that he knew Paul was a stranger, not only to the village, but to the whole country.
He explained that Awginn lay in the Canton of Sasterisk, a large town to the northeast. This, with twelve other Cantons, made up the Kingdom of Yendre. It was more a loose collection of states than a Kingdom, except in times of war and trouble, of which the country had been free for many years. Malgar knew of no other lands, except for the wild country to the north, in which no people dwelt.
Paul had already guessed that he had been taken to another world by the Ragwitch’s fire and was now completely sure he wasn’t anywhere on Earth. He had never heard of the places Malgar talked of, and the May Dancers were obviously not something he had dreamt up, since Malgar knew they lived in the forest. Paul felt sick at the thought that he was impossibly far from home. Running off to rescue Julia seemed like the dumbest thing he’d ever done.
It took several hours to walk down the gently sloping fields and through countless gates in the low stone fences. They saw a few other shepherds and their flocks, but Malgar took paths away from them, as if he didn’t want Paul to meet them. And still they kept on walking, till Paul was staggering along behind, despairing of ever reaching the village, having a rest and getting something to eat beyond a piece of Malgar’s bread and cheese. He was half dreaming of water beds and roast chicken, when Malgar stopped and pointed out a stand of oaks ahead. Between them, and some distance away, Paul saw the dark blue strip of a river.
“The Awgaer,” said Malgar. “Many boats pass along it, from Sasterisk down to the sea.”
“It doesn’t look wide enough for boats,” said Paul in a small, worn-out voice. “It must only be ten metres wide at the most. You couldn’t get much of a boat down that, surely?”
“This is one of the narrow sections, lad. It widens out before and after this point. But you are right. The river folk use special craft of narrow beam and shallow draught, which they pole along at a great pace. Strange people, but kindly enough. Come–the village is only a little way along the river.”
In fact, Malgar’s “little way” was still at least a kilometre. Despite his hunger pangs, Paul was half asleep by the time they got there–so much so that he hardly looked at the neat, whitewashed stone cottages, with their yellow thatched roofs. It wasn’t until they stood in the village square that he lifted his head to gaze about through eyes heavy with exhaustion.
In front of him, Malgar stood frowning, obviously in deep thought. Past Malgar stood a large building with a faded inn sign hanging above the door–a green head, garlanded with yellow flowers.
“Now we’re here,” said Malgar, “I don’t rightly know what to do with you. I have to get these sheep home, but it’s still half a league to my stead.” He scratched his head again and cast a slightly wistful glance at the inn, before deciding. “Well, best you come with me, lad. Can you still walk?”
Paul nodded, unenthusiastic about the prospect of walking further, and started to stand up, when a man stepped up from behind him and laid a hand on Malgar’s shoulder.
“Going where, Malgar Sheep-herder?”
Malgar turned to face the man and inclined his head in a sort of half-bow. Paul wondered why he did that–the other man didn’t look much different. He was dressed in much the same way as Malgar, except he had a short dagger hanging from his belt rather than a bog-oak cudgel. He was younger too, black-haired, with a long drooping moustache and sharp blue eyes.
“To tell you the truth, Sir Aleyne,” said Malgar, with some relief, “I’m glad you’re here.” Rapidly, he outlined how he’d found Paul, and the small amount the boy had told him about the May Dancers, his lost sister and his home.
Aleyne listened carefully, occasionally glancing towards Paul. When Malgar had finished, he said, “Take your sheep home, Malgar. I will take the boy. To the inn, for rest–and then, I think, to Rhysamarn.”
“Rhysamarn?” asked Malgar, obviously upset. “You really think the boy should go there?”
“I would say it is the only place for him,” replied Aleyne. He looked down at Paul, who had fallen asleep against a large, conveniently resting sheep. Paul was much the worse for wear for his adventures and Aleyne saw only a short, slightly plump boy of eleven or so, covered in dirt–a strange appearance for a visitor from other lands.
“He will sleep through this afternoon and night, I think,” continued Aleyne. “And perhaps tomorrow. I shall take him to Rhysamarn myself, the day after. You have done well, Malgar.”
Malgar looked down on the boy anxiously. “He seems a nice enough lad. He won’t come to any…harm…on Rhysamarn?”
Aleyne smiled and picked Paul up, easily cradling him in his strong arms. “It is the Mountain of the Wise, Malgar – not some cavern of the Ragwitch.”
“The Ragwitch…” muttered Paul in his sleep. Aleyne looked down and saw Paul grimace as he spoke, teeth clenched and lips drawing back in a feral snarl.
“Yes,” he said, as Malgar made the sign against evil magic. “Definitely, he must go to Rhysamarn.”
As the night inked into the sky, the Ragwitch climbed out of the cave mouth and surveyed Her realm. Awestricken, Julia watched through the Ragwitch’s eyes, as She surveyed the great crescent-shaped bay that curved around them. The Ragwitch stood on a slab of rock which thrust out high above the sea. Below this slab and right around the bay, other caves and holes stood out darkly against the grey stone. The sun lay low in the west, already beginning to set–and with the passing of the light, the caves became darker and the sea went from blue to deepest black. Down below, the pounding of the surf in the deep caves became an ominous drumbeat.
Then the Ragwitch screamed, a long, chilling scream that rose and fell with the rhythm of the surf Deep inside the Ragwitch’s mind, Julia felt what it was like to deliver that scream–the exultation of freedom, the flexing of power and worst of all…the expectation of an answer.
At first, silence greeted the Ragwitch’s scream, the silence of an audience just before the applause. But the answering calls were not long in coming: the dull rumblings of vast creatures, woken far beneath the earth, and the shrill whistlings of other beings closer to hand.
“You see, My little Julia,” whispered the Ragwitch, Her leathery lips barely moving. “My servants remember My power well–even in this shape, they recognise Me! They still come when I call. You will like them.”
“No,” said Julia defiantly. She was absolutely sure that the things that made those noises would not be likeable at all.
“Yes,” murmured the Ragwitch. “You will like them. Eventually.”
She turned to the cliff and began to climb up towards the top. Julia noticed that there was some sort of path or eroded staircase—whichever it was, the Ragwitch seemed to know every turn and rise, neatly avoiding places where the cliff had fallen away. Below them, the screams and cries diminished to be replaced by the sounds of movement: sounds of scraping claws and footfalls that did not sound human.
Locked within the Ragwitch’s mind, Julia kept trying to turn her head–a reflex to see those things behind her. But while she knew her head should turn, it could not: Julia’s eyes were only those of the Ragwitch, and they were intent on the path ahead.
Eventually, the huge leathery form of the Ragwitch reached the
