Witch, page 18
‘What are they, Evey? You know the birds…’
They called and swooped through the setting sun.
‘Swifts. See their curved wing, the tail.’
‘They’re so fast!’
I pinched her nose. ‘Even faster than you, little mite.’
She squealed and rolled to stand. ‘Oh, Evey… look, those poor trees…’
I stood slow, my head pounding, and I saw the smoke that drifted from the wood so bent and broken.
‘Come on…’
I took her hand, and the swifts followed as we moved through those still bodies full of heat, feeling buried fire beneath our feet.
And we found him at last, lying where I left him.
‘From ash we rise, Dill…’
Tall One. The hunter hunted.
‘To ash we go, Evey.’ She swung my hand.
‘Evey!’
We both heard it with a start.
A voice I knew so well.
‘Evey!’
And we were running back, coughing smoke, kicking ash to get to her.
As through the smoke, my friend came.
‘I found you!’
And Anne was dropping her reins and hugging me. Her cold hands feeling my face. Feeling I was alive.
‘Are you hurt?’ She looked to us.
‘Only that you left me, Anne Greeneye,’ I laughed, as Peter watched with the horses.
‘Peter Merchantman!’ Dill jumped to him. ‘I have your spyglass safe!’
‘A miracle, Dill.’ He looked about to that ravaged place. ‘Keep it.’
She grinned so wide, and tears of joy choked me.
‘Is that…?’
I blinked where Anne pointed on the hill. The wind lifted the smoke, like a drape to hide dark things.
‘Another dead witch. Yes.’ I drew my friend away.
‘Those riders chased you…’ Dill peered through her glass to Peter.
‘Aye, Cap’n!’ Peter squinted. ‘And were sunk easy in that savage storm, so they were!’ He doffed his sailor’s cap and Dill giggled for more.
‘Evey…’ Anne pointed. ‘Your stone.’
It lay on the grass. I remembered how it spun swift and sure from my fingers.
‘I thought it was black…?’
It had been, but now it was white as lightning from a dark storm. As the smile of my sister, whose hand found mine, a mouse back to its burrow.
‘It’s whole again… That’s good, ain’t it, Evey?’
‘Yes, that’s good.’ I stroked the hair from her mouth. ‘Shall we find it together, Dill?’
Her eyes shone, and she nodded.
So we reached down, and our fingers found it, and lifted the stone.
‘Ooh, it’s hot, Evey!’
I laughed to watch her, swinging our hands that held all we had of Mother, her warm heart. Mother who was not there. Mother who could not—
And I was on my knees, crying so hard.
‘Evey…’
‘Balance is got, Dill. But she will not see us now… Mother will never see us…’
‘Oh, Evey Bird…’
‘Not never again.’
I grabbed to Dill and to Anne, and their arms circled me tight, and I felt Peter’s hand upon my hair, as I sobbed, as those swifts cried over me, with me, through me.
‘Evey.’ Anne’s smile trembled. ‘My sister is here…’ Her hand upon her chest.
‘Just as your mother is…’ And she pressed my aching heart.
I shivered and looked beyond the trees, back to a land that held no home for us.
‘Evey, come.’ Dill urged me to rise. ‘Come with me.’
Then pulling me on, ever pulling me on, she made around the smouldering woods, to where the wind blew softer, and the sun was falling into the land that ran away to a glittering sea.
‘Shh… there in their beating hearts…’ Dill pointed down the hill.
A rabbit and her kits, their white tails leaping away.
She pointed to the grass, bending in the breeze.
‘See there, how it moves…’
She cupped her hand to the orange light.
‘And here, in the sun that warms you…’
Then Dill squinted to me through that black nest of hair.
‘She is everywhere.’
And pressed the stone in our hands, so warm and safe between us.
‘Wherever we go, she is with us, and she sees us,’ she said, then frowned. ‘So I do not want you a sad sister, Evey. And Mother would not want that neither.’
She waggled her finger, a little Mother in her way. Little mite always right. I smiled to see her serious, as she lifted her spyglass.
‘Across the water, there is a place full of magick, Evey. Mother’s old land…’
I looked out to the sea. Looked back, a long time.
‘Can we go there, Evey?’ Dill leaned her head to my wounded side, and it ached, but I cared not, because she was with me now and forever more. ‘Can we go to the island of Air?’
‘Eire!’ I laughed.
‘Eeirre!’ she shrieked with glee.
Then I kneeled and drew her in. ‘Dill, will you teach me? About the stone? About magick? Everything that Mother taught you?’
Those black eyes shone and she slipped her arm through mine.
‘I will. If you will teach me how to hunt and fight. Everything that Mother taught you.’
Anne whistled for Coal, who snorted, ready to run. And a hand all inky, pressed Shadow’s reins to mine. Peter Merchantman smiled, then bowed to Dill.
‘Take care of your sister.’ He shook her hand.
‘Aye, Cap’n!’ She winked his sailor’s wink.
