The Missing Link (3 page)

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She squinted upwards and saw the motion again,
on an overhead beam. A tail; a tawny cat's tail. "We've got company." She pointed.

"Cats often be here keeping mice and rats away, as well as helping selves to an easy
lunch. Everyone at Westhill Coven has chores to do, whether ye be of the two-footed or the
four-footed type." Mariat called, "Who be up there?"

Carole heard a throaty growl. "I know that voice. And how are you this morning,
Brutus?"

"Mrrowl!" the cat snapped.

"Is he still sore at me?"

"Might easily be that." Mariat chuckled. "Brutus be extremely good at grudge holding,
and last time ye showed him up real good."

Carole whispered, "Maybe I can fix things." Aloud she said, "I heard that you were the
first cat to jump on that werewolf last spring, Brutus. That was a very brave of you, and I just
wanted you to know how grateful I am."

The lionish looking cat rose from his resting place, muttered impolitely and vanished
out a window.

"Don't ye be fooled by his act," Mariat said. "Brutus be plenty pleased that multitasker
Sylphwood took notice. Things'll be better between ye two. Ye will see."

"I'll take your word for it," Carole said. "He's still the rudest cat I've ever met"

Mariat giggled. "Good to have him on yer side in a fight, though."

They left the mill and stopped midway across the sturdy bridge that spanned the
stream. Carole leaned over the low railing and watched the current pass slowly beneath.

"Exactly how does the coven work?" she said, after a time. "Do you stay here only for
schooling or do you live here all the time?"

"Bit of both. If a girl has natural witch skills, she be apprenticed fer training in the hope
that she'll return home later to become a resident village witch. But oft times a witch won't
return."

"Are there other types of people in this realm besides witches and villagers?"

"Plenty. There be the fleshy types like witches, gypsies, village folk and vampires, and
there be those with no flesh, like spirits and ghosts. There also be some which is kind'a
half-and-half," Mariat added as an afterthought. "Sprites and pixies and gnomes be those sorts."

"Are there faeries here, too?" Carole found herself hoping there were.

"Not anymore."

"What happened to them?"

"I remember hearing stories 'bout them when I be a babe sitting in front of the winter
hearth fires." Mariat kicked a stone off the bridge and watched it plunk into the water below.
"Mostly that the faeries be a delicate folk that tried to make the Ghostly Spirit Realm more kind and
gentle, but they couldn't because the magic here be too thick and brutish fer'em to change. So they
left." She stared at the water and said quietly, "Think ye, that I be thick and brutish, Carole?"

"Mariat, how could you say such a thing?"

"Faeries did."

Carole gripped Mariat by the shoulders and turned her so that they were face-to-face.
Mariat refused to meet her eyes. "Let me tell you something. I met some faeries."

The witchling looked up, eyes wide.

"It was during those dimensional overlaps last spring, and I can tell you, they'd love you.
Faeries enjoy a good time."

"Does they have a beautiful realm?"

"Very beautiful," Carole said, "but it's also dangerous, too."

"Truly?"

"There was a forest that the faeries wouldn't go near--sort of like The Dark Wood--and I
got captured by a nasty cave sprite and a wood troll. And believe me, they were very thick and very
brutish. The troll could squash a werewolf as easily as a bug."

"How did ye get away?"

"With the help of this." Carole pulled out the silver necklace she'd been wearing under
her dress. On the end of the braid was a tiny silver whistle. She held it up for Mariat to see. "The
faeries gave me this. It's a whistle wand."

Mariat turned the wand over in her palm. "Never heard tell of such a thing. 'Tis so very
delicate. How does it work?"

"It protects me from spells while I'm wearing it, at least faerie spells. I'm not sure if it
works against all types."

"It be well charmed." Mariat peered closely at the wand. "See how these fine lines
actually be scroll words. What else can it do?"

"It has projective magic, too. You cast the spell by blowing it."

"That so?" Mariat squinted through the wand's chamber. Before Carole could stop her,
she blew the whistle.

At first Carole heard nothing, and then ever so quietly, so that she almost missed it, a
crystalline chime sounded.

"Hear that?" Mariat was smiling widely.

Moments later Carole heard a second chime, this one a little louder.

