Flying with Witches (standard:horror, 30272 words)
Author: Michael Gouda	Added: May 28 2001	Views/Reads: 3945/4324	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Doris never realised that her peaceful little village could become a hotbed of witchcraft and eventually result in a fight between Good and Evil.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

a world that didn't contain the petty restrictions of the real one. In 
some ways it was almost a magic world for she was able to make most 
unpleasant things disappear and - in her mind at least - pleasant 
things appear. The trouble was, of course, that these things which she 
imagined were somewhat insubstantial. Still, Doris often thought, 
perhaps it was better that way. At least her mentally conjured up 
picture of Rory Callahan smiled and was attentive to her - in real life 
he always seemed to be concerned with other things, like playing 
football in the school playground, or tapping away at a computer, or 
even talking to his close friends, Peter Johnson or Tommy Gould. 
Sometimes she felt that she assumed as little importance in his life as 
his Geography homework - and that she knew was almost negligible. 

Doris sighed but it was a quiet, almost internal, sigh, little more than
a deep breath and it did not disturb either of her parents. She tucked 
her feet under her on the easy chair and concentrated on the shadow 
above the TV set. In a subtle way the face appeared to have changed a 
little. He was looking at her. He was actually about to speak to her. 
She could hear the words. 

"Would you like to go to the cinema on Saturday?" 

"Ooh, yes please," said Doris out loud. 

"Good," said Frank. "You so very rarely want to go out with us. It'll be
nice going out as a family again." 

"Quiet, dear," said Alice. "It's the news." 

After the news they had supper and Doris was thankful that, whatever her
infatuation had done to her, though it might have spoiled her enjoyment 
for food, it hadn't actually taken away her appetite as that would have 
laid her open to a positive barrage of solicitous enquiry from her 
parents. While she dutifully consumed a plate of cold chicken and 
salad, she was aware that her mother was speaking enthusiastically, 
something she did not often do. 

" . . . say what you like, she really is a most influential woman, and I
think we should make a point of getting on good terms with her." 

"And why do you think we should do that?" asked Frank. He didn't sound
too interested. 

"Her husband's the new Bank manager," she said. "Surely he's worth
cultivating." 

That obviously did strike a chord with Frank. "Oh is he?" he said with
rather more warmth. "I wonder if he'd like to be proposed for the Golf 
Club." 

Doris realised that they were talking about the Chanters, a new couple
who had moved into the neighbourhood a few weeks earlier, buying and 
doing up the old Manor House which for decades had been falling into 
neglect and dereliction through indifference and lack of money. It 
wasn't as if it was of any great architectural significance - just old 
and large. 

The native population of Elmcombe were somewhat in two minds about all
newcomers to the village. On the one hand most of them brought with 
them money and perhaps an amount of enthusiasm - but it was an 
enthusiasm for change. They didn't respect the old customs, or if they 
did, they wanted to tart them up, make them 'Olde Worlde' and at the 
same time sanitized. 

For example there had been a traditional game of football between the
villagers of Elmcombe and their neighbours, Kinghampton, every Easter 
Monday since anyone could remember on the strip of land that marked 
part of the parish boundary between the two villages. It was much too 
small for a real football pitch and added to that a stream, the Beeside 
Brook, wandered through one part of it. One historical researcher down 
from Birmingham said that the match represented an age-old rivalry 
between the inhabitants of the two villages who battled to mark their 
territorial boundary. The newcomer who bought the land, the strip of 
which was but a minuscule part, deciding that the traditional match 
should be formalised, turned another, flatter piece of land into a 
full-sized football pitch, put up goal posts - where there had been 
none before - and gave it jointly to the two parishes. The annual match 
continued but without some of the old zest and indeed excitement. After 
all there was now no stream to force your opponent's head into. 

"Couldn't you get to know their daughter?" asked Alice and Doris
realised she was talking to her. Doris had in fact met Pauline Chanter, 
or at least seen her several times. She was in the same year at school 
though not in the same form. She had started late in the term, a result 
of their move, and had quickly made herself popular, mostly, Doris 
thought, through the distribution of small gifts of which, it seemed,  
she had an almost limitless supply. To give her her due, though, she 
was almost startlingly beautiful with film star features and masses of 
blonde curly hair, unlike Doris's own dark depressing straightness, and 
had a vivacious, though Doris suspected, fairly empty personality. 

On all occasions she had ignored Doris completely, obviously considering
her unworthy of attention. Added to that Doris had also once seen her 
talking to Rory Callahan. 

"Mm," said Doris unenthusiastically. 

Alice sighed. 

CHAPTER 2 

Bessie Simkins was a witch. Well so everyone said at any rate. She lived
in a small house by the river on the outskirts of town and she had a 
tame crow that most of the time when she was at home sat on the 
upturned bucket-shaped hat she always wore indoors and squawked secrets 
into her ear. Young lads round the village laughed at her but only 
behind her back for it had been instilled into their heads by constant 
repetition when they were small kids that if you upset Bessie, 
something nasty happened to you and although they swore they never 
believed it, they still treated her with considerable respect and most 
times kept out of her way. 

The older women of the village visited her with gifts of homemade
produce from time to time and asked her advice about any of their aches 
and pains which the local GP could not cure. She had marvellous 
ointments for rheumatism and a very effective mixture for the cough - 
though not if was caused by smoking, a habit which she strongly 
disapproved of. 

And it was rumoured that teenage girls who needed help would also make
their way to the little house by the river. Not that nowadays Bessie 
carried out abortions, which in any case could be achieved much more 
hygienically through the National Health Service, but if they had 
problems about getting their hearts' desires, or needed help in 
choosing between two boyfriends, she had a potion or a spell or 
something to carry next to their heart, which could help. 

Of course no one really believed that old Bessie had supernatural
powers. Who did these days? But some of the old beliefs and 
superstitions remained and certainly Bessie had faith in her own 
abilities. 

"You believe in things, my dear," she used to say in that soft,
countryfied tone that she used when making her prognostications, "and 
they'll be certain to happen." 

There was a story that once a farmer, young and straight from a business
management degree course at a University had scoffed at her, publicly 
in the market place. Admittedly he had just come out of the Crown and 
Hedgehog after perhaps a few too many pints of Old Bletchley bitter, 
but that was really no excuse for saying - in old Bessie's hearing, no 
less - that she was a 'daft old bat'. Certainly she did walk down the 
High Street most often in the middle of the road talking to herself but 
one had to make allowances. Anyway he ought to have known better, 
especially as he was local born and bred. 

Bessie's face had gone sharp and she had fixed him a look which, had he
been sober, would have stopped him in his tracks. As it was he gave her 
an un-focused stare, went round the corner and threw up. Nor was that 
the last of the matter. He had recently expanded his business and to do 
that had borrowed too much from the bank. When he found it impossible 
to pay the interest, the bank foreclosed and he had had to sell the 
farm. Now that story is not an uncommon one. Many people during a 
recession had exactly the same experiences with similar results - even 
without insulting Bessie Simkins - but that did not stop people in the 
village nodding wisely and saying, 'He shouldn't of done it.' 

And that, of course, reminded others of incidents where slights, real or
imaginary, had resulted in disastrous consequences. 

And so Bessie Simkins' reputation grew. 

>From time to time she was discussed in the local school, Elmcombe High.
Groups of girls especially gathered in giggling groups to wonder 
whether a visit to 'Old Bessie' might sort out their boyfriend 
problems. It was mostly all talk but just occasionally one girl might 
make a diffident walk down the narrow muddy lane to the cottage by the 
river and knock timidly on her door. Few who did ever told their 
friends about it afterwards but some came out  again relieved and 
smiling though whether their trouble had actually been resolved or not 
was a debatable point. Perhaps it was the talking about it to a 
sympathetic adult that had relieved the distress. 

In her turn Pauline Chanter was told about the witch who lived by the
river but she was very dismissive about her. 

"I've seen her," she scoffed. "Tall old biddy with white hair. She's
mental, isn't she? Goes round town talking to herself. People like that 
ought to be put in a home, don't you think?" 

The other girls had giggled nervously but had not answered. It didn't do
to make fun of 'Old Bessie' even when she herself was nowhere near in 
range of hearing. And so the subject was dropped. After all there was 
no point in discussing what secrets you would divulge if someone with 
as much dominance as Pauline had was so scornful. 

Which made Doris who happened to be on the outskirts of the group on
that particular occasion and had overheard the conversation, rather 
more determined to take the problem of Rory Callahan to Bessie. 

She was feeling particularly spurned at that moment for Rory had just
been talking to her and though her insides had felt a little as if they 
had melted, she thought she had answered him in a lively enough way. 

"Oh Doris," he had called casually as he had passed, turning those
astonishing hazel eyes of his towards her, and she had looked across 
pretending to be surprised at his presence, though she had, of course 
known he was there ever since he had appeared at the far end of the 
corridor. 

"You know the History homework for old Millie?" 'Old Millie' was Mr
Miller and was a bit of a fussy old woman, noted for unreasonably 
expecting his homework to be given in on time. 

She did, of course. It had taken her some hours of research in the
Library to find out the answers to the set of questions Mr Miller had 
set a week ago and which were due to be handed in that morning. 

"Yes, Rory," she said experimentally. It was the first time she had
actually said his name out loud - to him. 

"Well," he said. "I wondered if I could have a look at your answers. I
know it's a bit of a cheek but I haven't quite finished all the 
questions and you know how Millie gets mad if you haven't done 
absolutely everything perfectly." 

She knew that, which was why she had taken so much trouble with it
herself but Rory looked at her in that way of his and she would have 
given him anything - well almost anything. "I'll give it back at 
morning break," he promised. 

And so he did, casually pushing it at her with only the briefest of
thanks and then dashing off with his friend, Peter Johnson. 

And annoyingly - for Doris liked her work to be well-presented - there
was a nasty circular brown stain from a coffee cup which had been 
carelessly stood on the top sheet. 

"Thanks very much, Rory," she said sarcastically to his departing back. 

But she forgave him. 

CHAPTER 3 

On the next Saturday morning Doris walked down the road which led to
Bessie's cottage. Actually it was more of a rough cart-track than a 
road, with deep wheel ruts which by rights should have been full of 
water at this time of the year. However the ruts had dried out in the 
recent spell of unseasonably dry and, for late October, warm weather 
and it was fairly easy walking. Not that Doris felt at all easy in her 
mind about the call she was about to make. How Pauline would jeer if 
she ever found out. In fact once or twice Doris very nearly turned back 
but she was a girl with a stubborn streak in her underneath the mild 
exterior and once having made up her mind, she very rarely changed it. 

It was heavily overcast and dark grey clouds pressed low in the sky. The
mildness and humidity made her hot and she feared slightly sweaty. The 
weather had been so warm that she was not altogether surprised to see 
some flowers out in the hedgerows. A bramble had put out some tentative 
white florets and there was a bunch of little yellow flowers on long 
stalks which she did not recognise. She knew that she was not supposed 
to pick wild flowers but they were so out of season and a frost any 
night now would put an end to them so she made a little bunch together 
with some white dead nettle, their strange white hooded flower heads 
hiding the pairs of fairy shoes, as her father had shown her when she 
was young, turning them over to expose the gold and black anthers. 

She reached Bessie's cottage unexpectedly, turning the corner and being
faced with a rather ugly looking red brick building with dark roof 
slates covered with mounds of moss. A climbing wisteria grew up the 
wall and then split to hang over the two upstairs windows. It still had 
some long straggling leaves hanging down so that they looked like two 
frowning eyebrows. The track wandered past and on but she knew this 
must be the place. There were green hellebore plants growing in 
profusion in the front garden, their lighter green flowers already in 
bud, and a complicated sign hung over the front door which certainly 
looked witch-like. A grove of tall trees stood guard, their leafless 
branches spreading motionless in the still air. 

Doris paused at the gate. 

There was a battered wooden board with some writing on it which read: 

'No Hawkers. No Circulars. No Canvassers.' 

Doris wasn't sure what any of these were exactly but she was pretty
certain that she wasn't one of them so she opened the gate and went up 
the path. 

Again she paused at the front door but this time to get clear in her
mind what she would say. She had rehearsed various opening remarks on 
the way which varied from the ultra polite 'I'm most dreadfully sorry 
but I wonder whether you could possibly help me' to the desperate 'I 
think I'm going mad'. But before she had decided which to attempt,  the 
green painted door suddenly opened before she had even knocked and 
Bessie Simkins stood there. 

Close up she wasn't quite as intimidating as Doris had feared nor did
she chatter madly away to herself as she always did when out in town. 
Doris wondered whether this was a habit she had cultivated on purpose 
to preserve her reputation as a witch. Bessie was a tall woman, dressed 
in a cream floral print frock which could have been cleaner. Her eyes 
under thick grey eyebrows were keen and intelligent. She was wearing 
long dangly green earrings and she had fluffy white hair, bunches of 
which stuck out beneath a curiously-shaped hat, like a green upturned 
flower pot. On top of this a huge black crow was perched, its yellow 
eyes giving Doris a distinctly hungry look as if she were a large fat 
worm - or whatever crows particularly like to eat. 

Bessie's grey eyes were also fixed on her and the combination of the two
pairs so unnerved her that all Doris's carefully prepared opening 
remarks fled from her. She could think of nothing to say and just stood 
there silent and feeling stupid. 

Eventually it was Bessie who broke the silence. 

"If you're not selling something," she said, "you'd better come in." She
held the door open and Doris pulled herself together. 

"I've brought you some flowers, Miss Simkins," she said unexpectedly and
held out the little yellow and white posy. 

"Oh," said Bessie. "Nipplewort and white archangel. And in October!
They'll be very useful. Thank you, my dear." 

Useful? thought Doris. It seemed an odd thing to say about a bunch of
flowers. Kind, or nice would have been more normal. Before she could 
ask, though, in what way they could be useful, Bessie was speaking 
again. 

"You'd better be saying hello to Kathun," she said, pointing to the bird
on her head. "He doesn't like to be ignored, does Kathun." 

"Hello, Kathun," said Doris obediently and was surprised and not a
little alarmed when the bird took off from his mistress's head and flew 
to her own shoulder. The bird's beak looked very large - and was now 
very close to her face! 

"Well!" exclaimed Bessie. "There's a thing. He doesn't usually take to
strangers. Try scratching him gently just behind his head." She fixed 
Doris with a strangely intense stare. 

Doris would have preferred not to but she thought it would be rude to
refuse. She rather timidly scratched at the bird's neck and it seemed 
to love it, cocking its head at an angle and closing its eyes. 

"Usually," said Bessie slyly, "anyone who did that would have lost part
of a finger." 

Doris removed her hand rather suddenly and the bird, looking almost
disappointed, flew back to its mistress's head. Bessie nodded and Doris 
realised she had passed some sort of a test but all the same felt 
slightly annoyed that she had been put at some risk. 

Bessie, though, seemed in a good mood. She beamed. "Well, my dear," she
said, "you'd better tell me your name." 

"Doris Simmonds," said Doris, "and I've come about - " 

"Later," interrupted Bessie. "Let's have some coffee. Find a place to
sit and get yourself comfortable." She disappeared through a door at 
the back into what was presumably the kitchen. 

Her instructions were not all that easy for Doris to obey. The room,
obviously some sort of living room, was entered straight from the front 
door. It seemed to be packed solid with furniture. There was a huge old 
Welsh dresser loaded with plates and crockery against one wall and a 
carved wooden chest, its lid forced slightly open by the fullness of 
its contents, against another. A tall long-case clock ticked away 
sonorously in the corner and a large table with thick circular legs 
occupied most of the centre of the room. This was covered with various 
heavy leather-bound books. Some of these were open and Doris could see 
that they were written in a crabbed old-fashioned print. She could just 
make out the title of one of them. 'Boke of Magicke' it read and she 
was tempted to look inside but feared the embarrassing repercussions 
should Bessie come back and catch her in the act. 

There were some individual upright wooden chairs scattered around the
room but their seats were all filled with books or bits of clothing. 
From the ceiling were suspended bunches of herbs in various stages of 
drying. A faded red velvet curtain hung at the window and there were 
dusty spiders' webs in the corners. Most flat surfaces were dotted with 
circular patches of white which Doris realised with a grimace of 
disgust, after prodding at them with her forefinger, were droppings 
from the crow. 

Under the window ledge there was also a large sofa covered with a once
brightly-coloured flowered cretonne material but it seemed to be a 
repository for the rejected items from some jumble sale. However she 
moved enough for her to sit down. 

She had only just settled herself and was again preparing her opening
remarks when Bessie came back with two steaming mugs. 

"Right, Doris Simmonds, why don't we both drink this and then you can
tell me what I can do for you?" 

CHAPTER 4 

The coffee tasted unlike any other that Doris had ever had before. She
doubted whether it had come from a jar bought at the local Supermarket. 
She sipped at it and gradually developed a liking. It was sweet with 
the sweetness of honey. 

Bessie perched herself on a tall stool in a corner which Doris hadn't
noticed before because it was covered with a piece of black cloth which 
could have been a coat - or a cloak. She didn't look all that 
comfortable, leaning forward, white hair protruding from the base of 
that extraordinary hat, grey eyes wide, and the coffee mug clutched 
between her two palms. Doris wondered whether she should make room for 
on the sofa beside her but didn't fancy getting too close to Kathun 
again. 

Now that the time had come, Doris still didn't know how to start. The
openings she had so carefully rehearsed before on the way sounded 
either lame or melodramatic. Bessie obviously sensed her difficulty for 
she said: 

"You've got a problem you want to discuss with old Bessie. Is it to do
with a boy?" 

