Pyre - A Novelette Featuring the Avebury Witches

Chapter 9

Sweat trickled down Rosy's temples, tickled her neck with spider's feet, until it soaked an already sodden kerchief. Her jacket was clammy, the linen vest underneath stuck to her skin, allowing the coarse fibres of the fabric to prick at her body, as if an army of millipedes were wriggling under her clothes. Above, as the sun soared into the heavens, it scorched the lands left behind in a dusty, sweaty haze, frying animals and people alike, crammed as they were into the circle of standing stones.

The livestock was voicing their protest, lowing, whinnying, crowing and clucking their disgust at the stifling heat, the lack of water and the pressing closeness of far too many bodies. The humans never spoke a word, not even when the airborne predators joined the fray with their whining and buzzing. And their stinging. The swarm of midges and mosquitoes darted with relish from the furry rumps to the soft skin of the limp throng waiting for a deliverance that was taking its own sweet time to arrive.

Rosy's neck itched abominably where one of the invisible fiends had found the exposed part of her neck just above the kerchief. She did not dare to scratch it. Her mission was to call on her skylles but how was she supposed to do that when she felt horrid all over, itching and nauseous with the stink? Next to her, a woman swatted her upper arms and muttered swearwords under her breath. A giggle rose and died in Rosy's throat, granting her only short respite from the torture.

A sudden crackle and pop jolted her upright: the redheads had voided their magic and left it buzzing in the oily airspace between the huge chunks of rocks. A precious gift, a true sacrifice that signalled the beginning of their exodus.

The powers lit up the sacred clay tablets lying in the grass at the feet of each Warden. The opening spell had been triggered. 

Would the midgets pursue them, buzzing along to wherever it was they were heading for, Rosy wondered. She risked a furtive glance at the keepers, gathered in their private huddle a few steps away from the loose circle formed by the White Wardens. While they kept a rigid stance, the Keepers were swaying, their green-clad arms moving, weaving invisible spells into the shimmering air. Their wands danced in perfect synchronicity and drew tiny sparks that blinked in mid air, dropped towards the ground where they winked out into oblivion.

Behind the people and the animals the circle of stones loomed unconcerned. Flooded with the fierce light of mid day, the rugged chunks of rock remained grounded in the place they had occupied for millennia. But they were broken, cracked. Others had disappeared completely, torn from the circle like missing teeth marring a perfect smile. The Druids were long gone, the monument they bequested to their children was but a shadow of its former glory.

How could a damaged temple send a people to safety, Rosy wondered and corrected herself a second later. Half a people.

Just when she thought she couldn't stand it any longer, had to break from this hell, the sound of trumpets, of neighing horses and braying hounds reached her ear, distorted and distant as if coming from the bottom of a lake. Next, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eyes. The redheads were on the run. Skirts were being gathered, men supported their womanfolk as the Red Wardens fled towards the Northern woods without once looking back. From somewhere not far behind them, came the eerie clanking of metal, the thundering of hooves.

The witch hunters had arrived.

But, ever so slowly, the noise of their progress got warped into a deep and booming rumble.

The redheads had no breath to spare for screams, they were running. But amid the sweltering heat of the packed circle icy fingers of fear trailed down Rosy's spine when she realised those fleeing figures were slowing down, their legs labouring as if caught in treacle. Somewhere, at the edge of a vision, she saw a horse galloping into view, a black-clad rider on its back. The hunters were catching up—no they were not, the rider's arms got caught in the same treacle and each move of the animal's legs turned into a monumental struggle.