The Knowing: A thrilling horror fantasy Read online

  Ceri had been trying to conjure up reasons why Bronwen’s plight wasn’t her fault, but she’d failed at every turn. She’d disregarded the skull and crossbones, and had then compounded her guilt by laughing off the footnote. If only Miss Donn hadn’t put her up to the project in the first place. The teacher had also gone on indefinite sick leave, so it probably wouldn’t even get marked. It all seemed so unfair and she knew her mother wouldn’t understand. Dilys’s mam was on the warpath, too. And then there was Dai. Why had the hex gone astray? Perhaps the knighthood insignia conferred some sort of protection on the bearer. She wished Granny Betty was around to lead her through the minefield of modern witchery.

  “I’m busy,” Ceri shouted. She also had her eye on the news, although she couldn’t quite say why. There was something niggling at her that made her think she shouldn’t switch off quite yet.

  Ceri saw her mother enter the living room out of the corner of her eye. She closed the door slowly behind her. That stealthy action and her mam calling her ‘cariad’ were the warning signs of her wheedling approach, which usually involved a dive for the jugular by the end of the conversation. Her mam gestured for her to pull out the earbuds. Ceri yanked at the cable and her ears popped annoyingly. She glared at her mother, her hands crossed defiantly over her chest. ‘ “What’s it about now?” she asked, a dark cloud crossing her face.

  Ceri’s mother forced a smile and was about to say something, when she seemed distracted by something she noticed to Ceri’s right. Her mouth remained open. “Oh my God!” she said, putting a hand to her face.

  Ceri turned her head to look at the TV. The breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen read: ‘NEWLY-KNIGHTED SIR DAVID WILLIAMS MISSING.’ The screen showed the image of Dai and his girlfriend outside Buckingham Palace, and the newsreader was reading solemnly from a press statement released by his workplace. His employer wished to remain anonymous for reasons of national security. The report mentioned that Dai had disappeared after attending an audience with the Queen. She was said to be distraught and had offered the Palace’s resources to help locate him. Ceri and her mother listened silently until the news moved on to the next item. Her mother reached for the remote control and switched the TV off.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady,” her mam said sternly.

  “Well, you’re a fine one to talk,” Ceri huffed. “You know you could have stopped us.” She’d never considered her mother as weak before, but now she saw a similarity with Dracula’s dogsbody, Renfield. They’d been reading Bram Stoker’s book for GCSE English. She’d better check for flies in the soup at supper.

  Her mother looked taken aback. “Well ...” she spluttered.

  Ceri smiled sweetly. “It’s all right, Mam, I won’t tell anyone – particularly Bronwen’s and Dilys’s parents,” she added archly.

  Her mother seemed to shrink in stature before her eyes. “Cards on the table?” she said, shrugging in capitulation.

  “Okay, Mam, but no sneaky stuff,” Ceri said. “Remember I’m the witch in this household.” She impressed herself by how emboldened she’d become.

  Her mother’s mouth opened and closed again slowly, as if she was allowing entrance to a large fly. “You know?”

  “Of course,” Ceri said.

  “How?”

  “Dunno. It just dawned on me. Perhaps it was something about the cauldron.”

  A half-smile came to her mother’s face. “Oh yes, the awful smell. That was an indication the cauldron recognised you for what you were. Grandmother should have patented her witch finder trick. The smelling-in period is always the worst part. The burning-in is easy in comparison. Someone who wasn’t a witch would have thrown the cauldron out with the rubbish.”

  “And someone who didn’t suspect that their daughter was a witch would have done the same,” Ceri said.

  “Very true.” Her mother smiled more warmly. “You’re learning fast, cariad.”

  “Nos galan gaeaf,” Ceri said, as if on autopilot, although puzzled by the words she’d just spoken unwittingly.

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, ‘spirit night’. So, you knew about the Halloween ritual all along?”

  Ceri shook her head. “It just seemed the right thing to say, Mam. I’m not sure why ...”