"Well, yes," admitted Doris, "actually it is." 

"You're not in any trouble are you?" She looked carefully into Doris's
face. "No, I can see you're not - not of that sort at any rate." 

"It's a boy called Rory Callahan," said Doris, the words suddenly coming
now that Bessie had started her off. "I can't stop thinking about him. 
And he doesn't even notice I'm there - not unless he wants to copy some 
homework I've done and he hasn't," she added bitterly thinking of 
Rory's request of the week. 

"And you wonder whether I can do something to make him - er - notice you
a bit more," said Bessie and again she fixed Doris with that strange 
concentrated look that she had used before. 

Doris wondered whether this was another test. 

"Or something else," she suggested tentatively. 

"Like?" persisted Bessie. 

"Well I'm not sure whether it's altogether right to make someone do
something they don't actually want to do - not by magic at any rate." 

A beam spread across Bessie's face and, as if in agreement, the bird,
Kathun, hopped up and down on her hat knocking it slightly lopsided so 
that for a moment she looked almost drunk. With a quick movement she 
straightened her hat and the crow flew off to sit on the top shelf of 
the Welsh dresser, where he turned his back, almost as if he was 
sulking. 

"Well done, dear," said Bessie Simkins. "You're quite right. We white
witches are not keen on making people do things they don't actually 
want to. It's an infringement of their human rights and not exactly 
'politically correct'." She pronounced the last phrase as if it was 
something she had only recently learned. "Of course if they're bad 
people then that's another thing altogether." 

"So you can't do anything?" said Doris. 

"I didn't say that," said Bessie. "Perhaps I could make you forget him.
That is if you wanted me to do it." 

Doris thought for a moment. Life would be a lot easier if she wasn't
always thinking about Rory Callahan but would it be less interesting? 
There was always the possibility that - spontaneously - he might become 
attracted to her and if that happened and she no longer cared, then 
that would be a shame. 

"Perhaps I can cope with the situation on my own," said Doris. "Even
talking about it to you has made it a bit easier." 

The woman fixed her with a sharp, appraising look. "I might be able to
give you something to make him notice you a bit more," she said. "Just 
wake up his interest a little - if he's that way inclined." 

Doris wasn't quite sure what Bessie meant by that but she nodded anyway.


"If you could, Miss Simkins," she said. 

"Call me Bessie. Can't be doing with Miss Simkins. The only person who
calls me that is the Vicar's wife and I can't abide her." 

Something Bessie had said a little earlier prodded Doris into asking,
"What do you mean 'white' witches, Bessie? Are there other colour 
witches like belts in Judo." 

Bessie laughed. "No, my dear," she said. "White witches do good. The
other sort I'm afraid have been known to do the opposite." 

"So you can't harm other people?" 

"I didn't say that," said Bessie sharply. "I said we don't." She paused
and qualified her statement. "Not generally anyway." 

Doris thought she had better change the subject. "So what will you give
me?" She hoped it wouldn't be something like a spray deodorant. 

"Come along and see," said Bessie. She led the way into a back room
which was just as cluttered as the one they had left but at least had 
some space on the ordinary deal table which dominated most of the room. 
It wasn't exactly a kitchen but it did have a deep square sink with a 
single brass tap in one corner and a gas ring on which stood a large 
heavy-looking saucepan, at the moment empty. Around the room on all the 
walls except the one with the window were rows and rows of shelves on 
which stood all manner of glass bottles and cardboard boxes labelled 
with strange names written in old-fashioned writing like 'Woundwort' 
'Vervain' and 'Wolfsbane' . This last one had an extra red-printed 
label which read: - "'Danger POISON Handle with Extreme Care'. 

"Now this will only work on you and you alone," warned Bessie after
asking what Doris's birth date was. "I cannot guarantee what would 
happen if it is used by anyone else." She bustled around taking down 
box after box and removing a pinch from each which she put into a stone 
mortar. Then she ground everything into a fine powder with a pestle and 
finally added a strong-smelling liquid. She put the concoction into a 
clear glass bottle, corked it and then shook it furiously for a little 
while. When it settled down it was a brownish colour with a strange, 
almost phosphorescent gleam a bit like oil on the surface of a puddle. 

"You take a good long sniff o' this when you think you need to," she
said. "And keep it tightly corked. It'll evaporate else." 

Doris had a disturbing thought. 

"Will it cost much?" she asked anxiously. 

"How much would you give to have your life changed?" asked Bessie
handing her the bottle. 

It was an impossible question to answer so Doris thought she had better
try to excuse her apparent meanness. "Only I don't get much pocket 
money and I haven't got a part time job." 

Bessie suddenly looked at her shrewdly. "Haven't you now," she said.
"Would you like one?" 

Doris was surprised. She wasn't sure what her parents would say. Bessie
went on hurriedly. "Of course I can't pay you anything but I need 
someone to grind up my 'erbs, collect them from the woods around, 
things like that. You might learn something which could be useful to 
you in later life. You could come round on Saturday mornings for a 
couple of hours." 

"A sort of apprentice," said Doris. 

"Yes," said Bessie. "A witch's apprentice." 

It was a proposal that Doris found strangely intriguing. 

"Isn't that a piece of music?" asked Doris. "Or wasn't that a sorcerer?"


"Possibly," said Bessie vaguely. 

CHAPTER 5 

"I say we go to the Arcade," said Peter Johnson that Saturday afternoon.
He was famous for his skill on the 'Shoot-'em-up' Space Invaders video 
games. 

"Got no money," said Rory Callahan. Peter hadn't either but hoped that
Tommy Gould, who was usually flush and generous with it, had. 

"Gotta job to do first," said Tommy. "You can come too if you like." 

They were an oddly assorted trio. Tommy Gould, tall and dark,
well-built, fresh-faced with a smudge of embryonic moustache on his 
upper lip and his man-boy voice. Peter Johnson, still the little boy, 
fair haired and the scar on the right side of his face where he had 
been mauled by a Pit Bull when he was seven. And thin faced, Rory 
Callahan, with the shock of unruly black hair that insisted on falling 
over his forehead. 

"What is it?" asked Peter who was not overly enthusiastic at the
prospect of unspecified work on a weekend afternoon. After all he would 
be bludgeoned by his parents into a couple of hours homework on the 
following day himself. 

"Won't take long," said Tommy mysteriously. He led the way down the road
that led out of town and towards the woods. His two friends followed, 
pestering him to tell them what it was they were doing but all he would 
say was, "Tell you when we get there." 

Eventually they got tired of shouting at him and the conversation turned
to other matters. All the same Peter and Rory did notice though that 
Tommy was behaving very oddly in that, whenever anyone passed them, he 
made all three of them stand still and engaged them in earnest chat. 
His behaviour became even more peculiar after they left town and 
proceeded along the woodland track as he insisted that, if anyone 
should come alone, they were to disappear amongst the trees and hide. 

"Has our friend finally flipped his lid?" asked Peter to nobody in
particular. 

"Just do it," said Tommy. 

These odd actions did serve to fill in the time but as there appeared to
be no people using the path, it palled after a while and Rory took up 
the conversation where it had left off. 

"How do you rate that new girl, Pauline Chanter?" he asked. 

Peter, who hadn't yet really got into girls yet but liked to pretend
that he had, said, "She's got good legs," which made them laugh. 

Tommy, as always the boaster, started to brag and claimed that he had
been out with her but that, of course, was just Tommy's way. 

"You and whose army?" said Rory. 

"No, really," said Tommy earnestly, "and she asked . . . Shit!" He broke
off suddenly and stared along the path where a figure had suddenly 
appeared. It was too late to hide; they had obviously been seen. 

"It's alright," said Peter. "It's only Doris Simmonds," but Tommy still
looked furious. 

Strangely enough Doris also seemed a little put out at the sight of
them. Even though she was still some way away from them, they could see 
her rummaging in the bag she had slung over her shoulder, take 
something out, turn her body away from them and then lower her head 
towards it. 

When they got close enough to speak, however, she had put whatever it
was away. She looked a little flushed and she seemed rather more alive 
than her usual dreamy self. 

"Hello, Rory," she said. "Lovely day, isn't it?" 

"Er yes," replied Rory. In actual fact it wasn't particularly 'lovely'.
It felt humid and slightly oppressive. And very warm. 

"Incredible for October, don't you think?" 

"I suppose," said Rory feeling slightly embarrassed. This was completely
unlike Doris Simmonds who usually appeared to have difficulty in 
working out what time of day it was. 

"I mean look at that," she said, pointing to the hedgerow beside the
track. Rory stared. There were some small pinkish/purple flowers 
growing on stems which had tendrils. Now this he knew. He had once had 
a friend called Billy Nicholls who had been interested in wild flowers 
and had told him some of their names. 

"They're some sort of pea aren't they?" he said. Tommy and Peter
sniggered. 

"Pea family," said Doris ignoring them. "The pink ones are common vetch,
the other darker ones are tufted vetch." 

"Are they rare?" asked Rory quite impressed by Doris's knowledge. 

"They are in October." 

Tommy butted in seeming to be bored with their horticultural
conversation. 

"What were you doing when we first saw you?" he interrupted. 

For the first that afternoon, Doris seemed a little disconcerted. 

"Er . . . er," she stammered then pulled herself together. "It was only
my medicine. I was just taking it." 

"You were glue sniffing," accused Tommy Gould. 

"Don't be so stupid," said Doris. "I don't do that sort of thing." She
looked at him as if he'd just crawled out from under a stone. "Unlike 
some." 

"Well show it to us then," demanded Tommy. 

Doris gave him a withering look and then took out a small glass bottle
from her bag. She waved it in front of his face. The brownish liquid 
inside sloshed around sluggishly. "See," she said, "that's not glue." 

"It's got no label on it," objected Tommy. 

"So!" 

"It ought to have one, to say what's in it or what it's for." 

"Well it hasn't," said Doris. She seemed unperturbed by the harassment.
Rory was impressed and sympathetic. He could not quite understand why 
Tommy was being so unpleasant. It was almost as if he was getting back 
at her for being there that afternoon. 

"Let's have a sniff then," Tommy demanded. "If it's not glue." 

Doris hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. "Medicines are only
for the person they're prescribed for," she warned. 

"I won't taste it," said Tommy. 

"Don't blame me," she said, "If anything unpleasant happens." 

Rory and Peter watched as Doris held out the bottle and Tommy carefully
uncorked it. They noticed as he did so that she almost seemed to have a 
slight smile on her face. 

"Leave it, Tommy," said Rory. 

But Tommy ignored him and raised the bottle to his nose. He sniffed
experimentally. For a moment nothing seemed to happen but then Tommy 
gave an agonised shout and pushed the bottle out as far away from him 
as he could. Doris retrieved it from him quickly before he could drop 
it. 

"God!" groaned Tommy. "That's foul!" 

"I told you to leave it alone," said Doris, picking up the cork from
where Tommy had dropped it and pushing it firmly home. 

"I'm going to be sick," said Tommy - and was! 

CHAPTER 6 

"There's that awful woman," said Mrs Chanter to her daughter, Pauline,
as they turned into the High Street from the car park where she had 
left her car. 

It was Monday morning and by rights Pauline should have been in school
but Mrs Chanter wanted some help with the shopping and Pauline wasn't 
fussy. She knew her mother would give her a note to cover her absence. 

The 'awful' woman in question was, of course, Bessie Simkins who could
be seen half way down the High Street and walking in their direction. 
As always she was talking away to herself; they could see her mouth 
opening and shutting. 

"She shouldn't be allowed out," said Mrs Chanter. From her mother's
comments it was quite obvious where Pauline had got her ideas from. 
"It's embarrassing to decent people. We ought to be able to get her 
certified." She wondered whether a quiet word to the local GP might be 
effective. Pauline looked at the old woman with distaste. For a brief 
moment the young girl looked rather sly beneath her calm and almost 
film-star exterior. 

"I wonder whether that Mr and Mrs Simmonds could help," went on her
mother. They seemed very anxious to make a good impression on your 
father and me last night at the Golf Club do. We want to get the locals 
on our side." 

"Their daughter's a bit wet," said Pauline, "always wandering around in
a dream." 

"Yes, dear, but there must be some of the kids at school who have a bit
of life in them, rural though they may be." Mrs Chanter paused for a 
moment to consider whether she should propose something drastic. She 
decided against it. Pauline had spirit enough to get things done on her 
own. "I'm doing my best," said Pauline. 

Bessie Simkins reached them. The Chanters stared straight ahead but the
old woman gave each of them a sharp glance as she passed. It was almost 
as if she knew they had been talking about her and wished her ill. 

>From behind they heard her mutter something under her breath. It
sounded like - but surely couldn't be - 'Spawn of Satan!' 

Mrs Chanter exploded with indignation as soon as they were an acceptable
distance away. "Well! Did you hear that?" 

Pauline said nothing but only smiled. 

"Something's got to be done," said Mrs Chanter. 

Pauline agreed. Her eyes narrowed. 

The woman knew too much. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Pauline went to school in the afternoon armed with her absence note
which pleaded a stomach upset. At break time she gathered together the 
group of pupils she had chosen as her special accomplices and held a 
meeting in the corner of the common-room. 

"We've got a bit of a problem," she told them. "This woman, Bessie
Simkins, who some of you think is a bit of a joke is really getting 
beyond one. She goes around muttering and cursing people and some of 
the O.A.P.s are a bit afraid of her. Now you know that today's youth 
gets some really bad press. They say we're vandals and into drugs and 
don't care about the environment. It's time we showed them that they're 
wrong and we can start doing that by getting rid of this daft old bat, 
Bessie Simkins." 

The fact that Pauline had used exactly the same phrase that the farmer
of legend had used - just before misfortune had struck - did not go 
unnoticed by some of her audience. There was an almost imperceptible 
drawing back from some of them - but Pauline was aware of it and didn't 
intend to let it spread. 

"Now I know some of you have been brought up on these stories, that old
Bessie can make the harvest flourish or fail, animals or people sicken 
or recover, charm warts and so on. And that she can also curse people 
but that's just old wives' tales and coincidences. No one remembers all 
the times her curses have failed to work. Anyway it seems she's getting 
loonier and loonier." 

"She's not always like that," said one girl. "If you talk to her on her
own she's quite normal." 

"In that case it just proves she doesn't know how to behave in proper
society. She needs medical care. She shouldn't be allowed to roam 
around the village in the way she does." 

Doris was sitting on the other side of the Common Room reading a book.
She was aware of course of the meeting going on, though she had 
certainly not been one of the dozen or so invited, and she couldn't 
help hearing something of what was being said. She knew for instance 
that Pauline was holding forth against Bessie Simkins for she heard the 
name mentioned more than once. Then words like 'cursing' and 'daft' and 
'loonier' also reached her because Pauline had raised her voice on 
them. 

She strained to hear more but Pauline now seemed to have lowered her
voice. She looked like she was plotting some sort of malicious activity 
and Doris was sure that it did not bode well for Bessie. 

Pauline's beautiful, apparently open face was turned towards her
acolytes, looking at each one in turn and they listened and nodded in 
agreement as she passed out her instructions. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

School ended at 4.15 and it was dark by 5.30. Doris's mother did not
like her being out after dark unless either she knew exactly where she 
was or she was with someone that Mrs Simmonds considered trustworthy. 
Faced with this dilemma, Doris decided that a lie would have to be told 
- in the cause of 'the Greater Good' - and so she rang home immediately 
school was over and told her that she needed to go to the Library to 
get some books for her latest project. 

"Right you are, dear," said her mother accepting her claim cheerfully,
"but make sure that you come straight home - and keep to the well-lit 
streets." 

That, of course, was quite satisfactory though it made Doris feel a bit
guilty. Not only had she deceived her mother but the track down to 
Bessie's was not lit at all and it was already getting dark when she 
started down it. She decided that her best plan would be to break into 
a brisk trot, tell the news as briefly as possible and then get back - 
hopefully before 5.30. 

She was out of breath as she approached the final corner by the large
sycamore so she slowed down to a walk and when the cottage came into 
view, by now little more than a dark shape in the greyness, she 
realised that she had arrived too late. 

Someone had got there before her. 

FLYING WITH WITCHES 

by Michael Gouda 

CHAPTER 7 

A figure was standing outside the front gate with a torch doing
something to the notice fixed there. He or she - Doris couldn't tell 
which because of the gathering gloom - was crouched down so she 
couldn't even see whether the person was tall or short. There was an 
intermittent hissing noise which went on for some time and then the 
torch went off. The figure straightened and Doris could see that it was 
wearing a bulky sort of coat with a hood which had been pulled up, 
obviously more for concealment rather than protection for it was a mild 
evening. 

She realised that if whoever it was turned and came back she would be
discovered, so as quietly as she could she slipped into the undergrowth 
at the side of the track and crouched down. She was only just in time. 
As she watched she could see the figure with its hood up so that it 
looked like some sort of medieval monk pass by. From the way it walked, 
she thought it was a man though it could have been an athletic woman. 
There was a sort of spring to the step which suggested youth rather 
than age. 

Once the way was clear Doris got out though not without some difficulty
as she seemed to have become entangled with a bramble, and went towards 
the gate. It was still light enough to read what the vandal had 
spray-painted over the 'No Hawkers' sign. 

'WITCH GET OUT' it read. 

Clearly the vendetta against Bessie Simkins had begun. Doris went up the
path and knocked at the door. For a moment she thought that no one was 
in for the cottage windows remained dark but then a light went on 
upstairs and she heard a voice shouting down. 

"Who's there?" 

"It's me," she called. "Doris Simmonds." 

There was a pause as if Bessie was trying to work out who Doris Simmonds
actually was and then her voice came down. 

