Fire Girl (6 page)

Hazel remained where she was, unsure whether to follow him or run away. The stranger’s voice floated back through the darkness. ‘Come with me, young sapling . . .’

‘I don’t like this at all,’ Bramley said. ‘Let’s just go.’

‘No,’ Hazel whispered back, plucking him from her curls and hiding him in her cloak pocket. ‘We need to hear what he knows about Mary. I’m worried about her.’ She
followed the man to the door of a wooden cabin on the edge of the clearing.

‘Come in,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve no reason to be afraid of me.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Hazel entered a candlelit kitchen, neatly furnished with a stove, table, and a chest of drawers carved with trees and woodland animals. A ladder led up to a
loft – the bedroom, she supposed.

‘Welcome to my home,’ the man said. ‘It’s not much, but it’s the best a humble woodsman can afford.’ He opened the stove door and poked at the embers.
Firelight glistened on the sweat beading his brow.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Hazel asked.

‘Unwell? Oh, yes,’ the woodsman said, looking through her with hollow eyes. ‘Sick at heart, you might say.’

‘We should go.’ Bramley’s voice was a muffled squeak. ‘We might catch whatever ails him.’

Ignoring him, Hazel perched on a stool by the window and clasped her hands in her lap, waiting for the woodsman to continue.

‘A Witch Hunter has been plying his trade in Watley,’ he said, running a hand down his face.

Hazel tensed. Her mother had sometimes spoken to Mary of Witch Hunters when she didn’t think Hazel was listening – they were ruthless men dedicated to finding people accused of
wielding magic.
People like me
, she thought, her heart fluttering.

‘And not just any Witch Hunter, but Captain John Stearne himself.’ The woodsman’s voice was flat, like a guilty man confessing his sins. ‘They call him “The
Butcher”
.
That’s who I’ve been working for.’ He pointed at the dresser. ‘Pass me the clothes from the top drawer.’

Hazel opened it. Inside were neatly folded dresses: simple clothes, but well made and looked after. She handed them to the woodsman, wondering what he was going to do with them. To her surprise
he stuffed them into the stove. Fire raged, casting an orange glow throughout the cabin.

‘And what did this man . . . Captain Stearne do?’ she asked.

‘He came with soldiers to hunt for witches – all kinds, from Wielders to healers.’ His face crumpled and tears gathered in his eyes. ‘They barred the town gates, trapping
everyone inside. Then he set up his court in the market square and judged anyone he suspected of witchcraft.’

Hazel sat unmoving
. I’m beginning to understand why Ma kept me hidden away
, she thought.

‘The trials went on for days . . . and when they were over, he ordered me to build the execution pyres.’

‘I don’t want to hear the end of this,’ came a muffled whisper.

Hazel quickly covered her pocket with her hands to stifle Bramley’s squeaking – but the woodsman didn’t notice, he just gazed into the roaring stove.

Hazel started to tremble. ‘So the smoke over the town . . . ?’

The woodsman blinked slowly and nodded. ‘Stearne is gone but the pyres still burn. Beacons to show that Watley is cleansed of witchcraft. That is why I am sick in both heart and
soul.’

‘Who . . . who did they burn?’ Hazel whispered.

‘Wise women, healers, anyone suspected of having a bit of magic about them, anyone considered . . . odd.’ Hazel flinched as his eyes bored into her. ‘Women like Mary. She lives
somewhere here in Wychwood – no one knows quite where, but the Witch Hunters may have found her. Who knows?’ He threw the rest of the clothes in the crackling fire.

Oh no, not Mary
, Hazel thought.

‘Bottom drawer,’ the woodsman said.

Hazel pulled it open and saw more dresses. ‘These are children’s clothes.’

The woodsman took them from her and clutched them to his chest. ‘My wife was a healer,’ he said. ‘Some said she used magic. Perhaps they were right. And my daughter . . . she
looked
so much
like her.’

Hazel watched with dawning horror as he began to feed the clothes into the fire.

‘I did what I was told. I would have been killed if I disobeyed,’ he said. ‘I built the pyres and . . . I had to watch as . . .’ His voice trailed away.

Hazel sat in stunned silence until he eventually tore his eyes away from the crackling fire and looked at her.

‘Don’t go into Watley,’ he said. ‘Just knowing Blind Mary’s name may be enough for someone to denounce you.’ His face lit up and he held out the last of his
daughter’s dresses. ‘You could stay here with me. This might fit you. Won’t you try it on?’

Hazel shook her head, feeling trapped; the woodman’s broad shoulders seemed to fill the cabin, blocking her way to the door.

‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to you,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘But you must let me go.’

‘Please stay,’ he begged, taking a step forward. ‘I can’t bear to be on my own.’

Hazel tried to dodge past him but he moved with her. The wild look in his eyes chilled her blood, but she mastered her fear.

‘No,’ she said, stamping her foot. ‘You’ll let me go, or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Please,’ he said, then the strength drained from him and he crumpled into his chair.

‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay here with you,’ Hazel said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

‘Go then, if you must, young sapling.’ He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Hazel’s hand. ‘Go to the gaol in the market square. Find Captain Price and ask him to
show you the execution list. If Mary Applegate’s name is on it . . . you know that you need look no further for her. Just remember this: don’t tell
anyone
that you’re
friends with her. Trust no one –
ever
. England is now a place where people betray their own families. Now go.’

