Greenwitch
From the blackness that was the Greenwitch came a hair-raising sound: a long low lamenting, like a moan, rising and falling in a mumbling whine. Then it stopped, and the creature began muttering to itself, broken words that they could not make out. Then there was silence for a moment and all at once it said very clearly, “You have not the full power of the Dark.”
“Now! I command you!” The painter’s voice was shrill.
“You have not the full power of the Dark,” the Greenwitch said again, with a growing, wondering confidence. “When the Dark comes rising, it is not as one man, but as a terrible great blackness filling the sky and the earth. I see it, my mother shows me. But you are alone. You were sent by the Dark with one small mission only, and you gamble now to make yourself a great Lord, one of the masters. By completing one of the Things of Power for yourself, you think to become great. But you are not great yet, and you may not command me!”
Softly, Captain Toms said, “Tethys has seen what we could not see.”
“I have all the power required!” said the painter loudly. “Now, Greenwitch, now! Do as the Dark demands!”
The Greenwitch began to make a new sound, a low rumbling so ominous that the children shrank back against the wall. It was somewhere between the growl of a dog and the purring of a cat, and it said, Beware, beware. . . .
The painter cried out furiously, “By the spell of Mana and the spell of Reck and the spell of Lir!” and they saw by the last faint glow that he swung up his canvas and its luminous painted magic over his head again, facing the blackness of the Greenwitch. But he could do nothing. The rumbling from the Greenwitch rose into a roar, the air was tight with rebellion and fear, and Jane heard in her mind over and over again the cry Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! and never knew whether it had been cried aloud or not.
They were conscious of nothing but a great seething. Resentful fury roared in their ears, throbbing with the slow thunder of waves against rock. And suddenly the whole world was luminous with green light, as for one terrible moment the Greenwitch in all its wild power loomed out of the sky, every live detail clear with a brilliance they never afterwards mentioned even to one another. With a shriek the painter flung himself backwards, and fell to the ground. And the Greenwitch, crying rage from a great mouth, spread terrible arms wide as if to engulf the whole village—and disappeared. It did not go down into the sea. It did not vanish like a burst balloon. It faded, like smoke, dissipating into nothing. And they felt no sense of release from fear, but a greater tension as if there were a storm in the air.
Barney whispered, “Has it gone?”
“No,” Captain Toms said gravely. “It is all through the village. It is with us and around us. It is angry and it is everywhere, and there is great danger. I must take you home at once. Merry had good reasons for choosing those cottages—they are as safe as the Grey House, in the protection of the Light.”
Barney was looking at the still figure on the quay. He said fearfully, “Is he dead?”
“That is not possible,” Captain Toms said quietly. He looked down at the painter. The man lay on his back, breathing evenly, his long hair spread like a black pool around his head. His eyes were closed, but there was no sign of injury. He looked as though he were asleep.
From the road leading into the harbour they heard the engine of a car, growing closer, rounding the corner. Simon stepped out to wave it down, but there was no need. As the car’s lights swung on to the group on the quay it slowed abruptly, brakes screaming, and pulled to a halt. From behind the blazing head lamps an American voice called, “Hey! What goes on?”
“It’s the Stantons!” The children rushed to the car doors, and two puzzled figures climbed out. Captain Toms turned quickly; his voice was clear and commanding.
“Evening—you’ve picked a good time to appear. We’ve just found this fellow lying here, on our way to the cottage—looks as if a car’s knocked him down. Hit and run, I reckon.”
Bill Stanton knelt beside the prostrate painter and felt for his heart; raised one eyelid; gently felt along his arms and legs. “He’s alive . . . no blood anywhere . . . no obvious breaks . . . maybe it’s a heart attack, not a car. What should we do? Is there an ambulance here?”
Captain Toms shook his head. “No ambulance in Trewissick, we’re not too good for emergencies. And only one policeman, with a motor-bike. . . . You know, Mr Stanton, the best thing we could do is get him in your car, and you drive him to the hospital in St Austell. Poor fellow might be dead by the time we get P.C. Tregear out.”
