Witch, page 1
‘A book filled with enchantment, in every sense. Dark, exciting and pacy, Witch brilliantly balances magic and realism.’
Anthony McGowan, author of Lark
‘I felt its dark jewelled cloak fall about my shoulders and magic me to the time of witchcraft. A story that captures sibling rivalry so perfectly and tells its tale so beautifully I didn’t want it to finish.’
Jasbinder Bilan, author of Asha and the Spirit Bird
‘Witch grips you in its spell from first page to last. It’s a stunningly written story of loss and love, of eerie magic, high adventure, and the ties that keep us strong in darkness and bring us safely home. As fierce, beautiful and thrilling as a bird of prey in flight.’
Jonathan Stroud, author of the Lockwood & Co. series
‘Bold, original, powerful story-telling. This story of fierce love, anger and revenge, war and witch hunts, is tense and bloody and compelling.’
Julia Green, author of The House of Light
‘I couldn’t stop reading this 5-star story for teens, full of witchcraft, revenge and the power of women.’
Mel Darbon, author of The Love Hypotheses
‘Witch is a rare thing, a book both brilliant and original, as strange and dark as it is beautiful. A tale of revenge set in war-ravaged landscape, ruled by fear and superstition; of redemption and love between two sisters; of the corrupting power of ‘magick.’ All this. And more besides.’
Chris Vick, author of Girl.Boy.Sea.
‘I loved it. I loved how atmospheric it was, I loved the fierce loyalty of Evey and Dill, I loved how I could smell the weather on every page.’
Emma Kennedy, author of the Wilma Tenderfoot series
‘Raw, mystical and beautifully told, Witch is the story of a young woman’s self-discovery in a hostile world. A striking debut.’
Kirsty Applebaum, author of The Middler
‘An assured debut of sisterhood and fury.’
Fiona Noble, The Bookseller
‘From the first page, my heart was hooked by this dark and twisty tale of old magic, love and revenge. The story thunders like a force of nature.’
Julie Pike, author of The Last Spell Breather
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2020 by Zephyr, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Text copyright © Finbar Hawkins, 2020
Interior artwork copyright © Finbar Hawkins, 2020
Jacket artwork copyright © Edward Bettison, 2020
The moral right of Finbar Hawkins to be identified as the author and artist of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781838935634
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
To Sally, for lighting the fire.
‘…Oh witchinge eies, and wit, where wit and eies maie Reade,
A witche, and not a witche, and yet a witche indeede.’
Nicholas Breton, My Witche (1617)
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
Exodus 22:18
King James Bible (1611)
Contents
Reviews
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
About Zephyr
Where my Dilly Dee, my Dilly Dear,
will you go, my Dilly Doe?
Tell Mother where you are,
my sweet dancer of the day.
Why, I chase the rabbits, Mother,
the day that will be,
the wind that blows,
the sun that smiles like me.
Then go, Dilly Dee, Dilly Doe,
chase them as you may,
my Dilly dear,
my dancer of the day.
I never did no magick.
Not at the time they said, anyways.
It was Mother who heard them. Mother could hear a frog hiccup from a mile yonder. She could whisper out a blackcap nesting in the trees. Mother had old ways, from far across the sea. And that’s what she looked to teach us. Perhaps that’s what led to it all. All the blood. And the death.
When Mother hollered us, I didn’t see them. Dill pointed down.
‘There, Eveline, there low!’
I saw them. The skulkers. Men. Horses. They were coming. They knew us.
No matter that Mother healed them. Cured their stock. Smacked their children into the world. Here they came, like whelps. Boys to fetch us in. Scared. Angry. Men.
‘Dill, get!’
We ran fleet foot, wind after catching us, and we found Mother, leaning on her staff. She pressed a bag to me. She was pale as birch bark. She could not run. Her leg was twisted and scarred like a root grown wrong.
‘They’re coming!’ Dill pulled at Mother, who only bent to stroke dirt from her cheek.
‘Here, my Dilly Dee…’
She opened Dill’s hand to place something. It sat round and black and heavy on Dill’s thin fingers. The Wolf Tree Stone. Mother’s scrying stone. Then she looked me sharp.
‘Get to the coven. Find my sister. Look to Dill. Go now!’
I remember that. Her face like wax settled on wood. Her lips split. Her eyes all fire.
‘Evey, swear you will ever look to Dill.’
Her face so fierce with love. I heard shouts. They were close.
‘For my blood, your blood, your sister’s blood…’ She pushed against me. ‘Swear it and go, Evey!’
And this I have of her always. Her mouth, shouting, furious at me.
