After a forced march through the busy streets, during which we were jostled, jeered and spat on, we arrived at last at the outskirts of the town and were pushed aboard a dray-cart pulled by four sturdy shire horses. The driver cracked his whip and we set off along a track; having glanced up at the stars and noted the position of the Plough constellation, I judged it was taking us roughly north-west. Alice and I weren’t alone in the cart. We were guarded by three thick-set men with clubs who looked more than willing to use them. Our hands were still tied and there wasn’t the slightest chance of escape.
The men didn’t speak at first and seemed content to stare at us. We both lowered our eyes, not wanting to give them any excuse for violence, and kept quiet, but after a little less than an hour, I judged, one of them nudged me with his club.
‘See that, boy?’ he said, pointing to his right.
In the distance, lit by the moon, was some sort of fortification. I could see a tower surrounded by castellated walls, with a mountain beyond it.
‘That’s Greeba Keep,’ he continued. ‘You might just live to see it again!’
The other yeomen laughed. ‘But once in there you’ll wish you’d died! It’s the lucky ones who are pulled out dead!’ said one.
I didn’t bother to ask him what he meant and remained silent until the cart finally came to a halt. We seemed to have reached a village. It was surrounded by trees, and hills rose up on either side. We were pulled down from the cart and taken past a large, curious mound of earth. It was shaped like a barrow but had four tiers. I’d never seen anything quite like it. Beyond stood another stone tower – this one much smaller than the first. I wondered if it was for holding prisoners, and was soon proved correct.
We were dragged up some steps to a door about halfway up the tower, and after our hands had been untied we were thrust inside. The door clanged behind us, a key turned in the lock and the guards went back down the stairs, their footsteps echoing off the stones.
I looked about me. A single candle stood in a recess in the wall, flickering in the draught from a narrow window far above. The cell was circular, with no furniture and only dirty straw covering the damp flags of the floor.
‘Don’t like this place much,’ said Alice, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
‘You may not like it, girl,’ said a voice from the shadows to our right, ‘but you’d better make the best of it. It’s the most comfortable you’ll ever be again. This is the Tynwald witch tower – after you leave here, there’s only pain and death to look forward to.’
Someone stepped out of the shadows to confront us. It was a tall girl of about eighteen or nineteen with dark glossy hair which reached down to her shoulders. She wore a pretty blue dress and her skin was clean and shining with health. She didn’t look much like a prisoner.
‘Came across the water from the County, did you?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘My name’s Tom Ward and this is my friend, Alice.’
She glanced at Alice then gave me a warm smile. ‘My name’s Adriana Lonan,’ she said. ‘I was born and bred on Mona and they’ve left me alone until now. But everything’s gone crazy and they’re testing even their own folk to see if they’re witches.’
‘Are you a witch?’ I asked.
Adriana nodded. ‘I’m a bird witch,’ she said.
‘You mean you have a bird for a familiar,’ Alice corrected her.
The girl tossed her hair and frowned. ‘I don’t have a familiar. Don’t give my blood to anything. Not dark stuff like that. I’m a bird witch. Birds are my friends. We help each other. What about you, Alice? Are you a witch?’
Alice shook her head. ‘I come from a clan of Pendle witches and I was taught the dark craft for two years. But no, I’m not a witch. Ain’t right that we’ve been brought here, especially Tom. He’s a spook’s apprentice and fights for the light. They say he’s a warlock, but that ain’t true.’
Adriana stared at me, her face very serious. ‘Did Horn sniff you out?’
‘The abhuman? Yes,’ I told her. ‘He said Alice had darkness inside her and that I had a sliver of dark too.’
‘Then maybe you do,’ Adriana murmured. ‘None of us are perfect. But whatever we are won’t count for much when we’re tested tomorrow.’
‘What’ll they do?’ asked Alice. ‘Will they swim us? Ain’t going to use the press, are they?’
Swimming was the most popular way of testing to see if someone was a witch or not. Your hands were tied to your feet and you were thrown into a pond. Sometimes your right thumb was bound to your left big toe, left thumb to right toe. It was a funny name for the test – how could you swim like that? If you sank and probably drowned, you were innocent. If you somehow managed to float, then you were considered guilty, taken away and burned at a stake.
Pressing was even worse. You were chained to a table, and over a period of time heavy stones were placed on your body, often as many as thirteen. After a while you could hardly breathe. If you confessed because of the pain, they burned you. If you didn’t, you were slowly crushed to death. And if you managed to stay alive for more than an hour it was assumed that the Fiend had saved you and you were burned anyway.