"Won't be a moment, dear." 

The door opened cautiously as if Bessie still wasn't quite sure who was
there and Doris thought that she ought to recommend fitting a security 
chain some time when she knew Bessie better. 

Bessie looked a little more dishevelled than usual and she stared out
into the night behind Doris suspiciously before she opened the door 
wide. 

"Come on in, dear," she said, and shut the door hurriedly as soon as
Doris had crossed the threshold. 

"I came to warn you," said Doris. "There's some people at school -
pupils, you know - who are planning a sort of - " She paused not sure 
how to describe the sort of barbarism that Pauline had been discussing 
with her group that morning. "Anyway I found one of them putting a 
nasty message on your gate but I couldn't see who it was." 

"There have been phone calls too," said Bessie. "I had one just now. 
Some man going on about witches and how they ought to be burnt at the 
stake." 

Doris gasped. "That's terrible," she said. "Are you sure it was a man?" 

"Well it could have been a boy. But his voice was deep enough for a
man." "What exactly did he say?" 

"Oh, I couldn't tell you that," said Bessie who was surprisingly prudish
on some matters. "He used some terrible language. Swear words and 
such." 

"Could you tell who it was? I mean did he sound familiar in any way?" 

Bessie was suddenly cautious. "There are limitations to a witch's
powers, you know," she said. "Now if I had something belonging to him, 
that would be a different matter." 

"Wait! We might be able to get it from the phone. If you dial 1471, they
might tell you the phone number of the person who just called." Doris 
might have been dreamy but she was quite conversant with modern 
technology though she also knew that the caller could stop the 
information if he had prefixed his dialling with 141. 

Bessie seemed a little overawed by this information. She muttered
something which sounded like 'Witchcraft', and went rather unwillingly 
to the phone and punched in the appropriate numbers. She listened for a 
while and then put down the receiver. 

"Well?" said Doris. 

"I got a number," said Bessie, "but I don't see what good it'll do. It's
local 4221. How can I find out whose number it is?" 

Doris stared at her amazed. "You don't have to," she said. "I know whose
number that is. It's mine! And the only man in the house is my father!" 


*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Doris made the journey up the unlighted track with the aid of Bessie's
torch and was home before her mother started worrying. Her concern 
about what she had heard at Bessie's though had left her unprepared in 
the matter of the lack of library books and the interrogation about the 
so-called project. She had to think quickly. 

"They only had one book on the subject," she lied valiantly, "and there
wasn't much in it so I just made some notes." 

"What's the project on?" asked her mother pleasantly as she chopped up
some leeks for supper. 

"I'll tell you later, mum," said Doris. "I just want to go upstairs to
change out of my school uniform." 

But she didn't go straight upstairs. First she went into the study where
her father was poring over some papers that he had brought home from 
the office. 

"Hello, Doris," he said, looking up as she came through the door and
smiling. "Had a good day?" 

"Mm," said Doris, her mind on other things. She didn't quite know how to
bring up the subject but eventually decided to just plunge in. "Dad," 
she said. "What do you think of Bessie Simkins?" 

Frank looked up at her a surprised look on his face - or was it guilt?
"Old Bessie," he said. "Why do you ask?" 

"Oh I don't know," said Doris. "Some of the kids were talking about her
at school today and then I saw her on my way home just now." 

"She's been part of village life for as long as I can remember," said
her father. "Some folks think she can help them and there's others as 
swears she's a bit of a pest. Me? I've never fallen foul of her. She 
does have a bit of a rough tongue though if you upset her." He chuckled 
as if he had remembered something but did not elaborate. 

"You wouldn't want to get rid of her, would you? You know get her out of
the village." 

Frank gave her a sharp look then looked away and inspected his papers as
if they were all of a sudden extremely urgent. 

"I'm sorry, Doris. Got to get this work done. We'll talk about this
later if you really want to." 

CHAPTER 8 

Doris was seriously concerned with what was happening in Elmcombe. She
was still unsure whether it was her father who had made the unpleasant 
phone call to Bessie. The fact that there was no other male in her 
house made it seem almost certain but she could not believe that he 
would use the sort of language that Bessie had indicated he had. As far 
as she was aware he never swore at all. Certainly she had never heard 
him - whatever the provocation. She supposed that it was just possible 
that the telephone technology had made a mistake and with this thought 
she consoled herself but she had not sufficient faith in it to ask her 
father whether he had, in fact, made the call. She had avoided telling 
her mother what the pseudo-project was about and the subject seemed to 
have been dropped so all in all there was quite a lot not being said in 
the Simmonds family. Doris found this uncomfortable but did not know 
what to do about it. 

As usual all week at school the lovely Pauline was the centre of
attention with her group and they could often be found, either the 
whole group or small sections of it, at various free times planning and 
conspiring what Doris thought of as further devilry. 

But there were other - even more disturbing things happening in the
village. Some gravestones in the local churchyard had been discovered 
daubed with strange and crudely-drawn cabalistic signs. Various 
interpretations were put forward by both Church and the local press, 
the most widely accepted being that it was the work of kids from a 
nearby New Age traveller encampment but when they moved on and 
incidents continued to happen, this hypothesis had to be revised. Some 
bones - believed to be of a chicken - were found arranged in a pattern 
in the Church porch and more gravestones were defaced. There was an 
obvious attempt at digging in the cemetery though the hole was not deep 
enough nor in the right area to merit the charge of grave disturbance. 

All this was, of course, the talk of the village and letters to the
local paper complaining about youthful hooliganism began to be 
interspersed with those about witchcraft and the Black Arts. The Vicar 
of St Kenelm's, Elmcombe, Rev Tony Golf, wrote a letter trying to calm 
the situation by stating categorically that witchcraft, as a credible 
force, just did not exist, and those who believed in it or attempted to 
practise it were falling into the sin of superstition. This, 
unfortunately, had the opposite effect of what was intended and the 
village became polarised into those who were pro or anti-witchcraft. 
Feelings ran high and on more than one occasion tempers were lost and 
opinions expressed in language so forceful that close friendships were 
severed, on one occasion never to be resumed again. 

Old Bessie's name, of course, was mentioned in more than one
conversation and/or argument, though never in the printed 
correspondence. Again opinion was divided between those who believed 
she was a force for good, those who thought she was a harmless, 
slightly senile, old lady and, a small but vocal minority, but one 
which included various influential names like the Chanters, who 
suggested that she might well be the cause of - and influence behind 
the incidents. 

Doris had returned to Bessie's house as soon as she was able to and
explained how the evidence from her home was inconclusive. Bessie had 
been very understanding about it and had changed the subject, showing 
Doris an old Herbal book with some rather stilted-looking pictures of 
plants and had got her to pound up some dried leaves which, she said, 
came from the Hedge Woundwort, Stachys Sylvatica, and which were very 
good as an antiseptic for cuts and insect bites. 

"We've got to do something, though, Bessie," Doris said. "That Pauline
can't be allowed to get away with it." 

Bessie looked at her sharply when she mentioned Pauline's name. "I've
seen that girl in town," she said. "She's gotta mother with a funny 
hat." 

Doris almost laughed. Certainly Mrs Chanter did go in for rather
extravagant headgear but Bessie was sitting opposite her pounding away 
at a little pestle and mortar with her inverted green felt flower pot 
on her head and Kathun balanced precariously on top of that. 

"The father's the Bank manager," said Doris. 

"And the daughter's a witch," said Bessie suddenly as if she'd just made
up her mind to reveal something. 

"She is a bit," agreed Doris assuming that this was Bessie's euphemism
for a bitch. "Though she's very good-looking. Pity it's only skin 
deep." 

"No I mean it. It takes one to know one - and when I passed her in the
street last week I knew - " She paused dramatically. 

"Knew she was a witch?" asked Doris. 

"Knew she was a black witch," said Bessie. 

Doris laughed. Bessie didn't often make jokes but when she did they were
certainly pretty far out. When Bessie's expression didn't change, 
though, she stopped smiling. "You're not serious," she said. 

"I don't make jokes about things like that," said Bessie. 

"But she's just a schoolgirl," said Doris. 

"So are you," said Bessie. "And you're training." 

Doris was amazed. She couldn't think what to say. Bessie continued
pounding away with her pestle and on her head Kathun shut one eye and 
looked quizzical. 

"What exactly does a black witch do?" asked Doris at last, when the
silence had got rather too much for her. 

"Depends," said Bessie shortly. It appeared she was a little put out at
being disbelieved. 

"But I ought to know," persisted Doris. "Especially if Pauline will be
able to know about me - when I am one, I mean." She wasn't exactly sure 
how you actually became a witch. Was there an exam? Bessie nodded 
slowly. "You're right," she said. "Well, you say she has a group of 
friends at school. How many are there?" 

"Oh I don't know. About a dozen." 

"Exactly," insisted Bessie. "How many exactly?" 

"Well let me see." Doris thought. She knew most of them by name and all
by sight. She tried to visualise them as she had last seen them in the 
Common Room, grouped around their leader. She counted in her mind. 
"Yes," she said, finally. "Twelve exactly." 

"And she makes thirteen," said Bessie. "That's her coven." 

"What's that?" 

"That's what they call a meeting of witches. And when they meet they do
bad things. Things I don't even like to think about." 

"But some of the others are only kids," objected Doris. 

"Perhaps they haven't been initiated yet," said Bessie. "But they'll be
working with her. There's plenty of power in adolescent girls and boys. 
And there's danger for them too." 

Bessie looked so grave that Doris felt a spasm of fear. It couldn't be
happening, not here, in quiet old Elmcombe, in the 21st century. 

Surely! 

CHAPTER 9 

"But what do they do?" asked Doris. 

"I don't know what they do do. I only know what they can do." 

"OK. What can they do?" 

"There's dancing in the graveyard," said Bessie, counting them off on
her fingers. "Sacrificing animals in honour of demons, doing harm to 
animals, crops and humans, scrying, using grave-dirt for spells, flying 
- " 

"Flying!" interrupted Doris in a tone of disbelief. 

"Don't you scoff, young lady," said Bessie severely. "There's many as
think they've flown after anointing themselves with the ointment and 
mounting the stick." 

Doris subsided without another word. This was another world entirely.
She just couldn't believe that her class mates would do such things. 
Yet somehow she could see Pauline in the darkened graveyard, her long 
hair thrown back, her face looking up, ecstatic, as she held aloft the 
bleeding body of some small animal. Her lips mouthing the words of some 
obscene prayer. 

"I slay thee in the name and honour of Asmodeus, Merihim and Astaroth. O
High and Powerful Beings may this sacrifice be pleasing and acceptable 
to Thee. Serve us faithfully and we shall dedicate our lives to Thee." 

"That's what they say," said Bessie and Doris shuddered. The vision had
been very vivid. 

"Ah I see you can see it. Black witches, they like to work in covens. We
white witches prefer to work alone. Now I'd better give you some 
protection. You'll be needing a charm. Stones with holes in them are 
good but a knotted cord woven by a white witch is better." She opened a 
drawer and rummaged inside. She found a circular object made of a 
much-tarnished yellow metal. As she looked at it she said 
conversationally, "Of course horse brasses were originally amulets to 
ward off danger from witches. Very susceptible to harm from the evil 
eye are horses." She muttered something under her breath as she failed 
to find what she was looking for. Kathun squawked and flew over to sit 
on the top of a cupboard. "In there, is it?" said Bessie to the bird, 
opened the door and peered vaguely further into the dark recesses. 

Eventually she found and took out a wooden box. Inside was a tangled
array of bits of wool, string, pebbles that looked like seeds and seeds 
that looked like pebbles. She found a length of coloured wool that had 
somehow been knitted together into a small tube. "Dolly-Down-the-Reel," 
said Bessie as if that explained everything and handed it to Doris. 
"Tie this on your left wrist," she said. "And don't take it off." 

It looked a bit grubby and had a strange and not all that pleasant smell
but Doris obediently did as she was told. 

"Not even in the bath?" she asked with an attempt at levity. 

"Bath!" said Bessie as if this was an unknown concept. 

Doris changed the subject. 

"Have you any of this ointment they use for flying?" she asked. 

"Dangerous stuff," said Bessie not really answering the question. "It's
made from Wolfsbane, Deadly Nightshade, Hellebore root and Hemlock. 
Fearsome mixture!" 

"And it makes you fly?" asked Doris incredulously. 

"Makes you think you can fly," said Bessie. "Smell it and it'll addle
your brains." 

"Like glue sniffing," said Doris. "Probably hallucinogenic." 

"Whatever," said Bessie. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Doris came out of the cottage into the fresh October air and walked
briskly up the track towards town. It had turned quite cold overnight 
and the air was misty with autumn. Underfoot the brown leaves were wet 
and squashy. There didn't seem to be anywhere near the number of wild 
flowers out as there had the previous Saturday, even the white 
archangel looked pinched and miserable. It seemed as if winter was just 
around the corner. She wondered whether it would be a white Christmas 
and decided that she couldn't even remember the last time there had 
been one though everyone always talked about them as if, in the past, 
they had been regular occurrences. 

But Christmas was still a long way away. First there was Hallowe'en, the
Eve of All Hallows, and in the witch's calendar one of the four Great 
Sabbats or festivals. Bessie set great store by these and said that 
spells cast or potions made on one of these days were twice as powerful 
as those concocted at less auspicious times. They had looked up October 
31st on Bessie's calendar and found that this year it fell on a 
Saturday so, all being well, Doris would be able to help Bessie with a 
bumper preparation. 

Doris's musings were suddenly rudely interrupted when a figure stepped
out from behind a one of the trees that lined the track and stood in 
front of her. She was not exactly scared though she was a little 
startled. Almost immediately, though, she recognised Tommy Gould in 
spite of the fact that he was wearing a long and rather dirty brown 
anorak with a hood which he had pulled up over his head. He did not 
look well. His normal healthy complexion was greyish and the flesh on 
his face sagged. There was a scattering of angry looking pustules 
around his mouth and nose. 

"Been visiting the witch again?" he asked with a sneery emphasis on the
word. 

"Bessie Simkins happens to be a friend of mine," she said, in what she
hoped was a put down sort of voice. 

"In that case you should choose your friends better," he said. 

That made Doris angry. "Now look here, Tommy Gould," she said. "You have
no right to dictate who I have as my friends." She was about to say 
more, especially about Pauline Chanter but decided that discretion 
would be a better plan. 

"Still glue sniffing?" he asked. 

Doris decided that the conversation had gone far enough. She tried to
step aside and go past him but he side-stepped in an oddly jerky manner 
and stood in front of her swaying slightly, his eyes, peering out from 
under the hood, looking strangely unfocussed. She wondered whether he 
might himself be on some sort of drug and for a moment felt a little 
worried. By a strange quirk in her thought processes she suddenly 
remembered that the figure she had seen spray-painting Bessie's gate 
sign had also been wearing a hooded coat. It was probably Tommy. 

"You want to watch yourself," she said. "You're the one who's getting
into bad company." 

She gave him a little push and he staggered as if it had been a hefty
shove and then he laughed - a high-pitched, almost hysterical, giggle, 
quite unlike his normal hearty guffaw. There was something distinctly 
wrong with him, she decided. 

But now the way ahead was clear so she stepped out and he did nothing to
stop her. As she reached the turn in the track she stopped and looked 
back. He was still standing there, staring after her, a frown on his 
face. 

She hurried off towards home. 

CHAPTER 10 

Doris had intended to go straight home after her regular Saturday
morning visit to Bessie, but she was sidetracked when she met Rory in 
the High Street. She did however have time to have a quick sniff at her 
bottle after she noticed him across the road although she still wasn't 
sure if it did much good. Surely if it was to have any effect on him, 
he should be able to smell it. Perhaps she should use it like perfume 
and dab it behind her ears, though it would not be much use if it had 
the same effect on Rory Callahan as it had had on Tommy. 

She felt sure he would not notice her and she would have to cross the
street to speak to him but when they were about opposite he stopped and 
waved and called something which she could not hear because of the 
noise of the traffic. She put her hand behind her ear and then spread 
both of them and shrugged and he came over. 

"Fancy a coffee?" he asked when they were in hearing distance. Doris
could scarcely believe it. Bessie's potion must be powerful indeed if 
it could work right across a crowded street. 

"I wanted to ask you something," he said when they were seated in the
window of the Beefy Burgerbar with two coffees on the red 
formica-topped table in front of them. 

Various delirious ideas flipped through Doris's head. She would have
liked another sniff at the bottle but that was impossible at the 
moment. She waited for Rory to speak. 

"We've been friends for some time," he said eventually. 

Well, she thought, perhaps 'friends' was a bit strong. Certainly they'd
known each other since Primary school and they'd had some involvement 
when she had run away from home that time when she was so unhappy and 
was being teased at school but - 

"I wondered if you'd do something for me." 

Doris was brought up short. This sounded a bit like 'Can I copy your
homework'. 

Rory hesitated and then it came out in a rush. "I know you're a friend
of Pauline Chanter's. I want to join her group. They say they do some 
really great things together. But she won't speak to me. Would you put 
in a good word for me? I'd be really grateful." He looked at her with 
those enormous hazel eyes and, although he had just kicked her 
ferociously in both knee caps at once so that she knew she'd never be 
able to walk again, she couldn't find it in her heart to do what she 
knew she ought to - spit in his face. 

"I'll see what I can do," she said weakly. 

"You're a real friend," said Rory. "I knew I could always rely on you." 

She got to her feet - somehow. 

"Aren't you going to finish your coffee?" asked Rory. 