‘I do swear it, Mother…’ Then I took Dill’s hand and we ran.
We ran to the near wood. Like rabbits before the dogs. That’s what they were, see. Not men, but dogs that stank and slavered. We made the trees when I heard a shriek that shanked deep as a knife.
Dill wanted back, but that wouldn’t be. She pulled at me, kicked and scratched. Mother let shriek again. I remember her cry, like a fox snared.
‘Evey, they’re hurting her… EVEY!’
But I held Dill fast. She gripped Mother’s stone, her fingers tight white.
‘Hush it, Dill – we’ll be caught.’
There were four of them. They had broken her staff. They had ripped her dress. Mother brought her arm to her breasts, as she swayed upon her good leg, her dark hair flying, her eyes coals in the fire.
I knew then. She saw her end.
And in that moment, she saw theirs.
‘Touch not my children!’ Her voice echoed to the watching sky. ‘Or I swear it, you all…’ She pointed at the four who watched her. ‘You all will die!’
She was so strong, so beautiful, so alone.
Then one came close and struck her face.
I felt it like he struck my own. I stopped my mouth from crying out.
Mother fell.
How I wanted to run to her. Swing high to skewer those dogs. But I had no blade. They were too many. And I would break Mother’s bond.
Go, Evey. For me. For Dill.
My sister twisted like a wild cat. But I held her good, as a tall one turned about, as if he caught our scent. Quick I pulled Dill lower as she moaned over.
‘Mother, Mother, Mother…’ Her fingers pulling at mine.
And my guts churned with shame for our hiding, as I marked him, this Tall One with his long black hat. He raised his arm high, like as to hail me. Then let it fall, and his men sprang to. Laughing, shouting, they lifted Mother, as she struggled in their grip.
I couldn’t go. They were too many.
Evey.
They brought Mother to the ground and laid her arm. And the largest, he ran and he jumped, like a boy at play. He jumped and snapped her arm. That sound, breaking like an old branch in the wood where we hid. He snapped her arm
They closed around her. I could not see.
Please.
Four men.
For me.
They beat her.
For Dill.
Over and again.
Go. Now.
Then I felt it.
I could not run to her, but I could curse them.
So I did. I cursed them with all my fury.
‘Know this, I will not rest till balance got.
Till time turned back. Till light be sought.
Till dogs be dirt and death be done.
Till then. Only then, know this.’
I held Dill’s face to my chest, away from their blows.
They shouted with glee. They pushed her down. Still she raised to her knees, her arm hanging as a spider’s thread broken in the breeze.
‘My children!’
Her voice echoed, so that I will ever hear it. There was stillness and there was Mother and the men and us watching and our hearts beating.
Then another stepped forward. He was young, not yet a man. He raised his musket high.
Mother looked up to this brave boy. She spat.
He swore and swung that musket so swift and smote her skull. She rolled, then did not move, in the mud.
And we knew Mother was dead.
‘No. NO!’
Dill pushed at me, crying, but I grabbed her mouth. She was little then. She wasn’t strong much. Fast like a cat, but light as a bird was Dill.
‘Shush, or we’ll be got!’ Pain tore my voice. ‘Shush, now, Dill, you… you hear!’
Dill’s tears ran over my hand, her eyes screaming. Yet she nodded, as she shook.
They were standing about Mother. Voices low, butchers weighing a pig. Some pissed. Like dogs. Like dogs. Then Tall One pushed and shouted at that brave boy who killed our mother.
‘The witch was for trial, boy! We still have not the children!’
I felt cold creep across my body, my hairs standing. They knew us, sought us. The brave lad shouted back, for he was not afeared.
‘You saw – she cursed me! You have to kill ’em quick so it will not take!’
He spat upon Mother and kicked her withered leg. I fought to snatch Mother’s stone from Dill and run to him and smash his face. But I could not, I could not.
‘Find them!’ Tall One turned to that thin man, that heavy brute, that brave lad, all those dogs who I marked true. ‘Find them now!’
We had to fly, Mother.
I cursed them and cursed them good. Everything you gave me, I gave to them.
Tall One roused his pack towards the woods.
We flew for our hearts.
We flew for you.
We were running in the dark wood, Dill close to.
Little she was, but she could fly all the same. Time past I chased her tawny legs through summer’s dusk. When we ran as sisters not as rabbits, feared for our skins.
We fell to a stream, cupped our faces, drinking deep. Then we stood in the running water. Far-off shouts now, not near. Those dogs were slow.
