The Promise Witch

  Table of Contents

  The Parched World

  A Rebel School for Rebel Children

  Frog People and the Thirsty Earth

  Dark Music, Grey Girl

  Something Wicked

  Family

  A Mother’s Return

  The Finder of Paths

  Inside and Out

  Bravery

  Mam and Dad

  The Grey Girl’s Path

  A Royal Offer

  Mutual Disapproval

  Love

  Everything Dies

  Most Things Live

  Beneath the Gentle Willow

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To those brave souls who stand up to cruelty. Thank you.

  The Parched World

  Still in her pyjamas, Mup climbed out of her bedroom window and into the shimmering heat. It was early morning, the palace peaceful with sleep, but already the air felt too hot to breathe.

  It’s only May, Mup thought. What will it be like when summer really starts?

  The sky was a heartless scald of blue overhead, the narrow granite windowsill roasting beneath her feet. Mup curled her toes around the edge and looked down. The walls of the castle plummeted sharply away beneath her. Far below, the courtyard wavered in a mirage-dance of heat.

  I’m like a small bird, she thought, standing on the edge of a cliff.

  Mup took a breath, closed her eyes and let herself topple. She fell down and down. The air sped past, ruffling her colourful pyjamas and streaming her twists of hair back like dark snakes. Lovely, she thought, spreading her arms. Lovely and cool.

  She opened her eyes. The ground was rushing towards her. Every flagstone, every war-cracked seam in the cobbles zoomed close. Mup arched her back, turned her face to the sky, and swooped a swallow-graceful arc up, away from the looming ground, through the oven-heat of the enclosing walls and into clear morning air above the castle.

  A hot breeze blew up there, so horribly dry that Mup felt it suck the moisture from her skin.

  On the battlements to her right, sentries ran forward. Men and women alike, they shaded their eyes against the sunshine, and gazed anxiously up to where Mup floated high in the buffeting air.

  They were worried for her safety.

  Mup gave them a little wave: I’m OK.

  She pointed that they go back into the shade. Instead, they launched themselves into their raven forms and rose upwards in a cawing flock. For a moment the beating of many dark wings disturbed the air around Mup. Then the ravens were above her, climbing the hot air draughts on outspread wings, wheeling far overhead, patrolling the skies for threat.

  Sighing, Mup turned her attention to the castle and surrounding forest below. She took it all in – the square, stone severity of the buildings, the brittle fragility of the trees – and she felt at once hopeful and sad. It was all so beautiful. It was all balanced so delicately on the edge of ruin.

  Like an egg on a tightrope, as Dad would say.

  Slowly, watching all around her, Mup floated out across the top of the river wall and down to the heat-cracked riverbed. The woods surrounding the castle should have been fresh and green at this time of year, but the heat had crisped them to a parched brown. Leaves fell in unseasonable drifts to the shimmering earth.

  Mup’s feet sent up a puff of dust as she landed in the centre of what had been the castle river. Once, little fish had peeped and played where she now stood. Once, crayfish and snails had led their slow, creeping lives. It had been cool and safe for them. A green world of waving river weed. Now there was nothing but dust and the sad whisper of dead leaves falling from the dying forest.

  Everything had been going so well till now.

  By working hard and pulling together, the people of Witches Borough had survived the terrible curse-winter that Mup’s grandmother had sent to break them. Village had helped clan, clan had helped river-folk, and the castle had become the place where everyone met to plan and coordinate. A real, proper sense of community had grown as people joined together to help each other survive the interminable snow.

  Then the snow had disappeared. As quickly as it had arrived, it simply melted away. Spring opened its bright green leaves to the sky, and everyone thought they’d won.

  “The old queen has admitted defeat,” they cheered. “She will leave us alone!”

  Witches Borough could finally get on with building a new life.

  About one month later, the castle inhabitants awoke to find the river gone.

  Mup remembered the morning well. They had rushed down to find fishes flopping and gasping in the slippery weed, frogs and newts stunned, the riverbanks already drying.