"Got to get home," said Doris and stumbled out. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

On the way Doris's confused mind turned over the dreadful blow that Fate
had dealt her. So much for Bessie's potion! Of course she had said that 
it would only work if Rory was 'that way inclined' and seemingly it - 
or something - had convinced him that they were 'friends' but that was 
not what Doris had been hoping for. 

Damn Rory! Blast Bessie! To Hell and Eternal Damnation with both of
them! She stopped herself. That sounded too much like a witch curse. 

But Fate was to deal her an even worse blow when she got home. 

Her mother and father were sitting round the kitchen table when she got
in. They had obviously been drinking coffee for their empty cups were 
on the table in front of them. What was ominous though was that there 
were no signs of lunch preparation - a thing almost unheard of on a 
Saturday, when only the direst of emergencies interrupted the normal 
routine of morning shopping, lunch and then - for Frank at least - 
sport on the telly. 

"Where have you been?" asked Alice as soon as Doris had hung up her coat
in the hall and come through. 

Now Doris had given as her excuse for going out on Saturday mornings
that she was researching for her project with the understood though 
unstated addition that the research was taking place in the reference 
section of the local library from which, of course, no books could be 
borrowed. For her mother to ask so pointedly where she had been, gave 
Doris a clear enough warning that Alice now knew different. She decided 
on the truth. 

"I told you the library only had one book on the subject so I've been
round to talk to someone who knows a great deal about it." 

"But you never even told us what the project was on," objected Frank. 

"Oh didn't I," said Doris airily, as if it was a small matter of little
account. "I'm doing an investigation into 'The History of Witchcraft'." 


Alice turned to Frank. "There you are," she said. "It was true." 

"What was true?" asked Doris. "I've been talking to Bessie Simkins
that's all. What's wrong with that?" 

"Someone rang up to tell us you'd been seen coming out of Bessie's
cottage - and it wasn't the first time either." 

"But what's wrong with that?" insisted Doris turning to her father. "You
said yourself she's been part of village life for as long as you can 
remember and anyway she's not really telling me about witchcraft, she's 
showing me the plants she uses for the treatment of complaints. It's 
only herbalism. What's wrong with that?" she repeated. 

Her parents looked a little uncomfortable. 

"It's just that . . ." started Alice. 

"You see . . ." said Frank. 

They both stopped and looked at each other. Alice nodded so Frank
started again in a more reasonable tone. 

"Ordinarily, it wouldn't matter at all, but things being as they are,
and the village being up in arms on the whole subject, we'd prefer it 
if you didn't see her - just at the moment." 

"But it's not Bessie doing these things," protested Doris. "You've known
her all your lives. You know she doesn't do those sort of things. 
They're black witchcraft." 

"I'm sorry, dear, but your father and I both think it best, if you don't
see her for a while, just till all this has blown over." 

Doris stared at them in despair. She had expressed her argument
reasonably but they had responded unreasonably. 

"Who phoned you up?" she asked. She would have bet her last penny that
it would either have been an anonymous call or Tommy Gould but she 
would have lost. 

"It was Piers Chanter," said Frank. "You know Pauline Chanter's father."


"I didn't know you were on first name terms with him." 

"Why yes," said Alice. "He and Amanda were round here last Monday." 

Doris made her way miserably upstairs. She was in her room before the
significance of her mother's final remark struck her. Last Monday! And 
that was the day the phone call had been made to Bessie from this 
house. 

CHAPTER 11 

Doris was determined, whatever her parents had said, to go to Bessie on
the next Saturday, if only to explain what had happened and how their 
arrangement might be difficult for a while, however events happened 
during the week that changed the situation drastically. 

But before anything could be arranged, the correspondence which had been
going on in the local press was suddenly picked up by a national 
newspaper who sent a young reporter, anxious to make her name with a 
sensational scoop. She, with a photographer, went round the village on 
the Tuesday chatting to everyone she could, most of whom were only too 
pleased to tell her what they knew or suspected - or even invented. Amy 
Bellingham, for this was her name, had a real stroke of luck when she 
was referred to Mrs Chanter who told her in great detail how some young 
girls - names unspecified, but pupils from the local school - visited a 
known local witch and were 'under her influence' - whatever that meant. 
She enlarged on what rituals witches were supposed to carry out and, 
although she did not actually state that the local witch actually 
performed these rites, left it to be assumed that this was so. 

Ms Bellingham had no trouble finding out who the 'local witch' was,
calling persistently at the cottage and, though she was refused entry, 
taking pictures with a long range lens of Bessie, hat, crow and all, 
through her front downstairs window, out of which she was peering to 
see if her tormentor had gone. 

Ms Bellingham, in a high state of anticipation then waited outside
Elmcombe High School, managed with little difficulty to waylay several 
excited girls and got colourful and in most cases highly imaginative 
accounts of witch activity. 

She returned to London, well pleased with her 'day in the sticks' and
the following morning the front page of the tabloid for which she 
worked screamed: 

CHILDREN FALL VICTIM TO SATANIC RITUALS 

The spell of black magic 

That day the village was in turmoil. People took sides and, as they
discussed and quarrelled, their views polarised so that some saw Bessie 
Simkins as the only person who stood between rural harmony and anarchy, 
while others expressed the opinion that she should be hung, drawn and 
quartered and then burnt at the stake. 

At school on the Wednesday, sensing the almost hysterically excited
condition of some of the pupils, Mrs King, the Head Teacher, attempted 
to calm things down at her morning assembly. "Some of you will have 
read this mornings paper," she said, "and seen sensational references 
to witches and witchcraft, spells and rituals which sound very exciting 
and possibly remind you of horror videos or movies you may have seen." 

She paused and several pupils nodded. 

"Now I want to tell you that these are not real, and people who pretend
that they are are fooling you or trying to frighten you. There are no 
things as witches - well not witches who can work magic. There are some 
wise people who probably know more about healing and beneficial herbs 
and plants than many doctors or biologists." 

Doris agreed with that. It was the argument she had used to her parents.
She was pleased to hear support from so eminent a source. 

"There are also some stupid people who think they can influence the
everyday world by mumbling meaningless mumbo jumbo and making 
concoctions of the most horrid ingredients they can think of. Does that 
sound like a sensible way to behave?" 

Out of the corner of her eye Doris saw Pauline glance at one of her
supporters and exchange a knowing smile. 

Mrs King was really warming to her task. "It is as if," she continued,
"I should say 'Abracadabra' and wave my arms - " she did so towards the 
back of the hall " - and a demon will appear." As she uttered the last 
few words, Mrs King's eyes opened wide. She appeared to be staring at 
something and everyone's heads turned round, some people at the front 
standing up to see what was happening. 

A small black cat had appeared from somewhere and paused in the
entrance. There was not a sound from anyone. The cat seemed to be 
completely unaware that it was the centre of attention of hundreds of 
eyes. It sat down and licked one of its front paws. There was an 
immediate buzz of conversation which perhaps frightened it because it 
suddenly turned round and bounded along the corridor and out of sight. 

Mrs King looked a little confused for a moment then she pulled herself
together. "Now if I thought my saying that had produced the caretaker's 
cat, I'd set up practice as a witch," she said and there was a ripple 
of laughter. 

But Doris, and many of the other pupils knew that the caretaker did not
have a cat. 

And Pauline was smiling triumphantly. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Rory caught Doris in mid-morning break. She had been dreading this for
she knew he was about to ask whether she had been able to speak to 
Pauline. 

She decided that the best form of defence was attack and before he could
say anything she said, "Look, Rory, I know I said that I'd speak to 
Pauline but really I'm not that much of a friend. In fact I don't 
really trust her all that much." 

Rory looked a bit disappointed but did not say anything so she rushed
on. She wished she had had time for a sniff from the bottle. 

"You see those things that you say they do together, well I think
they're 'witch' things, things that Mrs King warned us against this 
morning." 

Rory looked at her in some amazement. She could hardly blame him after
all she had scarcely believed it when Bessie had told her - and she 
didn't even like Pauline. 

"Are you saying," he said at length, "that Pauline is a witch?" 

"I'm pretty certain of it," said Doris. After all she couldn't go much
further than that; she had no definite proof. 

It said much for the current circumstances that he hadn't laughed in her
face. 

"But she's so " He [aused, obviously groping for another word than
'beautiful', a word which fifteen year old boys find a little difficult 
to use. 

"Gorgeous," suggested Doris, though it went hugely against the grain. 

"Yes," accepted Rory gratefully. 

"All witches aren't old, with warts and pointy hats," said Doris. "I
think she's quite dangerous to know." 

She left him with his mouth open. 

CHAPTER 12 

"You've got to admit the old girl did really well at Assembly this
morning," said Tommy Gould later that break. 

"Her speech?" asked Rory without much interest. He was thinking of other
things. 

"Her manifestation!" 

"Her what?" asked Peter Johnson. 

"That cat. The one she materialised. It was a good spell. Nearly as good
as one of Pauline's." 

Rory started. "Does Pauline do spells?" he asked. 

Tommy looked embarrassed. "No of course not," he said too quickly. "I
meant nearly as good as one of Pauline's jokes." 

"Are we playing footy at lunch time?" asked Peter apparently unaware of
any tension between his two friends. 

"Not me," said Tommy. "Gotta go into town." He walked off before either
of the others could say anything. 

"Have we upset him?" asked Peter. 

"I don't know," said Rory, "but he's been really funny lately." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Doris knew she had to see Bessie, whatever prohibitions Frank and Alice
had put upon her. Luckily it was Gym Club after school to which she 
usually went and she wouldn't be expected home until after five so 
immediately the bell went she raced off towards the cottage. As she 
turned the last corner of the track she felt certain there was 
something dreadfully wrong. The gate was broken and just hanging by its 
bottom hinge and on the front door, there was a large dark stain 
against the green paint, roughly the shape of a tulip flower. As she 
got close she could see it had been caused by a fire, the paint 
blistered and the wood charred. 

At her knock, the door opened and Bessie stood there. She looked in some
curious way different though at first Doris couldn't quite work out 
what it was. Bessie pulled her inside and slammed the door. 

"What's happened?" Doris demanded. Then she realised what was wrong.
Bessie was not wearing her green hat and there was no Kathun perched on 
top. Her eyes were red and puffy. 

Even before Doris had a chance to say anything, Bessie burst out. "They
came at midday - a whole bunch of them, kids mostly. They kicked my 
gate in and then I heard them at the front door. You know giggling and 
such. I was upstairs but I saw them from my window. Then they were 
doing something with a can and they lit a fire. They were shouting, 
'Burn, witch! Burn, witch!' Then they ran off." 

Doris could scarcely believe it. And she could understand why Bessie was
so upset. It must have been a terrifying ordeal. 

"Have you told the police?" she asked. 

Bessie shook her head. She appeared to be holding back something. "They
shouldn't of done it," she said. 

"It could have burnt the whole cottage down," agreed Doris. 

"Not that. The other." 

"What else did they do?" 

"They killed Kathun. They shot him. One of the boys had an air rifle. He
flew off into the trees and he shot him. Said he was vermin." 

"They're cruel." said Doris. Privately she thought of other, more
offensive things to call them. 

"He was only an old crow but I'd had him for years. He was company." 

Doris realised the pain that lay in that simple statement. "I'm so
sorry," she said. It seemed ineffectual but it was all she could think 
of. "You must tell the police." 

"No. I'll take care of it myself." 

"But what can you do?" 

Bessie looked determined. "I've said I'd never use my powers to hurt
others but these have got to be stopped. If they think they can get 
away with what they've done, there's no telling what they'll try next." 


Doris tried to come to terms with this. What on earth was an old woman
going to do against the kids that Pauline seemed to have enrolled, 
backed up as it seemed by her parents, influential people like the Bank 
Manager, and a local Councillor? 

Again she asked, "What can you do, Bessie?" 

"Come in here," said Bessie leading the way through the herbal
preparation room that they usually worked in to another room right at 
the back of the cottage. It was, thought Doris, the parlour. 

She had read about rooms like this, a room which was kept solely for
formal occasions, like receptions after funerals, or receiving local 
dignitaries or not very welcome relatives. Like all of Bessie's rooms 
it was full of heavy dark furniture but this had all been moved to the 
sides leaving an open space in the middle of the floor. The carpet had 
been rolled up exposing the bare wooden boards, and brown velvet 
curtains had been drawn over the windows to shut out the evening dusk. 
Four candles had been lit and in their light Doris could just make out 
on the floor that two circles had been drawn in chalk, one inside the 
other and the space between the two was covered in writing, phrases and 
individual words which Doris recognised, from her work on the Latin 
names of wild flowers, as being in that language. 

"I shall perform a ritual," said Bessie. "It should provide protection.
We shall see." 

"Can I help?" asked Doris. 

"You can watch the first part but after a while I shall ask you to
leave. When I do, go straight home. Is that clear?" 

Doris nodded. 

The room was lit only by the light of the four candles, the flames
fluttering in the draughts created by Bessie as she moved around. 

"The candles are placed at the points of the compass. They represent the
Watchtowers of the Lords of the Elements, Air, Fire, Earth and Water," 
explained Bessie as she reached out to pick up a besom which was 
leaning against the wall and began to sweep the floor inside the inner 
circle making the candle flames flutter furiously. Having done this she 
placed a small square table in the centre and covered it with a white 
cloth. 

"This is the altar," she said. "On it I place a pentacle or five-pointed
star made of copper, a sword, a silver plate containing salt, a bowl of 
water and some burning charcoal in a metal container for the incense." 
She stepped into the circle. "These rings are not to stop people coming 
in," she said, "but to prevent any forces escaping. There is always a 
chance that an evil entity might be conjured up. As far as possible it 
must be contained." 

That sounded a little alarming but Doris was a little reassured when
Bessie started to bless the items on the altar. 

"Blessings upon this creature, Salt. Let all malignity and hindrance be
cast forth hencefrom; let all good herein enter." 

The final preparations consisted of the placing of two small statuettes
which Bessie took from the pockets of the black coat she was wearing. 
She handled them with great reverence first spreading a piece of black 
velvet for them to stand on. 

In the fitful light of the candles Doris could just make out that one of
them was a squatting female, very fat with much enlarged breasts and 
buttocks. It seemed to be made of stone and looked old and primitive. 
The other, much more finely made, was of shiny grey metal, possibly 
silver, and was male - rudely so - and had a pair of antlers on his 
head. 

Doris sat on a chair against the wall by the door and was again warned
not to move or speak and when told to leave immediately. 

Then Bessie scattered some powdered resin on the glowing charcoal and,
as the fragrant smoke ascended in a thick grey column, she began 
chanting in a high-pitched though strong voice. 

FLYING WITH WITCHES 

by Michael Gouda 

CHAPTER 13 

Bessie's chant rang out high and clear in the small enclosed room. 

"Gea, Goddess of the Earth, Herne, the Hunter of the Night, Lend your
powers unto my spell And work my will by magic rite." 

She repeated it again and again. The room was becoming hazy, with the
incense smoke shaping haloes round the four candle flames which seemed 
to grow tall and straight so that they were almost columns of light 
forming a boundary around the figure who stood with upraised arms in 
the centre.  Bessie stopped singing and for a moment there was an utter 
silence. Then she started to speak in Latin. As she did so, she picked 
up a pinch of salt and cast it onto the altar where it flared, then a 
sprinkling of the water which hissed as it came in contact with the hot 
incense burner. Faster and faster became her movements while the words 
of the spell became gibberish and then just confused sound. The candle 
flames guttered and the smoke surged and twisted as Bessie, her clothes 
flying, whirled round and round. 

Things became difficult for Doris to make out but the aromatic mist
seemed to be making itself into shapes, churning and eddying so that it 
was a vortex down which she almost felt she was being pulled. It was a 
vast swirling hole at the bottom of which, unimaginably deep, something 
lived, and stirred as it was awakened by the power of the spell. 

She felt dizzy and there was a buzzing in her head. She wondered whether
she was going to faint but was suddenly brought sharply to her senses. 

"Go now!" The words rang out clearly and precisely and Doris realised
they were meant for her. She was tugged two ways, part of her wanting 
to stay to see what happened but another part, terrified, and obedient 
to Bessie's command. 

The door, she knew, was just beside her. She had only to stand up and
reach out to find the knob, turn it and she would be out, back in the 
real world. She hesitated and peered forward for a last look while 
whatever it was at the bottom of the swirling hole raised itself and 
looked at her! 

Recognised her! 

Knew her! 

At the same time there was a roaring sound like a monstrous rushing
wind. 

She stepped back and banged into the door, groping madly for the knob,
found and turned it - and almost fell into the preparation room. Smoke 
billowed out after her and she slammed the door shut and leant against 
the table feeling weak and slightly sick. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

It was half past five by the time she reached home and she was a good
half an hour later than her usual Gym Club night. She was worried that 
her parents might have been concerned, even ringing up other girls who 
attended the same after-school club. 

But she needn't have bothered. They hadn't even noticed she wasn't home
on time, so excited were they by the meeting they had been invited to 
attend that afternoon. The Chanters had been there, of course - in fact 
it was they who had organised it - and the assistant Chief Constable, 
as well as the Headmaster of the Grammar School, Mr Grant, a solicitor, 
the Mayor and various other local dignitaries. The Simmonds had felt 
themselves in quite exalted company. 

The discussion had been intense, the main theme of which was the adverse
publicity the Town had received in the tabloid newspaper and how it was 
likely to get worse before it got better. 

The trouble centred on Bessie Simkins, Piers Chanter said. If she could
be got rid of, he said - and those were the very words he used - it 
would all die down very quickly, after all without the witch all the 
fuss had been about, there was no news, no story to run. 

