“What are you doing?” Alex said as the knights shifted off their stone slabs and started to advance on them.
“Quiet.
Shee, kres
—”
The knights paused, just briefly.
“Kres?”
Ecgbryt said, nodding his head and holding up his palms.
“Kres?”
The knights looked at each other. A question—a doubt?—seemed to pass between them. They appeared to be in a silent debate.
“What was that?” Alex whispered. “What all did you say?”
“It was the word
peace
in as many languages as I know.”
“Good trick. Which one finally worked?”
“Cornish.”
Alex groaned. “We have to be smarter than this, Ecgbryt.”
The knights apparently resolved the issue, but not to either Alex’s or Ecgbryt’s satisfaction. They continued advancing.
“What is taking so long?” came a voice from behind them.
“We are hungry. You told us you were getting provisions and you would return quickly.”
Alex and Ecgbryt turned in surprise. “Berwin!”
“Thank God!” Alex said. “Talk to them—they speak Cornish. Explain who we are!”
Berwin stepped past them and sized up the French knights.
“How did you know to find us?” Ecgbryt said.
“I watched you. You walked right past the settlement where all the bakers and grocers are, and you came right out into this field—”
“Enough! Talk to them!”
“Lowena dhis!”
Berwin said and held out his arms.
“Hanow Berwin.”
The knights halted and lowered their weapons slightly.
“Prys difuna yw?”
the foremost knight repeated.
“Ea, difuna,”
Berwin answered.
They continued their conversation, unintelligible to Alex and Ecgbryt.
“What was that you said about an enchanted archway just now?” Alex asked.
“You know, Ealdstan put them up at the entrances to the sleeping chambers. It’s so we can understand who finds us, whenever they find us. It seems he did not place them at
all
the sites.”
“That’s an enchantment I could use.”
“You mean . . . you never passed under one? But you speak English—I mean, my English; Old English.”
“Yeah, that’s because I had to bloody learn it. My father drilled it into me, starting when I was eleven. I’ve talked to you, I’ve been talking to the other knights—all this time, what did you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I did think. I just assumed . . . all this time.” Ecgbryt shook his head. “Hmm. Maybe ours was the only one. No wonder your accent was so bad.”
“Well, I believe I’ve improved, now that I’ve heard you speak it.”
“And I thought it was just because you were Scottish.”
“You should thank your stars it was me you came across, matey. The only other people who could have communicated with you are a bunch of old men in tweed sitting in a lecture hall in Cambridge. Enchanted archways.” Alex snorted. “So that’s how Daniel and Freya picked it up?”
“Of course, what did you think?”
Alex sighed. Berwin seemed to be making headway with the Bretton knights. The speech patterns were sounding a little less formal and their body language was relaxing.
“So why couldn’t you talk to these chaps just now?” Alex asked Ecgbryt.
“What do you mean?”
“With the arch and all? Why didn’t the enchantment translate for you?”
“Daniel and Freya walked under the arch. I never did.”
Negotiations continued.
“How many languages do you know?” Ecgbryt asked.
“Nine or ten. Most of them dead.”
“Latin? Norse?”
“Aye.”
“But not Cornish?”
“No, not Cornish.”
“All right,” Berwin reported, finishing his talk with the knights, which had obviously gone well since they had all put up their weapons and a few of them were smiling now. “It’s not Cornish they’re speaking, but it’s close. This region on this side of the water was once a settlement sent from our own land, you see, and we held our tongue and culture in common. Trade was good, and an alliance with—”
“That’s wonderful, Berwin,” Alex interrupted. “You’ll have to tell us about all of that sometime. Did you tell them the situation?”
“Yes, I’ve told them the situation. They’re willing to join us.”
“Fan-bloody-tastic.”
Berwin introduced them. “They tell me that they take their names out of honour for the seven founding saints of Bretagne. This is Tugdual, this is Brieg, that is Aorelian, Malou, Samsun, Kaourintin, and that is Padam over there.”
Alex and Ecgbryt went around and clasped arms with them.
“Now,” said Berwin, “can we at last find something to eat?”
_____________________
I
_____________________
Cardiff
Gemma Woodcotte was thirteen years and fourteen days old, exactly—she had had her birthday two weeks earlier. She knew she was special but didn’t exactly know why. She didn’t figure this was important; she would know why when the time came. At the moment, being special simply meant that she had Possibilities. There were things she might be able to do, One Day, in that intolerably distant time that was still just the day after tomorrow. When she wrote about it in her journal—someone special should have a journal—that was how she expressed it: in capital letters.
Her big brother, Anthony, was
not
special. To her mind, he had never been special, although she would readily admit that she had not known him for all of his seventeen years. For all she knew—and this was likely, for she was fond of him after all—he had been special once, when he was younger; but evidently that
time had passed. Even from her limited experience, Gemma knew that Anthony had made some pretty bad choices in his life and acted incredibly silly and careless, even for a boy. He no longer played. He couldn’t imagine. He didn’t seem to have any attention for anything other than cars.
But Gabriel had potential. He was only thirteen months old and hadn’t been spoiled yet. It was her job to protect him. And the reason he needed protecting was that every week, always on Thursday, a witch flew into his window and perched upon the edge of his crib.
What exactly the witch wanted, Gemma didn’t know. She had seen her twice. The first time was when she went upstairs one evening to fetch a book. In the middle of a pause of silence from the blaring TV downstairs, she thought she heard a whispering coming from her brother’s room.
Gabe was too young to be whispering, and she didn’t recognise any of the words as being his. Carefully, silently, she pushed the door open. And there was the witch, her feet balanced on the edge of the crib, her left hand against the wall, her right clinging to the window frame. The dark, ugly figure was whispering something that was hard to make out, even though Gemma strained her ears.
. . . Is it Charles, or Curtis, or Clive?
