Orla and the Magpie's Kiss Read online

  A gwelen was a heavy staff of sacred wood – blackthorn in Orla’s case, but ash, beech or willow worked well too – that acted like a kind of vacuum cleaner, sucking up and storing the powerful earth energy that witches call sprowl, as essential to their craft as oxygen is to life. But Orla doubted she’d need it here. Sprowl didn’t like the sea. Nor did proper witches. All of which was pretty comforting.

  She checked the window again. The bright white light in the west reflected in the pools and along the creeks across the marsh and she felt a rush of sympathy for all the birds trying to roost out there. It must be like trying to get to sleep with the bedroom light still on, she thought.

  “C’mon, dog,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s check on the others.”

  She put her head around Coot’s door. Tom was stretched out on the bed, gazing in awe at a ledge that ran along the wall just below the ceiling.

  “There’s a railway,” he cried. “Look – it goes all around the room and through a tunnel.”

  Orla glanced up. Mountains were painted on the doors of a huge wooden wardrobe and the railway passed through a painted arch to run through the wardrobe. It emerged from the other side, passed through a miniature forest and disappeared between the half-timbered houses of what looked like a German village.

  “Awesome,” marvelled Orla. “But where’s the train?”

  Tom lifted up a shoebox with the words Fix me on the side. “In here. Must be broken.”

  In Greylag Richard was sitting miserably on his bed.

  “My shoes are ruined,” he moaned. “Salt ruins suede. And this mattress is too hard.” He thumped the bed to prove his point.

  Orla ignored him and studied the room. There was a box of assorted electronic components on the bare wood floor and a big black screen. “What happened to the TV?”

  Richard gave her a sad look and held up a yellow Post-it note. It said Fix me.

  “Might be a bit beyond your skill set,” Orla said with a grin. “Maybe help Tom mend his toy train first.”

  “You’re funny. What did you get?”

  She frowned. “An inappropriate book.”

  There was a gruff shout from downstairs. “You lot up there?”

  “Uncle Valentine!” cried Orla. She dashed for the stairs, almost tripping as Dave raced past her, barking like a maniac. Orla sped after him, desperate not to let the holiday start with one of Dave’s friendly fire incidents.

  She needn’t have worried. An enormous man with a red face and a wild beard, dressed like he’d chosen his outfit from a bin at the back of a charity shop, was lying on his back on the kitchen floor, his eyes wide open and staring unblinking at the ceiling. His reaction had confused Dave, who knew that dead bodies should always be considered booby-trapped until proven otherwise. He sniffed the corpse suspiciously.

  “Works with bears and Jack Russells,” said the corpse as Dave leapt backwards.

  Orla smiled. “Hello, Uncle Valentine.”

  The corpse sat up, eyes still wide and mouth now open. “Orla Perry?”

  She nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “The Orla Perry?”

  “The very same.”

  “Can’t be,” said the corpse. “First off, my great-niece Orla Perry is about this high…” He held his hand at the height of a six-year-old. “And secondly, she had hair as red as mine right down her back.” He squinted at Orla. “You’re too tall, and your hair’s shorter.”

  “Hello, Uncle Valentine,” said Tom, pushing past Orla.

  “Yes, hi,” added Richard warily from behind his sister.

  The huge man studied their faces, then shook his head. “You’re all impostors, but I can’t throw you out on a night like this.” He pulled himself to his feet, stooping as though accustomed to colliding with the ceiling.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at Dave.

  “Dave T. Dog,” said Orla.

  Uncle Valentine bent and gave the Jack Russell an affectionate pat that was so hard it made Dave’s eyes water.

  “What’s the T stand for?” asked Uncle Valentine.

  “THE,” they yelled in unison.

  “Very funny.” Uncle Valentine nodded, then clapped his hands. “Now, pay attention because I’m only going to tell you this once.” He began to rotate, pointing with both fingers like a gun turret. “Kitchen – keep clean and tidy at all times. Knives in drawers, plates in cupboards. Fireplace – kindling in the basket, matches on the mantelpiece, logs outside. The TV was there but it won’t work until Richard fixes it, and over there’s my Afghan rug: it’s very valuable, so don’t drop jam on it. Past the stairs is the front room. I only use it when the vicar comes visiting.”