“He’s right,” said Fran Stanton, her soft voice concerned. “Let’s do that, Bill.”
“Fine by me.” Mr Stanton looked round the quayside, his eyes searching, quickly efficient. “We’ll have to be very careful lifting him. . . . I wonder . . . ah!” He prodded Simon, nearest him. “See that pile of planks over there? Two of you kids bring one, quick.”
In a struggling group they slid the painter on to the narrow plank; then, with slow lifting and tilting, manoeuvred it to leave him lying on the back seat of the car.
“Do up the seat belts round him, Frannie,” said Mr Stanton, climbing back into the driver’s seat. “He should be okay. . . . Will you call the policeman, captain, and have him follow us? Shouldn’t like anyone to think it was us knocked the guy down.”
“Yes, of course.”
Fran Stanton paused with the car door open. “Where’s Will?”
Her husband took his hand off the ignition key. “That’s right, it’s late. He and Merry can’t still be out walking. Where is he, kids?”
They stared at him, speechless.
The brightness died out of Bill Stanton’s amiable round face; in its place came suspicion and concern. “Hey now, what is all this? What’s going on here? Where’s Will?”
Captain Toms cleared his throat. “He—” he began.
“Nothing to worry about, Uncle Bill,” said Will, behind them. “Here I am.”
CHAPTER TEN
“VERY GOOD,” SAID MERRIMAN, WATCHING, AS THE STANTONS’ car hummed round the corner from the harbour and away into the main village street. “They should just have time to get clear.”
“You make it sound as though somebody was going to drop a bomb,” Simon said.
Jane said nervously, “Gumerry? What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing, to you. Come along.” Merriman swung round and began striding fast and long-legged across the quay towards the cottages; the children scurried after.
“See you later, Merry!” Captain Toms called.
They stopped, turning in consternation; he was beginning to limp back to the Grey House. “Captain? Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Captain Toms!”
“Come along,” Merriman said without feeling, and pushed them before him. They shot him quick glances of irritation and reproach. Only Will marched along without sign of emotion.
“I’m so glad you’re back.” Jane slipped round to her great-uncle’s side. “Please, what’s going to happen? Really?”
Merriman glanced down at her from his deep-shadowed eyes, without slackening his pace. “The Greenwitch is abroad. All the power of the Wild Magic, which is without discipline or pattern, is let loose tonight in this place. The power of the Light, since we have so arranged it, will give protection to the cottages and to the Grey House. But elsewhere . . . Trewissick is under possession, this night. It will not be an easy place.” His deep voice was tense and grave, filling them with alarm; they trotted nervously at his side and up the winding zig-zag alleys and stairs to the cottage door. Then they fell into the lighted room like mice diving below-ground from a hunting owl.
Simon swallowed, regaining his breath, feeling slightly ashamed of his haste. He said belligerently to Will, “Where were you?”
“Talking to people,” Will said.
“Well, what did you find out? You were gone long enough.”
“Nothing much,” Will said mildly. “Nothing but what has
n’t already happened.”
“Wasn’t much point in your going then, was there?”
Will laughed. “Not really.”
Simon stared at him for a moment and then turned irritably away. Will glanced at Jane, and winked. She gave him a quick rueful grin, but studied him afterwards, behind his back. Simon wanted to quarrel, and you wouldn’t, she thought. You’re like a grown-up, sometimes. Who are you, Will Stanton?
She said, “Gumerry, what should we do? Would you like Simon and me to keep watch, upstairs?”
“I should like you all to go to bed,” Merriman said. “It’s late.”
“Bed!” The outrage in Barney’s voice was louder even than the others’. “But everything’s just getting really exciting!”
“Exciting is one word for it.” Merriman’s bony face was grim. “Later you might have another. Do as you are told, please.” There was a flicking edge to the words that did not inspire argument.
“Goodnight,” Jane said meekly. “Goodnight, Will.”
