Moreg looked up and smiled as if they were all old friends. Catching sight of Willow’s face, the witch said, ‘You know, a group of ravens are often called an “unkindness of ravens”, but I prefer the less well-known term, a conspiracy.’
Willow frowned, her eyes following the birds as they circled. A conspiracy didn’t sound much better. As she stared she saw one particular bird edge closer to Moreg; it looked different to the others, as if one of its wings was made of ink or smoke. Before Willow could comment, Moreg held up one long slim finger, and the bird vanished with a rapid beat of its black wings. Willow swallowed, eyeing Moreg warily. Had she made the bird disappear with a simple lift of a finger?
‘Come on,’ said Moreg almost nonchalantly. ‘We’ll stop a bit later for the night.’
As Willow followed the witch she thought about some of the other rumours she’d heard about Moreg over the years – like that she kept ravens, and that they carried her beneath Starfell into Netherfell so that she could dance with the dead. She darted a glance at Moreg and thought about asking if any of that was true, but then, catching sight of the witch’s face, she changed her mind just as fast.
There was so much, though, that she did want to know. Like … did the witch really live in the Mists of Mitlaire – the fog that drove most people insane? Did she have several magical abilities as some had said? Or was that just a rumour, like the one Oswin had told her about the witch pickling children in ginger … which she still hoped was untrue.
They had been walking for nearly a mile through deep, dark woods, the air smelling of pine and moss and the cold and damp inching along Willow’s toes, when Moreg slowed down. ‘We’ll be heading to the city of Beady Hill in the morning,’ she said. ‘It was the last known address of the forgotten teller we need, but it’s some distance away – so we’ll need a bit of help getting there.’
Willow wondered if she meant that they needed to catch a coach. But she had hoped that just maybe her adventure with Moreg would involve a bit of broom flying … so she dared to ask, ‘Um, you … erm, don’t want to fly?’
Moreg stared at her and Willow felt her cheeks burn slightly. But then the witch nodded. ‘I would. I had a flying carpet for a while – quite rare, you know. A three-seater, once belonging to a Tetan king, I believe, but that’s long gone now. Flew away right off the line, no doubt furious that it had been washed. Old carpets can be quite tetchy. Ordinarily I don’t do brooms. I’ve never found one I really liked – it’s such a stereotype, if you ask me, witches and brooms … Same with the hat. Never wear one if I can help it.’
Willow supposed that when she thought ‘witch’ a picture of a broomstick did float into her mind. Although, admittedly, the few witches she had met only owned a broom that did nothing more remarkable than sweep, but she had hoped that Moreg Vaine would be the exception. After all, she was Moreg Vaine.
‘I’ve always wanted to try a flying broom,’ admitted Willow, who’d long wished for one of her own, and couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. If ever there was a time for a flying broom, surely saving the world was it.
Moreg looked at her, shrugged and said, ‘Well, I suppose time is of the essence, and we are going past Radditch in any case …’
Willow blinked. Radditch … Something tugged at the corner of her mind. Weren’t the people there known for something? Something to do with making things fly? A faint curl of hope expanded in her chest. Was the witch saying what she thought?
‘So, despite my misgivings, I think we’ll have to get some brooms, yes.’ Moreg didn’t look all that happy about it, though. ‘First thing in the morning.’
Willow let out a small whoop of glee, and did a little jig, which made Oswin huff inside the carpetbag. She schooled herself fast when Moreg blinked at her in surprise.
‘Um,’ said Willow, clearing her throat self-consciously. ‘Oh, okay, if you really think that’s best.’
Dusk was setting as, sometime later, Willow and Moreg entered a fragrant wood. They walked on until they came across a small clearing covered in purple clover, where Moreg told her they’d be stopping for the night. ‘We’ll make an early start to Radditch tomorrow.’
Despite the promise of acquiring flying broomsticks, Willow was grateful to rest for the night. Her feet were sore, and she was tired and hungry. She set her carpetbag down, and then did a double-take when she saw what Moreg was doing. Seemingly, from out of nowhere, the witch had whipped out a large cast-iron pot, which she placed over an odd violet-hued flame that was suspended in mid-air. ‘I hope you like nettle stew – it shouldn’t take too long.’
‘H-how did you do that?’ exclaimed Willow.
Moreg waved a palm distractedly while testing the stew with a wooden spoon, and muttering, ‘Needs salt, definitely.’ She patted the front of her cloak, reached inside, and withdrew a small ceramic pot from which she took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it into the pot. Then, seeing Willow’s bemused stare, she said quite nonchalantly, ‘Oh this? Been cooking all day.’
Willow blinked. What?
Moreg, however, looked unfazed. ‘Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a seat?’ She asked, proceeding to pull out a folded blue chair from within her cloak. She sprung it open and offered it to Willow, who took it rather bemusedly. She watched as Moreg took more things from within the cloak’s folds – including a small green table, and two knives, forks, plates and purple glasses. Moreg patted her cloak, rolled her eyes heavenward, and sighed deeply, ‘I must have left the good wine in my other cellar – looks like we’ll be roughing it. Just the rynflower cider for us. I suppose we’ll survive,’ she said, pulling out a small jug with a doubtful expression.
Willow stared. Her other cellar? How on Starfell did the witch manage to keep all of that in one cloak? And manage to walk? The obvious answer was of course magic. But that was a broad answer, and magic, as far as Willow knew, didn’t work the way people believed it should. Not any more, not since it was nearly ripped away a thousand years before during the war started by the Brothers of Wol, a religious order who tried to rid Starfell of magic because they believed – and, alas, still did to this day – that people born with magical abilities were unnatural, and that their bodies were possessed by evil. The battle resulted in what was known as the Long War. The old witches and wizards gathered together their best spells to fight them, but they were stolen, and the Brothers of Wol killed thousands of witches and wizards, destroyed enchanted forests and burned all the spell scrolls they could to try to rid the world of magic.
But they had failed. They didn’t know the truth. Magic never dies – it simply waits until we are ready for it. When centuries had passed it trickled back, ever so slowly, into Starfell.
But this magic wasn’t like the magic from before. It had changed. Perhaps it had learnt. Maybe it worried that if it gave too much it would be ripped away again. When it did at last come slowly slinking back, it did so cautiously, only gifting a few with tiny slithers of itself.
These days people who had a magical ability usually didn’t have more than one, yet they still called themselves witches and wizards. But they were not like the old witches and wizards from before, known now as the old magicians of Starfell, who didn’t just have a singular magical ability – they had many. Magic in the world was different then too; it ran freely through the land, through the streams and rivers, mountains and glades. And some of the most powerful magicians back then harnessed this magic through powerful spells.
