Witch Silver (10 page)

“Better bring the umbrellas in as well while you’re out there, Bert,” Christine called out after him as a gust of wind swept in through the open door of the Black Bull, bringing with it a
rustling
scatter of dead leaves that lay in shades of brown, yellow and scarlet over the polished floorboards.

“Right,” he said, closing the door behind him with an effort. The wind, however, was so strong that it jerked the handle from his hand and once more the door flew open letting in yet more streams of autumn leaves. With a gale like this blowing, he thought, finally managing to shut it, the trees would be stripped bare in no time and it was so cold that he doubted if anyone would be sitting outside to eat any time soon. Halloween or no Halloween, Christine was right. It was definitely time to put the outside furniture into store, umbrellas and all.

Inside the Black Bull, Christine listened to the howl of the wind and shivered suddenly. It was a dull, grey day and without the sun, the inside of the bar had become dark and strangely oppressive. She tried to shrug the feeling off but the underlying malevolence lingered in the air and frightened her considerably although she was loath to admit it.

There was also the uncanny feeling that she was being watched. She looked round nervously. Was there an intruder? She could see no one. Surely, she thought doubtfully, surely it wasn’t her witches who were watching her … for hanging here, there and everywhere, all over the bar and the dining area, was her collection of witches. They were her pride and joy. Some
she’d bought herself but over the years, most of the others had been given to her as gifts. Indeed, it was amazing how the number had grown — for now at least thirty witches of all shapes and sizes decorated the bar.

Sitting astride a variety of broomsticks, they were beautifully dressed, their black cloaks stiffened with wire so that they flew out behind them. Some were young and reasonably pretty as witches go, with frothy petticoats and gaily striped stockings relieving the gloom of their outfits but most were repulsive old hags dressed in black with hooked plaster noses, pointed chins and droopy pointed hats.

Christine bit her lip for, witches apart, the place actually looked frighteningly ghoulish. She’d put a lot of work into the Halloween decorations and what with grinning pumpkins, green-eyed black cats and flapping, white ghosts, the room looked … really creepy. Maybe, she thought, maybe they’d gone just a bit over the top with the decorations …

“Christine!” She heard the chef’s voice with an overwhelming sense of relief and turned thankfully to the warmth and brightness of the kitchen, anxious to leave her fears behind.

It was the mirror that hung at the side of the kitchen door that gave them away and, for an instant, her heart stopped beating — for the minute she turned her back on them, they started moving. Her witches! They were real and alive, their cloaks swirling, their eyes gleaming nastily and their frowning, painted faces, masks of evil.

She swung round and they immediately froze. Her eyes strayed to the front door. It was closed. Bert had shut it and there was no draught. Being a down-to-earth, sensible woman, however, she clung obstinately to reason. It was ridiculous, she told herself frantically, how could the witches move?

She looked at her favourite witch, a really wicked-looking
old hag with gorgeously made clothes that hung at the end of the bar and its eyes met hers with an evil malevolence that sent her stepping backwards with a cry of fear.

“You all right, Christine?” queried the chef, grabbing her arm. “You nearly tripped on the step, there.”

“It’s the witches,” she whispered, her face as white as a sheet. “I thought … I thought for a moment that they were … alive.”

Chef gave her a funny look. If he hadn’t known that Christine didn’t drink, he’d have sworn she’d been at the brandy. “Don’t be daft,” he said, sounding irritated. He’d just found out that they needed green coriander for the curry, which meant a trip into Berwick and he wasn’t, therefore, in the best of tempers. “Now,” he said, propelling her briskly back into the bar, “what’s the problem?”

She couldn’t believe it. The bar was totally normal, the awful atmosphere had gone and her witches hung innocently on their invisible strings; just as they’d always done. Relief swept through her. “Thanks,” she sniffed, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose loudly, “I can’t think
what
got into me!”

“You don’t fancy a trip into Berwick, do you?” he asked hopefully. “We’ve run out of green coriander and there are a few other things I could stock up on …”

“No problem,” Christine seized on the chance to get out of the bar and, remembering a sweater she’d seen in a shop in Marygate the previous week, decided that a bit of retail therapy was decidedly in order. “Make me a list and I’ll get my bag,” she said, feeling a million times more cheerful.

