Witch-Finder Page 2

  James lifted his hand to the creature.

  'No!’ shouted Dunkley. ‘You idiot!'

  The creature lapped eagerly at James's hand. Clumps of earth fell away and it became translucent again.

  'Now get him,’ said James, pointing at Dunkley.

  'FREE!’ it sang. ‘I'll free them all.'

  The creature lifted its arms to the sky and began to spin. The thunderclouds that hung over the village reached down to embrace the twisting creature. Lightning crackled out from the point of contact. The wind tugged at Pam's hair, sucking the air from every breath.

  She watched as a tornado was born.

  It bore down on Dunkley.

  He dived out of its way, grabbing Pam and pulling her to the ground. Grass tickled her cheek.

  'It's going for the church,’ shouted Dunkley, rolling to his feet.

  James stared, open-mouthed at the funnel storm continued on the same route. Over the wind-roar he shouted, ‘I said, get him.'

  The windstorm stayed on course. It sounded like the rumble of bricks and mortar of a building being demolished—but the noise didn't end.

  Over the roar, Pam heard screams from the direction of the church—people must have seen the monster bearing down on them.

  'What about everyone at the village fête?’ Pam reached up and grabbed Dunkley's arm. ‘Do something! They'll all die!'

  'It'll be worse than that if it wakes its kindred elementals.’ Dunkley turned. ‘Were you to be the sacrifice?'

  'What?’ Pam pursed her lips. ‘He was going to do a fertility ritual, not kill me.'

  With a glance at the stunned James, he pulled Pam to her feet. ‘Stand there!'

  Pam did as she was told, staring in horror as the twisting storm picked up speed. Dunkley darted to James, who backed away, but not quickly enough. Dunkley rubbed his hand down James's head covering his palm with James's blood.

  In front of Pam, Dunkley studied the storm then checked his watch. ‘Tuathal.'

  'Pardon?'

  Dunkley looked at her. ‘The storm is turning widdershins.’ At her blank look he added, ‘Anti-clockwise to you.'

  He knelt in the mud and rubbed his hand on the ground clockwise, creating a small circle.

  In the lane, the hedge lashed over grown branches. The storm tore out hawthorn stems, adding them to its destructive force.

  Dunkley reached into a pocket with his clean hand and produced a whistle. He blew on it.

  Pam's hair stood on end. At first she thought it was the clamor of the storm that blocked the sound, but the two wolfhounds lifted their heads and then trotted over to flank Dunkley. Then she understood, he was calling the storm to heel as if it were a recalcitrant dog.

  The head of the storm still yearned to the church, but the base slid along the ground towards them. Overhead, lightning protested the windstorm's leashing.

  Pellets of rain stung her cheeks and forehead.

  Dunkley held his hand palm down, over the circle he had traced on the ground.

  Pam cowered behind Dunkley.

  He stood, a rock unbroken by the storm. Hawthorn branches gathered by the storm whipped out at him like thorny flails. He ducked one and sidestepped the next.

  Above the circle he had drawn on the ground, he traced another circle, always moving his hand clockwise.

  The storm thrashed about, ripping up the carefully laid out vegetable plots. The clouds reaching down to the creature began to untwist following the pattern of Dunkley's hand. The sky sucked them back up, abandoning the wind creature.

  Over the fading roar of the storm, Pam heard James's wail.

  Dunkley turned his hand over. The softening rain rinsed the blood away, then dripped into the circle drawing the hag down.

  Pam heard scuffling behind her.

  'No!’ James screamed. He ran towards Dunkley.

  Dunkley turned, automatically crouching, his eyes cold and watchful.

  Without thinking, Pam bent and tugged on the bird scare string, tangling James's legs.

  He sprawled among scattered cabbage seedlings.

  The two wolfhounds came on guard and James stared straight into their snarls.

  'Thank you.’ Dunkley said, looking down at James.

  'I didn't want you to hurt my cousin,’ said Pam.

  'I wouldn't have killed him.’ Self-consciously, he rubbed his now-clean hand down his jeans. ‘Now let's deal with this demon.'

  'It's not a demon,’ protested James as he struggled to disentangle himself from the string. ‘It's a nature spirit. That's no reason to call in the demon hunters.'

