Witch Silver (5 page)

The poacher stood still and silent in the dark shadow of the trees, avoiding the slanting beams of moonlight that penetrated the leafy thickness of the wood. The quiet, rippling gurgle of the river sounded softly in the background as he glanced around, suddenly alert as he sensed that something was wrong. He turned his head slowly, this way and that, catching the breeze and the smell of the earth. After years of poaching the odd salmon from the Tweed, he’d developed a strong feeling for the land and knew the breath of the wood.

A strange unease gripped him. Maybe a gamekeeper on the prowl, he told himself, although he knew instinctively that it was nothing so ordinary. Again he turned his head and tested the wind. Nothing, he thought, his eyes searching the trees. And yet he knew within himself that there was someone or something close by, watching him. Then he saw it, standing on a slight rise over to his left; a large dog with a rough, grey coat. Must be a stray, he thought, living in the wild, off rabbits and other small creatures. It stood still, watching him and as he met its cold, blue-eyed stare the friendly words that had risen to his lips, remained unspoken. A wolf! It was a wolf! He stood his ground, not daring to move and, heart thumping furiously, watched as the animal turned and loped off among the trees.

What
was
it about the wood, he wondered tensely, looking round searchingly. Fear still gripped him and the sight of the wolf had sent panic bubbling through his veins. Conscious of the hefty salmon he carried in a twist of rough sacking, he
turned and moved stealthily through the trees towards his cottage. Treading softly and warily, he was conscious that all his senses were sharp, tense and alert; tuned into every small rustle of sound and every movement of the trees.

It was when he reached the edge of the wood that he saw him, a still figure in the shadowy moonlight; the uniformed figure of a policeman leaning casually against a tree. Relief flooded through him. A copper! Thank goodness for that! In the state he was in, he’d half expected some strange daemon or spectre of the wood. Nevertheless, he groaned inwardly,
knowing
that the game was up; to be caught poaching was a serious offence.

The still figure, however, made no move towards him until it dawned on him that there was something decidedly odd about the policeman. Moving closer, he reached into his coat pocket and, taking out a powerful torch, shone the beam into the man’s face. He gasped in horror and swore aloud as he saw the figure clearly — for it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow dressed as a policeman; the painted turnip face and straw body looking remarkably life-like in the shadowy glimmer of the moonlight. Kids, he thought furiously, angry at the scare he’d had. Some kids must have brought it into the wood.

To his dismay, he found that he was more seriously
disturbed
than he’d thought. His hands were shaking violently and in a sudden fit of revulsion, he hurled the stuffed figure, in a swinging tangle of arms and legs, into the bushes and hurried towards the scatter of trees that fringed the wood. Making his way through them, he clambered over a wire fence, jumped a ditch and reached the path that led to his cottage. He strode along swiftly, anxious now to get home but it was only as he drew closer to his house that he saw them; dark figures
prowling
round the old barn at the back.

Moving quickly, he dumped his fish by the gate and taking a short cut through the field, crept up on them. What he couldn’t figure out was what they were after, for there was nothing in the barn worth stealing; even the old tractor didn’t work.

As he got nearer, he took the flashlight from his pocket and clicking it on, lit up the stooping, searching figures that seemed to be everywhere, poking about in all the corners.

He’d grabbed hold of the nearest one before his brain told him what his eyes had seen and it was then that he screamed in horror for it was not a man that he held in his grasp but a scarecrow. A scarecrow dressed as a cowboy with a painted bag as a face, straw arms and a body stuffed with what felt like rags. And it was alive.

“I stopped off at Norham to get the newspapers,” John MacLean said to his wife as he came into the living room, “and the Mason’s Arms is absolutely heaving with reporters.”

“Is it this scarecrow business?” Janet queried, looking up from her sewing. “They’ve even had it on TV.”

“Do you think it’s the witches’ doing?” Clara asked.

“Looks like it,” her father replied.

“What’s everyone saying?” Clara queried. “I mean,
scarecrows
coming to life is really something!”