  “How often is that?” asked Orla.

  “Never,” replied Uncle Valentine. “But you need to be prepared.” He pointed at a large globe on a gleaming brass stand. “That’s my second most treasured possession, so treat it with care. The dots on it are the places I’ve been. And that…” He pointed at the wobbly clock. “That is my number one most treasured possession. It’s made of jade from China and used to belong to an emperor, so best not to touch. You’ll note that it’s balanced on an alarmingly precarious surface.”

  “Why don’t you move it somewhere safer?” asked Tom.

  Uncle Valentine rubbed his beard. “Because if I put it anywhere else it stops working, and I need it to work because it’s a lifesaver.”

  “A lifesaver?” asked Richard. “Because it tells the time?”

  “Not exactly,” said Uncle Valentine. He held a finger in the air. All was silent but for the ticking of the emperor’s clock. Then, at 10 p.m. on the dot, it emitted a weedy tinkle. Uncle Valentine laughed with glee. “Every time I hear that chime, I can pour myself a tot of rum. That’s why it’s a lifesaver.”

  He grabbed the bottle from the kitchen table, pulled the cork out with his teeth, poured a shot and swallowed it in one gulp.

  “Ah!” He smiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes – the outbuildings. There’s the rope-house just over the footbridge, with the generator, rescue gear and fuel.”

  “Rescue gear?” asked Tom.

  “Throwing lines, torches, life jackets, that sort of thing,” explained Uncle Valentine. “They’re treacherous waters out there, and when you live this close to them you need to be prepared.”

  He rubbed his beard. “Now then, the big building after that with the ramp is the workshop. Lots of power tools and sharp things in there, so be careful. The far one is the smokehouse. Stay well out of there. Oh, and you’ll probably want the code for the high-speed fibre-optic Internet.”

  Richard turned his eyes to heaven and let out silent thanks. Tom just breathed, “Yes, please.”

  “Thought you would.” Uncle Valentine nodded. “But there isn’t one.”

  “No code?” asked Richard, already swiping his phone.

  “No Internet.” Uncle Valentine grinned. “You’ll live.”

  He went to the back door, then turned. “Who wants fish and chips?” he asked.

  “Yay!” they cried, but their joy was cut short as Uncle Valentine returned to drop four very fresh, very shiny and very raw haddock and a dozen uncooked potatoes on the table.

  “Better get peeling, boys,” he said. “Orla can make the batter while I heat the oil.”

  “Why does Orla get to make the batter?” asked Tom.

  Uncle Valentine smiled. “Because she’s the lady of the house.”

  First the soppy books for girls. Now the cooking. “Actually, I’m rubbish at cooking,” sniffed Orla. “Richard is the master chef. I’ll do the peeling.”

  Uncle Valentine raised an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” he said. He turned to Tom. “How’s your sister ever going to find a husband if she can’t cook?”

  There was a spluttering, slightly squeaky sound from beside the cooker. It was Richard bursting into a fit of giggles.

  * * *

  Exactly ninety minute
s later Richard put down his knife and fork, sat back in his chair and rubbed his belly. “That, without doubt, was the best fish and chips I’ve ever had.”

  “Or ever will have,” agreed Tom, collecting the plates.

  “I’m stuffed,” said Orla.

  “So’s your hound,” said Uncle Valentine, nodding towards a very fat, very happy Jack Russell. “We’ll have to run that flab off him this week.”

  Dave’s contentment evaporated in a long sigh.

  Uncle Valentine opened a drawer in the kitchen table and pulled out a rolled-up document. “This here’s the Admiralty chart for this part of the coast,” he said. He unrolled it, weighing down the corners with salt, pepper, ketchup and vinegar. “Gather round while I show you the lie of the land. This here’s Sicow’s Creek. All around us, tidal salt marsh. Beyond this line of dunes to the north is Stubborn Sands; and over here to the east, the valley of the Swallow River. She’s the most beautiful chalk stream in the county and tidal for the last mile and a half. There’s good fishing at her mouth but you can’t follow her upstream any more and you mustn’t be out after dark. You need to be indoors, with the lights on. Got it?”