Cedric, or Colin, or Cal?
Is it Casper, or Calvin, or Carl?
Christopher, Connor, or Clem?
Is it Christian, or Cain, or Claude . . . ?
“What are you doing?” Gemma asked.
At the sound of her voice the witch became startled. She ruffled and flapped her cloak as if it were two wide wings and flew
instantly out of the open window, as quick and graceful as a leaf on the wind. Her black, swirling form could be seen against the streetlights, and then was gone—just another shadow in the night.
Gemma stood for a couple seconds, blinking. She had seen what she had seen, therefore she believed. Witches were real. She went into the room and closed the window, latching it firmly.
Gabriel seemed to be fine. He was awake, and while the witch spoke to him, he appeared to listen intently. But it was a long time before he went to sleep, and he woke up early Wednesday morning—along with the rest of the house—and the whole day he was fussy and agitated.
From that night on, Gemma was certain to check the room after her parents had put Gabe down and while they were still downstairs watching TV. She would open it a crack, stand for a time to listen in silence, and then go inside and check the windows. For an entire week, she heard nothing, but the next Thursday, as she was standing just outside, listening, she heard a rattling in the room, and then a click, and the sound of the window opening. She stood a little closer to the door, in order to hear what the witch was saying.
Would you come away with me, darling?
Leave your mummy and daddy at home.
Fly away with me, little darling,
If I call out to you, will you come?
Would you ride away with me, dumpling,
Leave all else behind and be free?
If I knew what your name is, my sweet one,
I would call you and you’d come to me.
Is it David or Dexter, or Dennis?
Damien, Douglas, or Del?
Is it Darryl, or Darren, or Darrick?
Dashiell, Dustin, or Don?
Is it Duncan, or Dylan, or Dideron?
Dudley, or Dixon, or Dan . . . ?
“Stop that,” Gemma said, entering the room.
Once more, the witch wheeled up, flew out the window, and was gone. But this time, Gemma saw an angry red eye glowering at her amidst the black cloth.
Gemma went to the window and shut it. Something had to be done.
The next day Gemma went to the school library. She spent a little time online but found a lot of things that were confusing, and more that were contradictory. She signed off and went to look for a book on witches.
There were not many to choose from—three, in fact. She flicked through them all and decided to check the oldest one out. Back at home, she read it cover to cover. Then she picked up the volume of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
that her uncle had given her.
A plan started to form. All of the myths and legends, if you looked at them from the right angle, lined up, and it was easy to find your way through them after that. Tomorrow would be Saturday. She would have to go to the shops to get some materials, but the plan should work. It should work.
The next Thursday night Gemma slipped into Gabriel’s room just as it was still light outside. It was just before Gabe’s bedtime. Preparations only took a couple minutes. She retreated to her room and waited, reading one of her books.
She heard her mother carry Gabe up and put him in the crib. She heard the door close and then footsteps down the stairs. Gemma rose quietly and went to her little brother’s door.
She had only been standing there maybe five or ten minutes when she heard the scratching at the window. Holding her breath, Gemma heard the catch click and the window swing open.
She tried to picture the scene in her head: the window hanging open, the witch perching on the window sill, spotting her brother, then what would she do? Climb over? Leap across?
There was a shrill scream from inside the room, and Gemma flung the door open. All she caught was a flicker of black fabric outside the window.
“What’s going on up there?” Gemma heard her dad call up.
“Sorry, Dad. I thought I saw a bat.”
“Well, did you?”
“No, it was just a moth.”
Her dad muttered something and then said, “Go to sleep, Gemma. Get ready for bed.”
“Okay.”
Gemma went into Gabe’s room; he was fine, just a little bemused. She was surprised that he wasn’t crying, but, she reminded herself, he was special. She smiled at him and he smiled back, showing all eight of his teeth. She closed the window and then went to the top of his crib. Along the rungs, so the tips were only just exposed, were the clusters of brass pins that she had taped where she had seen the witch’s feet perch. Six of them were tipped with blood; not a lot, just a few pearls on each.
From her pocket, Gemma pulled a small glass bottle with a cork in it that she had bought at the supermarket. She’d tipped the contents—cloves—into the garden, so that it was empty. She had bought it especially because of the size and the cork. She didn’t know if the cork was important, but she didn’t intend to take chances.
She also took out a pair of tweezers and, uncorking the bottle, removed the bloodied pins from the tape and put them in the
bottle. Then she corked it, removed the tape and the unbloodied pins from the crib, gave her little brother a pat, and left the room.
The next week she did the same routine, only the preparations were a little more difficult. She had already done the hardest part—pounding nails into the ceiling—before her parents had come home, but now she had to stand up on the changing table to reach up to them in complete silence.
Plus,
she had to do this after Gabe had been put down, since this time her trap would certainly be noticed.
She managed it, however, and withdrew just as it grew dark enough outside for the streetlamps to come on.
She stood in position just outside the door and didn’t have long to wait before she heard the creepy scratching and picking sound once more. The window unlatched, swung open, and there was a pause of about three seconds before she heard flapping and grunting.
Opening the door, she caught sight of the witch, her hair entangled in half a dozen strips of flypaper that she had hung from the ceiling. Seeing Gemma, the witch fell backward, out of the window, pulling several of the flypaper strips with her.
But three still remained.
Her parents didn’t seem to have heard anything, so climbing up on the changing table, she very carefully brought down the strips and carried them into her room. She would have to remove the nails later, she thought. Or maybe not. The strands of hair that she removed, she put in the bottle, along with the bloodied pins.
The next week was the last and the easiest stage of the plan. It was also the riskiest, and the most frightening, and Gemma had no clear idea of what would happen next. It was also the last chance she would have, since the witch was now up to the letter
G
in her name-calling rhyme.