Chef stood in the bar as she went to get her coat and
handbag
. He didn’t share his employer’s passion for plaster witches any more than her husband did. “Bleedin’ witches!” he said aloud as he turned back to the kitchen.

Then he stopped dead and very slowly turned to look again
at the witch that hung near the till; a rather dashing young witch that sported a frothy white petticoat under her striped dress. The witch looked blandly back at him with just a touch of amusement in her black eyes. He swallowed. Just another plaster witch or … was it? Now
he
was at it, he thought wildly, returning to the kitchen … imagining things …

Nevertheless, as he picked up a meat cleaver and proceeded to attack an inoffensive joint with unaccustomed vigour, he was pretty sure that he hadn’t been mistaken — for as he’d turned, he could have sworn that the witch had winked at him.

The MacLeans arrived in Etal at around six o'clock in the
evening
. It was Halloween, the night was as black as pitch and the Black Bull, when they reached it, was already quite busy. The parking space at the front was full, with lots more cars parked down the side of the road.

“They must be having a Halloween party for the children,” Mrs MacLean remarked, for the outside of the Black Bull was strung with white cardboard ghosts and huge pumpkin
lanterns
glowed from its windows. As his father drove past the line of cars, looking for an empty space, Neil peered out of the window on the other side and found himself looking at the massive ruins of an old castle.

“Look over there, Clara! That must be the ruin Mrs Weston told me about.”

“We'll have to visit it one day,” Mrs MacLean said, craning her neck to peer at it as they drove past.

The car was now driving slowly down a steep hill and the headlights, on full beam, picked up the glint of water.

“There's a river down there, by the looks of things,” Clara said. “Can you park, Dad, so we can have a look?”

There was a turning place by the river, lit by a lonely lamp. Despite the cold, they got out of the car and stood beside the swiftly flowing water that rushed, tumbled and frothed over boulders and drifts of pebbles.

“It's a ford, isn't it,” Clara said. “The water looks quite shallow.”

“Yeah, I bet you could walk over, no problem,” Neil said confidently, measuring up the distance to the bank on the other side of the river. “It's not that far, really.”

His father looked at him sideways. “Rubbish, Neil,” he said briskly. “Use your eyes. Can't you see the current? It would sweep you off your feet before you'd taken a few steps.”

“I suppose,” Neil muttered.

“Listen to me, Neil!” his father grasped him by the shoulders and turned him round to face him. “Rivers aren't swimming pools! They can be deceptive and dangerous; especially rivers that are deep and slow moving. They're the worst, because you can't see the currents below the surface of the water. You don't
ever
swim in them, do you understand? I'm serious, Neil,” he added. “Don't
ever
forget what I've just told you!”

“Okay, Dad.” Neil didn't argue. He knew by the sound of his father's voice that it was advice to take to heart.

They stood for a while longer, watching the water tumbling past until Janet shivered and hugged her coat round her. “Can we go up to the Black Bull now?” she pleaded. “It's more than a bit chilly down here.”

“Pile in, then,” her husband grinned. “I'll try and find a
parking
place further up the road. Now, does everyone know what to do?”

“Clara and I become invisible and try to find the talisman by the fireplace while you order dinner,” Neil said. “Then Clara and I go out, switch our rings and come back in, whether we've found the talisman or not. Perfectly simple!”

“Actually, I didn't expect the Black Bull to be so full,” his father said, changing gear. “I totally forgot about Halloween and if there's a party on … well, it might be better if you came in with us, Neil, and let Clara look for the talisman on her own. If I remember rightly, the fireplace isn't that big and there are
tables quite close to it.”

“That's true,” Janet MacLean nodded as the car pulled into an empty space. “There's more chance of somebody bumping into you if there are two of you. You don't mind, do you, Neil?”

“No,” Neil said at once, “I suppose it'll be safer if she's on her own.”

“Ready to switch rings, Clara?” her dad said. “Better do it now. No one's around to see you.”

The Black Bull was warm, comfortable and noisy for there was, indeed, a party going on and the place was full of children in Halloween costumes. Fortunately, an elderly couple got up to leave as they entered and John MacLean moved quickly towards the empty table. Pity it wasn't nearer the fireplace, he thought, for, although invisible, he wanted to keep as much of an eye as he could, on Clara.