‘No, we islanders have our own way of doing things,’ Adriana replied. ‘Someone suspected of witchcraft is taken to the summit of Slieau Whallian, a large hill to the south, and sealed inside a barrel – one with sharp iron spikes inside. Then she’s rolled down the hill. If she’s still alive at the bottom, they think she’s been protected by the dark and she’s taken away and…’ Her voice faded away before she’d finished the sentence and I saw that her eyes were filled with fear.
‘Do many survive?’ I asked.
‘The guard told me that two survived – and one of them was badly spiked – out of the seven who were rolled yesterday. I tried to tell them what to do. There is a way to get to the bottom without being cut too badly. Not all the barrels are the same so you’d need a bit of luck, but if you can find space between the spikes, you can use your arms and legs to brace yourself against the inside. As the barrel spins, centrifugal force presses you into the spikes so you have to hold yourself clear. Then, providing the barrel doesn’t hit a big bump on the way down, you don’t bounce around inside and get jolted onto the spikes.’
‘How do you know it works?’
‘I know a man at the brewery who makes some of the special barrels to order. When a new apprentice cooper starts, they have a ritual. They put him in a spiked barrel and roll him slowly from one side of the workshop to the other while all the other craftsmen bang their hammers on the bench tops and cheer. But first he’s shown how to wedge himself in. At the worst he might suffer a few cuts, that’s all. But I’ve never managed to talk to anyone who’s survived to the bottom of Slieau Whallian. If they’re still alive, they’re taken away immediately.’
‘Big difference between being rolled slowly and bounced about,’ said Alice. ‘If you told them what to do, why didn’t more survive yesterday?’
‘Some were probably too scared and upset to listen to what I told them,’ Adriana explained. ‘Maybe they wanted to die in the barrel…’
‘Why would they want that?’ I asked.
‘Because of what happens to you if you do survive. That’s even worse than being rolled. They feed you to the buggane…’
‘There are several bugganes on Mona,’ Adriana continued, ‘but they feed you to the most dangerous one of all. It haunts the ruined chapel near Greeba Keep.’
‘And it eats you?’ asked Alice, her eyes wide with fear.
Adriana nodded. ‘They lock the victims in the dungeons in the south wing of the keep, which is right on the edge of the buggane’s domain. It slowly draws the spirit from each body and stores it somewhere under the chapel. After that the body still walks and breathes, but it’s empty. That’s until the buggane, walking on two legs, looking like a big hairy man, comes to drink its blood and eat its flesh. It even eats some of the bones, crunching them with its big teeth – that’s why we call it the Cruncher. Afterwards what’s left is buried in a lime-pit in the yard.’
We fell silent, thinking of the grim fate that awaited us, but then something began to puzzle me. Adriana had said she’d tried to tell the other prisoners how to survive being rolled in the spiked barrel – but why hadn’t she been rolled too?
‘Adriana, why didn’t they test you yesterday with the others?’
‘Because Lord Barrule – he’s the lord of Greeba Keep, and head of the Ruling Council of the island – gave me one last chance to change my mind: if I do as he asks, he’ll save me. Otherwise he’ll let me be tested…’ Adriana’s bottom lip began to quiver and tears sprang to her eyes.
‘Change your mind about what?’ I asked.
‘I want to marry Simon Sulby, a cooper – the one who told me about the barrels – but Lord Barrule wants me for his wife. He’s lived alone for ten years since his first wife died. He’s never looked at another woman but it seems that I look very like his dead wife – the spitting image, he says. That’s why he wants me. He’s very powerful, and he’s used to getting his way. I refused and kept refusing – until finally he lost his temper and denounced me as a witch.
‘He could still save me if he really wanted – he’s a powerful man. One word from him and they’d let me go. But he’s very proud, and can’t bear being denied anything. He’d rather I was dead than belonged to another. Soon it’ll be too late. They started off doing the testing in the evening, but it attracted large crowds and they became unruly. They’ll roll us down the hill when it’s quiet, just before dawn.’
Following those words, neither Alice nor I spoke for a long time. Things looked really bleak.
I wondered what the Spook would be doing now. He’d be worried about me and wondering why I hadn’t returned. No doubt he’d have realized that Alice had followed me. I just hoped he wouldn’t venture down into the town. He was sure to be captured.
The long silence was suddenly ended by the harsh metallic grate of a key turning in the lock. Had they come for us already? I wondered. It was still several hours until dawn.
The cell door opened slowly and just one figure stepped inside. It wasn’t a yeoman or a guard. It was Horn, the abhuman. The chains were gone from his ears and he was stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of breeches and heavy boots. His chest was matted with dark hair, and muscles bunched on his broad shoulders and long arms. He looked strong and dangerous; capable of killing with his bare hands.
As he lumbered into the room, we stood up and, retreated until our backs were against the wall furthest from the door. What did he want? I didn’t like the expression on his face. Even without the horns, it would have been a face with more than a hint of the beast.