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

where the rail bridge begins.”
    Indeed, looking up, they could faintly see the bridge, a black lacework high in the gray cloud over their heads.
    “Why was Queen Ethelfleda up on that hill?”
    “She was in a carriage, waiting to see the result of the battle. But a stray musket shot smashed the carriage window and killed her. She had just had a baby. It had been in the coach too, but it vanished. The bones of the Queen’s maid, Hild, were found on the hillside. But no baby bones were ever found.”
    “How do they know it was the maid’s bones?”
    “She was wearing a necklace the Queen had given her.”
    “What had killed the maid?”
    “Hobyahs, or so it was thought.”
    “What
are
Hobyahs?”
    “No one rightly knows. They come out after dark. Andlive on the south side of the loch. And eat people. When they can get them.”
    “Who told you all this?”
    “Father Sam, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
    “He ought to be reliable, I suppose.”
    “I reckon.…”
    “So,” said the Woodlouse, “we are looking for a baby who was born nearly fifteen years ago, and we don’t know if it was a boy or a girl.”
    “That’s so.”
    “And we don’t know what he or she might look like?”
    “You got it. But someone living here must know what happened that day.”
    Dido looked up the main street of Clatteringshaws. Fog lay like gray moss among the buildings. They were tall and narrow. There was little space between the hills behind and the water’s edge. So the houses went upward—six, seven, eight stories. Following their example, a small church thrust its high steeple up through the cloud. A green graveyard, packed with tombstones, hugged the church like a collar. Beyond it lay a narrow stretch of green that might be a park or a golf course. Then the sharp line of the hill ran down and met the loch water; there was no road out at that end of the town.
    A few boats were tied up at the jetty, but there was no activity on the water.
    “You’d think somebody ud be fishing,” said Dido. “Where’s all the folk?”
    “Maybe they don’t fish because it’s Saint What’shisname’s Day,” said Piers.
    “But every day’s a saint’s day,” argued Dido. “They couldn’t stop for that.”
    “It certainly is a quiet place.”
    This statement was about to be contradicted.
    Down the pathway beside the church came a throng of children all yelling their heads off.
    “Ach y fi! Yoicks! Doon a fumbly! Vinnipas dinnipas! Skinny pas! Ochan bochan, slide to the bottom. Hech hoich dint i’ the boich.”
    Then, observing Dido and Piers who stood at the water’s edge directly in their path, the children fell silent and came to a sudden stop. There were about forty of them, all ages from four to around fifteen. They were neatly dressed, the boys in black trousers, white shirts, black jackets, and forage caps, the girls in black dresses, white pinafores, and white bonnets. Accompanying them was an elderly clergyman; Dido supposed that he was the Reverend Knockwinnock.
    The children all carried books.
    “My stars!” said Dido, addressing the first three girls, who looked about eleven or twelve. “Are you
really
going to throw your books into the water?”
    “Ay, that we are! Prime fun! ’Tis Saint Vinnipag’s Day!”
    “But what a shocking shame! Do the books have pictures? Stories?”
    “Ay, so—” said one of the girls, bursting into giggles. “See, ’tis my dad’s gardener’s manual—there’s pictures of how to prune fruit trees. He’ll be fine fashed when he finds ’tis in the loch!”
    “Mine’s Ma’s hymnbook,” said her friend, also sputtering with laughter.
    “And mine’s one o’ they mail-order catalogs. I took ’t from Aunt Kirstie’s workbox—the one she had as a mystery gift.”
    “Even so,
I
think it’s a great shame to throw books in the water,” said Dido. “Books are useful things.”
    By this time the group of children had all clustered round Dido and Piers. The clergyman