Two
Spring was warming to summer.
Amongst the rolling hills and the green pastures of the English countryside in the picturesque village of Little Hanting life went on as normal. It was a quiet, sleepy place, with fields of cows and rattling tractors. There were old stone houses built in clusters. The grandest of which was Astley Manor, set in a large estate. No one could remember a time when there wasn’t the quiet, unobtrusive Astley family. George “Young” Astley VI had died unexpectedly five years ago, leaving the manor and the care of his widow in the hands of his then 20 year old son, known to all as Hunter.
And at this very moment, Hunter was seated in one of the large rooms, reading over a report written up by the ever-present James. Hunter sighed, even witch-hunting required paperwork in this crazy modern world - but thankfully Hunter could shift all that onto James’ workload. He preferred the more active part of his job than this paperwork. And James did a tediously good and thorough job of it. James hovered over him, waiting for his response.
“Yes, that’s all in order. Send a copy to the MMC.” Hunter passed the thick sheaf of papers back.
The Malleus Maleficarum Council, the secret branch of witch-hunters under the pay of the crown; or MMC for short. All witch-hunters reported to them and were bound by their laws.
Hunter stood up and walked over to an old cabinet, one of those numerous antiques that filled his family’s sprawling homestead. With a clink of glass he filled two glasses and passed one to James. “Here’s to the end of that, then.”
James took the drink. It had been an easy one this time, a single male witch in the East Midlands causing very localised trouble. He was comparatively weak and, faced with Hunter and James, he had succumbed to be bound from his magic and be registered with the MMC, to live quietly from now on. After the necessary jail time, of course.
“Excuse me, sir. There is a young lady here to see you.” The mild voice came from the doorway. The family’s long-serving butler waited for Hunter’s attention. “A Miss Murphy. She is waiting in the sitting room.”
“Thank you, Charles.” Hunter replied, quite perplexed. Murphy? It sounded familiar. He exchanged a confused glance with James, before they rose together to meet the unknown guest.
A woman sat straight-backed on the settee, her long, dark brown hair casually tied back. She turned her head at their entrance and met them with a defiant stare.
“Mr Astley, Mr Bennett. I am Sophie Murphy. You may not remember me, but you came to my aid a couple of months ago - in Venice.” The young woman spoke calmly and confidently and remained seated.
“Ah, Miss Murphy, of course.” But Hunter frowned. “Forgive me, why are you here? The Council provided you with a contact?”
“Yes,” Sophie replied. “But I didn’t want to speak to a low-level pen-pusher. This won’t take long, why don’t you sit down.”
Hunter gaped, speechless. He couldn’t believe the girl’s bloody cheek; inviting to sit down in his own home. On the other hand, he was curious about what the determined-looking girl could wish to say to him. Both he and James took their seats.
“I’m sure you can understand, after what happened, after I returned home it jarred with all the - the normality of the world. I had to learn more. And what I learnt was terrible. I want to be of use to you, to the Council, I want to join the witch-hunters.”
Hunter sighed. To be honest, it wasn’t uncommon for those rescued from the witches to feel in debt to the witch-hunters. And there was a perfect place for these untrained post-victims…
“Well, the Malleus Maleficarum Council always needs to employ people for its offices. There’s lots of ways to help.” Hunter replied. Yes, lots of ways to help, stuck in four walls organising counselling for victims, processing artifacts from raids, registering bound witches… More than a little bit dull.
Sophie seemed aware of that, and she shook her head. “No. I want to join the witch-hunters. I want to do something, Mr Astley.”
Hunter grew uncomfortable at this, he did not enjoy recruiting witch-hunters. “It’s not that simple, Miss Murphy, are you sure you won’t consider an office position?”
It wasn’t something to be taken lightly, everyone with the MMC put their lives on the line just by associating with witch-hunters. But to be a witch-hunter, to enter a world of darkness and fear, to never be off duty from revenge and persecution, to gamble with your life every day until a guaranteed early death. No, Hunter did not enjoy recruiting naïve people to join this hard life. But one glance at Sophie told him that she wouldn‘t be easily dissuaded.
“Miss Murphy, I understand how you feel, but the best witch-hunters are born, you can’t just become one by choice. No, don’t interrupt. My father was a witch-hunter, and his before him and so on, over the generations I have gained a certain… protection. A protection that you don’t have.”
Sophie sat quietly, then rounded on James. “And what about you? Are you a predestined witch hunter?”
James looked uncomfortably towards Hunter. “Ah, no. I’m like you. New to this. What’s called a first generation. Even though I’ve been at this for five years now and I’m fully trained - or as much as any can claim t’ be, I’m dependent on Hunter here for my safety, and I’m seen as nowt more than a lowly assistant t’ MMC.”
