The Lost Witch (6 page)

"Well the truth of the matter is, I accidentally landed on that hill about a mile back and
was chased down here by a group of nasty trees and some very beastly mist, and I was sort of
hoping there might be some place I could spend the night." She tried to look casual. "What with
ghosts and such flying about."

As one, the cats arched their backs and growled menacingly. The women also began to
whisper and grumble amongst themselves.

Carole wasn't sure if this was a good or bad sign, but at least she had their attention.

An extremely large tawny tabby, the largest of all the cats and one who looked rather
like a small lion, paced towards her. She squatted to his level. This was definitely an animal she
wouldn't pet without permission.

The cat let out a low throaty sound.

She was surprised to find herself understanding what it was saying. "Oh, you're a brainy
cat."

As the cat continued, her smile faded. "Well it might be impossible for you, but I'm not
a liar. I did escape from the Dark Wood and from The Whistler in The Mist, not more than thirty
minutes ago. And for your information, it's not in the mist at all. The Whistler
is
the
mist."

Her last statement caused another round of muttering and hissing from the two
semicircles.

The lionish cat waited for the noise to die down before uttering a few more growls.

Carole snorted. "That might very well be true, but then I wouldn't know because I'm a
stranger to these parts. However, perhaps it's simply a matter of courage."

The cat crouched with a snarl, flattening its ears and flicking its tail.

"Enough Brutus! Back ye to the circle," someone said in a croaky voice.

The cat turned and padded stiffly to its spot amongst the others, who were now all
glowering at Carole.

Oh boy.
She stood up and waited for the speaker to reveal herself.
Now I've
put my foot in it.

"Brave words from a young whelp who comes to disturb the coven of The Westhill
Witches. Brave or foolish words." The speaker was a very old-looking crone, with skin as dry
and wrinkly as her voice was harsh and raspy.

"I'm very sorry to have interrupted your party, and I don't mean to be brave or foolish,
but that cat of yours..."

"Oftimes Brutus does thinks a little too high of his self," the witch agreed, "but it rubs
his fur wrongly that a scrawny imp, such as ye, claims to have done a thing which he, nor his
four-footed friends got no guts fer."

"Well if I had been given the choice, I wouldn't have done it either. "

"So ye say. But 'tis no easy thing to escape either The Wood nor The Whistler, yet ye
claim to have done both, and on this very same eve."

"Just barely, and probably only because they were as surprised at my appearance as I
was at theirs."

"Truth in that, perhaps." The old woman nodded, and continued with a sterner tone, "but
ye say ye fell. Was it from yer broom!?"

Witches and cats began to snicker.

"I don't own a broom."

The old crone bristled with suspicion. "What kind of witch be ye without a broom?"

"I'm not a witch at all," Carole said, "and I didn't fall from the sky. I fell from a different
dimension."

Jaws fell open.

"Multitasker?" The witch shrieked, and pointed a crooked finger at Carole's chest.
"Claim ye to be a Multitasker, then?"

"I don't claim to be anything, but I know a man--Professor Philamount--who claims to
be one."

"Melodious T. Philamount?"

"Why yes. You know him?"

"Know him?! He be the old fraud who stands us up this night past, causing a good batch
of brew to go to ruination. Smell ye not the stink?"

"So, Mr. Philamount is a good friend of the Westhill Witches?"

"Till this night past!"

"I don't think it was entirely his fault. He said he was visiting with some friends in the
Nightshade Realm before our two dimensions collided."

"'Tis so? A dimensional overlay? And which dimension be ye from, then?"

Carole cleared her throat. "I... Um...happened to be in the Monobrain Universe."

"What! Ye be a cursed monobrainer? Ye and yer kin be the cause of all the problems
such as we've got--near nine years of pesky werewolf problems. We Westhillers shall cast such a
spell as to make ye wish The Whistler had gotten hold of yer bones!"

Without giving Carole a chance to reply, the witch began to wave her arms and to chant
under her breath. The rest of the witches joined in, adding volume to the chant, their bodies
swaying to the rhythm. Next the cats arched their backs and began walking stiff-legged about the
room, growling in time with the chanting.

