Witch Silver by Anne Forbes Read Free Book Online

slowly, this way and that, catching the breeze and the smell of the earth. After years of poaching the odd salmon from the Tweed, he’d developed a strong feeling for the land and knew the breath of the wood.
    A strange unease gripped him. Maybe a gamekeeper on the prowl, he told himself, although he knew instinctively that it was nothing so ordinary. Again he turned his head and tested the wind. Nothing, he thought, his eyes searching the trees. And yet he knew within himself that there was someone or something close by, watching him. Then he saw it, standing on a slight rise over to his left; a large dog with a rough, grey coat. Must be a stray, he thought, living in the wild, off rabbits and other small creatures. It stood still, watching him and as he met its cold, blue-eyed stare the friendly words that had risen to his lips, remained unspoken. A wolf! It was a wolf! He stood his ground, not daring to move and, heart thumping furiously, watched as the animal turned and loped off among the trees.
    What
was
it about the wood, he wondered tensely, looking round searchingly. Fear still gripped him and the sight of the wolf had sent panic bubbling through his veins. Conscious of the hefty salmon he carried in a twist of rough sacking, heturned and moved stealthily through the trees towards his cottage. Treading softly and warily, he was conscious that all his senses were sharp, tense and alert; tuned into every small rustle of sound and every movement of the trees.
    It was when he reached the edge of the wood that he saw him, a still figure in the shadowy moonlight; the uniformed figure of a policeman leaning casually against a tree. Relief flooded through him. A copper! Thank goodness for that! In the state he was in, he’d half expected some strange daemon or spectre of the wood. Nevertheless, he groaned inwardly, knowing that the game was up; to be caught poaching was a serious offence.
    The still figure, however, made no move towards him until it dawned on him that there was something decidedly odd about the policeman. Moving closer, he reached into his coat pocket and, taking out a powerful torch, shone the beam into the man’s face. He gasped in horror and swore aloud as he saw the figure clearly — for it wasn’t a man at all, but a scarecrow dressed as a policeman; the painted turnip face and straw body looking remarkably life-like in the shadowy glimmer of the moonlight. Kids, he thought furiously, angry at the scare he’d had. Some kids must have brought it into the wood.
    To his dismay, he found that he was more seriously disturbed than he’d thought. His hands were shaking violently and in a sudden fit of revulsion, he hurled the stuffed figure, in a swinging tangle of arms and legs, into the bushes and hurried towards the scatter of trees that fringed the wood. Making his way through them, he clambered over a wire fence, jumped a ditch and reached the path that led to his cottage. He strode along swiftly, anxious now to get home but it was only as he drew closer to his house that he saw them; dark figures prowling round the old barn at the back.
    Moving quickly, he dumped his fish by the gate and taking a short cut through the field, crept up on them. What he couldn’t figure out was what they were after, for there was nothing in the barn worth stealing; even the old tractor didn’t work.
    As he got nearer, he took the flashlight from his pocket and clicking it on, lit up the stooping, searching figures that seemed to be everywhere, poking about in all the corners.
    He’d grabbed hold of the nearest one before his brain told him what his eyes had seen and it was then that he screamed in horror for it was not a man that he held in his grasp but a scarecrow. A scarecrow dressed as a cowboy with a painted bag as a face, straw arms and a body stuffed with what felt like rags. And it was alive.

    “I stopped off at Norham to get the newspapers,” John MacLean said to his wife as he came into the living