  The next day the heat came, the clouds disappeared, and the thirsty time began.

  That had been a month ago. It had not rained in Witches Borough since.

  First, Grandma tried to freeze us out, thought Mup, kneeling down into the dust of the parched riverbed. Now she’s trying to thirst us.

  She lay on her stomach, and pressed her ear to the hot ground.

  Hello, she thought. Can you hear me?

  Far, far beneath her, there answered a tiny, thready, muffled voice. The sound of the river, sucked below and desperate; trapped underground by the terrible, invincible, bitter power of Mup’s grandmother. Mup spread her hands, pressed her palms to the earth. She was the pathfinder, after all. She was the stitcher of worlds. Surely she could find a path to the water? Surely she could lead the water home?

  She closed her eyes and concentrated.

  We’re looking for you, she thought. You’re not alone down there. We’ll find you.

  There came no reply. Mup could still sense the river down there, shifting and lost, as if wandering some subterranean labyrinth just out of her reach. Above and around it, the earth ached; so sad and thirsty that even touching it made Mup want to cry.

  A shadow fell across the parched ground. Mup looked up to see her mother floating down from the top of the boat steps. Her dark hair and dark silk dressing gown fluttered in the hot air. Her pale face was grim as she surveyed their surroundings.

  “You shouldn’t keep coming out here alone, Mup.”

  “The land is getting sicker, Mam.”

  Mam landed lightly by her side, crouched, and pressed her fingers to the earth next to Mup’s splayed hand. She grimaced in sympathetic pain. She glared out at the hot wind, the angry sun, the blank and gleeful sky. She whispered to the bitter old woman who was controlling them all. “I’m telling you now, Mother. You will not win.”

  Mup nodded in fierce agreement. We’ll stop her.

  But how?

  There came a flash of shadows as the sentries swooped low, cawing a warning. Mam and Mup shot to their feet. Lightning flashed at their fingertips as they stared towards the bend in the river where the guards’ attention was focused. For a moment there was nothing, then a sound became audible there – the sound of people singing.

  Mam relaxed. “Choral magic,” she whispered.

  “Clann’n Cheoil!” cried Mup. “The kids are here!”

  A smile softened Mam’s expression. “The very first class for our new school.”

  A little band of children came into view around the bend. There were about twenty of them. Made minuscule by the castle looming to their right and the steep riverbank to their left, they ranged in age from five to maybe twelve. Mup swelled with pride to see them. No matter how closely they huddled together, or how scared they seemed, she was proud of how brave they were for coming here. And she was proud of their parents, who so believed in Mam that they would risk sending their children to her, despite the threat still posed to them by the old queen.

  There were no castle children in this group. U
nlike Clann’n Cheoil – who had brought their children home as soon as they could – the Speirling and castle staff and other aristocrats of the borough had yet to call their children back from the distant boarding schools where many of them lived.

  Maybe castle people don’t believe in Mam as much as ordinary people do, Mup thought.

  Maybe they still thought Mam was going to lose.

  The children advanced through the heat haze, their eyes fixed on the ravens patrolling the skies above. Despite the brutal sunshine, they walked in cool shade, thanks to a hazy parasol of summer cloud that drifted just above their heads. This cloud was being created by the beautiful voices of the men and women who accompanied the children – members of Clann’n Cheoil who had vowed to protect any students on their daily journeys to and from the school. A soft, subtle, silver-and-white confection, the cloud evaporated as quickly as the clann could conjure it. It took all their magical energies to keep singing it into being, and they sang in turns, voices lifting into and dropping from the melody as some of them took up the thread and others paused for a moment to rest.

  These adults were familiar to Mup. The Clann’n Cheoil had fought with her mother against the old queen, and had stayed with her through all the perilous months afterwards. They were loyal and independent. None more so than the tall silver-haired woman who led the children through the swirling dust of the river floor: Fírinne, leader of the clann, Mam’s loudest supporter and sometimes terrifyingly fierce best friend. Mup waved to her. Fírinne winked.

