| Chapter Four |
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A pale breeze riffled the treetops and those branches raised in heathen worship to the skies. Scraggy striate strips of cloud hung high, travelling but slowly that vast expanse of palest blue. Fresh young leaves jiggled in delicate tremor, as if the trees were now truly shaking themselves awake after the long winter's sleep. The brambles, with less bulk to quicken in the low sun, had awoken sooner, and crept an attack across bare no man's land forest floor. Their progress was now measured by the mechanic mitosis of green deciduous shroud, but a climbing and strengthening sun would ensure a steady supply of light. Upon a frost speckled leaf of one such brambly finger, or limb, or spine, a single butterfly sits, wings wide, in a small pool of sun fed by a dripping shaft. The leaf-mould floor shakes under the pounding approach of an animal's tread, belaying its purpose of speed over caution. The Speckled Wood butterfly - for such he is - holds still, not wishing to relinquish his claim of lordship over this warm boudoir estate. His courage is rewarded, and the interloper runs past, branches shuddering in its wake, a shock of startled pigeons flapping and sounding their ill temper at being so disturbed. And so the animal - a young girl - runs on, clearing stretches of bramble with athletic grace, taking care not to crush the clumped nests of young bluebells that bask here and there. She settles on the hoary bones of an old fallen elm and quietly pants. Snaps of cracking twigs and a shuffling of leaves and two more forms approach. Just tread on them if you don't want to jump. They'll spike me through my boots. Or get my legs. I don't think they will. I'll get tetanus. My mum said. Here. I'll tread them down and you just walk over. I don't know why we always have to go the hard way. It isn't really all that hard once you get used to it. Well, I've done it enough to get used to it, and it's still hard. Thanks, Cait, as she stepped cautiously across the flattened brambles. There were no more brambles to assail them as they walked through the dappled forest, along a barely discernible path trod mostly by deer. Around an old warty elm, and there lay another of its kind, a husk now, its life blown away to who knew where. The first girl was sat upon it. You took your time, she said, and rummaged in a trouser pocket for a tube of sweets. Want one? The waif-like Caitlin took one and sat down beside her friend. Patti? The other girl stepped forward and picked out a sweet. Green, she said with distaste. The next one's red if you want that instead, said the girl with the sweets. Thanks, Syl, said Patti, and climbed up onto the fallen trunk as well. A magpie chattered somewhere unseen above them, hidden in the foliage, and the wood pigeons that had returned to their own several branches were now cooing contentedly. Sylvia pulled a penknife from her other pocket, eased out the blade and twisted it from side to side, watching the sun glint as it hit a certain angle. Do you want to know a secret? she asked. What kind of secret? asked Patti, her own gaze lifting from the sparkling blade to Syl's face, which itself remained fixed upon the blade. It's a gang secret, she said solemnly. And you'd never guess it in a hundred years. Well, sure we do, said Caitlin brightly, kicking her skinny dangling legs from side to side. You have to swear you won't tell. I swear, said Caitlin, easily. Patti? I swear. You have to swear it in blood. Whose blood? Our blood, dumbo. You still in? OK, said Caitlin. Will it hurt much? I don't think so. Grandpa sharpened it up for me. But you can go first if you want to, when it's at its sharpest. The flush of Patti's earlier exertion rushed from her cheeks in an instant. You go first, Syl, she said. Will we do ourselves or each other? asked Caitlin. Whatever you like. You just have to bleed is all. And wipe some on the knife. Ready? Hearing no sound of protest, she arced the blade slowly across her left index finger. Blood bubbled to the surface, and she dripped some onto the knife, smearing it over the blade and handle. Caitlin? The girl took the handle and held it like a pencil, sticking the point into the fleshy base of her thumb. She squeezed the cut to get the blood going, and wiped the knife across the red beads. You do me, Caitlin, said Patti, stretching her hand across Sylvia's lap and into Caitlin's grasp, shutting her eyes tight and covering them over with her free left hand for good measure. Where do you want