“See you in the morning, everyone,” Will said casually, and he disappeared into the Stanton half of the house.
Jane shivered.
“What’s the matter?” Simon said.
“Someone walked over my grave. . . . I don’t know, perhaps I’ve caught a chill.”
“I’ll make you all a hot drink and bring it up,” Merriman said.
Upstairs, Simon paused in the little corridor linking the bedrooms, clutching his head in a kind of despairing fierceness. “This is ludicrous! Crazy! One minute we’re in the middle of some awful great . . . watching that, that thing . . . and then Gumerry turns up, and before you know it he’s tucking us up with cups of cocoa.”
Barney gave a huge yawn. “Well yes . . . but I’m . . . tired. . . .”
Jane shivered again. “I am too, I think. I don’t know. I feel funny. As if—Can you hear a sort of buzzing noise, very faint, a long way off?”
“No,” Simon said.
“I’m sleepy,” Barney said. “G’night.”
“I’m coming too,” said Simon. He looked at Jane. “Are you going to be all right, on your own?”
“Well, if anything happens,” Jane said, “I’m going to come running in to hide under your bed so fast you won’t even see me.”
Simon managed a small grin. “You do that. There’s one thing certain, absolutely no-one is going to get any sleep tonight.”
But when Merriman came tapping gently at Jane’s bedroom door in a little while, there were three steaming mugs still on his tray. “I might have saved myself the effort,” he said. “Simon and Barney are fast asleep already.”
Jane was sitting in pyjamas and dressing-gown beside the window, looking out. She said, without turning round, “Have you magicked them?”
Merriman said softly, “No.” Something in his voice made her turn, then. He was standing in the doorway, his eyes glittering out of black pools of shadow beneath the jutting white-wire eyebrows. He stood so tall in the low little room that his bushy white hair touched the ceiling. “Jane,” he said. “Nothing has been done to any of you, or will be. I promised you that in the beginning. And no harm can come to you here. Remember that. You know me well enough, I do not put you into mortal danger, now or ever.”
“I know. Of course I do,” she said.
“Then sleep sound,” Merriman said. He stretched out a long arm, and she reached out and touched his fingertips; it was like a bargain. “Here, have some cocoa. No potions in it, I promise. Just sugar.”
Jane said automatically, “I’ve cleaned my teeth.”
Merriman chuckled. “Then clean them again.” He put down the mug and went out, closing the door.
Jane took her cocoa and sat beside the window again, warming her fingers on the hot smooth sides of the mug; the room was cold. She looked out of the window, but the reflection of the bedside lamp was in her way. Impulsively she reached out and switched it off, then sat waiting until her eyes grew accustomed to the dim-lit dark.
When at last she could see again, she did not believe what she saw.
From the cottage, high up there on the hillside above the sea, she had a clear view of all the harbour and much of the village. Here and there were pools of yellow light from the lamp-posts: two on the quayside, three across the harbour, up on the road past the Grey House; others, more distant, at points within the village. But the pools of light were small. All else was darkness. And in the darkness, wherever she looked, Jane could see things moving. At first she could tell herself that she was imagining it, for whenever she saw movement from the corner of an eye and shifted her gaze to stare, it was gone. She could never see it clearly, in direct view. But this did not last for long.
It was changed by a single figure of a man. He came up out of the water at the edge of the harbour, climbing a flight of stairs with a strange gliding motion.
He was dripping wet; his clothes clung to him, his long hair was plastered flat and dark round his face, and as he walked a trail of water dripped all round him and was left like a path. He walked slowly up towards the main street of Trewissick, looking neither to left nor right. When he came to the corner of the little canning factory, whose new extension jutted from the old brick buildings set higgledy-piggledy along the quay, the man in the wet clothes did not slow his pace, nor turn aside. He simply walked through the wall as if it had not been there, emerging in a second or two on the other side. Then he disappeared into the darkness of the main street.
Jane stared into the blackness. She said softly, desperately, “It’s not true. It’s not true.”
