Witch Crag (14 page)

“When I was a young girl on the hill fort,” said Vild, nestling down into her cloak, “I longed for a better life, just like you and Nada. I never fitted in – I was always in trouble. And freakish things would happen – I scared off two huge crows, once, just by the power of my mind, although afterwards I doubted that I'd done it. Nada looked out for me, loved me. She used to tell me to be quieter, less stroppy, or they'd think I was a witch.
Anyway
. One day, out by the dung heaps, I found a tiny puppy scavenging, separated from her pack. She was shivering, starving. I smuggled her into the hill fort and tended her.” Vild stroked Moss's head, gently. “We loved each other. I hid her in my bedding and clothes at first, then she grew too big and boisterous and the headman, just a young man himself back then, he saw her and seized her and – crushed her to death. In front of me.”

“Nada told me,” whispered Kita. “Horrible.”

Vild wrapped her arms tightly round her body, as though she was feeling again what she'd felt all those years ago. “It unleashed a mad torrent inside me.
Witch rage
. I scared myself, I scared
him
. I railed at him and cursed him and he wouldn't come near me. If I'd been less terrifying I think he'd have killed me, too. He made five men grab me and tie me up in one of the sheds. That night, I had a vivid dream. I saw myself sawing through the ropes using a jagged stone embedded in the ground. Then climbing out of the tiny window, running across the compound, and slithering under the great gates like a snake. When I came to . . . the ropes were already sawn. Maybe I'd done it as I dreamt it. To be honest, I felt as if I was still dreaming. The tiny window looked impossible, but I pulled myself up there and somehow, contorting my whole body, I squeezed myself through and dropped to the ground. I ran to the gates – no one saw me.”

“Those gates,” Kita murmured, “they're right down to the ground, only a snake could get under them. . .”

Vild laughed. “Then that's what I am. I flattened myself until my sinews screamed. I pushed the hard earth away. . . I scraped and scrabbled my way under the hard wood, inch by inch. Then suddenly hands seized my hands from the other side, and I thought I was done for. I thought it was footsoldiers. They hauled me out, too fast to resist, and I came face to face with my first witches.” She turned towards Kita, her face eerie in the darkness. “They'd connected with me. Unleashed my strength, my ability to shrink and contort. They'd sent me my dream. Then they came to get me.”

Kita's heart was thudding. “Quainy called me a snake,” she whispered. “She said I was all coiled up like one.”

“I'd take that as a compliment, dearling. Witches aren't sweetness and light. We need our power, our hard core.”

“Nada's sweetness and light.”

“Yes. But she didn't fight to escape. Not like you and I did.”

“Why didn't they come to get me, like they got you? Aren't I worth as much?”

“Things have got more dangerous for us; our resources are more stretched. And we knew the journey would educate you for what is to come.
And
– most of all – we knew you were capable of making it on your own. I'd take that as another compliment, Kita, if I were you.”

Then Vild rolled over, and went to sleep.

The next morning, a meeting was called, round the glowing fire pit. Kita, Raff and Quainy were called on to be present; Vild and Nada were there, and about thirty others. There seemed to be no hierarchy – anyone who could get free from their necessary chores could attend. Those who knew their presence was important gave their chores to others, who took them on willingly. Children, though, were gently steered away – Nada insisted. She felt they'd be alarmed by what was to be discussed.

Vild opened the meeting simply, by asking the three friends to describe what had happened to them in the rotting city. “That place troubles us,” she said. “A while back, some of the city dwellers were skulking on our lower slopes, and when we challenged them, they asked to parley. They wanted to employ us to ‘do magic for them'. They wanted poisons, potions, anything that could harm. Oh – and they were after our ‘vision'. To predict the action of the enemy, they said. They talked about joining forces.”

“We declined, of course,” said a witch, loudly. “They're scum, thieves – carrion eaters!”

“Living on the waste from the Great Havoc!” cried a witchman.

“But since then,” said a thin witch, “a great many of us have seen the old city in our thoughts and dreams. There's one powerful presence – he comes to me – robed in fantastic colours, with uneven horns either side of his head. . .”

