Alice (24 page)

I began to walk along the grassy path. It was soft and yielding underfoot, with a real spring to it. Directly ahead, I could see the throne itself. It was veiled, partly obscured by those diaphanous curtains that reached almost to the ground. At first I thought it was no more than a dozen paces away. But then I realized my mistake: it was at least ten times further than that.

I remembered that the Fiend could shift in size. After Old Gregory’s battle against the witches on Pendle Hill, the
Fiend had tried to destroy Tom, who’d taken refuge in the attic of his brother’s farm; that room had been protected by his mam’s magic and the Fiend had been unable to break into it. But afterwards a dark scar had appeared on the southern slope of Hangman’s Hill, marking the route he had taken to attack the farm. In the fast fury of his passing he had felled a huge swathe of trees, showing just how large he had been.

When I encountered the Fiend, he had been perhaps three times the size of a man. But those flattened trees and the size of this throne gave an indication of how truly dreadful he could be. The being who sat here in his fearsome majesty had been big enough to fit a human in his mouth; he’d been much taller than the tallest County tree.

I continued walking forward cautiously, Thorne just behind me. I kept telling myself to be brave. After all, there was no way the Fiend could be here now. His head was still in the sack carried by Grimalkin. He was trapped in that dead flesh.

When I reached the first of the curtains, I came to a halt and my knees began to tremble. I saw now what it actually was.

It was a web.

‘What sort of spider could have made so many huge hanging webs such as these?’ I wondered.

It was Thorne who spoke his name.

‘It’s Raknid.’

RAKNID AND I
had met once before, long ago, and his name brought another flood of terrible memories from my time with Lizzie. It had happened the month before she found the leather egg and we encountered Betsy Gammon.

It was at the
Testing
.

‘Well, girl,’ Lizzie had said to me one morning. ‘Got something for you to look forward to. In a week’s time, on Lammas Night, you’re for the Testing!’

Lammas was one of the four main witch sabbaths – the occasions when the most powerful magic was performed and the Pendle clans were at their most dangerous.

I didn’t like the look on Lizzie’s face. I knew that every
girl trained as a witch had to undergo some sort of ritual called the Testing. But the details were never discussed; nothing was passed on from witch to witch.

‘But I’m not a Malkin, I’m a Deane!’ I protested. ‘My mother was a Malkin but my father was a Deane. I’m Alice Deane, so I don’t need to be tested.’

Lizzie gave me a strange smile. ‘You’re with me and being trained by me, so that makes you a Malkin – you’d better get used to it, girl.’

Now, years later, I know why Lizzie smiled so strangely. It turned out later that it was she who was my mother, and I’d been fathered by the Fiend – the Devil himself. But I didn’t know that then, so I fell silent. Lizzie often gave weird little smiles – all I was concerned with was the test. Part of me didn’t want to know what the Testing involved, but it was always better to be prepared for the worst.

‘What will I be tested for?’ I asked.

‘Two things, girl. First off to see what type of witchcraft would best suit you – bone magic, blood magic or familiar magic. Next to find out how strong a witch you’re likely to become.’

My mouth was really dry now, but I forced myself to ask the next question. ‘How do they test you? What do they do?’

Lizzie smirked. She was probably enjoying the look of fear on my face. ‘Best you just wait and see. You’ll find out on the night, girl. But in the meantime, there are three things you have to do in order to prepare for the Testing. From now on, don’t wash. You need a full week of dirt to cake your body so that you’ll be ready.’

‘Why do I need to be dirty?’ I asked.

‘Dirt and dark magic go together – I thought you knew that. The dirtier the skin, the darker and stronger the magic!

‘Secondly, don’t eat any meat – not even gravy or soup with a trace of meat in it. And thirdly, think hard about what you’d like to work with as a witch – blood, bone or a familiar. Because that’s one thing you’ll have to declare.’

I didn’t sleep the night before the Testing. I was dreading it, and my stomach was in twisty, tormenting knots. Some folk talk about having butterflies when they feel nervous. With me it was more like big fanged snakes and worms were writhing inside me, biting my insides.

I rose at dawn, but that meant I had the whole day to get through before the Testing at dusk. I really wanted to wash, but Lizzie had forbidden it, and I was mucky from head to toe, my hair caked with dirt. I kept scratching my itchy head, but that only seemed to make it worse.

Deanes didn’t usually go near Malkin Tower. If they got in, they’d most likely never come out alive. There were terrifying stories about bloodstained chambers far beneath it, where the Malkins tortured their enemies before throwing them into deep dank dungeons to starve to death.

The day passed, and soon we were walking through Crow Wood, and that dreadful dark stone tower was directly ahead. It was a scary place, all right, at least three times taller than the treetops. It reminded me of a castle tower because of the battlements on top, and the narrow pointy windows. It also had a wide moat with a drawbridge. But the big wooden door to
the tower was closed. It was studded with rusty iron – a metal that witches could not bear to touch.

Lizzie walked onto the drawbridge and I followed reluctantly at her heels. Someone waved down to her from the battlements – probably one of the witches from her coven; a moment later we heard heavy bolts being drawn back, and then the door began to swing slowly open, grinding on its hinges. We stepped inside, and the door closed behind us. I stood there, eyes stinging from the smoke that filled the big gloomy room where the coven lived. I recognized some of their faces because I’d passed them in the village street. But some were complete strangers, and I wondered if they ever left the tower.

By now my mouth was dry, my heart beating against my ribs fit to burst. Terrible things happened in this tower. I feared that they might happen to me.

In the corners of the room there were fires with cooking pots – and heaps of bones. Some of these looked like animal bones, but others could easily have been human. There was also the stink of unwashed bodies and cooking fat; sacks and crumpled dirty sheets lay piled on the floor against the curve of the wall: obviously the witches’ beds. In the middle of the room was another fire with a large cauldron bubbling away over it.