  “Well, well, you really are the chosen one, Caridwen.” She leaned forward to grasp Ceri’s hands. “But never in a million years would I have believed it’d be my daughter.” She brushed away tears.

  “Why did you call me ‘Caridwen’?”

  “That’s your witchery name, Ceri. Caridwen was one of the Gwyddon gods, and said to be keeper of the Cauldron of Knowledge, with the power of magick and prophecy. She was also known as ‘The Crone’.”

  “Are you serious?” Playing at being a witch was one thing, but getting named after some hideous old hag was the last thing she wanted to hear. She’d be developing warts on her nose next.

  “Of course, Ceri. It was your great grandmother who suggested the name when you were born. She must have known even back then.”

  “So, what can I do if I’m this awesomely amazing witch? I don’t even have a bloody broomstick.”

  Her mother smiled enigmatically. “Don’t swear, dear. Your great grandmother wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “Okay, I get it. Broomsticks don’t work, right?”

  “Not usually, dear, although some witches claim to have hovered a few inches above the ground. To be honest, it’s on a par with yogic levitation.”

  “What people choose to believe in, you mean?”

  “Something like that. A bit of hysteria goes a long way, too. There was a girls’ school where an entire class fainted at the shock of seeing witches flying across the sky, with black capes billowing behind them. It was actually a flock of crows, but someone had low blood sugar and an overactive imagination, and her classmates chose to believe her.”

  “So, is there anything I can actually magick?” Ceri wasn’t sure why the ‘k’ got added, but it looked good on paper. Perhaps it was to distinguish real witchery from the magic tricks performed at kids’ birthday parties.

  “Darling, you’ve already demonstrated that you’ve got the gift.” Her mother looked towards the TV screen. “A divination hex, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Er, yes, but it didn’t quite work out – ” Ceri looked at the carpet, “ – as you know.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with Dai disappearing!” Ceri shouted.

  “I never thought for one minute that you did, dear. Whoever was responsible for that is a lot more sophisticated than a schoolgirl attempting her first incantations.”

  Ceri glared. She should have seen that put-down coming.

  “So, Ceri bach, what exactly happened with the divination hex? The orb was clearly rather ... er, energetic, so you must have got most of it right.”

  Ceri hadn’t banked on home tutoring to develop her witchery skills, but her mother’s knowledge was the nearest she’d get to acquiring her great grandmother’s wisdom. She took a deep breath. “Well, we found most of the ingredients for the potion, although a couple were from the back of the cupboard and the rest were freeze-dried.”

  “Oh, you mean, eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog, testicle of kitten – ”

  “Mam, no!” That must have been why it had gone so horribly wrong. But where would she find a kitten’s testicle? Mrs Griffiths’s moggy was well past having kittens. Perhaps the vet would pop some in a bag for her if she smiled nicely.

  Her mother reddened. “Sorry, darling. Just a little joke. Unfortunately, Shakespeare’s Macbeth has a lot to answer for. None of those things make any difference. They’re just setting the stage. It’s the witch’s relationship with the cauldron that’s important.”

  “So, what about the hairbrush, toothbrush, photo and Christmas card? Were they a waste of fucking time as well?” Ceri blurted angrily.

  Ceri’s mother tutted. “
Remember a hex in haste is worse than – ”

  “A spell at speed. Yeah, I know, Mam. I read the book.”

  Her mother looked thoughtful. “You used all four, did you?”

  “Yeah, so what?” She could see another put-down coming. Her mother was a lot more cunning than bloody Renfrew.

  “Two samples of DNA, plus images of Dai and his home, amount to overkill, darling. You’re not giving the hex any freedom to take its own path. It’s like tying someone up in chains and expecting them to read a book by turning the pages with their tongue. I’m not surprised it turned nasty. Still, it is strange it didn’t find its target.”

  “Could the knighthood insignia have been the reason?” Ceri said eagerly. “Perhaps it protected Dai in some way.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure, dear. I’ve not heard of that before, although it’s an interesting proposition. Amulets used to be used as protection from black magic in the Middle Ages. But perhaps there’s another reason why Dai was immune to the hex.”