Kita clapped her hand over her mouth. “That's Geegaw!” she cried. “They're not
horns –
it's a greasy plait, and a long earring. He went on about ‘the vision' to me, too. He said he had it – and some of you did – and he said I had it, too.” From the corner of her eye she saw Raff and Quainy turn to stare at her, astonished, but she ignored them, and rattled on. “He told me the Manager needed help from people like me to help the city come together and survive into the future. Because it was going to come to—” She broke off.

“What?” Vild pressed her.

“War,” said Kita.

A crackle and rustle went round the witches, like wind in a cornfield. “We
said
this,” hissed the loud witch. “We've been dreaming of war. . . War! They mean to invade us, invade all the tribes.”

“They've built nothing themselves, so they grab what others have worked to build!” cried another.

“
Devour
what we've created. Devour
us
.”

Vild leaned towards Kita, face strained. “What did you tell this Geegaw about the sheepmen's hill fort?” she demanded. “Defences? Weak spots?”

“Nothing,” said Kita, eyes wide. “He didn't ask.”

“There's so many of them,” wailed an elderly witch. “So many hungry soulless creatures in those ruins. . .”

“I've been seeing an advance of . . . of monsters,” said a young witch, shrilly. “Great ranks of them, all colours . . . great gleaming eyes. . .”

“Ah,” said Raff. “I think they're called cars.”

Over the course of the next few hours, with breaks for hot, sweet drinks and crumbly scones flavoured with herbs, the three friends told the story of their time in the decaying city. They talked about Geegaw and the Manager, the ruthless gangs, the raids on the farmers' lands, the dwindling stocks of canned food. They described the ranks of cars they'd seen, all lined up and facing out of the city. Raff told how they'd escaped, and how they were nearly slaughtered in the killing arena. The witches listened attentively, asking questions, filling out the friends' words with their dreams and sensings, their scant knowledge of the city, and the tales that the farmers' young slaves had told them.

Before long, an undeniable vision of war was seen by all.

“They mean to come out, in those
cars
,” said a witchman. “They'll be invulnerable. They'll overrun us, seize our resources. . .”

“It's happening too soon,” sobbed the elderly witch. “Years too soon, for the tribes to unite against this. We've not finished our work – the sheepmen and the horsemen, they fear and hate us more than ever. . .”

Vild stood up, crossed over to her, and hugged her. “We'll find different ways,” she soothed. “We have to.”

Now all the witches were standing up, stretching their legs. It seemed that the meeting had come to a natural end, but Kita's mind was still crammed with questions. The thought of an invasion from the city terrified her, but she needed to know more – and she longed to learn about the
work
that Vild and the others kept mentioning. What had Vild said, about her flight from the sheepmen hill fort? “We knew the journey would educate you for what is to come.” What was to come? And what part had she to play in it all?

But Vild had disappeared, and now Daria, the witch with the beautiful dark plait of hair, was approaching her, smiling.

“Tired, Kita?” she asked. “Or can you help me prepare the evening meal? This long meeting, it's put us all behind.”

“Of course,” said Kita, reluctantly. “Are Raff and Quainy. . .?”

“Oh, someone else will have claimed them. We love new people, here.”

The kitchen on Witch Crag was not so different to the one at the sheepmen hill fort – basic, clean, efficiently run. But the atmosphere inside was worlds away. Rumours of the invasion hadn't reached the kitchen yet, and the workers inside were carefree. They laughed, talked, teased each other; one young boy broke off chopping root vegetables to juggle with three of them, while others applauded and urged him on.

Kita was asked to strip long wiry plant stalks of their leaves. “The stalks are bitter,” Daria explained, “but reviving. We make tinctures from them, with honey added. The leaves are tasty eaten raw.”

Kita was halfway through her task when there was an uproar from the far end of the kitchen. “Sessa,
what
on earth d'you think you're up to?” a portly witch barked. “Those flatbread buns should be in the baking pit by now!”

