The Lost Witch (10 page)

It's one thing to know what I'm supposed to do,
she thought, as she rounded a
large tree,
but quite another to actually do it. Like, exactly how am I suppose to hear this
voice? Sure it's helped me out in the past, but how?

Darn you Philamount. Wasting time talking about conundrums and dynamite,
instead of telling me important and useful stuff.

She shifted her pack to a more comfortable position.
Well, let's see. If it really was
the voice that told me about this trail, then the first time would've been with the first escape, and
the first pig I ever helped was... Patch!

With a smile, Carole remembered that day so many years ago when Patch had trotted
over and flopped onto her lap. They had become instant best friends; playing together in the
mud, chatting in the shade for hours at a time, tormenting that crazy old rooster. She'd even
snuck into the barn some nights to sleep, cozy and warm on a bed of straw, beside Patch, despite
Hal's objections.

As usual, Beatrice had shattered the joy. "Pigs can't talk."

"Can too!"

"Can't. Just grunt and stink, like you."

"He only talks to me 'cause he's my friend, not yours!"

"Pigs can't be friends. You and yer smelly dad don't got no friends."

"Your stupid and you stink! Patch says so."

"Arrrrgh!"

Maybe Beatrice wouldn't have actually used the pitchfork, but Patch never gave her the
chance. He'd charged in like a raging bull. That was the last time Beatrice had dared to venture
near the pigs.

It was also the first time she helped choose which pigs to send to the butcher.

Carole hadn't been able to stand the thought of Patch becoming Beatrice's breakfast. Not
knowing what else to do, she'd simply refused to leave his side, clinging to him all night long. It
was dawn when she'd
heard
the solution. She'd been wrapped around Patch's neck,
drifting in and out of a troubled sleep, when suddenly she knew she had to take him to the
sun.

Together they'd crossed that cold, dew-drenched field into the first blinding rays of light.
The path had been a ribbon of liquid gold cutting through the gray. The Boars' Head Staff had
been there too, less than fifty feet in, leaning against the blackened and shattered stub of a
tree.

It suddenly dawned on Carole that she'd solved other dilemmas in a similar way. The
solutions had not appeared until she'd almost given up trying to find them. Getting banished from
the schoolroom had been a terrible blow, not because of being alone or even because of the
weather, but because she'd wanted to learn.

Read her lips.

It hadn't been like hearing a voice in her head that rain-spattered morning. It was more
like catching the scent of something good, like fresh-baked bread, and just knowing what it
was.

She realized now that although the answers had seemed simple enough, following them
was often a different story.

Losing Patch hadn't been easy, even though letting him go had saved his life. And
lip-reading had taken a lot of practice, studying and talking to her own reflection for hours on
end.

Exactly where had those answers come from?

The source was obviously someplace deep, and in order to hear she needed to be quiet,
to stop the chatter in her head. Could that be what multitasking was really about? Working with
different levels of her mind at the same time?

No wonder Philamount found monobrains tough to be around. They never stopped
chattering long enough to hear anything. Except Hal wasn't like that. Hal could listen. The
professor would definitely like her father-not.

Carole was so taken by these new ideas that she failed to notice how narrow the trail had
become. It was so narrow, in fact, that her glides began to resemble short, brisk steps. She also
missed the two forms keeping pace, until rustling leaves drew her attention to their shadows
moving through the woods.

She slid to a stop.

The forest had grown unnaturally quiet. She immediately checked for signs of fog,
before realizing what she was doing. Although this wasn't the Dark Wood, something was
definitely amiss.

She saw movement again, this time ahead and much closer. Two rangy looking dogs
stepped onto the path, barring her way. Gripping her staff firmly with both hands, she raised it
like a club.

The dogs, obviously wild, didn't appear the least bit timid.

"I don't suppose you're brainy animals by any chance?"

The dogs bared their teeth.

"Well, I don't want any trouble, so please be kind enough to let me to pass."

The larger of the two lowered its head and, growling, began to inch forward.

"I don't think so!" Carole barked, whacking her staff against the nearest tree.