  'It is a demon, one that has been fed on the pain, fear and isolation of childbirth. I could taste its bitterness in your tomatoes. Another contestant used a nature spirit, one fed on honey. We chatted about cheating.’ Dunkley looked at Pam. ‘Finish it. Touch the air creature to ground.'

  Warily, Pam slapped at the nearly solid hag. A flash, brighter than the sun, flared as the two opposites met. She winced away.

  When it faded, a freshly carved gargoyle lay at her feet. Dunkley hefted it, then tucked it under one arm. Calling to his dogs, he walked to the garden gate.

  Pam stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘What are you?'

  Dunkley looked over his shoulder, a hand on the gate latch. ‘I'm...'

  'He's a witch finder,’ screamed James.

  'Witch finder?’ Pam's voice wavered. She looked at Dunkley.

  His smile was wry but he didn't deny the charge.

  'I work for the Church, certainly.'

  'You're having me on. You hypnotized me, right? That's why I couldn't say anything.'

  'Hypnosis, hmmm? You know, that's a fairly reasonable explanation.'

  'Is it the right one?'

  'It will be best if you think so.’ His eyes glinted with that hidden laughter again.

  She tried not to glare at him as she nodded towards the gargoyle. ‘So what will you do with that?'

  'I shall place it where all trapped demons are kept,’ he said. ‘On the roof of the church, where it will weather away until it is nothing.

  'No!'

  Both Pam and Dunkley turned. They saw James covered in mud, sitting entangled in string.

  'Turn it back. Pam tell him! Our Granny taught me how to summon it! What about my tomatoes?’ he wailed.

  'Use fertilizer from the garden center, like everyone else.’ Carrying the new gargoyle, Dunkley shut the gate behind him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Rain Stopped Play

  'Look at that wheat field.’ Trewithick, his blond hair caught back in a sensible ponytail, made a broad gesture. ‘It's almost unharvestable with all those crop circles.'

  Dunkley stirred his tea, looked away from the annual cricket match—students vs. lecturers. Both he and Trewithick wore cricket whites, waiting for their turn at the crease. They sat, watching the rest of the match, on the outside smoking terrace of the Cricket Pavilion.

  'Odd, I agree,’ he said. A faint Scottish accent scratched at his throat. ‘We're in limestone country, not far from the cave where they found that prehistoric art. But this is an earth circle.'

  Trewithick sat up straight, staring at the stone circle surrounding the cricket pitch, hired for the day by the college. The stones were squared off, but not capped like Stonehenge.

  'Have you checked? We could be sitting on top of an elemental. It would have to be huge to spawn all those little ones.'

  'I never check earth circles,’ said Dunkley. ‘Earth elementals are too rare. Stone Age man hunted them for...'

  'Save the lectures for them.’ Trewithick nodded to where the students had just taken another wicket. ‘Who's next to bat?

  Dunkley balanced his cup and saucer on the rail surrounding the terrace and fished the list up from the floor at his side. ‘Kilbride, then you're next.'

  Dropping the list onto his knee, he picked up his cup and removed the teaspoon. He sighed. ‘Can I borrow your lighter?'

  Trewithick looked o
ver and saw a long hair dangling from the spoon.

  'A hair to bind around your heart. One of the oldest charms there is,’ said Trewithick. ‘It's almost as long as your hair. Are you sure it's not just one of yours?'

  'It's dyed, with henna.’ Dunkley flicked his waist-length plait of brown hair over his shoulder.

  Trewithick laughed as he dug into his pocket. ‘It should go out on the College Prospectus, Mothers of students at the College are reminded that Alasdair Dunkley is married to his career. Which one is it this year?'

  'Daphne Green.’ Dunkley's nostrils flared. ‘I don't know which of us is more embarrassed, David or me. He's taken his laptop and is working by your field of circles.'

  'So he doesn't have to watch his mother's fruitless assault on the impregnable fortress? Stop teasing the poor women by being so stand-offish.’ Trewithick produced his cigarette case and a silver plated lighter. He tossed the lighter to Dunkley, who fielded it and held it under the strand of hair.

  The hair shriveled with the heat and he let the burning remains fall into an ashtray. The cup of tea, he tipped into the aspidistra that led a lonely existence on the terrace.