Kita stared uncomfortably, waiting for Sessa to whine out an apology. But Sessa, who looked a couple of years younger than Kita, stood her ground. “I'm making flower shapes,” she said. “It's taking longer.”

“And why are you making
flower shapes
?”

“To welcome our guests tonight.”

“We welcomed them last night.”

“Not properly we didn't, because we didn't all know they were coming!”

“Well, it won't welcome them to have uncooked flatbread, will it?”

“No,” said Sessa. “I suppose not.”

“So what do you propose to do about it,
h'm
?”

“Well . . . if I put these flowers in the oven now—”

“Ah. And roll out the rest of the dough in thin leaves?”

“Yes. They'll bake quicker, they'll bake in time.”

“And look very festive,” said the portly witch, “leaves and flowers together. Well, get to it, then!”

Kita turned back to her task, amazed. So the witches argued, they fought. But—

“We sort it out, as calmly as we can,” said Daria, as though she'd heard Kita's thoughts. “We hear each other. But of course we disagree! What intelligent people don't? It's only by exploring our differences that we can grow.”

Another evening meal, more music, a tale of the witches' long-ago arrival at the crag. As if by agreement, no one mentioned the old city. Instead, they danced under the stars, everyone joining in this time, snaking around the fire pit, laughing and singing in time with the flute and the drum.

Another night in the warm tent for Kita, curled up beside Vild and Moss. As she got up the next day and breakfasted on dried fruit and flatbread laid out on tables for all to take, she felt herself beginning to unfold into Witch Crag. Maybe, she thought, she'd find the answers to her questions spaced out along the way. She wandered over to the pheasant huts and offered to help, and this was gladly accepted. Suggestions were made, rather than directions given, on the best way to go about the work. Sessa toiled alongside her, collecting eggs, sweeping droppings, and plied her with queries about her life before she'd come here, and no one told them to work more and talk less. Then, in the afternoon, a sturdy young witch with long loose auburn hair appeared, introduced herself as Comfrie, and wondered if Kita would like to help her mix herbal potions. This was something Kita was eager to learn about, and she agreed happily. Then it hit her – she was happy.

She said goodbye to Sessa and followed Comfrie down the steps to the apothecary, as Comfrie called her place of work. It was situated on the far north side of the crag, where a steep and jagged rocky outcrop formed part of the outer barricades. Halfway up between two jutting spurs of rock, a low roof of dried ferns had been hung, creating a deep cave.

“No door,” Comfrie explained, beckoning Kita to follow her inside. “We need the air to get in or the infusion fumes might overcome us.”

Kita followed her slowly, eyes wide, into the gloom of the apothecary. And felt a deep thrill of fear at what she saw. Every section of the rock face, on all three sides, was covered in strange necromantic shapes, hanging from hooks. Crows' wings, birds' beaks, dogs' skulls. Hanks of hair, twists of fur, bunches of strange-looking plants, bundles of dried fungi. And on the ledges, lower down, piles of bones, bundles of sticks, and strange, dark, spiky seed pods.

“Is this where you mix the poison, too?” Kita asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “For the arrows?”

“Oh, yes,” said Comfrie. “Everything is done here.” She picked up a thin bone from a ledge with one hand and with the other, deftly wound her long, silky hair into a knot on the top of her head, then skewered it with the bone. “Right,” she said. “First thing – we must get the fire going under that pot. Then we pour in some of
this
–” she held up a bulbous bottle that glowed red and sinisterly – “crack those seed pods, crush the seeds, and add them.”

Kita licked her lips; her throat felt very dry. “What are we making?” she whispered.

Comfrie giggled. “Your face!” she cried. “The face of a true sheep girl, thinking she's been lured into a witch's lair to brew up evil. It's a gentle sleeping infusion, Kita, nothing more. Nada's asked me for one. Rumours of the invasion have stirred everyone up and fear is contagious – it's spreading fast among the more nervous of us. The sleeping draught will stop the nightmares, keep things calm at night.”

Kita let out a long
phew
of relief. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Just – you're right – you did look like a sheep girl's worst fear. Just for a bit. With that bone in your hair and that bottle of blood.”