Looking round casually, he saw the horde of plaster witches that decorated the room. Some of them were beautifully made and certainly collectors' items. Handy decorations to have, he thought idly, when Halloween came round.

“This is nice,” Janet MacLean said, settling herself into a chair and handing round the menus. “Now, let's see what they have to offer. What do you fancy, Neil?”

“Your mother's talking to you, Neil,” his father said, looking up from his menu. Then he saw Neil's face, white and staring. “What is it?” he asked. “What's the matter?”

“Can't you feel them?” Neil whispered harshly.

“Feel what?” John MacLean asked.

“Witches,” Neil said abruptly. “The place is full of them!”

“Yes, they're lovely aren't they,” his mother agreed, smiling. “They belong to the owner's wife. She must have added quite a few to her collection since we were last here, don't you think, John? There are a lot more than I remember.”

Neil looked at his parents in complete disbelief as realization dawned. “You're not wearing your firestones, are you?” he said furiously.

“Well, no,” his mother admitted, glancing at her husband. “We didn't think we'd need them.”

“I
don't
believe it!” Neil said, sitting back in his seat, totally appalled. “How on
earth
could you think you wouldn't need them? Listen,” he whispered, leaning forward across the
narrow
little table, “this room is full of witches! Real witches! I can sense them. They're hiding in the plaster models. Don't look, for goodness sake!” he said as his mother's eyes strayed to a nearby witch.

“Calm down, Neil. They won't be able to see Clara,” his father said, looking casually towards the fireplace at the end of the room. All the tables there were occupied but a waitress was moving backwards and forwards with plates of food and one of the couples had children. The little girl had a cat-suit on but the boy was older and, making the most of a white ghost costume, was prancing round the place making
whoooeeee
noises.

“That boy could trip over Clara any minute,” his mother said worriedly, watching his antics.

Neil pushed his chair back. “There are loads of old pictures on the wall beside the fireplace,” he whispered. “I'll pretend to be looking at them and try and keep that awful kid clear of Clara.”

A ripple of excitement swept the witches as Neil got to his feet. Janetta had been quick to pass the word round. This was the boy they were looking for. He'd come to find the talisman! The witches' eyes followed him as he made his way towards the end of the room where the fire burned brightly. Clara saw him coming and as he stopped to look at an old picture of the inn taken at least a hundred years ago, she whispered in his ear.
“This place is full of witches!”

“I know,” he said, his voice drowned by the din of the party, “and would you believe it, Mum and Dad aren't wearing their firestones!”

“Seriously? What were they thinking?”

“Goodness knows. Have you found anything?”

“Well, there's a loose brick down there on the right. I think that might be it but it's a bit too stiff for me to move,” Clara breathed softly. “It'll take time but don't worry, I'll get it
eventually.
”

It was then that Neil remembered Miss Markham's words as she'd left the library. “It'll come to me eventually,” she'd said. Maybe that was it, thought Neil. Maybe she'd been using the spell to hex the talisman to her — maybe that was why the brick was loose …

“Move over a bit,” he hissed, “I'll have a go …”

“But what about the witches?” breathed Clara. “They must know it's hidden in here somewhere!”

“Yeah, but they don't know who we are and they certainly don't know that
you're
here,” Neil pointed out. “Look, if I find it, I'll give it to you right away, okay?”

“Okay,” Clara agreed.

Neil bent down over the fireplace and jiggled the brick while Clara stood guard beside him. Nobody was really interested in what he was doing, she thought, looking round. Most people would think he was just warming his hands by the fire and a couple sitting nearby had given him no more than a casual glance before returning to their conversation.

The brick came free with a sudden jerk and Neil tumbled backwards as a small, square black box fell out of the hole; a small, square box with a strange silver design on its lid. The talisman! It must be!

The witches exploded from their hiding places in the plaster witches with a force that shattered them into fragments. The noise was deafening and the green miasma of smoke that hung in the air smelled vaguely of rotten eggs. This, coupled with the witches' sudden appearance, terrified everyone in the room. Evil radiated from them and children ran screaming to their mothers who clutched at them protectively.