Suddenly the air came alive, as if it were being pumped full of electricity. Carole felt her
hair rise and her skin tingle. Her fascination with the spectacle turned into horror as she realized
that the witches really intended to do something unpleasant.

"Wait, stop! I'm not a monobrainer, I'm a multitasker. Philamount was trying to help me
get home. My name is Carole Wood...Sylphwood. Carole Sylphwood. I'm from The Hub!" This
last she had to scream, so as to be heard above the growing din.

But hear her they must have, for the chanting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. As the
sound faded from the room, so too did the prickly sensations.

"Sylphwood?" The first witch spoke. "The lost child Sylphwood?"

"Yes. I've been stranded on the monobrain planet for nine years."

"Be the connector with ye also?"

"Mr. Philamount thinks so. Back on the monobrain world, I mean."

"Then child, ye be not a great curse but our great hope. Since The Conundrum, much
here has slid into disarray and we oft be suspicious and short of temper. My apologies fer about
to spell ye."

"That's okay." Carole wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. "At least you stopped
in time. But what problems has The Conundrum caused in your world?"

"Werewolves be the biggest ache to our heads. They be everywhere. Sprouting up like
nasty weeds. Even wolfbane be of little help, such be the mood of the wolf these days. That be
why we Westhill Witches travel so far north. Built this hall hoping fer The Whistler and The
Wood to keep us safe. Better the evil that stays put than the one who's fleet of foot, eh?" she
cackled. "So where be that fraud Melodious now?"

"I don't know. We were talking just before I fell off the planet."

"He be along in proper time, then. Most like to seek us out to help with the search fer ye.
Little fer it but to wait. Ye be an honored guest, Sylphwood multitasker. Come join the
party."

As if hearing an unspoken order, the coven broke into small groups and the hall quickly
filled with the noisy cackles and meows.

"I be Herling," she added, smiling a toothy grin. "Head Witch of the Westhills." She
glanced around the room before calling out, "Mariat witchling, come hither, girl."

From behind a group of youngish witches came a girl who looked to be about the same
age as Carole. She was wide-eyed, but was clearly trying to appear as knowing and wise as
Herling.

"This be Mariat," Herling said. "She be apprenticed to the coven, to be schooled in the
way of Westhill Witches. Tis a great honor, fer we Westhillers accepts only the best."

Mariat blushed as if embarrassed to be singled out with such a compliment.

"Still be a lot of learning fer ya, girl, so don't be getting a swelled head just yet," Herling
added, with a wink to Carole. "Come show Sylphwood the way of we witches." And with a
rustle of her skirt, Head Witch Herling shambled off towards two of the more elderly looking
crones.

"Be ye truly a multitasker?" Mariat said straight away.

"That's what I've been told, but I really don't remember."

"But ye escaped The Whistler and The Wood! I've never heard tell of any other able to
do such."

"I'm not surprised," Carole shuddered. "But your cats don't seem to believe me."

Mariat giggled. "Never ye mind Brutus. He be always boasting about something or
other. Do him good to get beat with his own game. Come, I show ye the makings of the new
brew, but it won't be ready fer three more nights now. Not since the other batch spoilt."

Carole followed her to a corner hearth where a big black cauldron simmered away
overtop some low burning coals. She wrinkled her nose at the bitter smell wafting out of the pot.
"You actually drink this stuff?"

"Drink it?" Mariat let loose a cackle. "Sylphwood, ye be funny."

"What's so funny about that? And you can call me Carole."

"We don't drink the brew, Carole. We see the future with it."

"You do? How?"

"By what we adds to it. If ye wish to know answers 'bout the summer, ye add the things
of summer: grass, flowers, thistles, bugs and the like. If ye wish to know 'bout autumn, ye adds
the things of autumn. If ye wish to know 'bout many years off, ye add that which lives a long
time: bark of the ancient forest trees, shell of a grandad tortoise, bones of an old one. Stuff and
such like that."

"So if I wanted to know about my own future, would I add, say, some of my hair to the
brew?"

"Tis so. Many things may be added, so many types of brews can be made. Tis witch lore
of the most complex sort and I not be so good at it yet. Head Witch Herling be the best of the
coven, but it takes three full days and three full nights to cook a brew, and this night's past upset
did spoilt her last batch. So Philamount will get no answer tonight, should he show."