“It's whirtle berry juice,” smiled Comfrie. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

The next few hours passed wonderfully for Kita. As she stoked the fire under the little cauldron and deseeded the pods, she listened to Comfrie describe the magical and amazing world of plants and living things, and all the ways they could be used to enhance life and help with its pain, and she saw that this was a great part of the witches' work, and she felt that she was part of it all, helping too.

When it grew dark in the cave, the little fire allowed Comfrie to see the “set” of the draught, as she called it. It wasn't until the dinner horn sounded across the crag that Kita realized she was hungry.

“You go along without me,” Comfrie said. “I need to see this right, then cool it and decant it.”

“But, Comfrie, you must be starving—”

“Don't worry, they'll save me some food. Go!” Then she held out her arms to Kita, who slid into them, and hugged her tight.

Kita felt as though she was flowing along the top of Witch Crag, as she followed the crowds to dinner in the dusk. She felt so good, so relaxed, so much herself, that she wondered if she'd inhaled too much of the steam from the cauldron. People smiled at her, and reached out warmly and touched her arm or her back, and some called out, “Liking it here? Glad you came?”

And she called back, “Yes! Yes!”

Then she saw a face she recognized, lit by a little oil lamp burning on the ground. Stooped in concentration over a large black spindle of stone that jutted out from the ground at the side of one of the witches' social areas. Raff, doing what he loved most. Carving and scraping at the rock, creating something, making art.

She went over and stood beside him. “What's it going to be?” she murmured.

“A tree,” he said, decisively, glancing briefly at her to smile, and getting back to his carving again. “A sculpture of a tree. So many of the witches say they miss tall trees more than anything living up here. They love to go to the forests.”

“H'm,” said Kita, doubtfully. “That's great bark you're carving – really real. And I love that snail. But don't trees have branches?”

“And this one will have. There's a load of crude pikes and weapons stacked behind the cook house, taken from marauders they defeated—”

“What, the ones whose bones ended up in a daisy chain?”

“Probably.” Raff shrugged. “They were stripping them down to burn the wood – I earmarked them just in time. They'll make perfect branches, and I can beat the metal into leaves. I just need to work out how to attach them. It's going to be shady, this tree. And
beautiful
, Kita.”

“I bet,” she said. Then, “How's Quainy?”

“Oh, happy as a lamb. The weaver witches found our old wool tunics, they've taken them apart, unpicked the threads. They're working out how best to weave the wool in with that hemp stuff they use, for warmth, and Quainy's helping them.”

“She was always good at weaving, wasn't she. She'd have done that if she hadn't been worth more as trade.”

Raff straightened up then, and looked straight at Kita, and between them was all they'd been through to get here, and how good it was to be here, but there was also the space, the gap that had opened up between them. “Come on,” he said, at last. “Let's go to dinner. I said I'd meet her there.”

As they made their way over to the great fire pit, Raff pointed to a line of little huts. “Couples' huts,” he said, simply. “Privacy. That's where we sleep – the third one along.”

“How lovely,” Kita answered.

At dinner Kita asked Vild if she shouldn't find somewhere else to sleep that night. “I could move to the girls' hut,” she said. “Only I've been with you for two nights now, and you said you like your own company. . .”

Vild looked at her, considering, then she reached out quickly and stroked Kita's cheek. “Time enough for that,” she said. “You're welcome in my tent. You'd be badgered to death with questions in the girls' hut, and you need a good rest tonight, because Nada wants you to help with the children tomorrow.”

That night's meal was more subdued. Rumours of the invasion from the rotting city had circulated and spread; uneasiness lapped at everyone. There was lots of talking, but no singing or dancing, and little laughter. Comfrie appeared with her sleeping draught, and everyone who felt they needed some took a sip from the bulbous bottle.

Kita didn't have any.

Unlike the happiness of the day, her dreams were full of battles, of fleeing and fighting. She woke once screaming to find Vild soothing her, cradling her in her arms.