"What exactly do you mean 'Get rid of Bessie Simkins'?" asked Mr Grant,
the solicitor. 

"I think for her own safety she should leave the village," said Piers
Chanter. "I hear there was some nasty business at her cottage this 
afternoon, a fire, a bit of violence." 

"I haven't heard anything of this," said the A.C.C. "Nothing official." 

"It wasn't reported," said Mr Chanter, "I heard it through a private
source." 

Doris interrupted their almost verbatim account of the meeting. 

"But it's not Bessie's fault." 

"That's what I told them," said Frank. 

Alice said, "But they said it's not anyone's fault - except perhaps that
reporter, making up all those things and printing them for everyone to 
read." 

"But it is," said Doris and suddenly it all burst out. "It's Pauline's
fault. She's the real witch. She's the one that's corrupting the kids 
at school. She made them try to set fire to her cottage today - and 
shoot her crow." 

She was aware that they were both staring at her. "Oh no, dear," said
Alice. "You've got that all wrong. She's such a beautiful girl is 
Pauline Chanter." 

That's the trouble, thought Doris. No one believes that Pauline could be
a witch. Rory didn't. Even I didn't at first when Bessie told me. 

"What did the meeting decide?" she asked. 

"They thought it would be better if she went away for a while, perhaps
visited a relative," said Frank. "Mr Chanter will go and see her. try 
to persuade her." 

With a bunch of Pauline's thugs, thought Doris. She said though, "But
she's done nothing. Why should she have to go away?" Her protestations 
were in vain. 

"It's for her own good," said Frank. 

If she goes, they'll never let her back, thought Doris. I must warn her.
That Pauline really's got everyone conned. 

There was nothing more to say to her parents and the only way to get in
touch with Bessie was to give her a telephone call. She went into the 
hall, wondering whether the spell was finished and if it had worked - 
whatever it was supposed to do. 

It was easy enough getting Bessie's number; it was in the telephone book
and no one would question her if she made a telephone call - she would 
just have to make her side of the conversation fairly neutral, perhaps 
link it to the project somehow. That would satisfy any parental 
curiosity if she was overheard. 

The ringing tone at the other end of the line went on and on for ever
until Doris began to wonder whether anything was wrong. Could the 
elemental force which she had seen begin to stir have escaped the 
confines of those circles? Had Pauline's coven made a return visit and 
done her more harm? Was Bessie perhaps just not answering because of 
the unpleasant phone calls she had received. 

She was about to give up and put the receiver down when there was a
click and a voice, rather faint and trembly, said, "Yes. Who is it?" 

CHAPTER 14 

"It's Doris here." 

"Oh yes." Bessie's voice did not sound all that enthusiastic. 

"Are you alright?" asked Doris. 

"Mm," said Bessie, which was aggravating because it was the sound Doris
herself made when she didn't want to talk about it. 

"How did it go?" she asked. "You know, the project." 

"Project?" said Bessie as if she had never heard of the word before. 

"The spell project," said Doris emphasising the word. "Did it work?" 

There was a pause and for a moment Doris thought that the line had been
lost. 

"I was not strong enough," said Bessie. "I could not control the
Elemental." 

Doris had a sudden spasm of shock and fear. "You mean you couldn't keep
it in? He - It escaped?" 

"The circle held," said Bessie which at least was reassuring. "There was
no escape from inside. I just couldn't use the force." 

"So we still have no protection against Pauline. By the way they're
coming to try to make you leave town. Is there anything we can do?" 

"There is a chance," said Bessie. "If you could help me." 

"What can I do?" 

"I told you to leave this afternoon because I didn't think you were
ready for such a stern test. But we haven't got time for the luxury of 
a gentle introduction. With a full moon on Saturday, the Black Witch 
could be preparing for something spectacular." 

It sounded as if she was speaking about a fireworks display but Doris
knew it was something much more serious. 

"So you want me to come over on Saturday and try the spell again?" said
Doris. "Perhaps together we can do it." 

"Ay, perhaps we can," said Bessie. "Blessed be." 

She rang off. 

Doris thoughtfully put down the phone and looked up to see both her
parents standing at the open kitchen door and staring at her. They had 
obviously heard her conversation including her last remark where she 
had completely forgotten the need for caution. 

"That was Old Bessie wasn't it?" said her mother. 

Doris nodded. 

"But we asked you not to see her again," said Frank in a tone which
sounded more hurt than angry. 

"But it's so unfair," said Doris. "Just let me go this one last time and
I won't ever ask again." After all if they were successful they might 
not need to meet again - and if they weren't - well, Pauline would have 
won and the consequences of that were unthinkable. 

"No, dear," said Alice firmly. "I'm afraid we shall have to ground you
until after the weekend and, as you are obviously not to be trusted to 
keep your word, either your father or I will meet you from school and 
bring you home every day after school." 

Doris could not believe it. Her parents had never acted like this
before. They had never been particularly strict and always been fair. 
And now here she was, at the age of fifteen, being imprisoned - she 
could think of no other word for it - in her own house. It was all the 
fault of Pauline Chanter and there was nothing she could do about it. 

She could feel tears, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. Unwilling
to let them show, she ran up the stairs into her own room and slammed 
the door shut. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The day after was Thursday 22nd October, two days away from the full
moon, which was of course a witches' meeting. 

At school Tommy Gould felt rotten. His head was aching, his stomach hurt
almost as if someone had punched him and his skin felt all itchy. He 
scratched at his face but it did no good, only aggravating the pustules 
that had formed around his nose and mouth. He only seemed to feel 
better at the meetings, the private meetings of the group, when they 
shared that marvellous smelling ointment, when they spread it on their 
hands and faces and inhaled the smell, at first bitter and acrid but 
then perfumed so that their senses whirled and they were flying. Only 
then was he really alive, more alive than he'd ever felt in his whole 
life but he'd got to get through two more whole days until she would 
give them some more - unless he could persuade her to give him a little 
to tide him over until - what had she called it? - one of the thirteen 
Lesser Esbats. 

He went off in search of Pauline Chanter. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Rory saw Doris at mid-morning break the same day in the Year 11 Common
Room. She was looking very miserable and seemed to have reverted to 
that little dream world of hers that, just lately, she had come out of. 
When he approached her and caught her attention she started, seemed to 
be about to open her bag as if to look for something, but then thought 
better of it. 

"You know what we talked about yesterday," he said. "About Pauline
Chanter being a witch." 

Doris nodded though she didn't say anything. He hadn't believed her and
everything was just too depressing for words. 

"I couldn't believe it then, but Tommy Gould said something later which
- well he said she did spells. Afterwards he denied it but I think he 
was lying. He's one of her group, you know and he's gone really funny 
just lately." 

Doris appeared to wake up. "Anyone can see he doesn't look very well,"
she said. 

"It's the way he behaves too," said Rory. "Always losing his temper.
Sometimes I can scarcely recognise the old Tommy." 

Doris looked at Rory closely. She seemed to be making her mind up about
something. Then she came to a conclusion. 

"Rory," she said, and her voice was calm and determined. "I'm sure you
want to help your mate. I've got a problem too and they're both 
related." 

Boldly she took him by the arm to a couple of chairs which were somewhat
away from the noisy, chattering throng of crisp eating pupils. 

"Whatever you think about Pauline there's obviously something very wrong
going on. Now I think you can help, at least to pass on information. 
The situation is this . . . " 

She told him everything that had happened and he listened, his eyes
growing wider and wider all the time. 

CHAPTER 15 

It was half past seven on the Saturday evening when Rory set out to go
to Bessie's cottage. It was of course way past daylight by then, but 
the full moon cast its own pale light enabling him to see quite 
clearly. He could even see his own shadow preceding him as he walked 
down the rough track. 

Like all boys brought up in the village Rory knew Bessie Simkins and her
reputation. He was not sure how much of it he believed but he was wary. 
After all she was old, and she behaved strangely, two things which 
alienated her rather from his adolescent world - though he was not 
completely unacquainted with supernatural things himself as two 
previous adventures showed. 

Doris had been unable to contact Bessie by phone during the week.
Apparently according to her, the line was always busy and her parents 
had kept a very close eye on her to see that she did not pay the old 
woman any personal visits. 

Now here he was entrusted with the message that, on this very important
day - according to her - Doris was unable to come and what did Bessie 
suggest they do now. 

He hoped that Bessie had not had some dreadful accident. He had once
before come across a dead body - a man who had hung himself in a local 
wood - and he had not enjoyed the experience. 

As he turned the last corner so that he could see the cottage, he could
not tell whether there were any lights on or not. The moon was 
reflected back from the window panes in the same way as light shines 
back from the eyes of some animals. In fact they looked disconcertingly 
like eyes staring at him somewhat balefully as he approached the garden 
gate, which, he noticed, looked as if it had been wrenched off its 
hinges. In fact there was neglect and ruin all around and the whole 
cottage almost seemed abandoned, the garden a mass of sprawling weeds 
amongst which nestled discarded pieces of rusting agricultural 
machinery. 

There was no knocker on the front door and Rory noticed a nasty black
stain on the paint as if rot was creeping up it from the ground. He 
knocked tentatively twice and then, as there was no answer, hammered 
with his fist. 

He listened and thought he could hear a sound from inside. 

"Hello," he shouted. "Is that Bessie Simkins? I've got a message from
Doris Simmonds. Can you open the door." 

This time he did hear a noise, a slow dragging sound, coming towards the
door. It sounded like someone pulling a heavy weight across the floor 
and for a moment he nearly panicked, imagining dreadful horrors on the 
other side. Then he heard a voice, quavering and weak. 

"Who is it? Who's there?" 

"It's Rory Callahan," said Rory. "I'm a friend of Doris Simmonds. She
can't come tonight and she asked me to tell you. Are you alright?" 

"Damn and blast it," said the voice, sounding a little stronger. "I fell
down and hurt my ankle. Can't walk on it." 

"Is there anything I can do," said Rory, feeling a little foolish
carrying on a conversation through a closed door. "Can you let me in? 
Or I could phone for the doctor." 

"Phone doesn't work and I can't reach the door catch." 

"Can you pass the key out somehow?" 

There was a pause while presumably Bessie considered this suggestion. 

"I'm nothing to do with the lot that have been pestering you," said
Rory, hoping that this might reassure her. 

"There's a cat flap on the back door," the voice said at last. 

Rory stumbled round, tripping over various unidentified things on the
way and wondering how on earth he was supposed to get through a cat 
flap. When he got there, though, a hand looking strangely detached 
reached out through the flap and passed him the key. 

Once in the house, he noticed how old and frail Bessie looked. He had
seen her in town only a couple of weeks before and had not noticed any 
deterioration but now, having helped to hoist her into a chair, she 
looked almost like a skeleton, her white hair, dishevelled and untidy. 
Her ankle was puffed up and looked extremely painful. The phone was 
indeed out of order; it had been forcibly pulled from the wall and the 
bare wires were exposed. 

"You need a doctor," said Rory. "I'll go to the call box." 

"Don't need no doctors," said Bessie stubbornly. "Never had no use for
them. Got my own remedies for most things. Trouble is can't reach the 
stuff off the shelves." 

Rory looked doubtful but offered to get anything she might need. 

"Could do with a cup of tea first," said Bessie. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

An hour later, Rory had seen Bessie more or less comfortably installed
in her kitchen chair, a poultice of not very pleasant smelling herbs 
wrapped round her swollen ankle. 

In spite of her age and apparent fragility she seemed very resilient and
after several cups of tea and some large slices of toast and honey - 
the bread was rather stale - she seemed much more like her old self, 
grumbling at her inability to move round and talking more to some 
apparently non-existent pet rather than to him. 

He explained again why he was there and the reason for Doris not being
able to come. She clucked with annoyance at Mr and Mrs Simmonds' 
attitude and looked grave. 

"I'll have to do the best I can this week," she said, "but next
Saturday's Hallowe'en. I'll need her for sure then." 

Rory assumed that she meant she wanted some help round the house and
offered to come himself. 

"I can get you some food from the supermarket," he said. 

"No. No," said Bessie testily. "You don't understand. It's Hallowe'en." 

"Yes I know," said Rory. "Pumpkin lanterns and 'Trick or Treat' if
you're an American." 

Bessie seemed to get very agitated. She mumbled under her breath for a
while, the only words Rory could make out being 'Dratted boy' which he 
thought rather unfair, seeing how helpful he had tried to be. He 
wondered how many of his friends would have been so sympathetic to this 
mad old biddy. 

"Tell her," Bessie said at last in a more or less coherent though
agitated tone of voice. "Tell Doris that, whatever happens, she's got 
to come next Saturday. Tell her that the Black Witch will win if she 
doesn't. Tell her it'll be The End." 

If only to quieten her down before he left Rory promised he would do his
best. 

CHAPTER 16 

On his way home through the evening darkness lit by the light of the
full moon Rory pondered on the behaviour of both adults and some of his 
own peers. He had always known grown-ups were odd, look at the values 
of teachers, for instance, who thought doing homework more important 
than watching a good horror movie, but he thought he had usually been 
able to understand the ways of his own fellows. Now he found himself 
unable to fathom what Tommy or Pauline or even Doris were going to do 
next. 

He was interrupted from these thoughts by a strange sound, a sort of
steady, rhythmical thumping which appeared to be coming from the other 
side of the wall alongside which he was walking. Now Rory wasn't what 
you'd call a nervous boy but strange sounds from the cemetery at night 
alarmed him. He was about to make tracks for home when curiosity 
overcame his caution. A brief look over the wall would satisfy that and 
then he could go. 

Although the wall was high there were both feet and hand holds and he
was able to hoist himself up so that he could lift his head over the 
top gradually and survey the view. 

It was a dramatic scene in classic black and white, the moonlight though
showing up every detail, muting the daylight colours. In the background 
was the church surrounded by leafless trees; in front, standing like 
misshapen teeth in a dentist's nightmare were the gravestones while, 
hopping amongst them and seeming to keep perfect time with each other, 
though to what music they were dancing he could not tell, was a group 
of male and female moving figures. They flung their heads about and 
their feet thumped on the hard ground making the sound that Rory had 
first heard. 

Suddenly whatever coordinated them must have stopped for they all froze
and shuffled into a rough circle, joining hands. The girls faced 
inwards and the boys outwards and in the centre of the circle was a 
tall figure with flowing hair whom Rory immediately recognised as 
Pauline Chanter. 

Apart from the initial surprise at seeing a group of people behaving
oddly in the churchyard, Rory had been more amused than amazed. Tommy 
had said that the group got up to some pretty wild things when they met 
and this was obviously one of them. He could indeed have called out to 
them - they were all pupils at his school after all - and perhaps would 
have done when Pauline started making a noise. 

It wasn't speaking though it was presumably words that she was uttering,
but the voice she used was a horrible gargling, choking cry and Rory's 
spine chilled at the sound. 

The circle had stopped as she started and now drew in towards her, both
boys and girls now facing inwards, extending their hands towards 
something she held out in front of her. They dipped their hands and 
then cupped them to their faces, smearing whatever it was over their 
noses and mouths. The outlandish noise Pauline made continued and soon 
the group around her started to twitch and dance again. Strange animals 
sounds came out of their mouths. One started to bark like a dog and 
from another came the eerie scream of a vixen. Others cawed like crows 
and soon a dreadful cacophony of harsh discordant sounds filled the 
night air. 

One boy - Rory scarcely recognised him as his friend, Tommy Gould -
flapped his arms as if they were wings and then hopped onto a low 
gravestone and balanced there. crouching and flapping as if he were 
about to take off into flight. 

Rory could scarcely believe what he was seeing. The children seemed to
have gone mad, become possessed and changed into animals. One girl 
squatted down and, seemingly impossibly, scratched her ear with her 
foot. If it hasn't been so horrible, it would almost have been funny. 

As a background to the animal noises Pauline's odd croaking cries
continued but then suddenly ceased. Rory had been so hypnotised by the 
scene that he had become careless and had raised himself well into view 
over the wall. 

Pauline stared at him and the moonlight reflected off her eyes. Like a
cat's eyes, her eyes glowed with a silver light. 

She gave a harsh scream and pointed to him so that all the animals
ceased their calling and turned to where she was pointing. Only then 
did she utter comprehensible words and they were only too 
understandable. 

"Get him," she said, and the whole group started forward. 

With a shriek of alarm Rory fell backwards off the wall landing
painfully on the ground so that his ankle twisted. 

He staggered off towards town and in his ears he heard Pauline's
laughter. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

In her room that Saturday evening Doris waited and worried. 

She knew she ought not to be there but rather with Bessie in her cottage
helping her to call up forces which might reverse the black witchcraft 
of Pauline.  But try as she might, no arguments or pleading had been 
able to move the implacable decision of her parents. She was not to 
visit Bessie nor to try to get in touch with her by whatever means. 

Doris couldn't understand what had happened to her parents. They, like
the village as a whole, seemed to have fallen completely under the 
influence of the Chanters. She wondered whether they, like Pauline, 
possessed some sort of supernatural power or whether it was merely the 
material consideration that Piers Chanter was the Bank Manager and Mrs 
Chanter had no been elected to the local Council. 

Rory had promised to call after his visit to Bessie but it was getting
late and, even when they were behaving normally, eyebrows would have 
been raised if Doris had started receiving visitors - especially male 
ones - much after nine o'clock. 

Her imagination then suggested that Rory might have forgotten all about
it. One of his friends had called and they'd gone out together. Or 
could he be trusted? Suppose he was really one of Pauline's converts, 
but a secret one whose job was to keep her informed what the opposition 
was doing. There was a light tap at her bedroom door. It must be Rory, 
though she hadn't heard his ring at the front door. "Come in," she 
said. 

