As Clara flew down the steep hill towards the river, Auntie Murial’s words echoed through her mind. “Witches can’t cross running water, Clara.” And then there were her father’s words, spoken just a short time ago. “Can’t you see the current, Neil … it would sweep you off your feet before you took a few steps.”
Panting for breath, she stopped by the water’s edge and knew that if she were going to escape, she had to cross it. Stuffing the talisman securely down the front of her jacket, she zipped it up firmly and, casting a frantic look over her shoulder, saw that the witches were closing in fast.
Turning again to the swiftly flowing river, she stiffened in fright as an old man appeared suddenly from the shadows. “Don’t be afraid, Clara,” he said, with half an eye on the approaching witches. “Give me the talisman and I’ll take you across the river.”
His voice sounded vaguely familiar but Clara had no time to think. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Give me the talisman,” he demanded urgently. “I need it! Please! Give it to me! Quickly, or the witches will catch you!”
Clara swung round and sure enough, the witches were already more than halfway down the brae. The sight of them was enough! Totally petrified, she ignored the pleas of the old man and heedless of danger, left him standing. Splashing into the sweeping current, she fixed her eyes on the far bank and didn’t see him draw back into the shadows as the witches approached, nor see the despair that lined his face. His powers were fading, there were too many of them to hex — but if Clara didn’t make it across the river then he still had a chance to get the talisman … there had to be a chance, he thought desperately, or his life would soon be over …
Clara felt the pull of the current the minute she hit the water. It was much stronger than she’d thought and the river wasn’t nearly as shallow as she’d expected, either. Desperately, she half-waded and half-floundered towards the opposite bank until one of her trainers wedged between a couple of slimy boulders and gave her some welcome, if painful, support. She paused, panting, in what proved to be a small oasis of stillness amid the driving currents. The stones weren’t all that big but, jutting just above the water, were large enough to part the sweeping, cascading flow of the river.
She reckoned she’d made it about a third of the way across and breathed a sigh of relief. At least the witches couldn’t harm her now. They’d reached the water’s edge and were crowding the river bank, totally frustrated and furious at her escape.
Again, she looked ahead to the opposite bank. As Neil had said, it wasn’t that far but she knew from the force of the river that she’d never make it. If she tried, she’d be carried away downstream and although she’d stuffed the box with the talisman in it, down the front of her jacket, she knew she might lose it in the river if she were to fall in.
Desperately, she glanced behind her again, hoping that the witches might have given up on her. No such luck, she thought, they were still there. So, too, she noticed, were the people from the Black Bull, a motley crew in their Halloween outfits for, after the witches’ hurried exit, the MacLeans had not only shot out after them but the whole of the pub had followed suit, anxious not to miss out on the most exciting event that had happened in the village in years.
Even as she watched, her father appeared among the witches, shoving them aside as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd and, with the water lapping at his feet, cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled across the river. “Put the talisman on, Clara!” he shouted. “Put it on!”
“How could I have been so stupid?” Clara thought as she waved to show that she’d understood. Quickly, she pulled down the zipper of her jacket and muttered as it stuck halfway down. “Come on, open,” she muttered, furiously. As it refused to budge, she gave up the struggle and stuck her hand inside. Even as she touched the box, the lid opened and she felt the cold metal of a broad bangle. Although she had meant to lift it out of its box, the talisman itself seemed to have other ideas — for the minute her hand touched it, it slipped swiftly over her wrist.
There was a horrified scream of despair from the witches as, pulling back the sleeve of her jacket, Clara held her arm high above her head so that everyone could see the shining band of silver round her arm.
Ignoring the witches, the old man stepped forward from the shadow of the trees and, arm outstretched, sent the hex flying across the river in a desperate attempt to take the talisman for himself. Indeed, had Clara been holding it in her hand, he might well have succeeded but as it was, the hex struck her arm with vicious force, sparked off the talisman in a blaze of light and knocked her into the river.
Neil swung round just in time to see a decrepit-looking old man standing by the water’s edge, before he vanished from sight. A magician! But who could it possibly be? The witches, too, had seen him and, drawing back warily, eyed their queen. Wanda was grinding her teeth in rage as she saw her plan to take the talisman fall apart but nevertheless knew better than to interfere in the affairs of magicians. Her face was a mask of fury as, lifting her arm, she gave the signal to withdraw and Neil watched in amazement as the grey-clad witches shivered, dimmed and faded away.
“The witches have gone, Dad,” he said excitedly, pulling at his arm, and then fell silent as he followed his father’s gaze. A gasp of amazement had risen from the crowd. It was unbelievable. The river had stopped running.
Clara, herself, couldn’t understand what had happened. Why wasn’t she in the river? She half-scrambled to her feet and looked around. All of a sudden, there was no water. Admittedly, the ground around her was stony and wet. Boulders and a myriad of rounded pebbles gleamed in the dim light of the solitary lamp post on the bank but the river had gone. It was only when she turned that she realized what had happened. The river had stopped flowing and she was facing a huge wave of water that loomed over her, growing higher with every second that passed.
“Clara!” Her father scrunched across the boulder-strewn bed of the river towards her and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on,” he said urgently, shaking her out of her daze. “It must be the talisman that’s holding the water back! Come on, run for it!” And together they ran back to the safety of the bank.
It wasn’t far and everyone cheered. It was a cheer that tailed off and petered out, however, as all eyes then turned back to the enormous wave that had built up. It was an amazing sight and several seconds were to pass before it finally reared high in the air and then crashed down with a violence that sent a huge surge of brown water tumbling crazily down the river.
“The witches have gone, Bert,” Christine said, looking round in relief, half-wondering if she’d imagined them.
“Good riddance,” her husband muttered as, like everyone else, they turned to walk with the MacLeans, back up the slope towards the Black Bull. “I’m sorry about your witches, though, love,” he added quietly, remembering the look of devastation on his wife’s face when she’d seen the ragged remains of her collection. “You’ll just have to start all over again and build up another lot, eh!”
Christine looked at him fondly. She knew he’d never liked her witches but, give him his due, he’d never said a word against them. “You’re a good man, Bert,” she said, with a grin, “but, you know, I seem to have gone off witches completely! In fact, it wouldn’t worry me if I were never to see another witch again in my whole life.”