“Seemingly, it all started last week during the Norham Scarecrow Festival. You know that each house makes its own scarecrow …”

“They’re marvellous,” Janet added, threading a needle
carefully
. “I saw them last year when I was visiting Muriel.”

“Well, at first they thought they had a practical joker in the village because one morning people woke up to find that the scarecrow in their garden wasn’t the one they’d made. They got quite angry, especially when they found that the same thing
had happened all over the village. And we’re not talking about one or two scarecrows here, you know. Norham’s a big place. Anyway, there was a good deal of bad-tempered muttering as people found their own scarecrows again and got themselves sorted out.”

“And?” asked Clara curiously.

“Well, the next night, the same thing happened again, so they formed a committee to police the village at night, to see who was mucking them about.”

“And did they catch anybody?”

“Well, no, they didn’t,” her father said. “Apparently, the entire committee fell asleep on the job.”

“Fell asleep?” Mrs MacLean echoed incredulously.

Her husband nodded. “And once again all the scarecrows were sitting outside the wrong houses in the morning and,” he shrugged, “nobody could understand how all that moving around could happen without at least one of the committee waking up.”

“Well, that figures,” Clara grinned.

“Mmm, I think they came in for a good deal of stick,” her father nodded. “Of course, it’s probably the witches’ doing. I reckon they’re using the scarecrows to help them search the countryside.

“There was some talk of a tramp hanging round the place as well; an old man with grey hair. Some people blamed him but most of them thought he wouldn’t have had the strength. Then the local poacher arrived in the middle of it all, scared out of his mind. Said he’d seen a wolf down by the river and found scarecrows searching his barn. Live scarecrows! The countryside’s buzzing with it!”

“I’d much rather have scarecrows than witches!” Mrs MacLean declared.

“They’d be stupid to come here again,” Clara pointed out. “We’re wearing our firestones and we’d see them the minute they appeared.”

“I think the witches had already given the house a good going over before we even moved in,” her father said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t worry. They’ll be concentrating on other hiding places now.”

“Good riddance,” snapped Janet MacLean, finishing her sewing and biting off the thread.

“You know, I think I’ll wear my firestone when I go to school,” Clara said thoughtfully. “If there
are
any witches around, I want to be able to see them.”

John MacLean looked at her thoughtfully. “You might well see witches at school,” he warned. “Your aunt taught at Netherfield, remember? You never know, she might have
hidden
the talisman there.”

“That’s true,” Mrs MacLean said, looking at Clara in sudden dismay. “I didn’t think of that!”

“How was your first week then?” was their father’s first question as they dumped their heavy bags in the boot of the 4x4. “Do you think you’re going to like it?”

“It’s great,” Neil said, rushing round the car to grab the front seat. Clara made a face at him but opened the back door and clambered in, still feeling strange in the green blazer and kilt that formed the school uniform. She looked back at the imposing building, picking out her bedroom window in one of the four huge towers that stood at each corner of the building.

“Clara was homesick,” Neil remarked as his father manoeuvred the car carefully through the mass of cars and buses in the car park.

“Were you, Clara?” her father said in surprise, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“The first few nights were a bit lonely,” she admitted.

“Would you like to share with somebody?” her father
questioned
. “I’m sure it could be arranged. Your mum and I thought you’d like having a room to yourself.”

Clara shook her head. “The other boarders are all primary kids. Anyway, I’m getting used to being on my own.”

“You missed me, that’s what it is,” Neil grinned.

Clara promptly stuck her tongue out at him, loath to admit that, in actual fact, she
had
missed him!

“By the way, your mum plans to take you into Berwick
tomorrow
,” their father interrupted before Clara could retaliate further. “We stopped there on our way down from Edinburgh to stock up
with groceries and she saw a shop that sells posters; all your kind of stuff … you know, pop stars, footballers … that sort of thing. She thought you might like to buy some of them to put up in your room.”

“Great!” Neil said, immediately diverted at the mention of footballers. “By the way, who’s playing who tomorrow, Dad?”