  Mam stepped forward. The children faltered at the sight of her. Mup knew why. Mam was so like a raggedy witch: all pale skin, all black eyes, all dark and flowing hair. Even her dark dressing gown – such a difference to Mam’s usual jeans and T-shirts – drifted around her in a manner uncomfortably reminiscent of a raggedy witch’s cloak.

  It’s OK, thought Mup, smiling at the children’s hesitant faces. You’ll get used to her.

  “Mam, I’m going to get Crow, so we can welcome the kids when they come inside.”

  Mam nodded, and Mup launched herself upwards. The children stepped out from under their cloud, gasping and shouting as Mup shot away from them in a swirl of dust and dead leaves.

  I suppose you’ll have to get used to me too, she thought as she zoomed like a cloud-shadow up the side of the castle, heading for the chimney smoke which drifted from her best friend’s home, high on the battlements above.

  In the first few months after he and Dad had fixed up the vardo, Crow had moved around quite a bit, “looking for a decent campsite”. Finally he had settled on this spot, high on a patch of flat roof, facing the forest where Clann’n Cheoil camped, and looking down onto the wide cool expanse of the castle river.

  Back when there was a river, thought Mup.

  She rose to the level of Crow’s campsite, and his beautiful little home came into view. The vardo nestled in a small garden of potted plants, which Crow kept carefully watered from the castle’s last remaining well. Who’d have thought Crow would turn out to be a farmer? thought Mup, smiling at the lush herbs, the bee-visited early flowers, the potted apple trees and vegetables. The rooftop garden was quiet; the vardo’s painted shutters firmly closed, the door shut tight.

  Hovering at the edge of the roof, Mup cawed the special polite call that Crow had taught her – the one which meant, “I’m here. Is it OK if I come closer?”

  Crow had explained that this was like knocking on someone’s door before walking into their room, or ringing the doorbell before entering someone’s house. “Just because you can walk into my camp, doesn’t mean you should,” he’d told her, as he and Dad put the finishing touches to his caravan. “The whole camp will be my house, not just the vardo.”

  Mup had never forgotten that. She’d made mistakes before with Crow, and hurt him by not listening to him. She was determined never to do that again.

  She floated patiently, waiting for Crow’s answering call.

  None came.

  Maybe her friend wasn’t home?

  But the smoke rising from the vardo chimney told her otherwise. Crow would never leave a fire burning if he wasn’t home. Maybe the breeze had carried her voice away?

  Mup tentatively drifted closer, cleared her throat to call again, then paused.

  What was that sound?

  Somewhere within the closed-up vardo someone was singing. Faint, dark, very sweet, the song was beautiful in a way that Mup found disturbing. Through the heat and the over-bright sunshine, it seemed to spread a dark web around the brightly coloured wagon. It seemed to hint of shadows, of depths beyond the daylight, of a black river running below the surface of all things. Hypnotic, it drew Mup in, pulling her forward, her discomfort growing even as she bobbed closer.

  Before Mup knew it, she found herself right up against the wall of the vardo. How had she got here without noticing? The magic was painfully thick here. The song too loud. Shadows seemed to swarm unseen. The sunlight felt fragile. Yelling in terror, Mup slapped herself away from the painted wood, sending herself spinning back the way she’d come.

  The song within the vardo stopped. The dark power fell away.

  Crow’s voice called uncertainly from within. “Is … is someone there?”

  Mup slammed to a halt against a little raised parapet. Sunshine fell down around her in a shower of heat and light. She clung, gasping, to the stone – not at all certain what had just happened. Behind her, a latch clicked quietly and the door of the vardo creaked open. Crow’s tousled head peered around the door frame. His huge dark eyes were wary.

  “Mup?” he said. “Have you…?” He looked behind him. He came outside and closed the door. “Have you been there long?” he asked.

  “Was that you singing, Crow?”

  Crow didn’t answer.