  “Why?” asked Orla. She was genuinely curious.

  Uncle Valentine looked at her, then at the boys, as though trying to decide how much to tell them.

  “The dyke paths are slippery,” he said at last. “And the creeks are deep. People disappear on the marsh all the time. Bodies are sometimes found, but mostly the sea keeps them.”

  The clock ticked. The wind rattled the windows. Dave ate a dead fly. Eventually Richard broke the silence.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Uncle Valentine shook his head. “No, I’m not. And there’s another thing. You might hear the Drowning Bell. Ding … ding … ding it goes, from a submerged church far out at sea. If you hear it, someone you love is drowning. So don’t be out in the dark, stay out of the water and you’ll be safe. Daylight is a different matter.” He placed an oil-stained finger on the map, tracking the Swallow River upstream to a perfect circle of woodland. “Except here. This is Anna’s Wood, and it’s out of bounds.” He gave them a stern look. “I mean put-you-on-the-next-bus-home out of bounds.”

  “Fine,” said Orla, unconvincingly. “What are all those lights to the west?”

  Uncle Valentine’s face darkened. “The Devil’s work is what. It’s the GasFrac compound where they keep their infernal machines.” He jabbed his stubby, oily finger violently at the map. “All this – the marsh, the dunes, the beach, the workshop here at Sicow’s Creek – is your playground during the day, but Anna’s Wood, the GasFrac compound and the smokehouse are off limits. Get it?”

  The gang nodded solemnly.

  Orla planned to go to Anna’s Wood as soon as possible.

  “What’s GasFrac?” asked Tom.

  “They’re a drilling company,” explained Richard. “They pump chemicals and water into the bedrock to release natural gas. It’s all quite controversial.”

  As the emperor’s clock chimed midnight, Uncle Valentine poured two inches of rum into a glass and took a long, angry swig. “Controversial?” he spluttered. “It’s criminal. They’ve discovered shale gas in the rocks under Anna’s Wood and by nefarious means they’ve got permission from everyone who matters to drill a well and pump the stuff out.” He took another swig of rum, his hand shaking with anger. “Three thousand years that wood’s been there. Ancient Britons, Iceni, Romans, Saxons and Vikings have all worshipped nature there, and yet for the sake of gas that’ll be burned away in a year, the wood has to go.”

  “What do you mean go?” asked Richard.

  “I mean go as in chainsawed, bulldozed, ploughed up and concreted over,” muttered Uncle Valentine. “Those devils move in a week Monday.” He slammed down his glass. “But it’s not your business. Now get to bed. It’s gone midnight.”

  “Sweet dreams, everyone,” said Richard, and Uncle Valentine gave a hollow laugh.

  “All we dream of around here is a shopping centre and a country park,” he said.

  At 5.15 a.m. the entire salt marsh woke up, with ducks, geese, waders, warblers and divers ruffling their feathers and yelling at the sun to hurry up and rise. Orla opened her eyes, touched the silver star she wore around her neck for luck, then dashed to the window. The eastern horizon was a streak of pink, the west a wall of white light against the fleeing night.

  Dave stood up, yawned and began his morning yoga routine: downward dog, cat-cow, baby cobra.

  “Dawn patrol, dog,” whispered Orla.

  She snapped Dave into his black tactical harness, then dressed herself in shorts, a green jumper and socks that almost matched. She grabbed her gwelen from under the bed, and paused. It was force of habit, but she didn’t need it because this morning she was just going for a walk like a normal person. Not collecting sprowl like a witch. After all, she’d made a deal with Richard. She shoved the gwelen back under the bed, then pulled it out again. Dave yawned.

  On second thoughts, what harm was there in taking it along?

  Orla and Dave tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. Uncle Valentine was asleep in a chair beside the cold fireplace, his mouth wide open and an empty bottle of rum beside him. Orla turned to Dave, put a finger to her lips and crept towards the back door.