Clara sat in the back of the car and as Neil and her father discussed football, watched the trees, hedges and fields slide by as they headed for home. By the time they reached Craiglaw House, she was feeling much better and seeing her mother, she smiled and waved as she scrambled out of the car. It’s not fair to worry Mum, she thought, as she rushed forward to hug her.

“I’ve lit the fire in the living room,” her mother said later. “I want to hear all about Netherfield. How you’re coping with the lessons and what the teachers are like …” she added, pushing the door open and switching on the light.

Clara settled herself on a stool by the fire and stretched out a hand to the blaze. The weather was getting colder by the day.

“Clara and I hardly ever see one another,” she heard Neil say. “We’re in different classes for a start …”

“Yes, and the boys’ bedrooms are in another tower
altogether
,” Clara added.

“And what about school work?” queried her mother. “Are you managing to keep up?”

“Well, Maths and English are okay and apart from the teacher, I quite like Drama,” Clara added, brightening at the thought. “Our year is putting on a play for Halloween, all about witches and stuff.”

“I know,” Neil nodded. “The rest of the seniors have been invited to watch the dress rehearsal. It was on the notice board this morning.”

“It’s just a pity Miss Markham’s so awful,” Clara said.
“Nobody likes her; she’s really strict. You
must
have seen her round the place, Neil,” she looked at her brother enquiringly, “a real drama queen — tall, with black hair, black eyes and always
so
over the top about everything!”

“I think she’s probably foreign,” Neil said. “She signed the notice Maritza Markham.”

“Could be,” Clara said considering the matter. “She certainly doesn’t
look
Scottish.”

“And what about you, Neil?” interrupted his father.

“It’s just German that’s the problem,” Neil said glumly. “All the others started it in primary so Clara and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Do you have Mrs Weston for English?” his mother queried. “She’s a short woman, fair hair and a bit absent-minded.”

“Always losing her glasses,” added Neil with a grin. “Yes, I do. She’s my form mistress. She told me she knew Auntie Muriel.”

“Mmm, they were close friends. Believe me, she isn’t nearly as vague as she looks and if you have any problems, she’s
someone
you can trust.”

“Oops! I’m sorry, Clara,” her father said, getting to his feet suddenly, “I almost forgot. A letter came for you while you were at school.”

Clara looked startled. “A letter,” she said in surprise, “for me?”

“I should have given it to you earlier,” he added, taking a stamped envelope from the mantelpiece.

Her mother looked at it curiously. “It’s from the lawyer,” she said.

“Maybe Auntie Muriel’s left you thousands of pounds,” Neil grinned.

His father shook his head. “The estate’s been settled,” he said. “It can’t be that.”

“Open it then, Clara,” Neil urged as she turned it over in her hand, ‘don’t keep us in suspense!”

“You open it, Dad,” she said, handing it back to him, looking suddenly upset. “Please!”

Her father shrugged, slit the envelope open and took out a sheet of stiff paper and another, smaller envelope.

“Well, John?” his wife asked.

“How strange,” he muttered, handing Clara the small envelope. “It’s from the lawyer. He says that your aunt asked him to send you this letter, Clara …”

“He’s taken his time about it then, hasn’t he?” Neil observed. “I mean, Auntie Muriel died a couple of months ago.”

“He apologises for the delay,” continued his father, “but your aunt instructed him to wait for two months before he sent it to you …”

They all looked puzzled as Clara looked at the white
envelope
in her hand and opened it reluctantly. Why, she didn’t know, although she was soon to find out. She just had a feeling that once it was opened, nothing would ever be quite the same again.

“Well, what does she say?” demanded Neil curiously.

“It isn’t a letter,” Clara said, her eyes scanning the sheet of paper and holding it out so that they could all see it. “It’s some sort of riddle about … about a talisman.”

“A talisman!” echoed her mother. “Do you think it’s the one the MacArthur was telling us about? The one the witches are looking for?”