Nada called for her very early the next day, and there followed a morning of wonder for Kita. She'd only ever thought of babies and children as weeping, needy, sullen things. Not the exuberant, spontaneous little individuals who jumped and rolled around her like healthy puppies, or stood very still, eyes wide, as she told them all about sheep and drew a crude picture of one in the dust. Some of the older kids had collected feathers from the pheasants' pens, and were making headdresses from them. As Kita helped fasten one under the chin of a solemn little girl, a sob suddenly gripped her throat, and she tried to stifle it but failed. She turned away, arm over her eyes, as the tears started to flow.

And Nada was there beside her, like she'd always been when most needed, taking her arm gently and steering her away from the children. “It's all right, sweetheart,” she said, “it's all right. Come this way, come and sit over here. We don't want to frighten them.”

“I . . .
ooooh
. . . oh, I'm sorry
.
I don't know what happened then, I just—”

“I know,” soothed Nada. “They're just so different to those poor little tykes in the pens at the hill fort, aren't they? And so different to you, when you were that age.”

Kita gulped in air. She felt like sudden grief had engulfed her. She felt if she didn't stop herself crying now, she'd never stop.

Nada rubbed her back, and waited. Another witch had appeared, and was leading the children in a skipping song.

“
I want to save them
,” Kita grated out, at last. “I want . . .
somehow
. . . to spare the sheep children what I went through. To let them be loved, free. To
open up life
for them.”

“And if that's your aim, dearling,” said Nada, “you'll find a way to do it. I know you.”

“
How?
Transport them all here? I want them to have
this
life!
How
?”

“
Be patient, Kita. Go slow. You always did rush ahead, even as a little girl. Now. Why don't you take a wander? Soak up more of Witch Crag.”

So Kita wandered, and as she did, the grief left her and she felt instead a kind of deep, restful calm. She saw an old man making bracelets out of delicate scrap metal. He called her over and presented her with one, a chain with large thin links, and they talked for a while about what fun it was to adorn yourself. She wandered on and saw the cloth dyers treading in their great tubs; she waved to Quainy at the looms. She moved through all the witches, chatting, smiling, stopping to watch their work. Then she spotted Vild's white topknot at a distance, standing in a ring with a group of the other older witches round a large patch of ground. They were all staring intently down at something, not talking. Intrigued, she started to head towards them when young Sessa darted up to her and seized her arm.

“
Wheeesht!
” hissed Sessa. “Don't interrupt, don't go too close. They're salad-spell-making!”

“
What?
” laughed Kita.

“Salad-growing. Spell-making. That patch of earth – it nearly
cost
the earth, trust me. They carried up soil from the lower slopes – mulched and manured it – and they sow fresh greens in it every spring to keep us going all summer. And when they sow, they spell-make, to make the salad grow. Can't you almost
see
the energy?”

Kita stared. Maybe she imagined it, but there seemed to be a slight haze, like the shimmering around a fire, above the dark earth, in the middle of the witches.

“Now,” said Sessa, happily, leading her away by the hand, “I've got you again. Go on with your story. Tell me about the night you escaped.”

Kita laughed, and began, but sudden shouting interrupted her. Shouting from lower down on the crag. Angry, frightened shouting, interspersed with yelled commands.

Everyone around stopped what they were doing. The noise was shocking; utterly unlike the usual harmonious buzz and hum of Witch Crag. Sessa sped towards it, Kita following. They merged in with a great crowd of witches, all hurrying in the same direction. The dogs of the crag ran with them, barking.

On the lower slope where the spinning and weaving took place, a group of five warrior witches were aggressively herding a man forward. Three of the witches had blackbows, aimed at their prisoner; two had him clasped by the arms.

The man was young, strong, and struggling violently. The witches screamed and threatened as they lurched forward.

Kita recognized Wekka, the warrior witch who'd come to meet them when they first arrived. “Look at our
quarry
!” she yelled.

“Caught him climbing the sheer face of the crag!” shouted the witch who had hold of the young man's right arm. “
Spy!
” Then, with a huge thump, she spun him forward, so that he sprawled on the ground.