it? Oh, I don't know. Anywhere. Caitlin stuck the sharp point into the top of Patti's middle finger. Ow! It's all right. It doesn't even need squeezing. Look. She ran the knife across the smear of blood, Patti watching in astonishment, withdrawing her hand when done, watching the blood continue to bead and drip. If you want it to stop you can press on it. Patti. What? Press on it. OK. So tell us the secret then, Syl, said Caitlin, handing her back the knife. The secret. It's about our secret leader. I didn't know we had one. That's why it's a secret. Go on, Syl. All right then. It's Mary. Mary who? Mary Glee. The dead rabbit woman? cried Patti in horror. Yes. It's her. It can't be. She's just a mad old woman that carries a dead rabbit round and picks flowers and puts them places and talks to trees. And picks up rubbish and dances everywhere and everyone teases her. Go on, Syl. Who is it really? It's really her. It really is. She's really a secret witch that just pretends to be mad so people don't guess all her power and burn her. They don't burn witches anymore. So why would she have to be secret? The police mightn't burn her, but some people might. Ones she puts spells on. Like who? I'm not saying. I swore it with a lot more blood than this, said Sylvia, showing round the knife. And she's got a bottle of it on her shelf and she could kill me with it just like you tread on an ant. At that moment a lone crow, passing overhead, let fly a shriekish craw. See? said Syl. She's watching us right now through that crow's eyes. Throw the knife at it, said Patti. I can't do that! laughed Syl. She's going to teach us all her secret magic and we'll be the most powerful people in the world. We won't have to go to school or get told when we have to go to bed or anything. Will we have to go and live in that cottage with her? asked Caitlin. Oh no. She said to start with she'll tell me things and I pass them onto you. She said it's easier that way, and anyway that's how witches do it she said. Are you absolutely sure it's her? asked Patti, though with less distaste now than she had held for the green sweet. Totally completely absolutely. She flew through the air a bit to prove it. And turned a pebble into a little frog. Did she show you how to do it? Well, she said we had to start with something easier. But I was watching her really closely when she wasn't looking, and I think I saw how she did it. Pass me a stone, Patti. Patti slid off the trunk and picked up a stick and poked through the rotting leaves. I can't find one. Will a bit of wood the same size do? It might. Pass it here and we'll try it. Thanks. She took the nub of wood and cupped it hidden in her hands and blew on it and spoke a bit of gibberish, a bit of spit spilling onto her lips, her eyes rolling white in her head. Put your hands out, Patti. You aren't scared of frogs are you? Oh no. I have to save them from Captain Claw sometimes. And they're big ones. All right. Don't take your hands away though, or you'll drop it. Ready? Ready. And something crawled onto Patti's hands. Aah! she screamed, and it fell onto the forest floor. It was a beetle! And it tried to bite me! The stag beetle scuttled away into the gloom and rot under the trunk. Maybe that's what you get when you do it with wood instead of stone, said Syl. I'll ask Mary though, to be sure. That's so cool, Syl, said Caitlin. Can I try it? Course you can. Shall we get to the den first though? I want to check on the traps. Reckon we'll have a weasel? I don't know. Maybe. What will we do with it anyway, Syl? Weasels bite worse than beetles. A bit worse anyway. Beetles bite pretty bad. Oh I don't know. Keep it as a guard weasel for the den or something. You coming? They followed the deer trail west, Caitlin blowing in quick short bursts, which now and again contained the embryo of a whistle. A dull distant echo rang in quick beats, a woodpecker tapping for grubs, and songbirds and wood pigeons and varying other avian life sang and called in the trees above them, or shot startled through the undergrowth nearby. In the darker more shadowed stretches the damp clung a cool hold, and dank skanky strains of mould and lichen peppered the air with their musty scent and misty spore. Shhh! said Sylvia, stopping still. There's someone coming. Caitlin slithered up into the boughs of a red maple and peered through the leaves, and those of further trees beyond. It's a boy! she whispered hoarsely. Shall we do him? Her friends nodded back at her, grinning broadly now, and she lowered herself back to the ground