  “Well, he lived on the 20th floor, so the hex could’ve got bored waiting for the lift,” Ceri said with a grin.

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. “On the few occasions we spoke on the phone, he seemed preoccupied with there being too much radiation around him, so that’s something else to consider.”

  “I suppose so.” Ceri was trying to remember what Mr Ellis their physics teacher had said about radiation. Wasn’t there a radiation belt around the Earth that stopped people from being fried by the Sun’s rays? That sounded like the effect of an obliteration hex. “Mam, if radiation can stop a hex from getting through, is there more magick happening now that mobile phones aren’t working?”

  Ceri could see the wheels turning as her mother considered the question. “Jiw, jiw! I think you might be right, darling,” she said excitedly. “It was only last week that the Cymry Wiccae Association reported a big increase in the purchase of cauldrons. We thought it was because they were being used as ornamental planters. But if the people buying them didn’t know what they’re doing – ” she shook her head, “... well, it’s a dangerous business.”

  Ceri wondered where her mother fitted into the witchery business. She’d mentioned an ‘association’, so could she be its chairman? She felt guilty for regarding her as inconsequential as the fictional Renfield. Keeping witches in order was probably even more difficult than running a hospital.

  “Now, returning to the matter of your cousin, what were you trying to do?”

  Ceri sighed. She knew her mother would go for the jugular sooner or later. “It’s complicated, Mam,” she said.

  “I’m sure it is. He’s a good-looking young man, too. It was so nice to see him in a smart suit. I’m pleased that he dressed up to meet the Queen. He used to be rather untidy, as I recall.”

  Her mother’s smile reminded Ceri of the meddling school counsellor. “I wanted to find out more about him. There’s no law against that, is there?” Ceri said petulantly.

  “You mean, ‘open up his mind’.”

  How did she know? They hadn’t written anything down. “Er, you could put it like that.”

  “And you thought he might be using witchery himself ?”

  Ceri wondered whether the term was warlock or wizard these days. Perhaps it was just ‘witch’, regardless of gender, so as to keep everyone politically correct. “Sort of,” she mumbled.

  “And you were jealous of his girlfriend.”

  Her mam had missed her true vocation. There had to be a vacancy for a life-sucking phlebotomist in the hospital. “Not really,” she protested. Oh fuck, it was pointless resisting. “Well, perhaps a little.”

  Her mother looked relieved. “Well, at least that’s a little clearer. Still, it’s a shame you roped in Bronwen and Dilys – particularly that poor wee Bronwen. I don’t know how her parents will cope.” Her mother had thrown her a censorious look, but she’d blown it by describing her friend as wee. Ceri would never understand why Scottish words had entered the Welsh vocabulary. “That was overkill, too,” her mother said. “A good witch does her magick on her own.”

  Ceri was impressed by her mother’s wisdom. But there was still Dai’s strange disappearance to explain. “So, why should someone want to kidnap him? I mean, there’s nothing that special about him.”

  “Well, he is a knight of the realm ...” Her mother looked thoughtful.

  “Gosh, Mam, do you think he might have been taken for ransom?”

  “It’s possible, but ...” Her mother frowned, as if trying to make sense of something. “You know, Caridwen, the Queen spoke with me after you were so rude to her.” Ceri groaned out aloud, anticipating the bite on the neck. “I didn’t like her tone, and it’s making sense now. She asked me to rein you in.”

  Ceri would have fallen off her chair if one of her great grandmother’s feather dusters had swung in her direction just then. “You mean she knows about witchery?” Ceri stuttered.

  Her mother nodded. “She mentioned Siandi Da’aan, too. Then there was a strange moment when I was worried about taking hold of her hand. She said, ‘We are made of stronger stuff than that.’ It was almost as if she knew what I was thinking.”

  Ceri remembered Siandi Da’aan’s name from the book they’d borrowed from the library. She couldn’t wait to share all this juicy information with Dilys. “So, what do you think it all means?” she asked breathlessly.