‘Well, Eveline of the Birds,’ smiled my green-eyed friend. ‘Shall we go?’
I breathed the smell of the sodden earth, the salt from the sea.
Mother’s land. Full of magick.
‘Yes.’ And I pointed to the beckoning blue. ‘Let us go.’
‘Ah, Evey! You are the best sister!’ laughed my Dill. ‘The very best I know!’
Then we followed her into the sun, dancers all of the day.
From his first ‘investigation’ into the accused, tried and executed Elizabeth Clarke - a scared old woman (who had only one leg, which meant she had to be helped up the gallows’ steps) – the self-titled Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins, blazed a bloody trail across the East of England blighted by the first English Civil War.
Between 1645 to 1647, Hopkins and his keen collaborator, John Stearne, were particularly adept in their drive to root out witches, travelling the length of the county to extract testimony from eager witnesses.
For while the Witchfinders were powered by puritanical zeal, they did not act alone – a witch hunt needs its accusers, its storytellers, its crowd. With the country divided and terrified, the war was the perfect breeding ground for suspicion and blame.
Witch hunts still happen. Wars have not stopped. Abuse is alive and well. Racism refuses to quit. History should be about learning from our mistakes, building towards a better future, although it seems power remains a sweet craving for the human race. But we must believe in the next generation, and the one after that, and the next, that they will simply lose the taste for such things, and pass on the truth of what happened, what must not happen again.
Evey and Dill are from the seventeenth century, but their sibling nature is for any time. Even in the darkest moments, like them we can still delight in a new day, dance and name the birds. Even if our brother or sister has driven us into a rage, under it all, they are our kin. There is no one who knows our hearts and dreams better, and their fierce love is what makes life worth fighting for.
Over the course of researching this book, I have been indebted to several excellent historical studies: Diane Purkiss’ invaluable The English Civil War: A people’s history; Malcolm Gaskill’s enlightening and gruesome Witchfinders: A seventeen century English tragedy; David and Andrew Pickering’s comprehensive catalogue of the trials, Witch Hunt: The persecution of Witches in England; John Wroughton’s absorbing in-depth social studies, An Unhappy Civil War: The experiences of ordinary people in Gloucestershire, Somerset and Wiltshire 1642-1646, and A community at war: The Civil War in Bath and North Somerset; Blare Worden’s ever handy and concise, The English Civil Wars 1640-1660; and Christopher Hill’s epic of political, religious and philosophical fervour, A World Turned Upside Down: Radical ideas during the English Revolution.
I am also thankful, to the utmost, to all those people who have helped bring this book into being. My parents, Jacqui and Colin. My sister, Sally. My wife, Abby, my children, Molly and Sam, and her furriness, Coco. The writing fraternity at Bath Spa, in particular my workshop gang: Anna Morgan, Maddy Woosnam, Kirsty Applebaum, Christina Wheeler, Julie Pike, Imogen Dyckhoff, Anna Hoghton, Helen Lipscombe, Zoe Cookson, Beatrice Wallbank, Mark Rutherford, Laura Kadner, Paul Veart, Dandy Smith, Sue Birrer, Sarah House, Kathryn Clark, and to the memory of Jacqui Catcheside and her huge smile. My tutors, Steve Voake for his encouragement and warmth for the first spark of this story; Lucy Christopher for a life-changing Arvon, her beady eye and boundless energy; Julia Green for being the heart and soul of writing for children. Janine Amos for her wisdom and enthusiasm. David Almond for pure inspiration. My sparring partner, Chris Vick, for absolutely everything and more, thank you, sir. All my colleagues at Aardman who have cheered me on over the years, in particular Dan Efergan and Lorna Probert for their unstinting support and help. My agent, Catherine Pellegrino, for her intelligence, patience and having the best name and laugh in the known universe. My publisher and editor, Fiona Kennedy, for her unbridled passion for Evey and Dill, thank you so much. The collective might at Zephyr: Lauren Atherton, Clémence Jacquinet, Jessie Price, Ben Prior, Jade Gwilliam, Jessie Sullivan. Anthony Cheetham for founding such an awesome publishing house in Head of Zeus. Laura Smythe for her publicity nous. And the god of book covers that is Edward Bettison.
By the time they were done, the witchfinders of the 1640s had brought some three hundred men and women to trial, and more than a hundred of these had lost their lives. No one knows the precise number.
So, in closing, this book is finally in memory of all those people, the lost, the ones we should never forget.
Finbar Hawkins
Wiltshire
July 2020
About Zephyr
Zephyr is an imprint of Head of Zeus.
At Zephyr we are proud to publish books you can read and re-read time and again because they tell a brilliant story and because they entertain you.
Subscribe to our newsletter to hear all the latest news about upcoming releases, competitions and to have the chance to win signed books.
Just drop us a line at hello@headofzeus.com
www.readzephyr.com
@_ZephyrBooks
Head of Zeus Books
Finbar Hawkins, Witch