  'Now you've done it.’ Trewithick accepted the return of his property. ‘That poor plant is going to be in love with Daphne Green.'

  'Better it than me. She lives here in Ackerton,’ Dunkley said. ‘The plant will see her sometimes.'

  'Oh yes, I forgot,’ Trewithick said. ‘It was David Green, who suggested this place as a good site, wasn't it? I think a cricket pitch within a stone circle gives our match a proper ambience for the Theological College of St Van Helsing.'

  Dunkley glared at Trewithick. ‘Do you have to perpetuate that ridiculous nick-name?'

  Trewithick grinned. He looked around, guiltily, before opening his cigarette case. He didn't offer one to his friend—it only would be refused. Dunkley wafted away the smoke.

  Putting his case and lighter back in his jacket pocket, Trewithick produced a string with three knots tied in it.

  'Try this, it's another old charm.’ He tossed the toy over.

  Dunkley's face brightened as he studied the little charm. ‘I didn't think anyone made these anymore.’ He untied the first knot and a gentle breeze blew the smoke back towards Trewithick.

  'I'm from Cornwall, remember? Every fishing boat, whether it has sails or not, has one of these pinned up in the bridge. Your David Green has been asking me about them.'

  Dunkley pulled a sour face. ‘I wish he wasn't mine. Which idiot on the college council decided putting a state school boy, who hates anyone who went to public school, with me?'

  'Don't ask me,’ said Trewithick. ‘However, I would appreciate your opinion on whether that charm-maker needs investigation. It's quite a strong elemental to be captured that way ... What the hell is that?’ He stood suddenly.

  Dunkley looked up from the little wind charm to see a massed crowd of men jostling their way up the road.

  'A pitch invasion?’ he suggested. ‘"Do they have pitchforks?” is the most important question.'

  'Ha ha, very funny.’ Trewithick stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned over the balustrade. ‘Green!'

  A student looked up from his laptop. Noticing Trewithick's gesture toward the crowd coming up the lane, he jumped to his feet and rushed back to the pavilion. He arrived at the rail panting.

  'But that happens on May Day by the old calendar, not May the first. Mother?’ He scrambled onto the terrace, over the balustrade as Trewithick and Dunkley stepped back.

  Daphne Green must have been waiting outside the door. She opened it and walked onto the terrace, looking hopefully at Dunkley.

  He ignored her.

  The aspidistra's leaves managed to brush her shoulder as she came over.

  'David, what is that?’ Dunkley asked.

  'It's the annual football match between Ackerton and Metherby,’ said David. ‘But they play it on May 13th not May 1st. Mother, what's happened?'

  'It's too vexing.’ Daphne tried to talk only to Dunkley. ‘The Parish Council decided at the last minute to change it to May 1st because they wanted to attract American Tourists and Americans use the new calendar. We've even got sponsorship from a computer company this year.'

  'The calendar only changed in 1752,’ muttered Trewithick. ‘I suppose we have to use the new one eventually.'

  'But the Ackerton goal is the stone altar in the circle. They'll have to go right over our cricket match to get there,’ David wailed. ‘Or worse, through that field.'

  Out on the pitch, play had suspended to watch the surging crowd. The mob now jostled back the way it had come.

  'Metherby must have the ball now,’ said David. ‘Maybe it'll go all the way to the millstone at Harlton Cross Mill.'

  'Dave! That's a fine thing for an Ackerton boy to say,’ his mother said.

  Trewithick frowned at the scrum on the road. People were climbing on the hedges and gesticulating wildly. With a splash one fell into the beck. A huge roar of laughter rippled through the mob as the story was passed along.

  Daphne wrung her hands. ‘Oh get out on this side, do. Mr. Cleats has forbidden the match to go through his lands.’ She waved at the field where Trewithick had noticed all the crop circles. ‘Oh no! The ball is coming back this way.'

  'Green, you come with us,’ Trewithick said. ‘I think we need to go and look at the football match and see if it can be diverted around us. Tell me about this game, please. It doesn't look like football to me. Too many people for one.'

  Trewithick vaulted the balustrade to the ground.

