The Witches of Willowmere

Chapter 6

The road was long and narrow, with tall trees and bushes growing thickly to either side, its rough surface of unpaved earth stained with their ink-dark shadows. Claire could not see where to put her feet as she ran. Once, she stumbled and almost fell, throwing a wild glance over her left shoulder as she did so.

The thing that was pursuing her looked like a large black dog. As it raced through a patch of road where the tree- shadows were not so dense, Claire distinctly saw its sleek, dark shape, the long, muscular body taut with speed, the questing head held low to the ground. Though it was still about twenty metres behind her, she could see its eyes glittering coldly through the dark. Her head whipped back around and she ran harder, her breath coming in deep, tearing gasps. There were no houses anywhere along this road, nothing as far as she could see but tangled verdure shot with shadows. She flung another glance over her shoulder. Others had joined the first dog; a whole pack of lean, grey, wolfish shapes now loped steadily on her trail, with the black one in the lead. And they were gaining on her.

She ran on, knowing even as she did so that it was useless: she could never hope to outrun her fleet-footed hunters. She could not even cry for help, for there was no one about to hear her. The wolfish creatures began to bay in excitement. They were so close that she could hear their claws striking the road, their excited whines and panting, eager breaths . . .

Then Claire saw the gate.

There were the two stone posts, each topped by a crowned stone lion, several metres ahead on the right-hand side of the road. Willowmere ... it was the gate to Willowmere. She did not wonder or question how this could be—even thinking, it seemed, would slow her down—but dashed towards the gateposts with all the speed she could muster from her tiring legs. As she swerved from the centre of the road, she saw a human figure—a motionless form swathed in a black hooded cloak or robe. It was standing on the far side of the street, exactly opposite the gateposts, and though she could see no face, she felt from it a wave of palpable menace. There would be no help from that shrouded figure. But she was at the gate now, and it was not locked; she shoved open the great heavy piece of ironwork and began to swing it shut behind her. Through it she saw the cloaked figure, still standing motionless on the opposite side of the road. It stood in deep shadow, so that she could see little of it, and the face was hidden under the drooping hood. She had the impression that it was about her own height. But there was no time to see any more. The dog-like creatures were running at the gate.

Wildly she fumbled in her pocket. Yes, the gate key was there. Her hands shook. For a heart-stopping instant, she could not find the lock in the darkness. Then the key was turning, clicking into place. She sprang back, leaving it still sticking out of the lock, as a dozen lean, feral shapes hurled themselves howling against the gate. Claws scrabbled at the ironwork, teeth snapped, and luminous yellow eyes blazed at her through the bars.

But the gate held and she was safe, surrounded by the estate's protecting barrier of stone and iron. As she stood there, panting in mingled relief and shock, there was a soft sound behind her— a low, mewling cry. She whirled in terror, staring. But the animal sitting on the gravel path before her was small and harmless: the grey-and-white figure of a cat.

"Miaauuww," it said again, rising to all four feet.

Claire held out a trembling hand. "Whiskers?" she choked.

He chirruped at her—his old familiar greeting—then turned and walked away down the dark drive, tail waving. By some trick of the light, his fur seemed to change colour as she watched: the grey parts disappeared, leaving him white all over. It occurred to her, suddenly, that this was not after all the familiar drive that led to Myra's house. There was a large building looming through the dusk, but it was larger than Myra's place and seemed to have tall towers. Turning back once more, she saw that the gate and wall were still there, but the dogs, the street, and the cloaked figure had all vanished. In their place was a view of hills, grey-purple in the first light of dawn, with a valley below through which a glinting river ran. A sweet floral fragrance blew from the hills on the cool early-morning breeze. And with the scent came a sudden poignant yearning, so strong that Claire almost cried out.