with barely a sound. OK, said Sylvia. I'll jump him with the knife. Caitlin, you wait a bit in front and Patti, a bit behind. Ready? Let's go! And they spread out along the boy's expected path, running from tree to tree, hidden from any stray glance or chance gaze. He walked with a raised and presumably loaded catapult, a steadying rest snug on his forearm, sweeping his eyes across the undergrowth surrounding. He was level now with the position Patti had taken, where she was shifting her weight from one leg to the other. A twig snapped. Ha! called the boy, and let fly his shot at the rabbit or pigeon or whatever else he thought lurked there. The stone hit the tree that Patti was hiding behind, biting off a chip of bark and dropping harmlessly to the floor. The boy chased the stone to see had he hit anything animal or bird, and couldn't help but see Patti lurking behind the tree. What are you doing there? Nothing. Well I could've killed you. You shouldn't stand around where people might kill you and get the blame. That thing couldn't kill a flea. It's only a toy. Oh yeah? Well you won't mind me firing at you then, will you? He reached into his pocket for another stone. You should run away while you've got the chance. Instead Patti stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jacket in both hands, wincing where her cut rubbed. I've got him! Quick! Syl! I don't normally hit girls, but in your case I could make an exception. He brought the catapult down on her hands. Patti hung on, biting her lip to bear the pain. You're going to wish you hadn't done that, came a voice from behind him. He turned round to see Sylvia, a daubed mud streak across her cheekbones, holding the knife near his throat, the dried blood unmistakable and menacing. You'd better say you're sorry. The boy tried to run but Patti held him fast. Sylvia took a hold of his jacket scruff and Caitlin now stood nearby. You're sorry. She pressed the cold flat of the blade onto the rapid pulse in his throat. OK I'm sorry. I don't normally hit girls but she was winding me up. It's easy to say you're sorry. You have to show you mean it. What? I'm not going to kiss her! I'd spit at you if you even tried to kiss me. You have to show her it. My catapult? She can look at it for all I care. Not the catapult. Something else. Caitlin sniggered. You're all mad. I'm going now, all right? Not until you've got it out for us. Hey? Or do you want us to cut your trousers open and get it out ourselves? You want to see my dingo? He laughed. Go on, help yourselves. Don't put that knife near it though. You caught him, Patti. Do you want to do it? Ooh. Not really. I might touch it by accident. Can't he get it out himself? What about her? asked the boy, looking at Caitlin. No thanks, said Caitlin. Do it yourself. The boy unbuttoned his trousers and let them slip to the floor. With a grin he pushed down his undershorts and looked around for a reaction. Well? What do you think? Why's it sticking out like that? asked Caitlin. What's wrong with it? Haven't you ever seen a stiffy before? I haven't heard them called that, but we've seen loads. More than you have I bet. And there's something wrong with yours. You can touch it if you want to. No thanks. But Sylvia put a finger to the end of it and pushed it down. It bounced back up. Weird, she said. Try holding it harder, he said. It won't hurt. I've seen enough thanks. You can go now. You're lucky you got us in a good mood or we might've killed you. Or cut it off. He laughed and pulled his clothes back up. You can kill me anytime. Quickly or slowly, I don't mind. Well we just might. And you should see a doctor, called Patti after him, as he walked away, laughing, along the track. Come on. Let's go to the den, said Caitlin finally. Hey, do you think it was Mary Glee did that to his thing? asked Patti. I don't know, Sylvia replied. But I'll ask her if you like. It was quite horrible, wasn't it? Yes. It was. Horrible. But in a strange way. A fox at that moment ran straight across their path, but none of the girls gave it a second glance. Do you think he'll go and see a doctor? I don't know. He's probably too embarrassed. And the fox sloped through the undergrowth, sniffing frenziedly, its brush held firm behind it, until it found the object of its search and lowered a shoulder and dropped onto the dark stain and rubbed its shoulders on the ground, body twisting this way and that, belly up, its jaws snapping open and shut in an expression of animal ecstasy.
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