  Dunkley retied the first knot in the charm string and put it in his pocket before following him down.

  Dave swung carefully over and dropped to join them.

  Dunkley barely kept the scorn off his face at the cautious approach. ‘You need to spend more time in the gym. You were telling us about this football?'

  Dave sniffed. ‘It's the whole of Ackerton against all of Metherby. It's another of these fertility rites, I think.'

  'I know the ones,’ said Trewithick striding across the pitch. ‘The aim being to shed blood on the ground to ensure fertility of the soil. A ritualized battle, that sort of thing?

  'Yes,’ said Dave. ‘Every farmer wants the ball to touch his land.'

  'So why isn't Mr. Cleats interested?'

  Dave looked guiltily at the fence. ‘Some people like to think they are modern. He was one of the trial farms for GM crops.'

  'Ah! That would explain the profusion of circle spoor,’ Trewithick said. ‘Greater use of the concentrated man-made fertilizers encourages new earth elementals.’ He looked up as the umpire ran over to speak to the senior lecturers.

  'Are we going to have to cancel, sir?'

  'We're just going to check. It might be time for a tea break,’ Trewithick said.

  By the time they reached the lane, the mob had jostled back down it.

  Dunkley removed his white cricket shoes and socks and turned up the hem on his perfectly ironed white trousers. He paddled across the beck and climbed on the fence, balancing with his feet on either side of a post.

  On Farmer Cleats's land he saw group of five men in suits, sipping cocktails sitting comfortably in a wagon with a banner advertising their computer firm.

  They must be the sponsors David mentioned, he thought and returned to watching the game.

  'So what do you see?’ shouted Trewithick.

  'It looks more like a rugby scrum,’ said Dunkley. ‘The ball's gone into the river now, just where this beck joins it. There are about a dozen people jumping in for water polo. The rest of the scrum is fanning out along both banks and over the bridge.'

  Dave spoke up. ‘Those men specialize in water play. The ball can get all the way to the Metherby goal, the Mill stone's at the river edge.'

  'Yes, but do we have to stop?’ asked Trewithick.

  'I don't know ... I can't see the ball in play,’ said Dunkley. ‘Ah! It's coming up the beck.'

&nbs
p; The ball flew through the air towards him.

  He caught it, but it unbalanced him. He chose to jump, still holding the ball, rather than lose dignity by falling.

  As he landed in the field, the earth seethed around his feet.

  Dunkley quickly regained his balance as the mob surged back up the lane towards their ball.

  Dave shouted, ‘Throw it back in the river. Then we can get on with our game.'

  Dunkley was about to toss it into the mass of men, when he looked at the post. He frowned, then inspected the churning soil. He put the ball down between his feet and yanked something off the post. Then, with a determined look on his face, he picked the ball back up and climbed over the three bar fence, paddling back over the river.

  Behind him, the ground continued to swirl violently.

  Dunkley tossed the ball to the crowd that was surging up the road. It bounced on the tarmac and rolled towards the mob.

  'Someone has those earth elementals contained in that field like battery hens.’ He showed Trewithick what he had taken off the fence, a tattered version of the string he had given him earlier.

  'You shouldn't have taken the restraint,’ said Dave. ‘They're getting out.'

  Dunkley smiled at the breakout ‘I don't understand why they were contained. They're not doing the crops any good in that profusion.'

  'But they're getting out,’ shouted Dave, pointing for emphasis.

  Dunkley studied the churning tidal wave of earth flowing out of his breach in the fence. It dammed the beck and water spilled out and down the road. He watched for about two seconds then snatched up his cricket shoes.

  'Run!’ he shouted.

  Trewithick had already made the same assessment. He was halfway back to the stone circle enclosed cricket pitch. Dunkley grabbed Dave by the wrist and pulled, but Dave hung back.

  'You've got to put them back,’ he shouted. ‘You let them out.'

  'This is no time for you to suddenly become brave,’ Dunkley shouted.

  Dave wrenched his wrist free and scrambled across the disintegrating dam. His feet slipped in the moving soil. At one point he had to pull his foot from where it had been buried to the ankle. Once on the other side of the dam, he jumped onto stable ground. Climbing the fence at the nearest post he wrenched a string from where it was nailed.