  “Going somewhere, girl?” asked Uncle Valentine, his eyes still closed.

  “Taking Dave for his early morning walk,” she whispered.

  Opening his eyes, Uncle Valentine glanced at the emperor’s clock and raised an eyebrow.

  “Early riser, aren’t you?”

  Orla nodded. “Best part of the day.”

  “True,” he agreed. “Did you see the books I left out for you? Lots of activities for girls in them.”

  “Not for this girl,” she muttered.

  “Please yourself. Where you headed?”

  “Just exploring.”

  “On your own?” Uncle Valentine’s eyes widened. He looked worried. Presumably he’d thought that Orla would be happy to spend the day embroidering a cushion cover.

  “I’m not on my own, Uncle Valentine,” said Orla sweetly. “I’ve got my dog to protect me.” She bent down to give Dave a hug like that girl on the cover of The Sunshine Story Book for Girls. Dave growled. Then farted.

  Orla picked up the binoculars from the windowsill. “Can I borrow these?”

  “What for?”

  “Birdwatching?”

  Uncle Valentine nodded. “Don’t lose them,” he said. “What’s that pole you’ve got there?”

  Orla smiled innocently. “A walking stick.”

  “Is it indeed?” muttered Uncle Valentine. He didn’t sound convinced. “You stay out of that wood.”

  Dave took off like a bullet, sniffing, weeing and rolling his way across the marsh. Orla followed, grinning so hard that her face hurt. She loved the feeling of being the first person to see the day, especially somewhere new. The air smelled of salt, mud and sea lavender and the musty dampness of the low grey mist that was draped over the creeks. She paused on the footbridge and gazed across the marsh, past the rotting timbers of a mud-stranded fishing boat to the dunes and the salt haze beyond. Dave had yet another wee, then trotted ahead to roll in goose poo. It made sense, he reasoned, to blend in with the surroundings.

  Together they wandered along the path they’d followed last night, eventually reaching the coast road. Dave was cautiously optimistic about this new area of operations. As close protection specialist and head of household security to the Perry family, his life involved long periods of risk assessment and tactical planning punctuated with brief moments of extreme anxiety – especially when he was with the girl. But here felt, well, good. He looked up at Orla, wagging his tail.

  “What?”

  Dave sneezed, then barked.

  “I get it,” she cried, bending down to pat him, spotting the goose poo and changing her mind. “You’re happy to be on holiday too, right?”

  Dave shoo
k himself, the tremor starting at his whiskers and travelling to the tip of his tail and back. He was never on holiday.

  To the left the road dipped, descending to a stone bridge that lay in a pool of mist dusted pink by the sun. Dave jumped onto the parapet and stared down through the swirl to where the water ran beneath. Orla joined him.

  “That’s the Swallow River,” she said. “The most beautiful chalk stream in the county.” She lifted her head, her gaze following the misty valley south to a distant copse on what looked like a miniature hill. “And that must be Anna’s Wood.” She glanced back towards Sicow’s Creek, then at Dave. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  There was a path alongside the river but it was blocked by an orange plastic barrier. Path closed, announced one sign. No right of way, said another. No trespassing, warned a third, while a fourth stated: CCTV in operation.

  None of the above deterred Orla in the slightest as she slipped past the barrier and headed upstream along the overgrown path. Dave pushed past her to take point, tunnelling through the undergrowth and hopping over fallen branches.

  Ahead, Anna’s Wood appeared as a dark green dome in a shallow valley of pale green barley fields: a tiny hillock that looked as though it had grown up in the wrong place.

  Suddenly Dave stopped, one paw held high and his tail rigid. Orla crouched down.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Dave was staring at a silver birch on the opposite bank, and it took Orla a few seconds to see the blinking red light of the CCTV camera.

  “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “Who’s going to be watching a camera pointed at an empty field at six o’clock in the morning?”

  Dave strongly disagreed with Orla’s risk assessment and veered into the field, staying low in the barley. Orla followed, enjoying the adventure.