Neil read the riddle swiftly. “Must be,” he said, his eyes alight with excitement. “Good old Auntie Muriel! This must tell us where she hid it.”

“Read it out, Neil,” his mother said. “What does it say?”

“No,” Clara said suddenly, grabbing the paper from Neil and
folding it in two, “that isn’t a good idea. Somebody might be watching us … through a crystal,” she explained. “The witches perhaps!”

“Do witches have crystals?” Neil asked curiously as they all looked round apprehensively. “I thought it was only magicians.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said dismissively, holding out her hand, “Who would be interested in us?”

Clara looked sceptical but handed her the folded sheet of paper. “Let’s not take the risk,” she muttered. “It ought to be okay if you cover it with your hand.”

“Then she won’t be able to read it, stupid!” Neil butted in.

“Neil,” his father said warningly.

Mrs MacLean read the riddle and folding the paper again, passed it to her husband.

“Shhhh!” Clara said urgently, as everyone’s eyes
automatically
focused on the fireplace, ‘don’t say anything out loud.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Clara,” her mother said. “Who
would watch us?”

“Well … you never know,” Neil chipped in, his eyes scanning the room warily.

“I don’t want any witches in the house again,” her mother said, alarmed at the thought.

John MacLean nodded agreement. “Nor do I,” he said. “Look, why don’t we all memorize the riddle and once we’ve done it, Clara can hide the paper somewhere safe.”

“And when you’re hiding it,” Neil advised, “hide it in the dark. Then if anybody is watching you through a crystal, you’ll know, ‘cos you’ll see the light.”

“Good thinking, Neil,” his father said approvingly.

Mrs MacLean moved to the door and switched off the central light, leaving the room lit only by flickering firelight and the glow of a table lamp. “Well,” she said with a sigh of relief, “obviously no one is watching us. We’ll keep it this way until we learn the rhyme, shall we?”

Clara spread it out on the coffee table and they took it in turns to memorize the riddle. It wasn’t long, nor was it difficult to remember.

“It doesn’t really tell us very much, though, does it?” Neil said after five minutes. “Apart from the obvious, that is,” he added, looking pointedly at the fireplace.

“Come on,” Clara said, folding the paper briskly. “Let’s have a look and see if we can see anything strange about it.” The fireplace, however, seemed perfectly normal. It was big, admittedly, but there didn’t seem to be any loose bricks.

Neil, ignoring the heat, twisted his head and tried to peer up the chimney itself but his father drew him back. “The riddle says ‘by the firelight’, Neil,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t mention the chimney. Anyway, we had the chimney sweep in last week and I was here all the time, watching. There were no secret
packages tucked away up the chimney, I assure you!”

“It certainly doesn’t look as though this is the fireplace we’re looking for,” Mrs MacLean agreed.

“Actually, it could be
any
fireplace,
anywhere,”
John MacLean mused. “Possibly at Netherfield,” he added, his expression brightening. “There’s a huge fireplace in the big hall.”

Mrs MacLean looked at Clara apprehensively. “You didn’t see any witches while you were there, did you?” she asked.

Clara shook her head. “I didn’t have the chance,” she admitted. “Jewellery’s against the rules so I couldn’t wear my firestone. Neither could Neil.”

“Mind you, we
could
wear them under our uniforms,” Neil pointed out. “No one would ever know.”

“That’s true,” Clara agreed, “as long as we don’t have P.E. or anything.”

They pondered the riddle for some time but in the end gave up.

“I can’t make it out at all,” Neil said exasperatedly, pushing the paper to one side. “As far as I can see, it doesn’t give us any clue as to where the fireplace actually is!”

It was later that night when they were going upstairs to their bedrooms that Neil had a bright idea. “You know, Clara,” he whispered, “we could have a good look at the fireplace in the school hall when everyone’s asleep. I mean, nobody would be about at night, would they?”

Clara nodded in agreement. “What about meeting at
midnight
in the entrance hall, then? The witching hour!” she grinned.