The Witch of Clatteringshaws by Joan Aiken Read Free Book Online Page A

Day. He was a vegetarian. Out yonder,” said the waiter, nodding his white head toward the window, through which a vista of misty loch- and cloud-wrapped mountains could be seen, “out yonder, where the loch runs intae the sea, past the twin whirly-pools of Mindluck and Hartluck, out there lies Inch Meal,the Island of Saints. Twenty thousand and one saints lie buried on yon island,” the waiter told them.
    “My gracious!” said Dido. “You’d hardly think there ud be room for them all. Is it a big island?”
    “Och, no, ye could put it on Clatteringshaws golf course. That island is why we have a saint’s day here in Clatteringshaws on every day of the year.”
    “Twenty thousand saints,” said Piers, doing a bit of mental arithmetic, “at three hundred and sixty-five a year you have enough to last till the year eighteen thousand—or thereabouts.”
    “Ay, ’tis so. The minister of the kirk ud be able to tell ye more aboot them. That’s the Reverend Knockwinnock, who’s well informed as to their various predilections and habits. But ’tis certain that nae meat or flesh food will be servit on Saint Vinnipag’s Day.”
    Dido and Piers realized that they had better make do with the porridge, for it was all they were going to get. It was washed down by a drink called mum, brewed from wheat and bitter herbs.
    “And, syne, the children of the town all gather together this morn,” the waiter told them, when Dido inquired in what way the saint’s day was celebrated. “They gather at the jetty, down yonder, and each of them flings a book intae the loch.”
    “Croopus! Why do they do that?”
    “Ah, well, ye see, Saint Vinnipag had a great, great mistrust of the written word. As they’re printed in black, he said letters were the footprints of the Evil One. So, ilka bairn must bring to the loch the book he loves the best and cast it in.”
    “If
I
were one of those children,” said Piers, “I’d bring the book I hated worst.”
    “And which would that be?” asked Dido, who had read very few books.
    “Logarithm tables.”
    “What in the world are they?”
    “Arithmetical functions abridging calculation by substituting addition and subtraction for multiplication and division.”
    “Save us! Woodlouse, they oughta make
you
King! You’re
educated
,” said Dido, deeply impressed. “When does this book throwing happen?” she asked the waiter.
    At noon, they were told.
    “Famous,” said Dido. “We’ll pay our shot and go and take a gander at the goings-on. I likes to watch old rites and ceremonicals, don’t you, Woodlouse?”
    And since he showed little enthusiasm, she explained as they walked along the cobbled way to the jetty, “Don’t you see, it will give us a first-rate chance to look at all the kids in town; maybe we’ll get a notion which one might be little Alfie Partacanute.”
    Piers said: “What reason do we really have to suppose that one of the children in this place might be the King of England?”
    “Well, there was a battle near here. You know that.”
    “Yes, the Battle of Follodden.”
    “King Malcolm of Caledonia, allied to King Bloodarrow of Bernicia, was fighting off the invading Picts. Malcolm traced his descent back to Brutus of Troy, and so did his wife, Ethelfleda. And our King Dick, who just died, had the same family tree.”
    “So?”
    “Well, King Malcolm was killed in that battle.”
    “What happened to Queen Ethelfleda?”
    “She died at the same time—on that hill over there.”
    The day was very foggy. The previous night’s snow still covered the ground, a thin layer of white, above which a thick blanket of gray mist mostly concealed the gaunt dark houses of Clatteringshaws. But at this moment a stray gust of wind, a stray sunbeam, parted the fog and showed a lane of blue sky, a silvery track of loch water, and an impressive dome-shaped black hill on the opposite side of the loch.
    “You see that hill? That’s Beinn Grieve. The landlord told me. It’s