A sparrow flitted to a branch above, and cried, This way, this way, this way. Dill breathed hard as she listened. The stream pressed cold about our feet. We saw ourselves in the water. Dill, skin and bone, pale as morning milk, her hair black and thick as a rook’s nest. And me taller, my cheeks, my arms all mottled over, like drops of brown rain, my hair long and red. The colour of anger, Mother used to say. And the song she sang for me, came babbling through that green water.
‘Evey Red Braid,
watch thy mist.
Evey Red Locks,
drop thy fist.’
Dill smiled to the girls in the water. The younger waved to see her. But her sister frowned and said, ‘Silly mite. This is not the time for playing. Come now.’
We brooked the stream, smooth stones under foot and held at roots to make the bank. I listened true. No dog came barking. Dill’s hand was soft and small as a mouse in mine. We passed through the wood, and after a time, we saw it, sitting far away, smoke lifting, like hair in the wind.
‘Why there, Evey?’ She pointed to town with her fist curled about the black stone.
‘Because that’s where dogs will home to sleep.’
And I swear, Mother. I never will let them lie. Only in death.
Only then.
Rain was after soaking us. The sky was lead. We had to shelter.
‘I’s wet to bone, Evey.’
‘So’s I, Dill. Won’t kill you none.’
She coughed. Little toad. Ever I must look to her, ever she must play. When we made the coven, then she would know better.
Croake Farm crouched on the hill. We watched it, as the rain combed our tired heads.
‘Evey…’
‘Shush it, Dill. Wait and listen, will you?’ I pulled her hand for quiet.
She did then, with a sniff. And there, the farm windows gleamed like the yellow eyes of a cat in the night.
I listened. The rain fell. Dill’s hand moved in mine. I must nest this mouse else the rain would take her. And that wouldn’t be. I swore to Mother I would look to her. She was just a child. Where I was a child no more.
A shadow moved cross a window. Chance we had then, to find warm. I pulled Dill on, and she followed, humming spite the cold.
We ran through the mud and the dark. Light from a window fell to the cobbles, slimy under our toes. A tree creaked like it moaned to be let in. I hammered the door, its sound echoing about that muddy yard. The wood was wet on my palm.
No sound, only the rain, hissing.
I knew this farm. Had cured stock here with Mother last summer. There was no danger. Still I steeled and tighter drew Dill’s hand. I went to knock again.
A bolt shot and the door cracked. A man’s face, I knowed him and he knowed me. His eyes moved to the dark, then to me.
‘What… What do you want?’ He was after being fierce, but I smelled fear upon him.
‘Shelter,’ I said over the rain. ‘We need shelter… James Croake.’
I had found his name, and the old face looked up, eyes blinking.
‘I am Eveline. This is Dill.’ Water clogged my tongue.
‘Hello, James Croake,’ Dill coughed.
‘I know who you are.’ His eyes darted from us to the pressing dark. ‘I cannot…’
He made to close his door. My hand went to hold it.
‘Please…’ I trembled, but I had to be strong. Had to find a way.
Dill coughed again. Croake looked down at her.
‘Where is… your mother?’ He knew it as quick as he said it.
I stepped closer, felt the light and warmth upon my face.
‘They came. They…’ My throat jabbed, like I had swallowed a needle. ‘She is gone…’
Dill’s thumb stroked over my shaking fist.
The old man stared at me with eyes rheumy and blue. His tongue turned with his thoughts. If he let us in, I knew that we would talk on it.
Then silent, he stepped back to open the door wide. Dill darted through, quick as you like, a little mouse happy to be home, stretching her arms through the warmth.
‘I thank you kindly, old man Jim.’ Even a smile rising upon her tired face.
‘Come, then, if you’re coming.’
He waved a hand, gnarled as the tree creaking in his yard. I nodded for his relenting, and I stepped into Croake Farm.
Shadows leaped about the walls, as Croake closed the door behind us. We breathed the heat from the hearth in the corner, the smell of sheep, smoke and broth. I moved my palm to the hearth, feeling the ash hot between my fingers.
Dill jumped up and the stone in her hand tapped against the slate. Ever she was holding it, whispering to it.
Croake limped to the fire. His breath rattled as he filled a bowl from the pot. I watched his mouth twitch.
‘Here…’ His hand shook slight as he offered the food.
‘Thank you, James Croake.’
Dill bent to her bowl, the steam rising through her wet hair.
Croake passed same to me. I tasted parsley, carrot and turnip as I drank, feeling the broth fill and flow about me. A chair creaked. I lowered that bowl, and the old man sat by the fire, watching the window, then watching us. At last he spoke, at last he came to it, as I knew he would.
‘I’m… sorry for… Your mother helped us. Helped our families hereabouts…’
Anger rose in me, like the steam from Croake’s pot.