The night was very still. Jane clutched her mug like a talisman of reality; then suddenly jumped so hard that she spilt half the cocoa on the window-sill. She had caught a movement right below her, at the cottage door. Hardly daring to look, she willed her eyes to move downwards, and saw two figures leaving the door. Merriman was unmistakable; though he was hooded and muffled in a long cloak, light from a street-lamp showed Jane the high brow and fierce beak-like nose. But it was a moment before she realised that the second figure, cloaked and hooded in the same way, was Will Stanton. She knew him only by a trick of his walk, which until then she would not have thought she could recognise.
They walked out unhurried into the middle of the quay. Jane felt a frenzied urge to throw open the window and shriek a warning, to bring them back from unknown perils, but she had known her strange great-uncle too long for that. He had never been like other men; he had always had unpredictable powers, seemed somehow larger than anyone they had ever known. He might even be causing these things.
“He is of the Light,” said Jane aloud to herself, gravely, hearing the true impossible seriousness of the words for the first time.
Then she said thoughtfully, amending it a little, “They are of the Light.” She looked at the smaller hooded figure, discovering in her mind a curious reluctance to believe that there was anything supernatural about Will. His cheerful round face, with the blue-grey eyes and straight mouse-brown hair, had seemed a subtly comforting image from the beginning of this adventure. There would be nothing very comforting about Will if he were like Merriman Lyon.
And then she forgot Merriman, Will and everything around her, for she caught sight of the lights.
They were the lights of a ship, out at sea: bright lights like stars, moving a little as with the waves. They swayed and bobbed out there in the darkness, but they were far too close in. Though they were clearly the lights of a ship of some size, they were close to the rocks of Kemare Head; dreadfully, dangerously close. She heard voices, crying faintly; one of them seemed to call: “Jack Harry’s lights!” And forcing her gaze away from the sea she saw that the harbour was suddenly filled with people: fishermen, women, boys, running and waving and pointing out at the sea. They crowded past and around the still figures of Merriman and Will as if neither of them was there.
Then there seemed to Jane to be a strange blurring of the scene, a moment’s vagueness; when her eyes cle
ared, everything was as it had been the moment before, and though she thought that the crowd of villagers seemed somehow different, in clothes and appearance, she could not be certain. Before she could think further, horror seemed to take hold of the crowd. An eerie flickering light grew over the harbour. And suddenly boats set about with great flaming torches were pouring in past the harbour wall, strange broad boats full of oarsmen, some bare-headed with flowing red hair, some wearing stubby helmets crested with a golden boar and jutting down into a fierce iron nose-guard over the face. The boats reached shallow water; the oarsmen leapt from their oars, seized swords and blazing torches and tumbled out, crowding, splashing, rushing ashore with blood-curdling yells that Jane could hear with dreadful clarity even through the closed window. The villagers scattered, screaming, fleeing in all directions; some few fought the invaders off with sticks and knives. But the red-headed men were intent on one thing only; they hewed and hacked with their swords, slicing at any they could catch with more fearsome brutality than Jane had ever believed possible in human beings. Blood ran bright over the quayside, and streamed down into the sea, clouding out dark and murky in the waves.
Jane stumbled to her feet, feeling sick, and turned away.
When she forced herself back to the window, shivering, the screams and yells had died almost to nothing. The last fugitives and howling invaders were racing out along the furthest roads, and an ominous red glow was rising all over the village, all over the sky. Trewissick was burning. Flames licked round the houses on the hill across the harbour, and glared bright red in the windows; in a great whoosh of fire the warehouse at the far side of the harbour burst into flames. Brick and stone seemed incomprehensibly to burn as fiercely as if they were wood. Fumbling desperately with the catch, Jane flung open the window, and met a great crackling and roaring from the fire and the great billowing clouds of bright-lit smoke. The reflection of the flames danced on the water of the harbour. In her agitation it did not occur to Jane to notice that she did not smell burning, and felt no heat.