Christine looked blankly at the real witches. Clad as they were in dingy, grey silk with evil faces, black cloaks and black droopy hats they were nothing like the beautiful models that she'd collected so lovingly over the years. All that was left of them were tangled bundles of torn material for not one of her treasures remained intact. As she gazed at their shattered remains, fury rose inside her and such was her anger that the witches, who were truly terrifying, had no power to frighten her. Simmering with rage, she backed slowly into the kitchen to organize Bert and the chef. She'd show them!

Most people had, for the first few seconds at least, taken the appearance of the witches as a stunt dreamt up by Christine and Bert and one or two couples even started to clap. The clapping, however, swiftly petered out as the witches took over. Confusion reigned as some old hags, their faces masks of evil, leapt nimbly upwards to crouch threateningly on high shelving and protruding beams. No one dared move with the witches' eyes constantly watching them and the MacLeans were given special treatment. They were, after all, the parents of the boy, Neil. Even as John MacLean, looking anxiously at his wife, put his napkin on the table and made to get to his feet, a couple of witches slid into the seats beside them. Janet froze but one look at the witches' faces told them that they could do nothing to help Neil. They eyed one another worriedly. At least Clara was invisible …

Wanda, Queen of the Wind Witches, seeing that she had everything under control, raised her arms. Silence fell as she stepped forward in a rustle of grey silk to confront Neil who had scrambled to his feet.

The witch held out her hand, imperiously. “Give me the talisman!” she demanded.

Neil put his hands behind his back instinctively. He'd seen the box disappear as Clara had grabbed it so it didn't really matter what happened now. The talisman was safe.

“Give it to me, Neil!” the queen repeated impatiently. The boy had to have it, she thought. There was nobody near him and she'd seen the box fall into the hearth with her own eyes.

“Why should I give it to you?” he asked, wondering how on earth she knew his name. And then he remembered the wind that had been blowing over the playing field when Mrs Weston had shown him the answer to the riddle. He hadn't been
wearing
his firestone because he'd had his sports kit on but the witches must have been there, flying around unseen. And they were Wind Witches, he knew. Wasn't it Jaikie who had said they always wore grey?

“Give it to me — now, at once!” Wanda demanded.

“I don't have it,” he parried.

“I saw it!” Wanda snapped. “Now, hand it over!”

Neil shook his head.

“Perhaps,” she said viciously, “you would like me to hex you?”

Neil paled but he knew he had to give Clara time to get away. The trouble was that with the arrival of the witches, the room was full to overflowing. It would take Clara ages to sneak her way through the crowd to get anywhere near the door.

Neil drew his hands as slowly as he could from behind his back and then turned up his palms so that she could see that
he held nothing.

The witches hissed in fury. Wanda raised her arm and a deathly silence fell. Neil knew she was going to hex him and taking a deep breath, met her eyes defiantly, hoping fervently that the MacArthur's spell would protect him.

“Give – me – the – talisman!” she grated. “Now!”

“I … I dropped it in the fire,” Neil said quickly. He hadn't, of course, and she knew he hadn't.

It was just as she opened her mouth to hex him that Christine, Bert and the chef went into action. Barging in through side doors with full soda siphons in each hand, they pressed the levers and sent powerful jets of fizzy water straight into the witches' faces. It didn't do them any harm but in seconds they reduced the room to a scene of total confusion as, gasping and spluttering, the witches were knocked sideways.

“Through here! Quick!” Christine yelled, holding the door open and, as Neil shot through, she locked it smartly behind him.

Clara almost made it to the door … but not quite. It was Bert's fault although he didn't mean it. On a complete high, Bert was having the time of his life, aiming the jets of water at all the witches he could see when Clara got in the way. As the jet of water hit her, she remembered Lady Ellan's words. “You'll be fine,” she'd said, “as long as you don't go walking under any waterfalls. The magic shield goes to pieces in anything heavier than rain.” Clara looked round in horror as the magic shield that encircled her, shimmered and faded.

The witches spotted her immediately. One of them screamed and as they all turned to stare in the direction of her pointing finger, Clara's heart sank like a stone. She'd been seen! Throwing caution to the winds, she pushed her way through the last of the crowd, made it to the door and darted swiftly through.