Devils screeching … witches flayed …

At one stage, this was the opening chapter, or perhaps a prologue, for River Witch, my historical fantasy novel set on the banks of the Severn River near where I live in the Forest of Dean in SW England. In the end I dropped it, but love it, so this is a wonderful opportunity to bring it to readers anyway.

Hester’s oldest brothers bring the story home. They heard it in the Red Lion, on the other side of the river, where they were waiting for the ferry. It was the middle of the day, not late, not at that point in a public house’s daily routine where the stories are stretched to the limits of their truth, when men suck on their pipes and ales and shake their heads at mysteries told over and over and never resolved. Such as this tale.
No, it was dinner time, frosty outside but sunshine bright enough that two old fishermen sat bare-headed on the bench under the sign and closed their eyes to better feel the meagre warmth on their pates. Inside, Hester’s brothers, Sim and Will, leaned their heavy arms on the Red Lion’s bar and squinted at the storyteller.

‘Shooting fire?’ Sim said with a disbelieving shake of his untidy head.
‘That’s what folks say, and no reason to lie. Not liars ’round here.’ The storyteller dared these foreigners from across the water to gainsay him.
Will, more circumspect by a fraction, drew a deep breath and whooshed it out in admiration. ‘Shooting fire,’ he said in a wondering tone.
‘That’s what folks say,’ their informant repeated. ‘And then, the noises.’ He drew furiously on his pipe while his eyebrows arched like silver caterpillars above his deep-set eyes.
‘Noises?’
‘Like devils screeching, like witches being flayed, like hell itself risen out of the depths to battle its own.’

For this was what made the story so remarkable. The shooting fire and the devils screeching took place on, or in, the river – the wide, changeable river which separates the brothers’ home from those of the Red Lion’s more regular customers.
‘Could be heard for miles up and down.’ The pipe smoker nodded. ‘Folk halfway to Gloucester say they was woked by the screams.’
‘And not a soul on the river saw a thing?’ Will was wise enough not to let the question sound incredulous. ‘There must’ve been boats on the river. Someone must have seen something.’
‘There was boats, sure. The shooting fire were enough for any soul to want to see. Nothing besides that.’

And so it is told over the family’s supper, to Hester’s keen wonder.
‘It’s what Master Preece says.’ Thaddeus, the third brother, glows with his almost-first-hand knowledge, as passed on by his stonemason master. ‘Full of the story he was, how he watched the flames from his front door, thinking they must – but how could they? – be rising from the river. Higher than the cliffs, turned the sky red and yellow.’
Hester shifts in her hard chair. Rising from the river? From Sabrina?
‘What was it? Do they know?’ Her voice is strident, demanding.
Mother tuts, a hint for her daughter to speak with more decorum. Hester blinks, her eyes shifting from Sim to Will to Thaddeus.
Will shrugs. ‘No, they never did discover what and why, far as I know.’
‘The scorch marks on the cliff face,’ Sim says. ‘Great black scorch marks on the cliff face, on our side. Leastwise, that’s what our fishermen tell all who ask and most who doan’t.’
Flames scorching the cliffs. Hester closes her eyes, imagining gold and red sparks spitting against rocks, flames shrivelling scraggly bushes and blackening the thin trees which lean out over the water. She holds her breath, savouring the fire, embracing the heat.
‘That’s what I heard too.’ Thaddeus turns to Reuben, the youngest of the brothers. ‘Did they speak of it at school, Reuben? Some must’ve seen it.’
Reuben shakes his head. ‘Not that I heard.’
‘O’ course.’ Sim humphs and pinches Reuben’s arm, which is twitched aside in self-defence before it can be pinched again. ‘Had his head in a book, like always. No point askin’ high and mighty, full o’ learning Reuben if he heard anything might be of interest to ordinary folk.’
Father, sitting in the cushioned chair by the fire, coughs. ‘It’s just gone All Hallows Eve. Our friends on t’other side be in league with the fishermen, pulling gullible legs up and down the river, you daft boys.’

peeled apple

Will snorts a laugh, which earns him a glare from Sim. Hester thinks of the roaring flames of the village’s All Hallows fire, the rasping of fiddles, dancing, and noisy laughter and shouting to scare away the spirits. She had bobbed for apples, peeling the skin away in one long strip and tossing it over her shoulder.
‘What letter does it make, Hester?’ Reuben had said, peering over her shoulder at the red skin, but neither of them could decipher any letter from the tangled pile.

‘More important things to think on than the games of superstitious folk.’ Father tamps his pipe. ‘Need to get the hay for sale loaded into the wagon and the weaned calves made right pretty. Market Saturday, and scorch marks on cliffs will be least of our worries without good sales.’
‘True. Word is,’ Will says, ‘how Mr Freeman’s been sent out and about by Courtney-Brown to harass us all, make sure the winter feed’s stored right and ploughing’s under way.’
‘Humph.’ Father re-lights the pipe, taking his time about it. ‘All well and good using his estate manager as a messenger boy, but it’d be good to see the man’s own face on occasion. Especially when trying to sell us his new fancy farming notions.’
Hester’s mind drifts above the change in topic. Her head swims with thoughts of All Hallows Eve, devils and witches, soaring red sparks – and how disappointing if it’s all a joke pulled on trusting people. Perhaps not …
‘Did you see the scorch marks?’ she says.
‘Scorch marks? Oh!’ Will shrugs. ‘Not from the ferry, no, and we weren’t so daft as to ask whereabouts these marks are supposed to be and make total fools of ourselves. Hey, Sim?’
Sim pokes Hester in the ribs. ‘Off with the fairies, lazy sister?’ He jabs again, hard enough to hurt. ‘Spoiled, you are. Fourteen next month, right? Grown up. Time you pulled your weight, stopped your babby games.’
‘Leave her be.’ Will scowls at Sim.
Sim returns the scowl with a grimace, and Mother says, ‘Come, Hester, help me with the dishes and then there are blackberries to wash and apples to chop and strain ahead of tomorrow. We’ve things to do for market too. Have you collected the jars from the store to be washed?’

Buy River Witch here!