The coven stared at me curiously. The witches were dressed in long dark gowns that looked none too clean and their faces were streaked with dirt and grease. They stank of stale sweat and animal fat. Lizzie was right: dirt and dark magic really
did
go together. But there was one tall woman who stood out
from the rest; one who looked clean and bright-eyed. Her body was crisscrossed with leather straps, and fastened to them were sheaths, holding blades. One weapon wasn’t visible but everybody knew about it . . . She wore it in a special sheath under her left arm: it was a pair of pointy scissors, which she used to snip off the thumbs of her enemies.

I had never seen her before, but I knew that this witch wasn’t a member of the coven of thirteen. She had to be Grimalkin, the assassin of the Malkin clan. Our eyes locked and she smiled: I saw that behind her black-painted lips, her teeth had been filed to sharp points.

Lizzie seized me by the arm and dragged me towards the far wall, where a big woman with long white hair stood staring at us. I knew her by reputation. It was Maggie Malkin, the leader of the clan.

She scowled at me and took my left arm just above the elbow, squeezing it so hard that I yelped with pain.

‘Skinny little thing, ain’t she?’ Maggie said. ‘Not much meat on them twiggy bones. Have you told her what happens if she fails the test?’

Lizzie gave me an evil smile. ‘I thought it best to save that pleasure for you, Maggie. I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder!’

It was the first time I’d seen Lizzie being so ingratiating. It made me realize that, as a group, these witches were really powerful: she was nervous of them, no matter what she said about them in private.

With an appreciative nod towards Lizzie, Maggie
dragged me towards the big pot in the centre of the room. Next to it was a wooden table with several small boxes on it, along with three wooden cups, each covered with a red cloth. Additionally, beside the table stood what looked like a very big box with a black silk cloth laid over it. Maybe it was a chest of drawers? I wondered what was inside it.

I tried a sly sniff to see if I could get some hint of what it might be, but I got nothing back. No doubt the coven had collaborated to create a powerful spell to stop nosy people like me.

Two other girls were waiting in the room, looking just as scared as I felt, and Maggie released my arm and pushed me next to them. I knew them by sight, although we’d never spoken. I’d lived with my mam and dad in the Deane village of Roughlee, whereas they were Malkins and came from Goldshaw Booth. The taller girl was called Marsha, the shorter one Gloria.

The coven moved in to encircle us. I could feel Lizzie standing close behind me, her eyes boring into the back of my head.

‘Who owns these girls? Who will teach them the craft?’ demanded Maggie in a loud voice.

In response I felt Lizzie’s hand clamp onto my left shoulder. I kept my eyes straight ahead but knew that two other Malkin witches would have done the same to Marsha and Gloria.

‘Three girls I see before me!’ cried Maggie. ‘Three scared girls you be, and there ain’t no shame in that. But things are worse than you expect. Ain’t no easy way to tell you this, but one of you will die this very night!’

At that, all the witches gave a shriek so fierce and loud that the piles of bones in the corners of the room began to vibrate and spread out across the stone flags.

A tremor of fear ran through me. This was even worse than I’d expected. I’d thought we were about to be tested as a type of witch, not chosen to die. How would they decide which one of us it would be?

Maggie went on to tell us what I already knew from Lizzie: ‘You’ll each be tested twice – firstly to show us what type of magic would suit you best. The second test will predict your eventual strength as a witch. But then one of you must die so that her strength can be absorbed by the other two. It has always been so . . . Well, is there anything else you wish to know before the rituals begin?’ She glared at each of us in turn.

I didn’t think there was any point in asking anything because it was going to happen anyway, and it might be better not to know in advance. But, to my surprise, Marsha spoke up.

‘I know what works for me!’ she cried. ‘Blood is what I need!’

I thought that Maggie would be angry and warn the girl to keep quiet; the coven would surely decide what was best for her. Instead she beamed at her, reached across the table and lifted one of the wooden cups.

‘It’s pleasing when a young potential witch knows what’s good for her,’ said Maggie, snatching away the cloth and holding out the cup to the eager Marsha.

I could smell the blood as she lifted it to her lips and began to gulp it down greedily. It was human blood too – I could
smell it, and I wondered where they’d got it. Had someone been murdered to provide what they needed? Maybe it was the blood of some prisoner they kept in the dungeons below the tower.

It disgusted me to watch her slurp it. So eager was Marsha to drain the cup that blood trickled down out of the corners of her mouth and began to drip from the end of her chin. With a satisfied smile she handed the cup back to Maggie, who replaced it on the table, picked up the second cup and handed it to the smaller girl, Gloria.

I could tell by the look on Gloria’s face that she didn’t fancy even a sip of what that wooden cup contained. She tried, I’ll give her that. First she held her nose with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. She brought the cup to her lips twice, each time holding it away again at arm’s length, her stomach heaving. Finally she managed to take a sip, but then her stomach convulsed: blood mixed with vomit spurted out of her mouth to splash down on the floor between her and the witch.

Maggie wasn’t best pleased and she gave the poor girl a furious glare before snatching the cup from her hand. Then she offered the third cup to me, but I folded my arms and shook my head.

‘I ain’t a blood witch,’ I told her. ‘I can sniff it from here and it’s not for me.’

‘You’ll try it, girl, if you know what’s good for you,’ Maggie warned. ‘If you don’t try it, we’ll force it down your throat.’

I knew they’d do just that, so reluctantly I took a small sip.
It was cold, salty and had a metallic tang. There was no way I was going to swallow that, so I spat it out and shook my head again. For a moment I thought Maggie was going to carry out her threat and force me to drink the whole amount, but she frowned, snatched the cup away and replaced it on the table before opening one of the small boxes and taking something from it.