"Delicate and beautiful. Like in the fire tales."

The third chime was easy to hear, the fourth almost deafening. Both she and Mariat
covered their ears.

The fifth chime blew them off the bridge.

Carole belly-flopped into the frigid stream below, and Mariat splashed beside her.

Shaking off the double shock of icy water and ringing ears, she instinctively blew two
short blasts into the wand. Covering her ears again, she tensed, knowing the sixth chime would
shatter bone.

That blow never arrived. Instead the fourth chime rang out, followed in close succession
by the third and second chimes. She assumed the almost inaudible first repeated itself, but with her
ears still ringing, she couldn't hear it.

"And the faeries thinking we be thick and brutish." Mariat groaned, whilst getting to her
feet. "Ye best keep that wand to yerself, multitasker. A body could get hurt playing with that
thing."

Leaning on each other for support, they waded ashore and collapsed onto the warm,
grassy bank. Neither spoke nor moved until Carole noticed a group of witches hurrying across the
bridge.

She sat up, wincing with the effort. It felt as though she'd pulled every muscle in her
belly. Mariat did likewise, looking even more pained than Carole felt. They stared at each other
silently, before cracking into smiles. Another group of witches was crossing the bridge.

"You don't suppose that's got anything to do with us?" Carole said, uneasily.

"I don't see how. That spell hit our bellies, not theirs."

"Could it have damaged the mill?"

"What's to damage? It be just wood and timbers."

When they'd climbed back up to the bridge, Carole discovered that the mill windows
had all shattered. Glass shards were everywhere. As she listened to the chatter of the clean-up crew,
Carole learned that a couple other buildings had suffered cracked windows. Luckily, no one had
been injured.

The consensus amongst the witches was that a rogue lightning bolt had triggered the
noise. Carole looked up at the clear blue sky. She had a sinking feeling she and Mariat hadn't heard
the last of this.

"Come on, Carole." Mariat tugged at her arm. "Let's make ourselves scarce fer a time. We
need to change into dry clothes anyway. I'll lend ye some of mine."

By the time they'd returned to the dorm Carole was pretty much dry.

"Good. Less suspicious if we be in our own garb. That cloth be a gift of the faeries, too?"
Mariat winced noticeably as she pulled off her own clothing.

"Yes. You okay?"

Mariat gave an irritated wave. "Faerie cloth be a safer subject than their wands. Dries
quick and changes color as ye have need. Seen it go gray on the crag lands, and bright red on the
bridge, but now it be pretty blues and purples, again. I won't be asking to try it on, though. Them
faeries be a mite too devious fer me."

Carole sat on the bed. She placed her fingers to her forehead and pressed gingerly. The
headache had been coming on steadily since she'd dragged herself from the stream. Now it was a
steady throb.

"Yer head also be a splitting in two?" Mariat smiled sympathetically. "We should visit
Brunstice, the herbal crone, get her to fix us a batch of aching head remedy.

"But she be a good friend of Herling too, so we need to watch our tongues. Might be best
if ye let me do all the talking, Carole...and perhaps we keep knowledge of yer wand a secret,
okay?"

"I suppose," Carole said, but she wasn't totally convinced.

"Come on multitasker." Mariat shut her wardrobe. "Remember to act normal."

By the time they'd reached the mill, they were both acting anything but normal. Carole
plodded along with her eyes closed to slits against the pounding in her head, while Mariat staggered
drunkenly, one hand against her forehead and the other cradling her stomach. The clean-up crew
had already cleared away the broken glass and was in the process of installing new panes in the mill
house windows.

She followed Mariat over the bridge and down a narrow avenue bordered with
fruit-laden apple trees. The shade was a welcome relief from the bright sun, though she had to pick her
way around a number of recently fallen apples. They had just entered the village proper when
Mariat doubled over with a spasm of pain twisting across her face.

"Is it much farther?" Carole said, alarmed.

Mariat pointed to a small, nondescript cottage. Carole grabbed her elbow and guided
her to the dwelling.

Once there, Mariat straightened up slowly, saying, "Remember, I do the talking." She
pushed open the door and limped inside.

Carole followed her into a steamy and pungent chamber. She sneezed violently. "Ohh!"
She gripped her throbbing skull.

