep steering us away from being frightened, delaying it. Why do you want us to stay?

The dark-haired man busied himself with the prosaic matter of spooning instant coffee into a mug and pouring on water from the kettle. “Either of you drink coffee?” he said over his shoulder.

Simon said quickly, “No thank you.”

Barney said, “I wouldn't mind a drink of water.” Seeing Simon's scowl, he added plaintively, “Well, I did get awfully thirsty walking. Not just a drink of water from the tap?”

“In that cupboard by your right foot,” the painter said, “you will find some cans of orange soda.” He moved to the small table at the end of the caravan, stirring his coffee. “Sealed,” he
added with a deliberate ironic stare at Simon. “Fizzy. Harmless. Straight from the factory.”

“Thanks,” Barney said promptly, bending to the cupboard door.

The man said, “You might bring out a cardboard box you'll find in there, too.”

“All right.” After some bumping and rattling, Barney came up with an unremarkable brown box; set it on the table and produced two drinks from the crook of his elbow. Without comment Simon took one, and popped open the top, to a reassuring hiss; but a stubborn caution still made him reluctant to drink, and he made only a pretence of swigging at the can. Barney drank thirstily, with appreciative gurgling noises.

“That's better. Thanks. Now may I have my picture back?”

“Open the box,” the man said, the long hair falling about his face as he drank from his mug.

“Is it in there?”

“Open the box,” the man said again, with a faint edge of strain in his voice. Simon thought:
he's as tense as a strung wire. Why?

Setting down his drink on the table, Barney opened the top of the brown cardboard box. He took out a sheet of paper, and held
it
up critically. “Yes, that's my drawing.”