  “What was that song?” asked Mup.

  Crow didn’t seem to know what to say for a moment, then he lifted his chin as if in defiance.

  “It was just one of Crow’s dreaming songs.

  I make them up as I go along.”

  “I’m … I’m not sure I liked it, Crow.”

  His eyes widened in offence.

  “Why ever not? It’s Crow’s own song.

  If it comes from Crow, can it be wrong?”

  Mup didn’t know what to say to that.

  Crow softened at her obvious discomfort. Obviously in a rhyming mood today, he said:

  “Don’t worry, girl who is my friend,

  I’ll fix the music in the end.

  I’ve not yet got the notes quite right,

  If I sing them wrong they can cause … they can cause…”

  Mup waited patiently as Crow searched for the best word.

  He beamed when he found it: “They can cause fright!”

  The two of them grinned at each other across the heat-shimmered air.

  “Good rhyme,” said Mup. “All your practice is paying off.”

  Crow puffed his chest.

  “Never again, in life to come,

  Will rhyming steal Crow’s words or tongue.

  Rhyming is MINE now,

  where and when I choose,

  to make good songs with

  and tell my truths.”

  He seemed to be back to his usual brash self, but Mup couldn’t help thinking her friend looked a little feverish, his eyes dark-ringed and at the same time over-bright.

  “Maybe … maybe you could talk to Fírinne about that particular song, though, Crow? Get her to teach you how to sing it properly? It feels like very strong magic.”

  Crow blinked at her.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Mup nodded awkwardly. It was obvious Crow wasn’t keen to pursue this conversation.

  She gestured behind her. “The kids are here for the first day at school.”

  “Already?” Crow shook himself into his raven form. “Let’s go!”

  He flapped away over the rooftops.

  Mup paused before following him. She looked around at the sun-fi
lled rooftop. Everything seemed fine. Crow’s carefully tended pots of herbs and vegetables, the beautifully painted vardo, all were silent, all peaceful, slumbering in the sun. Still, she couldn’t help staring at the shadows pooled beneath the wagon; were they a little too thick there? Was the silence a little too … too listening?

  Mup shivered. You’re being silly, she thought. Crow’s magic is rough around the edges. That’s all. He’s learning, just like the rest of us.

  Still, she kept her eyes on the shadows as she backed away, only turning at the last minute before launching herself after her friend.

  She caught up quickly. They flew together between sun-blasted towers, skimmed heat-shimmered ridge tiles, dodged chimneys, until finally they breasted the edge of a parapet, swooped down into an internal courtyard, and landed at the back door of the new school.

  Crow looked Mup up and down as he rose into his boy form. For the first time Mup noticed how unusually neat he was, even his tangle of hair seemed somewhat tamed. He made a point of straightening his colourful jacket.

  “The question I ask myself, girl-sometimes-hare,

  Is shall you be changing from your sleeping-wear?

  It seems a tad rude, if not to say crass,

  To appear so dishevelled on the first day of class.”

  Mup looked down at herself. She was still dressed in her pyjamas and her feet were bare.

  Every inch of her was covered in dust.

  “Oh dear,” she sighed. “I got a little distracted this morning.”

  Crow raised an eyebrow as the sound of voices rose up from within the building.

  “Well, it’s too late now to make an impression,

  You’re stuck wearing jammies to this morning’s lesson.”

  And he let himself into the classroom, leaving Mup to dust herself down as best she could.

  A Rebel School for Rebel Children

  Mup smiled as she stepped into the classroom. She had helped Mam choose this room. Desks and chairs waited patiently for new occupants. Bookcases were ripe with untold adventure. A row of glasses twinkled next to jugs of water, in case the children were thirsty after their long walk to school. Bright, airy windows and a stained-glass door opened onto the courtyard garden from which Mup and Crow had just entered. The children would be able to run around this garden, if they liked, or fly among the trees, or nestle in the mud at the bottom of the tiny pond which, before the drought, had brightened the centre of the lawn.