Behind a long counter, an old crone was hunched over a boiling concoction. She looked
up. "What's the likes of ye two be doing here disturbing me on such a fine day?"

"We gots--" Mariat gasped as if her body had been gripped by a painful spasm. "Heads a
splittin', Brunstice."

"How's both of ye manage that at the same time, eh?" Brunstice wiped her hands on her
smock and hurried over.

"Thunderous boom startles us when we be on the mill bridge, and we both flopped into
the stream," Mariat said.

Brunstice peered first into Mariat's eyes, and then into Carole's. "I think ye two's
suffering a mild brain pan rattling." The witch clucked. "Whilst on the mill bridge, eh?"

"That be so," Mariat said between clenched teeth.

"Anything else be aching, witchling?" Brunstice leveled a stare at Mariat.

"Maybe a little in my belly."

The herbalist poked a finger under Mariat's ribs. Mariat yelped pitiably and collapsed to
the floor in a dead faint.

"Ambrosia, raise the alarm! Get Lucreta and Herling. Fast as lightning!"

Carole saw a flash of fur dive through a window.

"Carole Sylphwood, be ye well enough to help?"

Carole gulped and nodded.

"I points and ye gets. First my potion's bag."

Carole retrieved a large satchel hanging off a chair. Brunstice dumped its contents onto
the plank floor and selected a few packets.

"Now water. Warm be best, but cold'll have to do."

Carole went for a pitcher on the counter.

"Bring them two bowls as well, and a spoon."

Brunstice mixed up a paste as soon as Carole delivered the items. She spooned the paste
onto a muslin cloth and folded it into a poultice. "Help straighten out her legs."

Carole eased Mariat onto her back and gingerly pulled her legs straight. Brunstice hiked
Mariat's dress up to her chest, revealing an angry purple welt on her right side, just below her
ribcage.

Carole caught her breath at the size of the swelling. "That wasn't there a little while
ago," she said.

Brunstice placed the poultice directly onto the bruise. At that moment, the door burst
open and in ran a young witch with long flowing auburn hair.

"Quick Lucreta, we got a belly that bleeds from within."

Without stopping to catch her breath, the young witch darted about the cottage,
collecting roots, flowers and sprigs. She immediately set to grinding, pounding and mixing. Soon she
held out a small crucible filled with a dark elixir. She knelt and poured the liquid into Mariat's
mouth. Mariat groaned, gagged and swallowed. Lucreta repeated the process over and over again,
until the crucible was empty.

When Head Witch Herling entered the cottage, followed by half-a-dozen other witches,
Carole backed into a corner to give them room. The new arrivals formed a close circle around
Mariat, placed their hands lightly upon the girl's limp body and immediately began a throaty
chant.

Closing her eyes against her own pain-ravaged skull, Carole tried to focus on the
witches' verse, but the words were beyond her. All she could tell was that their voices were gaining
in volume and speed. Then she heard a new sound.

She opened her eyes briefly to see that a number of cats had joined the circle. With their
front paws placed on Mariat's body, they were howling with the chant. Suddenly her skin crawled
as if the air were charged with electricity.

Moments later, her ears popped. The witches had cast their spell.

"Good," Brunstice said, in the now strangely quiet room. "The bleeding be stopping up
nice. She be fine, I think. Bring me a flask of dragon's fire. I be too old fer this sort of nonsense."

Carole sagged with relief, not realizing just how tense she'd been. She listened to the
growing chatter coming from so many witches squeezed into the tiny cottage. There was a lot less
anxiety in the voices. In fact their tone was becoming almost lively.
Any excuse for a party,
she thought, giddily.

Soft, cool fingers ran across her forehead. She opened her eyes and found herself facing
the auburn-haired witch. Concern wrinkled the witch's brow.

"Be there pain elsewhere?"

"Just my head," Carole said.

"Yer belly be okay?" Gentle fingers probed below her ribs.

"Yes."

"Good. Drink." The witch held a cup to her lips.

A syrupy liquid poured into her mouth. She swallowed and the hammering behind her
eyes immediately lessened. "Mariat?"

"Mariat be fine. Needs rest is all. Same be fer ye, Carole Sylphwood. Close yer eyes and
rest."