Hazel paused by the door. ‘What were your wife and daughter’s names?’ She didn’t know why, but she needed to know.

‘Rose and Meg. My Rose and Meg.’

‘Goodbye,’ Hazel said. ‘I hope we’ll meet again.’ She stepped out into the dark and closed the door behind her.

When a Witch Hunter purges a township,

he is allowed to treat the population as he sees fit.

Amendment to the Witch Laws, passed by Parliament, 1646

H
azel picked her way through the clearing. ‘That poor man,’ she said, releasing Bramley from her pocket and settling him on her
shoulder.

‘Poor man?’ Bramley replied. ‘I thought he was going to keep us both prisoner.’

‘He was desperate. Couldn’t you feel it? It came off him in waves.’

She stroked Bramley’s head as she gazed down the valley. Pools of white mist gathered in the deeps and gullies scarring the land. In the distance, a wolf howled. With a deep breath, Hazel
settled her bag more comfortably on her shoulder and set off down the hill towards the town.

‘You still mean to go there, then?’ Bramley said.

‘We need to know if Mary’s still alive. She’s our only hope.’

‘Why didn’t I just stay in my nest?’ Bramley groaned. ‘This does
not
feel like a good idea.’

The valley sloped steeply and Hazel had to be careful not to lose her footing on the stony ground. Hardy-looking goats watched her descent until she eventually reached a track running alongside
the river. Ahead, the smoke pall stained the sky a dirty grey.

Wattle-and-daub huts with sagging roofs lined the track, and boats bobbed and knocked against rickety jetties. The moon was high and casting a ghostly glow by the time she reached the walls of
Watley. The main gate was closed but a side door next to a guards’ hut stood open. Inside, a snoring soldier in a tatty red uniform slumped on a stool with his chin resting on his chest.

‘Now there’s a man who takes his job seriously,’ Bramley said.

Hazel crept up to the hut, unhooked the lantern hanging over the door, and passed silently into the town. Two things struck her as she stood in the cobbled courtyard just inside the gate. The
first was the overpowering smell of sewage, and the second was the silence.

When daydreaming about the world outside the Glade, she had imagined towns to be busy places full of people, noise, hustle and bustle. Instead, the courtyard and the streets leading from it were
deserted, the houses and shops shuttered and dark.

‘What’s this?’ Hazel muttered, kneeling down. The cobblestones were covered in a layer of grey paste. She rubbed it between her fingers.

‘I think it’s ash and rainwater,’ Bramley said, scurrying down to her hand to have a sniff. ‘Look, it’s everywhere.’

‘But where could all this ash be coming from?’ Hazel said, before remembering the smoke column and what was causing it. ‘Oh.’

‘It must have been burning for days,’ Bramley said, racing back up to the comfort of her hair.

A dog barked a few streets away, followed by a man shouting. Somewhere behind a nearby shuttered window a woman sobbed. Hazel was gripped with an urge to turn tail and run.
No
, she
thought.
I must find Mary. And to do that, I need to talk to this Captain Price.

Holding up the lantern and avoiding the reeking gutter running down the middle of the cobbles, she set off towards the centre of town using the smoke column as a guide. Empty washing lines hung
between buildings like spiders’ webs.

Light spilt out from the windows of a tavern; a glimpse inside revealed a low room with tables, chairs and a serving hatch. A few pinch-faced men sat together, talking in low voices. One woman
slumped in a corner, red-rimmed eyes staring at nothing.

The road sloped up, passed under a covered butter market and then opened on to an empty moonlit square, fronted on three sides by shuttered houses and shops. Hazel stopped by a horse trough full
of brackish water, and knelt down in its shadow.

‘Well,’ Bramley whispered, ‘this place certainly tells a grim tale.’

In the middle of the square were piles of blackened timber, belching smoke, their embers still glowing. Jutting from them were six poles burnt down to charcoal spikes. Ash choked the air,
catching in Hazel’s throat and making it hard to breathe.

‘At least it seems to be over now,’ she whispered back. ‘Look, there are lights on over there. Perhaps that’s the gaol?’ She pointed towards a low stone building
with a stout door and a rank of barred windows. They were all dark except for one at the end, which glowed with candlelight.

She ducked back behind the horse trough as the gaol door crashed open. Two men in red uniforms ambled out. One dragged his musket on the ground, the other swigged from a bottle.

‘Watch out, witches,’ the one with the musket slurred. ‘The patrol is sallying forth.’ Both men folded up, wheezing with mirth.

‘Shut your traps, you drunken sops,’ bellowed someone from inside the gaol. ‘You’re militiamen, so act like it or I’ll throw you in the cells.’

The men faded into the night. The door slammed shut.

‘The local militia,’ Hazel hissed. ‘Looks like we’ve found the right place, anyway.’

‘I don’t think much of their discipline,’ sniffed Bramley. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

‘No, but it’s the only one we have.’ She took a steadying breath and marched up the gaol steps. There was a piece of parchment nailed to the door:

John Stearne
, Hazel thought.
That’s who the woodsman talked about.
Standing up as straight as she could, she balled her fist and rapped on the door.

‘Come in, if you must,’ a voice called. ‘It isn’t locked.’

Hazel shoved open the door and stepped into a low-ceilinged office. A suet pudding of a man eyed her suspiciously from behind a desk. His frockcoat was under so much strain that the buttons
looked about to ping off and ricochet around the room like musket balls.