Her father opened the door. He looked tense and his eyes were cold, his
mouth set in a straight unsmiling line. In some strange way he didn't 
look like her father at all. 

"I've sent him away," he said. He did not say whom he was talking about
but Doris knew he meant Rory. "I told you I didn't want any 
communication with that woman - of any sort." 

CHAPTER 17 

It had been a most curious week in Elmcombe. 

James Archer's dog, Jess, advanced on the flock of sheep in response to
her master's whistle. Move them up to the top of the field, thought 
James. What's the matter with the beasts? The sheep, instead of running 
off had converged into a tight group, turning to face the dog who, not 
unnaturally, seemed a little bemused. The sheep in front pawed their 
ground. Jess barked but this only seemed to enrage the flock and they 
advanced on the dog who whined and looked back at her master. 

James shouted to her to go on but she only lay down and looked very
unhappy, ears laid flat and an unaccustomed snarl twisting her mouth. 
The sheep continued their advance and the dog at last gave up and fled, 
coming back to her master and cowering behind him, her tail between her 
legs. James could not believe his eyes. 

The shepherd raised his stick and shouted at the flock but this only
seemed to attract their attention to him and they herded towards him. 
He kicked out as the leading one came within range and the sheep opened 
its mouth showing yellow teeth and bit him in the leg. He yelled and 
the other sheep milled around biting and pawing at the ground. Jess 
whined and then howled as she received a bite. 

Flailing his stick wildly and kicking out, the shepherd went down under
a woolly onslaught of teeth and hooves while Jess alternately growled 
and then whimpered on the outskirts of the melee. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Mr and Mrs Fletcher lived in Briar Cottage with their thirteen year old
daughter, Emily. She was an unprepossessing girl with a violent temper 
and a selfish temperament, and had become increasingly difficult to 
cope with as she approached puberty. 

She had just had a screaming tantrum and stormed up stairs leaving her
father and mother staring blankly at each other. 

"Perhaps it's just a phase she's going through," suggested Mr Fletcher. 

"I don't think I can cope with much more of it," said Mrs Fletcher. 

Mr Fletcher was about to suggest they get some professional advice when
out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a movement. For a 
moment he thought it could have been a mouse running along the 
mantelpiece but when he went over to look, there was nothing alive 
there. The clock, a huge ugly old black marble timepiece, a legacy from 
a now-dead great aunt, stood in the middle, ponderously ticking away 
the seconds. 

Various photographs in cheap frames of the family in happier times - Mrs
Fletcher was a great one for taking, and preserving, holiday snaps - 
were arranged on either side and at each end stood a matching pair of 
tall vases. "What are you looking for?" asked Mrs Fletcher. 

"Nothing. I thought I saw a mouse or something - but there's nothing
here." 

He sat down, and as he did so, one of the vases started rocking and then
tipped over the edge to smash on the tiled surround of the fireplace 
below. 

Mrs Fletcher screamed, more from surprise than fear. 

"What the . . . !" said Mr Fletcher. 

"You must have knocked it as you moved," said Mrs Fletcher. 

"No I didn't." 

"You're not going to tell me it fell off of its own accord." 

At that moment, the vase from the other end did just that. 

And then the photographs in their frames, one after the other, started
hurtling across the room as if thrown by an unseen hand. This time Mrs 
Fletcher was too terrified even to make a sound. 

Then the huge old clock started to move. It juddered towards the edge of
the mantelpiece and Mr Fletcher, even though he thought it an ugly 
thing, dashed over to try to save it. He was just too late. As he 
arrived there, the heavyweight toppled off and, though he tried to 
catch it with his arms holding it against his chest, the full weight 
crunched into his ribcage. 

In her room upstairs, hearing the noises from below, Emily smirked. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

At school Pauline Chanter announced that she was holding a Hallowe'en
party on Saturday. Her special group were, of course, invited, in fact 
already knew all about it and what the real object of the 'party' was. 
But there were others asked and Pauline distributed special invitations 
to the chosen at morning break on Wednesday. 

Of course Doris was not invited but the excited chatter of those who
were told her a great deal about the event. It would start as soon as 
dusk fell and would continue until Venus, the Morning Star, disappeared 
from the sky i.e. dawn. To those who queried whether their parents 
would allow them to stay out all night, Pauline had answered that her 
parents would oversee everything and satisfy any dubious Mums or Dads 
that no harm would come to their little darlings. The reputation of Mr 
and Mrs Chanter was such, Doris thought, that few parents would not 
allow their children to attend. 

Pauline was holding court and answering excited questions in the Year 11
Common Room when the black cat which had first appeared during Mrs 
King's assembly walked in. Although the Headmistress had suggested that 
the cat belonged to the caretaker, he stoutly denied this, and no one 
else claimed ownership. The cat seemed an independent animal, coming in 
and out of classrooms as it willed and was tolerated by most of the 
teachers. It was particularly attached to Doris and she had started to 
bring it tins of cat food because she wasn't sure whether it was 
properly fed - or indeed fed at all, except for what it could get as a 
result of its own hunting. 

As it wandered into the Year 11 Common Room looking possibly for Doris,
Pauline stopped talking. "Here comes the familiar without its witch," 
she said ambiguously and then pointed her finger at it. 

The cat gave a terrified yowl and its back arched as only a cat's can.
It rose up onto the tips of its toes and from its open mouth came a 
furious spitting sound. 

"Out, Astaroth," said Pauline. The cat turned and fled. 

Doris, watching the odd scene did not say anything, but she determined
that as soon as she could, the cat would get a good home and someone 
who would really look after it. 

All in all it was an odd week in Elmcombe. 

CHAPTER 18 

There was only one time at which Doris could take the cat to Bessie's
without her parents' knowledge and that was in the lunch break. At 
least they had not gone to the extreme lengths of coming into school 
themselves or asking the teachers to supervise her between one o'clock 
and a quarter to two. She thought she would be able to get to Bessie's 
cottage and back in the time especially if she could borrow a bicycle 
from one of the pupils. Frances Archer, whose father was a shepherd and 
was at the moment in hospital after a freak accident with his sheep, 
the details of which were not yet clear, had a bicycle and was willing 
to lend it. It also had a basket fixed to the handlebars. 

The only  problem was how to carry the cat. Though it was an amenable
animal, especially with Doris, it would hardly sit in the basket while 
she bumped her way down the rutted track. Frances, who was proving to 
be quite a help, provided the answer, to cover the basket with a cloth 
and tie it securely down. 

This Doris proceeded to do. Surprisingly the cat cooperated to being put
into the basket and even made no protest when she put the cover on. 

"Catnapping?" said a voice from behind her. It was Peter Johnson,
unusually for him, on his own. 

"I've decided the cat needs looking after," said Doris. "Since Bessie
lost her crow, she hasn't had any company." 

"Does Pauline know?" asked Peter. 

"What's it got to do with her?" said Doris and started off. 

At that moment the cat decided that it did not like its prison, or at
least not when it was in motion, and started a dreadful caterwauling 
which attracted the attention of various juniors in the playground so 
that Doris had quite an audience as she rode out of the front gate. 

And the cat kept it up for the whole twenty minute journey, up School
Road, along the High Street, past St Kenelm's Church with its row of 
hideous gargoyle heads along the roof, gaining curious glances from 
passersby all the way so that Doris was sweating slightly from 
embarrassment and heartily glad when she at last turned onto the track 
that led to Bessie's cottage. 

She hoped that Bessie would be in not really relishing a return journey
with a similar vocal accompaniment but the door opened almost 
immediately she knocked. Obviously Bessie must have seen - or more 
likely heard - her coming. She was obviously able to move around much 
more easily too and there was no bandage on her ankle. Clearly Bessie's 
own medical treatment was very efficient. Her hair was white and fluffy 
but she was not wearing the usual green hat. She smiled when she saw 
Doris. 

"Can I bring the bike into the room?" asked Doris. "I don't think the
cat is too happy. It may run off else." 

"I used to have a cat," said Bessie doubtfully. "Before Kathun." But she
nevertheless made space for Doris to wheel the bike in and closed the 
door behind her. 

As soon as the motion ceased, the cat stopped its miaowing and, when
Doris took off the cover, instead of leaping frantically out of the 
basket, it just poked its head up and made an enquiring mewing sound 
almost as if to say 'Are we here at last?' 

Bessie stroked its head and then nodded her approval. 

"That's a special cat," she said, which was probably her way of saying
thank you. "He'll do very well. I'll call him Tab." It sounded more a 
name for a tabby cat, thought Doris, but presumably Bessie knew what 
she was doing - she usually did. "All witches have an animal. It's 
called their 'familiar'." 

That reminded Doris of what Pauline had said when the cat had wandered
into the Common Room. 

"It didn't like Pauline either," said Doris. 

"No I don't suppose he would," said Bessie ambiguously. She patted the
cushion of an easy chair and the cat jumped out of the bicycle basket, 
sniffed at the cushion a couple of times, then lay down and curled up. 

"I can't stay long," said Doris. "I've got to get back to school." 

Bessie looked at her. "You've got to come here on Saturday," she said. 

Doris looked doubtful. 

"I'll try," she said. "But I don't think my parents will let me. They .
.  they're behaving very strangely." 

"It's that Pauline," said Bessie. "She's got people under her
influence." 

"She's having a party on Hallowe'en," said Doris. "She's invited lots of
the kids from school. They're staying out all night." 

"That's for the Greater Sabbat," said Bessie, "goes on till dawn.
They'll be doing terrible things, powerful things. That's the reason 
why we've got to work together." 

Bessie looked desperately serious. 

"But what can we possibly do against all those?" asked Doris. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

That evening Doris had an idea - or to be more accurate Rory had had the
idea during the afternoon when Doris had consulted him about her 
problem. Since he had seen the strange event in the cemetery, and he 
had not told anyone except Doris about it, he quite believed that 
Pauline was a witch. He had also fully expected that she would say 
something to him on the following morning, after all she had looked 
straight at him with those unearthly shining eyes, but she completely 
ignored him. Tommy, whom he had last seen perched on the gravestone, 
flapping his arms, was looking totally miserable - and very ill. 

Rory tried asking him what the matter was but Tommy wouldn't answer,
merely shrugging his shoulders and wandering off. He wondered whether 
he was on drugs of some sort. 

Doris discussed her problem with him after she returned from delivering
the cat. 

"It's obvious that your parents believe everything the Chanters say," he
said, "and you won't be able to persuade them to let you go to Bessie's 
on Saturday. So you'll have to use deceit. Would they let you go to 
Pauline's party?" 

"But I haven't been invited," protested Doris. 

"Just say you have." 

"But if they check with the Chanters . . . " 

"Well you won't be any worse off, will you?" 

Doris didn't like it but could see no other way. 

"Mum," she said while her mother was preparing the supper  that evening,
"Pauline's asked me to her Hallowe'en party on Saturday." 

"I'm glad you're making friends with the Chanters," said Frank, who was
slicing onions. Meals were quite a communal affair at the Simmonds'. 

"It's going to be an all-night one," said Doris tentatively. 

"I'm sure Piers and Amanda will look after you all, and see you don't
get into any mischief," said Alice comfortably. 

Doris couldn't believe it. Was this her mother, who fretted if she was
out in the High Street after dark? If she only knew what sort of 
'mischief' Pauline's guests would be up to - in all probability aided 
and abetted by their precious new friends, Piers and Amanda! Bessie was 
right. Their influence was incredible. 

"Thank you," was all Doris could think of saying. 

FLYING WITH WITCHES 

by Michael Gouda 

CHAPTER 19 

"There's that damn phone again," said Alice. "Three times it's rung this
evening, and each time when I picked up the receiver there's no one 
there." 

Doris went into the hall and answered it. 

"Elmcombe 4221," she said. "Hello." 

"Doris," said a voice which she immediately recognised. "It's Bessie
here." 

Frank put his head round the door. "Who is it?" he asked. 

"It's alright," said Doris thinking quickly and remembering her mistake
the last time she and Bessie had talked on the phone. "It's for me. 
It's Frances, Frances Archer." Frank nodded and withdrew. 

"Hello, Frances," said Doris loudly. "It's alright. I'll be able to come
on Saturday - to the party. My parents say it's OK." 

Bessie on the other end seemed to be having difficulty in understanding.


"No, it's Bessie here," she said. "Bessie Simkins." 

"Yes I know," said Doris. "What time shall I come round?" 

"I had to get the phone repaired," said Bessie who now seemed to be in a
chatty mood. "I ripped out the wire when I fell over and hurt my ankle. 
The young man was most kind even though it did cost me an arm and a leg 
to get it fixed." 

"Good," said Doris. "Good. Well I'll see you at seven then." 

She put down the receiver and Frank appeared again. 

"I'll give you a lift over to Pauline's on Saturday," he said. "Save you
the walk." 

"I just arranged to call for Frances," said Doris, thinking quickly.
"There's some other girls meeting there and we're all going over 
together. We thought we'd feel better going as a group as we're wearing 
fancy dress. You know, all girls together, less embarrassing." She 
didn't like lying to her parents but this was an emergency. 

Frank nodded understandingly. Doris breathed again. 

"What are you going as?" he asked. 

"Oh you know. Black pointy hat and cape. The usual." 

"Mask with a long sharp nose and warts?" said Frank and laughed. 

"You bet," said Doris. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Doris passed the remainder of the week on tenterhooks, not sure whether
she would be caught out in her deception and having to go through the 
process of making a witch's pointed hat out of black card and a long 
cape from a piece of material she bought from the market on Thursday. 

All the effort was going to be wasted, of course, but it had at least
brought the family together and they laughed and joked as they tried 
out the costume and mask - almost like normal, thought Doris. I wish! 

Dressed in this absurd garb, she was able to get out of the house at
half past six. She thought she would take it all off as soon as she got 
round the corner but found to her amazement that there were other 
similarly strangely-garbed 'witches', 'spooks' and 'hobgoblins' 
wandering the streets, some knocking on doors but others presumably 
making for Pauline's 'party'. At least the mask concealed her face and 
she kept it on until she reached the track which led to Bessie's 
cottage. Then she made a bundle of it, left it behind a tree and ran. 

Bessie sat her down in one of her comfortable but usually
object-littered chairs. Tab, the cat, had certainly made himself at 
home. He had been provided with a snug-looking cushion and was asleep 
on it when Doris arrived, but he did jump down and run to her with a 
little cry of recognition. He purred as she stroked his head and curled 
up on her lap. 

"He's a great mouser," said Bessie with grudging admiration. 

She made some of her special coffee and they sat together in front of
the fire sipping it. There were spicy biscuits too tasting of cinnamon 
and nutmeg. 

"Now," said Bessie, "about this evening. You've seen what I do. I want
you in the circle with me this time and you must repeat everything I 
say and do." She paused, looked at Doris then said, "Are you 
frightened, child?" 

"No," said Doris. "A bit nervous perhaps - and excited too." 

"Good," said Bessie. "Any questions?" 

There were, thought Doris, any number of them but she concentrated on
just a couple. 

"Those little figurines," she said, "the ones you put on the altar. What
are they?" 

Bessie felt in her pocket and took them out holding one in each hand.
"This is Gea," she said holding up the fat female figure. "She's the 
Earth goddess. This statue is really old. It was carved perhaps 10,000 
years ago by Palaeolithic people. Of course we don't know what they 
called her. Gea is the Greek name for the Earth, as in Geography - 
writing about the earth. " 

"Do you worship her?" asked Doris who privately thought she looked very
ugly, a vastly overweight female who nowadays would have been told to 
go onto a strict non-fat, high-fibre diet. 

"Not exactly worship," said Bessie. "I respect what she stands for, the
Earth and all its resources, which today people are polluting and 
ruining. Mother Earth has great powers of recuperation but there are 
limits." 

"What about the other one?" 

Bessie held up the slim little silver figurine. It was, naked, male -
obviously so - and had horns on his head. "This is Herne the Hunter. 
He's a pagan god whom the early Christians tried to destroy by 
associating him with the Devil." 

"It's a bit rude," said Doris. 

"That's the male principle," said Bessie. 

"Is it?" said Doris. Her school friends would probably have called it
something else. She thought for a moment. "If the Christians said this 
Herne's the Devil," she asked, "isn't he evil?" 

"Not evil, just powerful," said Bessie. "It is Man who misuses power
turning it either to good or evil - look at splitting the atom. If you 
use the power for bad things, then it becomes evil. If you use it for 
good, then it is good." 

Doris nodded. That made sense, if anything did in this increasingly
bizarre situation. "And Pauline's could be using it for evil," she 
said. 

Bessie didn't answer but she looked very serious. "Now the other thing -
and this is most important - do not on any account do anything on your 
own. It could be disastrous. Just look at me and copy what I do. I will 
give you all the protection I can and the two of us, working together, 
should be able to control the power and make use of it against whatever 
Pauline Chanter will do tonight." 

"You think she's going to do something?" 

"I know it - and I fear what the results will be," said Bessie. 

CHAPTER 20 

Under instruction Doris crushed rue, myrtle, deadly nightshade with a
pestle and mortar and then mixed it with with alum and sulphur to be 
used as the incense. "It's as powerful as the 'flying ointment' but not 
so addictive," said Bessie. "Pauline wants to enslave her coven. I 
don't want you to become dependent on anything." 

Then she helped with the laying out of the equipment, the sword, the
white-handled knife, the chalice and the incense burner, and swept the 
circle with the witch's broom. 