The dog barely flinched.

"Uh oh." She scrambled into the lower branches of the tree.

Both dogs moved beneath, snapping at her feet. She climbed higher.

"Now what? I can't wait here all day. But maybe..."

As she stared at the dogs she imagined a rabbit hiding in the nearby underbrush. The
larger dog's ears perked up. She concentrated harder, imagining with greater detail. Both dogs
looked towards the woods. She visualized the rabbit twitching with fear and racing away from
the trail. With a bark, the dogs gave chase.

Where the dogs had stood, was now only trembling underbrush.

"Lucky for you I'm not traveling with a certain cat by the name of Brutus!" Carole called
out as she jumped out of the tree and raced off.

She saw nothing more of the dogs, but kept a wary eye on the woods and a firm grip on
her staff just the same, relaxing her vigilance only after bird and rodent sounds returned to the
forest. Soon shadows began to lengthen. Evening was on its way.

Until now Carole hadn't given a thought to where she was going to spend the night, but
with wild dogs about, she must focus on protection first and comfort second. Before she had
begun to search out a suitable site, the trail opened onto a small meadow containing an old
wooden shack and a stone walled well. The well was covered by a peaked roof. Carole walked
towards the decrepit building, hoping her worries for the night were over.

She couldn't help but notice that a good deal of the meadow grass around the shack had
been recently trampled and torn up. She looked closer. The dirt beneath was covered with prints,
mostly dog, but some pig as well.

Dogs don't usually travel in pairs,
she realized with a start.
They travel in
packs.
She broke into a cool sweat, thinking how lucky she'd been.

What about her pigs? Had the dogs had been here before or after Runt and Smoky had
passed through? At least one of the pigs--Smoky by the size of the prints--had been moving in
the right direction. She couldn't see any sign of Runt past the building.

She followed the larger set of hog tracks across the meadow and over to where the trail
started up again. It looked like Smoky had got away, but what about Runt? Carole crisscrossed
the area a few more times, even walking a short way up the trail. She found no further sign of the
little pig, but at least there wasn't any blood. Reluctantly, she returned to the shack.

The roof was sagging and boards were missing here and there, but at least the place still
had four walls. She pushed against a wall. Surprisingly it held firm.

She peered through the front window. Nothing was inside save a stone fireplace with a
rusted tin flue. She tried the door. It was jammed. She shoved. The door gave a little. She shoved
harder, forcing it wide enough for her to squeeze through.

After dumping her gear on the floor, Carole looked around. It wasn't quite so bad from
this perspective. If the dogs did turn up, she'd be a good deal more comfortable in here than up a
tree. Providing the well still held water, her accommodations were almost luxurious.

She dug out her canteen. She still had plenty to drink but not enough to waste on a wash.
Slipping back outside, she headed for the covered well.

As she drew closer, she heard splashing and grunting sounds.

Carole stepped toward the stonework, but found it so cracked and crumbly that she
stopped short, for fear the whole thing might tumble into the shaft. There were two support poles
holding the peaked roof and a metal crankshaft in place. The poles were almost completely
rotten. She peered gingerly over the top of the masonry. The well cover was missing and it was
too dark for her to see far inside.

"Anybody down there?"

"Wreeeeet!"

"Runt, is that you? "

"Reet, reeet reeeet wreeeeeeeeeet!"

"Okay, okay, I get it. Are you hurt?"

"Wret, rit."

"That's a relief. Bruises we can deal with. How about the water, is it deep?"

"Ret wreet, rit reeet, reet riit."

"Was it already down there or did the cover fall in with you?"

"Reet, reeet ret."

"It's a wonder you're still alive. So what exactly, are you doing down there in the first
place? Where's Smoky?"

"Wreeereet! Writ ret reet."

"All right. Give me a minute to think of something, and it's not a stupid question at all.
It's a very sensible question."

There was still plenty of rope wound around the crankshaft, though all that was left of
the water bucket was a rusty handle. She unwound a length of rope and tested its strength.
Definitely not in the best of shape. She was even more concerned about the wooden supports.
She pushed on one pole and felt it sway.