"Oh, so Professor Philamount was looking for answers, was he? What to?"

"Not certain. I be only a witchling still, so many things kept secret from me yet."

"Do you have a broom?"

"Course. What witch doesn't?"

"Have you ever fallen off?"

"Pssshaw. Be I look like a crawling babe to ye? Course I never fall. Westhill Witches
never fall."

"Thought so," Carole said. Just then her stomach let out a low grumble.

"Be ye hungry, Carole Sylphwood?"

"It has been a while since I've eaten."

"Then ye come and sample witch fare like none other. 'Tis The Feast of the Planting
Moon we be celebrating. This be the best meal second only to the Harvesting Moon." Mariat led
Carole to the other side of the hall to where a large table was laid out with an assortment of food,
none of which Carole recognized.

"Ah... There's no bat's wings or newt eyeballs in this stuff, is there?"

Mariat giggled again. "Be all ye multitaskers so funny? Bats wings and such be
ingredients for brew, not for food."

"Oh, I'm so glad. What do you recommend?"

The witchling pointed out her favorite dishes. Carole, sampling them, discovered that
the food was delicious. She was famished and filled her plate. Mariat did likewise, saying that
being a good hostess also meant she got to eat before the older witches, instead of after, which
was her usual witchling place.

They took their food to a bench near the brew pot. Between mouthfuls Carole continued
to ask questions.

"This here feast be to celebrate the end of the snows. 'Til now there still be killing frosts
covering the ground, but they be gone now 'til after harvest."

"So is this the longest day of the year?"

"No, that be the Birthing Solstice; still a few moons off yet." Mariat's eyes sparkled.
"That be a most powerful night fer spell making and witch lore. The most powerful night of all
fer live spelling."

"Live spelling?"

"Healing spells. Helping spells. The Death Solstice be its opposite, in the season of the
snows, when it be mostly cold and dark. That be the time fer death spelling. Nasty business that.
Still, gots to know it all if ye want to be a Westhiller." Mariat sighed, "To bad this here feast be
stuck way up here in the north in such a stuffy hall. Times past it be out-of-doors with great
bonfires, warming spring breezes and merry music from nearby villages and such."

"Because of the werewolves?"

"Yup. They be such a problem that even here we Westhillers mostly stay indoors at
night, even fer the Moon Feast. Such an embarrassment that be too!"

"Do the werewolves bother the ghosts and spirits, too?"

"Oh, no. The spirit folk be not hindered by fleshy types. In fact Herling thinks 'tis other
way arount. Spirit folk in uproar over shifting dimensions and be taking out their frustrations on
others, such as they can. Werewolves be not very bright and easy to bother, so they be bullied
most often. Then they gets all riled up and looks arount fer someone to bite. It makes fer
intolerable time, so the Westhill Coven comes here to northern country fer some peace and
quiet."

"Hmm, nice vacation resort, with killer forests and man-eating fog. So there aren't any
werewolves around?"

"Be but a few, though so far none is able to get into the hall."

"Is that why the windows are so high up?"

"That be so, high and smallish. Though if pesky enough, a wolf still be able to break
through."

"Does all that cat pee on the doorway have something to do with the werewolves
too?"

"True enough." Mariat smiled, seeming impressed with Carole's quick perception of the
workings of witch society. "Cat pee makes wolf forget about the windows and try to get at cats
through the front door. That be why such thickness to the door. Wolf attacks until it gets
tuckered out and goes home to bed."

"But the door wasn't locked. What if a werewolf pulls down the latch during an
attack?"

"Wolves always howl into the night. That gives us witches plenty of time to prepare,"
Mariat said.

"What else do you do, to prepare, I mean?"

"We spread wolfbane about. Plant gardens of the stuff on the hills which surround the
coven. That be one of my witchling duties, to tend wolfbane gardens. It smells real bad to
werewolves. Smells real bad to witches too," Mariat added as an afterthought. "'Specially when
we needs to bathe in the stuff. And sometimes, if a wolf not be put off by our witch
defensiveness, we prepare a spell to fry the critter before it gets to us, but that be only as a final
resort. Wolves not really be bad or mischievous creatures, and they usually give us no never
minds at all. Just these days they be riled to distraction by the Conundrum.