  Her mother leaned closer. “I think there’s more to Her Majesty than meets the eye, so we’d both better be careful.”

  The last time Lieutenant Dale Franklin was stuck in some high-falutin’, high-tech machinery, it was as a volunteer having his body scanned at the felons’ entrance to Kansas City Police Department. The idea had been Chief Scanlon’s, who’d been banking on technology identifying hidden weapons before they inflicted damage on his officers. Two things conspired against his munificence that mid-summer day: firstly, the fact that the scanner was a prototype without all the requisite safety features; and secondly, predictably unpredictable power surges were afflicting downtown KC owing to its love affair with air-con units. The long and short of it was that Dale was both captured in 3D and captured in reality, as the electrically-powered scanner door refused to let him out. His desperate clawing for release was recorded in perpetuity on half-a-dozen departmental cell phones. The irony of his cell now being his new best friend wasn’t entirely lost on him.

  Currently, Dale was doing his darndest to distract himself from the mother of all claustrophobic attacks while the MRI scanner was leisurely detecting the up-down spin of his cerebral nuclei. He had headphones on, so the clanking was more like wrenches hitting a metal door than sledgehammers striking the gates of hell, but it was still enough to give him a terminal case of the heebie-jeebies. The doctor had explained the machinery carefully, so he’d just about accepted he hadn’t time-tripped back to being stuck in a washer. But not being able to scratch his nose put him right back in the firing line of a certain Sunday school preacher who was rather too fond of keeping his young charges in order.

  Fact is, he had to consider the off chance that he’d return to US soil with his curiously cursed cojones exactly as they were – not to mention the bizarre relationship they had with his befuddled brain. Steve had suggested that he gave whatever was happening to his brain a name. It seemed like some crazy old phone exchange, with callers clamouring for attention, so he’d decided to name it ‘Ma Bell’. In fact, the network had carping away like niggling ants ever since he succumbed to the tomb-like embrace of the machine. It hadn’t helped that his iPhone was now 20 feet away, out of the destructive reach of the scanner’s seven tesla magnetic field.

  First off, he’d need the right attitude if he was going to impress folks back home with his newfound wisdom. He reckoned a few sessions of cognitive refocusing might help him get back on track. Not NLP or anything flaky like that, just some purposeful encouragement to accept his new status as the fount of all knowledge. Something like: ‘Dale Franklin, Man of Prop
hecy’. Then, perhaps, beneath that: ‘Have thought, will travel. Imminent family tragedies a specialty.’ He’d need to factor in Steve as his sidekick, too. His mode of transport was already sorted, although he should probably ditch the replica flux capacitor. The gull-wing doors would make rapid exits a cinch. Then there was the costume to consider.

  So, what were his choices among the current batch of superheroes? The blue and white costume of Captain America had the right allure, but it was way too high school and serious. Hazing and initiation rituals had never appealed. Going around with a huge ‘D’ stamped on his forehead wouldn’t do much for his credibility, either. Now, Thor had the right idea. Sun-burnished hair, hairless pecs, rippling abs and a mighty great hammer was ... well, manly ... not to mention the leather tunic ... his heart was already thumping away in anticipation ...

  “Okay, okay, Lieutenant, you’ll be fine now,” Dr Kyriakides seemed to be saying from a distance. “You’ve had a bit of a panic attack, but that’s to be expected. Anyway, we’ve completed the scan of your brain.”

  Dale felt as if he’d been through a wash cycle without the spin dry. He was more than just sweaty. And everyone seemed to be staring at him. He wanted to shout, “Fucking go away!” but the words seemed to have defeated him. Yup, that sure was a mother of a panic. Worst of all, they’d witnessed it.

  “Lieutenant, the scan is most interesting,” Dale heard dimly. Dr Kyriakides seemed to be on the cusp of a stereotypical eureka moment. This was a transitional moment in Dale’s life that he should be savouring, except he was shit scared and embarrassed.