"Okay Runt, I'm going to lower some rope. Think you're strong enough to hold on with
your teeth?"

"Rrr...eet."

"Let's hope this works."

Carole tugged on the crank-handle but the apparatus resisted any movement. She jerked
harder. The handle let out a loud squawk and rope began to snake down the shaft.

"Reet!" Runt squealed, a short time later.

"Get a good hold. I'll try to make this quick."

She gave Runt a few seconds to prepare himself, before calling out, "Here we go."

As soon as the slack was taken out of the line, everything began to shift and groan.
Carole nervously eyed the support pillars. If they gave way, not only would Runt crash back into
the water, but a good portion of the wall and the roof would likely topple onto him.

She tried to keep her rhythm steady, but the poles continued to wobble and the far end of
the crankshaft began twisting out of its bracket. She dared not crank any faster, yet the wood
wasn't going to hold together much longer. With a sickly crack, the pillar on her side broke free
of the ground and began to topple.

Carole jammed her hip against the wood, wedging it in place while struggling to
maintain her grip on the handle. Sweat stung her eyes, but she didn't chance letting go to wipe it
away. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a fuzzy snout appeared overtop the stonework. Two
more cranks and a bluish-looking pig emerged from the well, his eyes wide, his legs sticking
straight out.

With her hip wedged against the fractured pole and the handle anchored in the crook of
her elbow, she reached out with her other hand and just managed to grab Runt's tail. "Listen up,"
she panted. "I'm going to swing you back and forth. On the count of three I'll pull really
hard.

"Let go of the rope on three, got it?"

Runt's eyes opened even wider.

"Here we go." Carole soon had him swinging like a pendulum. With each tug, the
supports shifted and groaned ominously. She had opened her mouth to count when, with a
POP
the second support pole snapped in two.

"Three!" Stumbling backwards, she yanked with all of her might.

Runt sailed--rear first--overhead. Wood and stone splashed into the water with a loud
reverberating boom.

Runt leapt onto Carole's chest and smothered her with sloppy, ice cold kisses.

"Oh Runt, you're shivering like a leaf!" she laughed, squeezing him lovingly. "Come on,
let's get you warmed up. You must be pretty hungry, too."

"Reet, reet!" Runt agreed, prancing around like a puppy.

"That's easy to remedy." Carole led him to the shack and dug out a handful of oat cakes.
"Here you are, courtesy of Maude Murtz."

Runt eyed Carole with astonishment.

"Call it a going away present."

Carole watched him devour his food. His shivering didn't seem to be lessening any.
"We'd better get you warmed up some. I'll see if I can start a fire."

She collected dry branches from along the edge of the forest and stacked the wood in the
shack, next to the hearth. When she had enough, she built a small teepee of twigs in the center of
the fireplace, overtop a clump of dry moss. She grabbed the jackknife and flint rock from her
pack and began striking the rock against the blade.

After a bit of fiddling, she had the blade sparking. A little more fiddling, and she
managed to get the sparks to fly towards the moss. She had to fiddle and blow and encourage a
lot more before she was rewarded with a small, candle-sized flame, to which she fed more moss.
Eventually she had a pleasant blaze crackling and a warm pig snoozing. By then her shoulders
were aching and her head throbbing, so she lay down for a short, well deserved rest.

Runt's persistent nudging pulled her away from the nightmare, a nightmare in which
she'd been face-to-face with the growling maw of a werewolf. The beast's snarls followed her
into the waking world. She jerked upright.

The fire had died to embers, yet still cast enough light to illuminate the toothy muzzles
crowding the partially open doorway. Carole grabbed her staff and leaped at the dogs with a yell,
stabbing and hitting until the growling animals backed away. She shoved the door closed; piled
more wood on the fire and coaxed the flames to life.

Meanwhile dogs began to worm through gaps where planks were missing. She seized a
flaming branch and shoved it into their faces. Growls became yelps, as the dogs scrambled away
from the scorching heat.