While she was doing this, Bessie also made Doris repeat until she knew
it by heart what she called a runic protection spell which, she said, 
had had a powerful effect on a previous occasion. It went: 

The age-dark cauldron of fire protect me; The light-bound sword of grief
preserve me; Twenty daemons hold and keep me; And the Great God fight 
for me. 

It didn't seem to make much sense but Doris did as she was told. 

At last the preparations were complete. Bessie's final words before they
started were to repeat the warning that she must on no account 
interfere. Her job was solely to repeat what Bessie herself did. Doris 
promised. 

She was feeling a little nervous now. She remembered the strange form
she had seen on the previous occasion and how it had seemed to come 
spiralling up through the vortex to recognise her - or at least to take 
notice of her. 

The candles were lit, both she and Bessie holding onto the taper as they
did so. Then they ignited the incense in the silver holder and the 
smoke went thickly up to form a cloudy ceiling which gradually sank 
lower until the whole room was hazy and the candle flames developed 
their nebulous haloes. 

At first the smoke tasted bitter and acrid and Doris felt as if she was
choking but she soon became accustomed to it, and though it left her 
feeling slightly dizzy and unreal, the effect was not altogether 
unpleasant. 

Then Bessie started on the chants and incantations. To make it easier
for Doris, she had written them on pieces of paper so that she could 
read them but her writing was spiky and the words often meant little or 
nothing to her - especially the Latin. She compromised by imitating the 
sounds and hoped that would do as well. 

Together they scattered the salt so that it sizzled and flared in the
incense fire, and sprinkled the hissing water and then came the 
whirling dancing so that the smoke swirled and twisted and the vortex 
formed, spinning down and down into the depths of another space and 
time that today's world knew little of. 

Then Doris could feel it. An entity, a power which was both of this
world and yet apart from it. It had substance though as yet no definite 
shape - and it was huge. The roaring noise that she had heard before, 
like a monstrous wind, was suddenly on her, buffeting her eardrums so 
that she had to cover them with her hands. 

Suddenly she could no longer see nor hear Bessie but only this huge
amorphous cloud which filled the room, filled the world, pulsing and 
throbbing. She felt she was in the middle of a great storm with the 
sounds and sizzles of massive electric discharges all around her. She 
opened her mouth to scream but as she did so, there was an even greater 
crash drowning whatever puny noise she could make and the shape split 
down the middle making two distinct forms. 

She knew in her mind that she was seeing the Earth Mother and the Horned
God but their figures were so huge that she could make out no features, 
no real delineation of their forms. 

>From one she could feel an emanation of protective care, of motherhood,
she supposed, but it was of such great power that it was almost 
antagonistic. This force was the Mother of the whole Earth. What then 
could it care of tiny, insignificant Doris Simmonds? Except perhaps as 
the tiniest part of the whole. 

>From the other there came the feeling of maleness, not a hairy,
Rugby-scrum maleness, but a sexual power which was perhaps more to do 
with pheromones than physical shape, the chemical attraction which drew 
two people together whatever they looked like, something of what she 
felt - used to feel? - for Rory but magnified a millionfold. And 
underneath all this there was a held-in male aggression which, if it 
were to be unleashed, could destroy. 

Suddenly she knew that the two Beings were aware of her, not looking at
her or anything as particular as that, but as she might be aware of 
dust motes in a shaft of sunlight, presumably each one an individual 
but only comprehensible as a generic group. 

And then she knew that she could control the Beings, use them to carry
out her will and she was no longer a dust mote but a human being who 
could use the ancient spells and incantations to manipulate forces so 
much greater than herself. Such power she had and for a moment it could 
have gone to her head - as presumably it had to Pauline's. This was a 
temptation to gain the world and use it for her own ends, and she knew 
she had to resist it, otherwise she was no better than Pauline. 

In fact she did not have to make the choice for suddenly she felt a
great blow in the middle of her back and she was knocked out of the 
circle. Bessie for some reason had pushed her out and now was alone in 
there and they were too powerful for her. 

Doris heard her scream, and as she did so the smoke thinned and
disappeared. The Beings were no longer there. There was nothing except 
the sprawled figure of the old woman, lying face down on the floor, her 
black cape covering her. 

Doris felt for her pulse and for a moment was horrified because she
could feel nothing. Then she felt a little irregular beat and knew that 
at least Bessie was alive. 

She ran into the other room, thanking whatever had made Bessie have her
phone reconnected and dialled 999, trying to be as calm as she could 
asking for an ambulance as an old lady had collapsed. It was the 
longest ten minutes in her life but she filled it by first covering 
Bessie with a warm coat she found amongst the rummage and then by 
clearing up as much as she could of the paraphernalia of the ritual. 
deciding the ambulance crew would think it very odd if they saw the 
altar, candles and everything. She covered the chalk circles with a rug 
and as she did so, she heard the siren as the ambulance came down the 
track. 

Thankfully she gave Bessie over to the ministrations of the
professionals. 

They wrapped her in a red blanket, put her gently onto a stretcher and
took her away, the siren getting fainter and fainter until it 
disappeared entirely. It was very quiet once it had gone. 

No one was to know then that Bessie and the ambulance crew were the last
people to leave Elmcombe before it became a blockaded town, out of and 
into which, no one could enter or leave. 

CHAPTER 21 

It was nearly midnight before Doris left the cottage. For one thing she
had pondered about what to do with Tab. Eventually she put out some 
food - there was some rabbit, she thought, in a pot - and milk. The cat 
could get out through the cat flap in the back door and in fact was 
used to looking after itself. Nevertheless she would get back the 
following day; she could tell her parents with complete truth that 
Bessie was no longer in Elmcombe and they could hardly object to 
looking after a cat. 

The little cat, its head in the bowl energetically chewing was the last
normal thing she saw that night. 

The moon was three quarters full but ragged clouds kept obscuring it so
that Doris found she was moving from patches of moonlight to darkness. 
She had scarcely walked more than a hundred metres when she noticed 
something running in the ditch alongside her. At first she thought it 
might have been Tab who had followed her and called to it but whatever 
it was did not come to her. On the contrary it stopped - a dark shadow 
in the lee of the hedgerow - and chittered at her. It was such an 
un-catlike noise and so alien that she also stopped and peered, trying 
to make out what kind of an animal it was - certainly too large for a 
squirrel. 

Suddenly the moon came out from behind the cloud and lit up the animal's
face. It was the face of a nightmare, a gargoyle's like the stone 
carvings from round the roof of the church but this one alive, with a 
wide-open mouth, long teeth which dripped saliva and an expression of 
such malignant fury in its staring eyes that Doris screamed and started 
running. As she did so another one darted from the other side of the 
track and she felt it grab at her heels. She tripped and fell and 
immediately the things - whatever they were - were on her. She felt 
many scaly bodies and claws scrabbling at her arms and legs. One 
grabbed her around the neck and its face was directly against hers. She 
smelt its stinking breath, like something that had been long dead, its 
slobbering saliva dribbled onto her and she choked with disgust. 

In her panic she found herself reciting the protection prayer that
Bessie had taught her earlier that evening. 

The age-dark cauldron of fire protect me; The light-bound sword of grief
preserve me; Twenty daemons hold and keep me; And the Great God fight 
for me. 

As she panted out the words, the things dropped away from her like
leeches when they are touched with a lighted cigarette. The one against 
her face gave a great squeal of pain and she was able to stagger back 
to her feet and carry on up the track. 

But the grotesque things had not finished with her. They carried on
running beside her, gibbering and leering, and snatching at her legs as 
she panted into the night. She heard strange sounds coming from their 
open mouths, their long teeth stopping them from closing and sounding 
the consonants. "O - i " and then a hiss, repeated again and again and 
her blood chilled as she at last realised they were saying - or at 
least attempting to say - her name. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

She was almost sobbing as she arrived home. 

Surely they would leave her now that she was safely back. 

But they danced hideous attendance on her to her garden gate and clawed
amongst the flower beds as she raced up the path and scrabbled with her 
front door key terrified that she would feel a clutching hand at her 
shoulder. 

At last the key found the lock, the door opened and she fell in and
slammed it behind her. 

"You have not been to the party," said Frank. 

He was standing staring at her from the shadows at the far end of the
hall. He must have heard her frantic efforts to open the door but he 
had obviously made no move to help her. Doris did not know what to say. 
She had just had the most terrifying journey of her life and here was 
her father babbling on about the party. 

"Things," she stammered as well as she could through her gasping,
"Chasing me." 

"You were never invited to the party." His voice was cold and accusing.
"I have spoken to the Chanters." 

"Out in the garden," she almost screamed. "Horrible things." 

"You have been to see that woman!" 

"She's gone now," said Doris. "She's left Elmcombe." For the first time
they were talking about the same thing. 

"You disobeyed us," said Frank. "We will not let you go to the party
tomorrow." 

Doris didn't understand. What her father had just said did not make
sense. 

"What are you talking about? The party was today," she said. "Saturday."


"Tomorrow is Saturday," said Frank. "You will go to your room now. You
will not be allowed to go to the party." His eyes had something of the 
malignant expression of the thing that had stared at her on the journey 
home. He made a move towards her and suddenly she was frightened of 
him. Under her breath she muttered the protection prayer and he stopped 
half way down the hall. He stood looking at her and she went upstairs. 

In her room Doris tried to make sense of everything but nothing made any
sense. What her father had said made no sense. What he seemed to be 
implying was that Saturday was followed by Saturday. Was all this the 
result of Pauline's Black Sabbat? Had it sent her father mad? Were the 
gargoyle things she had seen entities conjured up by her and her coven 
and now released from whatever circles they had drawn? 

She sat at the window and stared out to where the moonlight lit up the
garden. She could see no skittering horrors but an immense dark shape 
seemed to brood over the village, the evil opposite of the Herne that 
Bessie and she had failed to produce as a counter-measure. 

In the part of the sky low down opposite the moon, there was a bright
star, actually a planet, Venus. While that was still visible, Pauline's 
party would still be going on and they would be creating more and more 
terrors. 

And now Bessie was gone there was only she who seemed to be aware of it.


CHAPTER 22 

It should have been Sunday, the Sabbath, the Holy Day, but it was
Saturday when Doris awoke from a restless sleep. The sky was a smoky 
grey through the window. She had actually been awakened by the slamming 
of a car door and she got out of bed and went over to the window. The 
postwoman was delivering letters along the road and that never happened 
on a Sunday. Her parents had just got into the car and as she looked 
out her father started the engine. 

Doris opened the window. "Where are you going?" she shouted. But they
did not answer, did not even look up. They drove off down the road 
between the quiet rows of houses. At the end the car turned left and 
went out of sight. Towards the Chanters' house, thought Doris. 

She put some clothes on, cotton trousers, a shirt and a blue denim
jacket and went over to the door. It would not open. They had locked it 
from the outside. This was stupid, thought Doris. What on earth were 
her parents doing? She wanted to go to the loo. She needed her 
breakfast - or at least a drink, as her throat felt rough and sore. 

She switched on her transistor but although she clicked all the tuning
buttons all she could get was white noise. It was as if no broadcasts 
could get through. She went over to the window again and wondered 
whether she could climb out but there was no convenient trellis nor 
drainpipe and there was a concrete patio area directly below. 

A movement from the road caught her eye. Mr and Mrs Peters from two
doors down were walking along the pavement. They were carrying shopping 
bags as if it was Saturday morning and they were off to the 
Supermarket. It was going to be embarrassing telling them that she was 
locked in but she would have to. 

"Hello," she called. "Mrs Peters." 

They must have heard her but they continued as if they hadn't, looking
straight ahead. 

"Help," she shouted desperately. "I'm locked in. Can you help me?" 

They walked by apparently unconcerned and continued down the road. At
the end like her parents, though it took them considerably longer, they 
too turned left. The postwoman wheeling her letter wagon had also 
disappeared. It was very quiet. Even the sparrows had gone. 

It seemed that hours passed and Doris was seriously considering
alternatives to the loo. There was a vase but it had a narrow neck and 
that presented difficulties. There were, she thought, a few advantages 
to being a boy. 

Just before she decided to give the vase a try, she saw a familiar
figure down the street, a figure which a few days ago would have given 
her an adrenalin shock almost akin to panic but now just inspired a 
feeling of intense relief. It was Rory Callahan. 

She had a moment's fear that he also might have been turned into a
zombie but this was dispelled when he looked up, saw her at the window 
and said, "What are you doing up there?" 

"I've been locked in," she called down. "I'll explain. Can you find the
spare front door key and let me out. It's in the greenhouse, under the 
third flowerpot on the left." 

Good old Rory! He didn't bother with questions but just obediently
trotted off and moments later returned waving the key. She heard him 
pounding up the stairs and then heard his voice outside her door. 

"Where's the key to your room?" 

"I don't know," she said. "Isn't it somewhere around. If not get one
from one of the other bedroom doors. They've all got the same locks." 

At last the door opened. 

"Now what's all this about?" he asked. 

"Explain in a minute," she said, dashing for the loo. If I can, she
thought. 

When she came out feeling much relieved, Rory was in the kitchen cutting
slices of bread and making two cups of instant coffee. 

Over toast and marmalade, she told him about last night's disaster and
the strange events which had succeeded it. In his turn Rory confirmed 
that odd things had been happening at his house too. 

"When I got up they'd all gone out, Mum, Dad, my two sisters and the
twins. It was like the Marie Celeste, cups of tea on the table, still 
warm, but no one there. As if they'd all been having breakfast and then 
they'd disappeared." 

"Or been called away," said Doris. "My parents and the Peters all looked
as if they'd been hypnotised." 

"I wonder why it didn't happen to us," said Rory. 

Doris pulled up her sleeve and showed him the knitted woollen  bracelet
Bessie had given her. "I've been protected," she said, "though I don't 
know how you escaped." 

Rory said, "Snap," and showed her his wrist. There was a thin rope of
what once had been pink wool around it. "Bessie gave me one when I 
helped her with her sprained ankle. I only put it on to please her and 
then sort of forgot to take it off." 

Doris was not sure what this said about Rory's washing habits but
decided not to pursue the matter. 

"What do we do now?" asked Rory. It was as if he recognised that she was
in charge and would know what to do. 

"Back to Bessie's," she said. "I've got an unfinished task to complete."
He gave her a curious look. "And I've got to feed the cat." 

They went out into the Saturday/Sunday morning. The air smelled as if it
had sulphur in it, as if yesterday had been Guy Fawkes Night rather 
than it being still four days away (or five if you used Pauline's 
calendar). Apart from that it was absolutely quiet. There was no sound 
of church bells ringing. 

"It's like we're being watched all the time," said Rory suddenly
whipping round as if to catch an unseen observer before he could hide. 
There was no one there. 

In the terrifying silence, they walked together down the track, the
track that had played so much importance in the life of Doris in the 
past few days. As the path turned a corner they noticed a curious 
thing. What seemed to be a thick mist crossed and completely 
obliterated the way ahead. 

"I don't like the look of that," said Rory. 

"Well there's no getting away from it. All we've got to do is to follow
the track." 

They stepped into the mist and felt it close around them like a cold,
grey veil getting thicker and more substantial as they pressed into it. 
Suddenly they were against a solid wall and . . . 

. . . they noticed a curious thing. What seemed to be a thick mist
crossed and completely obliterated the way ahead. 

"I don't like the look of that," said Rory. 

"Well there's no getting away from it. All we've got to do is to follow
the track." 

CHAPTER 23 

"No," said Doris suddenly stopping. "We've done this before. It's
another of Pauline's conjurations. We'll spend forever just going round 
and round." 

"A sort of time loop," said Rory. 

"Isn't this where the parish boundary runs?" asked Doris. "For some
strange medieval reason Kinghampton cuts across the track but then goes 
back again further down. Bessie's house is certainly in Elmcombe." 

"So if we keep in Elmcombe we'll be alright. It means going across
country a bit." 

It certainly did. They followed the mist keeping it always to their
right and ploughed through some of last summer's nettles, still with 
quite a sting in them, then over the Beeside Brook, which luckily was 
low before finally finding their way back to the track. They finished 
the last few yards to the cottage at a run. 

Tab was overjoyed to see them mewing and purring and winding himself
round their legs. 

Doris had left the back door on the latch last night so they were able
to get in easily. "OK," said Rory. "What do we do now?" 

"I'm afraid this is woman's business," said Doris. "You can light the
fire in the front room and feed the cat. There's some rabbit in a pot 
and some milk in the fridge." 

"And then?" asked Rory. 

"Just wait for me. I'll be in the next room, but whatever you hear or
whatever you see, don't come in." Rory looked a bit doubtful. "I mean 
it!" 

"OK,' he said. 

Doris disappeared into the next room and shut the door. 

Rory went outside and found a pile of chopped wood. He picked up an
armful and brought it in. There was also some twigs and smaller bits of 
wood to use as kindling. He screwed up some pages of newspaper - Bessie 
seemed to take the Financial Times for some reason - put them into the 
grate, laid the kindling and lit it with a match from the matchbox he 
found on the mantlepiece. The wood was dry and soon caught. He arranged 
some logs on top and decided he's made a good job. 

Tab was watching the proceedings with interest from his cushion on the
sofa so Rory looked into the pot on the stove. The rabbit didn't seem 
all that appetising to him but he thought it might be different for a 
cat so he spooned some out for him onto a plate and put it on the 
floor. There was some milk that smelled alright in the fridge. 

Tab purred and started to eat. 

His jobs done, Rory sat on the sofa and wondered what to do next. He
could hear a strange sort of chanting from next door but it was muffled 
by the thick wood and he could not make out the words. He could, 
though, smell a strong reek of something part chemical, part medicinal 
which made him cough and he wondered how Doris could stand being in the 
thick of it. 

