Witch Crag Read Free

them be together.
    Kita risked reaching out her hand and squeezing Quainy’s. “Tonight,” she whispered, and Quainy nodded. Lying side by side, whispering in the blackness – it was all they had to look forward to.
    As Kita collected her bucket and rake, she saw Raff heading off in the direction of the latrine holes. It seemed to be his permanent job, shovelling out the latrines. Which was cruel, which was sad, but it meant she might see him later, when she emptied her bucket full of droppings on to the huge, stinking dung heap outside the rear stockades. Nothing was wasted. Once rotted, the manure nurtured the coarse grain that grew on the slopes at the back of the fort.
    Kita let herself into the first sheep pen, where the mature ewes lived. Ma Baa trotted over, raised its blunt head and sneered at her, stamping its hard little feet.
    â€œSod off, you old bitch,” Kita muttered.
    She’d named Ma Baa, and she hated it. Queen of the sheep, it had birthed countless lambs and seemed to be aware how valuable this made it – far more valuable than the girls who tended it. It would nip the carers, or back into them and tread on their feet.
    Kita shook her rake at it, but it pranced closer. Then it turned around and urinated copiously, splashing her bare feet.
    â€œYou wait ,” spat Kita, “you evil wool bag, you can’t have many more lambs inside you, and once you’re spent, we’ll stew you up. . .”
    But Ma Baa was oblivious to the threat. It swaggered over to the troughs, which were being filled with grain by two little girls, one on either side of the grain sack. Kita sighed, set her bucket down, and started raking up the dung and spent hay.
    *
    Kita was in luck. As she staggered along the narrow, steep-sided passage between the inner and outer barricades, heading for the dung-heap gate, Raff was just coming back. They put down their buckets, hers full, his empty, leant back against the barricade planks, and grinned at each other.
    â€œWell met, mad one,” said Raff. “How’s life?”
    â€œWhat life?” said Kita.
    â€œComplaining is futile,” Raff intoned. “Hope is futile.”
    â€œSurvive, survive, survive,” Kita chanted, giggling. They’d made it up in childhood – the game of the Sheepmen’s Song – and played it still.
    â€œCare for the sheep. Nourish the sheep. The sheep are our saviours.”
    â€œBaaa . . . baaa . . . baaaaaa. . .”
    â€œWatch out for marauders. Those who would gut us.”
    â€œSurvive, survive, survive !”
    The dung passage was one of the very few private spaces where they couldn’t be seen or overheard. Where they could indulge in the shocking game of mocking life on the hill fort, where the fortunate few had survived.
    â€œYou’ve been hit,” said Kita, and she reached out her hand and stroked his forehead just above the bruise. “Again.”
    â€œArc’s mob. One tripped me up, the other put the boot in. I made out I was dead so I got off lightly.”
    â€œI hate them. God , I hate them.”
    â€œHate is a waste of useful energy ,” Raff intoned, trying to resurrect the song game, but Kita had tears in her eyes, and wouldn’t join in.
    â€œHey,” he said softly. “I heard they took Nada out yesterday. I’m really sorry.”
    Kita gulped. His voice was so beautiful, so unlike the other sheepmen, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and howl. . . She wanted to tell him about the weirdness of the crows and the dogs running from Nada’s body.
    But Raff was tactfully changing the subject. “Any news on Quainy’s trade?” he asked.
    Kita stiffened. She hated to think of Quainy going. “No,” she said. “She’s safe while her hair’s still short. If I could think of a way to make her bald. . .”
    â€œThen they’d slit you as a witch. And think of her , Kita –