After a while Tab joined him jumping onto his lap and curling up. He
stroked him and he started purring. 

It was getting warm in the room, the fire burning brightly and Rory
began to feel drowsy. His eyelids closed and he dozed off. It was 
probably only for a couple of minutes but he awoke suddenly bounced 
into awareness by the sudden movement of the cat. It had sprung upright 
and was staring with wide golden eyes at the closed door behind which 
was coming the sound of a rushing wind and Doris's voice. And this time 
he could hear the words. 

The age-dark cauldron of fire protect me; The light-bound sword of grief
preserve me; Twenty daemons hold and keep me; And the Great God fight 
for me. Gea, Mother Goddess, Herne the Hunter, Obey me for this trial 
of strength. 

The rushing sound grew stronger and Tab fled to the back door and shot
out through the cat-flap with a terrified yowl. 

Thanks for leaving me, thought Rory. He was on his feet now himself and
privately wondering whether to follow the cat out of the cottage but he 
knew he couldn't desert Doris. 

He heard her voice again, clear and strong over the roaring background. 

I break the circle now. Come out. 

The noise grew to a crescendo and the whole building seemed to be
reverberating with the noise. Rory actually saw the stout oak door - 
not one of your modern plyboard rubbish - shake. 

It flew open and Doris stood there, her hair loose and flowing, free
from those absurd plaits that she usually wore. She had a black cloak 
on which swirled behind her as if she stood in a high wind though Rory 
could feel none himself. She was silhouetted against a pale light and 
at her back there were two forms, too large to be in that tiny room and 
yet they were there. 

Afterwards Rory would find it impossible to describe them. It was as if
their extreme magnification made them unrecognisable as physical forms 
yet he sensed that one was male and the other female and he almost 
passed out as he felt their enormous power. 

He hesitated to speak, feeling it almost a blasphemy to use words in
their presence but Doris  had no such inhibitions. 

"We are ready," she said, almost as if she had just packed to go on
holiday. "There is much work to be done." 

Rory stepped back to let her pass but she held out her hand and took
his. As she did so he felt a distinct shock and knew that in some way 
he was joined to her, and through her, to the two Beings. He also 
recognised that, powerful as they were, they were not indestructible 
and that a similar entity had been conjured up by Pauline and her 
coven. 

Through Doris he also knew that this was a battle between Good and Evil
and that, human nature being what it is, Good seldom was the necessary 
victor of such struggles. Still holding Doris's hand he looked back. 
The Beings were no longer visible yet he felt their presence and could 
not prevent an involuntary shiver. Doris gave his hand a reassuring 
squeeze. 

As they went out into the open air, and came towards that misty boundary
that appeared to mark the limit of Pauline's conjurations, he was 
reassured to see it thin and then disappear so that they were able to 
use the track back into town. 

"Where are we going?" he whispered to Doris. 

"The church," she answered, and they walked on in silence. 

CHAPTER 24 

Although whatever forces were with them had dispelled the mist with no
trouble, as they got nearer and nearer to the centre of town, Pauline's 
creations seemed to get stronger and less vulnerable. They were aware 
of the creatures which Doris had seen on her homeward journey during 
the night - with their grotesque gargoyle heads grinning and leering - 
pattering along on four misshapen legs by the sides of the road and, 
although they did not approach them, they were not destroyed. 

There were still no people though and Doris was almost grateful for
this. She found the dead expressions on their faces even more 
terrifying than the hideous, almost cartoon grimaces of the imps or 
whatever they were. 

But she was not prepared for the sight as they cleared the group of
trees and the church came into view. Perched on top of the tower and 
dwarfing it so that in comparison it almost seemed like a toy model, 
was the most hideous creature either of them had ever seen. 

It had the upper part of a man's naked body with the flesh a sort of
foul yellowish colour and shiny with a sweaty sheen but from the waist 
down its legs were those of some shaggy creature - a goat's perhaps - 
and they were splayed outwards in an obscene squat. Its head was part 
animal, part human with a pair of horns growing out from its forehead. 
Its eyes surveyed the whole area and particularly Doris and Rory with a 
 red and bloodshot intensity. The huge pointed teeth meant that its 
mouth could not close and its red tongue lolled while greenish gobbets 
of spittle dribbled out. 

Perhaps seeing that Doris and Rory were supported by other Beings, it
suddenly flung its head backwards and uttered a roar as if to challenge 
them. Even from that distance they could smell its foul and noisome 
breath, like a poisonous cloud of choking gas. 

Rory's first instinct was to turn and run but Doris, looking outwardly
calm, turned onto the path leading up to the church door. Only in the 
shelter of the lych gate while they were temporarily out of sight of 
the vision of the creature on the tower, she turned to Rory and 
muttered to him "Stay with me" and he realised that she was as 
terrified as he was. 

As they drew nearer to the church itself, they saw that the imps or
demons that had accompanied them along the way had somehow overtaken 
them, climbed the walls and now lined the space under the roof, 
snarling and spitting down at them. 

They arrived at the great West Door and Doris reached up to take hold of
the huge metal handle. She drew in a great breath, turned it and 
pushed. The door creaked open. 

She had been expecting a dark empty place and was surprised to find the
church full. Every pew on both sides of the central aisle was lined 
with people all on their feet who turned to look at her as she the 
doors closed behind them. She recognised many faces, her own mother and 
father, the Peters, Mrs King, the headmistress of their school, local 
shopkeepers and parents of the pupils at her school. Familiar faces yet 
at the same time terribly alien. All had a blank, uncomprehending look 
as if they had lost all will and understanding. Apart from the initial 
turning to look at them everyone stood still and Doris's eyes were 
drawn to the area at the east end of the aisle between the choir stalls 
where some children of about her own age looked as if they were 
playing. But their movements were strangely animal-like and to Rory at 
least familiar. He remembered seeing the same in the cemetery on the 
night of the full moon. One girl, whom Doris recognised as Frances 
Archer, was hopping about flapping her arms like wings. Another girl, 
Emily Fletcher was on all fours, her back arched and spitting like an 
enraged cat at a boy with blond hair who barked, crawled across the 
floor, lifted his leg and urinated on the altar. He looked up gave them 
a sly look and sniggered. It was Rory's friend, Peter Johnson. 

And on the altar was the most obscene horror of all. A large animal had
been stretched across it and then cut open releasing its insides so 
that the coils of its intestines spilled out and hung over the edge. 
Nor had it been recently killed because the flesh was rotting and a 
huge cloud of black flies, buzzed around and then settled to gorge on 
the putrefying meat. 

Behind the altar, her arms raised in a parody of priesthood, stood
Pauline. She was dressed in a long purple robe which fell loosely to 
the ground and her golden hair was wild. She stared at them as they 
walked down the aisle. 

"Come to join the party?" she taunted. 

"We've come to end the party," said Doris. 

"Without your witch?" 

"But not alone." 

"Oh no," said Pauline sarcastically, looking at Rory. "I see you've
brought a friend." 

"And others," said Doris significantly. She raised her right hand and
the West Doors, which had closed behind them, burst open. Pauline 
looked up startled and what she saw she did not like. Her lip curled in 
a snarl and she took a step backward while the children/animals started 
whimpering. All down the central aisle, the people drew back. 

Rory did not dare turn round. Pauline backed away and then darted to the
side of the church where there was a small door set in the wall. She 
opened it and slipped inside. 

"That leads up to the tower," said Rory. 

They followed her and the children from around the altar came as well,
whimpering as if they had lost their leader. 

There was a steep circular flight of stone stairs winding up into the
darkness. Ahead of them they could hear Pauline's quick footsteps. 
Every so often there was some light from narrow slits in the stone 
walls but mostly they were in darkness with only their own breathing 
and the cries of the children following. 

Rory's breath grew more laboured as they climbed on and up and he was
about to reach the stage when he knew he would have to stop when he 
heard a door open from just above and some light spilled out to show 
him the way. 

Up to now it had been the chase and Pauline's obvious discomfiture that
had dragged him onwards but now he thought of what might be facing them 
when they emerged onto the tower. He recalled the frightful monster 
they had seen from below and was terrified by what it might be like 
close to. He slowed down. 

Doris, close behind him, perhaps, realised what he was thinking for she
took his hand and said, "They're still with us." 

"Are they strong enough to defeat it?" he asked. 

Doris shrugged and they went forward into the light and the appalling
monstrosity that awaited them. 

CHAPTER 25 

The air seemed to sizzle as they emerged blinking into the daylight. 

The creature was still there - immense and grotesque - squatting against
the further wall of the tower. They could smell its powerful, musky 
scent. 

Pauline stood in front of it protected between its huge and shaggy
haunches and faced them. She looked tiny but it was she who seemed to 
be in control. 

Behind Doris and Rory, the other children came out from the stairway
and, as if heartened by the sight of their leader and the monster she 
had conjured up, again started to act like animals, hopping, flapping 
their arms, scratching and making bestial noises. 

"Look on my power and despair," said Pauline. It was as if she was
speaking for the monster behind her. At her words it threw back its 
head and roared and again its breath came out like a stinking cloud of 
foetid gas. 

Doris and Rory coughed and had trouble breathing. Gargoyle heads
appeared over the edge of the tower and hissed at them. 

The animals capered round them in a mad dance, making snorting sounds.
Peter Johnson rushed at them growling and Tommy Gould cawed and flapped 
his arms, hopping onto the stone parapet which surrounded the top of 
the tower. Rory's flesh crawled. 

"Why don't they do something?" asked Rory. He was of course referring to
the Herne and Gea. 

Pauline laughed in triumph and behind her the monster roared again
stretching out its arms towards them as if to grab them. Drool dribbled 
from its open mouth which sizzled as it landed on the roof. 

Rory looked at Doris. Was she going to do something? Was she able to do
anything? As in the church Doris raised her arm but unlike then nothing 
seemed to happen. Had they been deserted? Was Pauline's monster too 
much for them? Pauline obviously thought so for she laughed again. Then 
she started muttering and making complicated hand gestures in the air. 
Rory felt himself changing in a radical but essential way. He was 
suddenly acutely aware of small rustling sounds along the leaf-filled 
rain channels beneath the walls. He thought it would be good for him to 
investigate and sensible to do so on four paws. He dropped forward and 
as he did so Doris spoke. 

She used, as she had done before, the ancient protection spell that
Bessie had taught her: 

The age-dark cauldron of fire protect me; The light-bound sword of grief
preserve me; Twenty daemons hold and keep me; And the Great God fight 
for me. 

As she completed the last words, there was a rushing sound, the high
wind that had announced the arrival of Herne and Gea in Bessie's house, 
roared and gusted. She felt her ears beginning to pop as the pressure 
increased. The children whimpered and then fell silent, cowering in the 
protection of the low stone wall. 

Pauline felt it too for she stopped her muttering and held her hands
over her ears. The monster behind her threw back its head and roared. 
Then Doris was pushed out of the way - not roughly but firmly - and at 
the same time Pauline stumbled to the side leaving an arena where the 
three mighty entities conducted their epic battle. Not that it was 
confined to the top of the tower for they were able to use the sky 
around. 

The half-man, half goat launched itself into the air with a spring from
its mighty haunches.  Herne snatched at its left hoof as it kicked out 
at his head. He caught it and held on and the monster squealed, then 
wrenched itself free, catching Herne a devastating blow with its other 
foot. But above it was Gea, huge, immense, all-encompassing and the 
monster seemed to become immured in her vastness. It struggled and 
strained, almost as if it were in quicksand. Then it broke free and all 
three entities drew back as if to take stock of their own strengths and 
the others weaknesses. Suddenly they attacked again,  striking at each 
other with lightning bolts while the thunder of their blows crashed and 
echoed around them. 

Doris watched the airborne conflict knowing she could do nothing while
Rory rooted in the leaves searching for little furry creatures to eat. 
But in the air above it was always two against one and the monstrosity 
was visibly weakening. Its roars grew fainter until finally they had 
something of an animal whimper. Then abruptly it was gone and the space 
which it had occupied, drew together as if a vacuum had suddenly been 
filled. 

Herne and Gea circled the tower three times in victory before they too
disappeared. 

The gargoyle imps lining the tower vanished with little popping sounds
and moans of pain. Pauline lay in a crumpled heap in the lee of the 
wall. The other children got to their feet looking bewildered and 
slightly foolish. Rory stood up deciding that after all mice were not 
particularly interesting things for investigation. 

But Tommy Gould was standing on the parapet and as he recovered himself,
he suddenly realised that he was perched insecurely over a hundred foot 
drop. 

He gave a great cry, slipped, tried to recover and then disappeared over
the side. 

They all heard his scream as he fell and finally the ghastly noise of
his body hitting the ground so far beneath. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Bessie sat up in her bed in Feltenham General Hospital. She felt cross.
They said that she had had a slight heart attack, perhaps from trying 
to take on too much. They gave her pills which she pretended to swallow 
and then spat out when the nurse had gone. She had some perfectly good 
'strengthening medicine' at home which was worth twice as much as all 
their old pills. She wanted out and the nurses wished it almost as 
much. She was a trying old woman and she had made their lives a misery. 


"Well, Bessie," said Nurse Sally Johnson. "You've got a visitor. Do you
feel up to seeing her?" 

"Who is it?" asked Bessie ungraciously. 

But Doris was coming in before the Nurse replied. Seeing her Bessie
suddenly looked pleased and then slightly embarrassed. 

"Hello, Bessie," said Doris, sitting down on the bedside chair. "I've
brought you some toffees and some news." 

"They'll stick in my teeth," said Bessie but she took them anyway,
unwrapped one and popped it in her mouth where she did not appear to be 
having any difficulty. 

The Nurse sighed and went off. 

"What's the news?" asked Bessie when she had gone. 

Doris told her everything while Bessie listened intently occasionally
nodding approval or tutting disapproval as the occasion merited. She 
finished with the terrible story of Tommy Gould's death and paused, not 
sure how to go on. 

"What happened next?" asked Bessie. 

"Rory and me and the others went down the tower. When we got into the
church, all the grown-ups were just going out as if it was a normal 
Church Service - though it must have been one of the most well-attended 
for years. They found Tommy's body and of course were horrified. Then 
the ambulance was fetched and they took it away." 

"What about Pauline?" 

"She disappeared. No one knows what happened to her - or her parents. It
seems they had just upped and gone, taking nothing but the car and a 
few clothes." 

"They'll be up to no good wherever they are," said Bessie. 

"I ought to have been able to save Tommy," said Doris. 

Bessie shook her head. "Sounds like he was well and truly hooked. Odds
are he'd have been into something else as soon as his supply from 
Pauline was cut off." 

Doris wasn't convinced. 

"I suppose your parents don't remember anything about going to the
Church and that Sunday morning?" Doris shook her head. 

"Real powerful that Pauline was," said Bessie, with what seemed to be
almost a touch of admiration in her voice. She paused and then said, 
"What a waste!" There was another pause and she seemed to be having a 
slight problem saying something and Doris wondered whether it was the 
toffee but at last Bessie sighed. 

"I pushed you out," she said. "I pushed you out of the circle because I
knew you could take over where I couldn't. Wicca's gone, the Power's 
gone from me. It's with you now - if you want it." The old woman for a 
moment looked very sad but then she gave a great sigh and squared her 
shoulders as if it was almost a relief. 

"But what'll you do?" asked Doris. 

"Oh there's the medicine. I've still got my 'erbs. But you - you can
make things happen." 

Doris thought. 

Rory was no longer the sole object of her desires. She liked him but
only as a friend. She would have to decide what to do. 

"We'll talk about it when you come home,"  she said. "Tab will be
missing you." 

THE END 

GLOSSARY OF WITCH WORDS USED IN THE TEXT 

Astaroth - An infernal demon. He can see the past, present and the
future and can detect secret desires. 

Belladonna - Extracted from deadly nightshade, a very poisonous plant.
The juice of the plant was also used to enlarge the pupils of the eye, 
hence the name 'Beautiful Lady'. 

Dolly-Down-The-Reel - A system of 'knitting' using a cotton reel and
four pins. The wool is worked over the pins and a tube of 'knitting' 
grows down through the hole. 

Esbat - A lesser festival on the night of the full moon. There are
thirteen Esbats in the year.     Gea - Goddess of the Earth, the Earth 
spirit, the Female Principle. Small statuettes have been found of the 
Earth goddess dating from palaeolithic times (Old Stone Age). They are 
very fat and have enlarged breasts and buttocks. 

Grave-dirt - Earth taken from a graveyard and used as a constituent of
spells. 

Grimoire - A magician's handbook. 

Hallowe'en - October 31st. In the Christian Calendar known as 'All Souls
Day' when they pray for the souls of the dead. In the Pagan Calendar it 
is a Greater Sabbat when the dead walk. 

Herne the Hunter - a pre-Christian deity with horns or antlers on his
head. The Male Principle. 

Pan - A Roman god with goat's feet and horns. At the sight or sound of
Pan, people would run away in fright, hence 'Panic'. 

Sabbat - A witch's Festival. There are four Greater Sabbats Candlemas
(2nd February), May Eve (30th April), Lammas (1st August), Hallowe'en 
(31st October). The Lesser Sabbats are the two equinoxes (spring and 
autumn) and the two solstices (summer and winter). 

Scrying - Crystal gazing. 

Venus - Known as the Morning Star but is, of course, a planet. In the
winter it shines very brightly in the morning sky before dawn, hence 
its name. 

Wicca - From the Anglo-Saxon word for 'knowledge' but used by witches to
mean the specific knowledge of witchcraft. 

Wolfsbane - Aconite, also known as Monks Hood, a tall purple-flowered
plant, all parts of which are very poisonous. 


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