“Then I have made up my mind. I’ll become a witch hunter, whether it is with your Council or not.” Sophie replied quickly, a clear challenge in her voice. “It’s up to you now, Mr Astley, are you going to help me?”
Hunter sat back, regarding the girl. She had guts enough, but he didn’t like new people, besides the guilt, they couldn’t handle things as well as he could. “James, a private word, please.” He said quietly, then stood up, leading the way out into the corridor, aware of Sophie’s eyes following them.
James closed the door behind him and shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking, Hunter, but she’s got the right attitude. Why don’t we get in touch wi’ MMC and give her a go. After all, we always need to build our numbers…”
Build our numbers. Or in other words replace those lost.
Hunter sighed, the decision would technically lie with the Council, but both he and James knew that his opinion would weigh heavily on the outcome. “Sure, let her throw her life away. Get in touch with the MMC, James. Suggest putting her with Brian Lloyd - he doesn’t currently have an assistant.”
James pulled his mobile out of his pocket and wandered down the empty corridor; while Hunter turned and re-entered the sitting room.
“James is talking to the Council now. Can I get you a drink while we wait?” Hunter asked as he closed the door gently behind him.
Sophie nodded, knowing she‘d won her case. “Tea, please.”
Hunter pressed the intercom and shortly asked Charles to bring up some tea. Sitting back down again he stared towards Sophie. She was bloody stubborn, maybe she’d be one of the few first generations to survive this career. “You’ll be joining Brian Lloyd as an assistant-”
“Not you?” Sophie broke in.
Hunter frowned, not happy to be interrupted. “No.” He replied abruptly. He didn’t want the trouble of taking on an untrained assistant. “Mr Lloyd is a good man, he’s been hunting for years and he’ll teach you a lot. He’s a fifth generation and can protect you while you learn, then you’ll work under him.”
There was a light knock on the door and Charles walked in, carrying a large tray. “Anything else sir?”
“No, thank you.” Hunter replied, lightly dismissing him as he leaned forward to serve the tea. How very British; having a nice cup of tea whilst conversing about witches.
“You keep talking about generations, what do you mean?” Sophie asked, accepting her cup.
“Exactly what I say.” Hunter replied, sipping at the hot drink. “People like you, and James, are referred to as first generations, because that’s what you are. If you live long enough to have children and they continue witch hunting, they’re second generations. Mr Lloyd is a fifth gen, meaning that his father, grandfather, great- and great-great-grandfather all worked for the MMC. Which means that he is highly regarded at the Council.”
“And what are you, then?” Sophie asked quickly.
“I’m a seventh generation.”
“So you’re even more ‘highly regarded’?”
Hunter paused, staring down into his hot tea. When he continued, it was more haltingly. “Yes. For two reasons. First, I mentioned protection - it turns out that when the parent fights witchcraft, the children gain a certain resistance to it. It’s like evolution in fast forward. By the third generation, they can perceive magic being used, they can deflect minor curses. By the fifth generation, they are stronger, faster…”
Sophie waited, but it seemed Hunter intended to leave the sentence hanging. “And? What about when a family gets to seven generations? What about you?”
Hunter now avoided her gaze. “Obviously I’m even better equipped… You have to understand that we don’t know much about the skills of sixth and seventh gens. There are so few of us. Which bring me onto my second point - there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of first gens. Only about half of these survive long enough to even have families. And those of us that become a well-known witch-hunting family become a target for all witches.” He now looked up to gauge her reaction. “You didn’t think this would be a nine to five, did you? So many families utterly destroyed by witches to prevent the next generation of hunters. And then you have to start from scratch.”
“I am not naïve, Mr Astley, I can boast to be somewhat aware of the risk of it all.” She sipped the hot tea, then gazed with that constant frosty defiance at Hunter. “Besides, your family seems to have survived these dangers - even prospered.”
It was clear that she assessed Astley success with the luxurious, sprawling manor. Hunter smiled at her confidence, but was a little unnerved at how cold Sophie was. Oh well, at least she was strong, who knew, perhaps she’d be ok. “Ah, well, over the generations we’ve learnt how best to protect ourselves. Astley Manor, for instance, has its own protection.”
He paused and looked at her carefully, gauging the girl’s potential, before suddenly deciding why not. “Come, I’d like to show you something.”
Hunter led the way into the back of the house. He took out a key and unlocked a heavy door. It was dark inside the room, heavy curtains drawn across every window. Hunter clicked on a light and walked in.
“This is one of the best libraries in Britain - witch related libraries, of course.” Hunter gestured to the rows of shelves, the room was stuffed with books, papers, files… “It’s one of the perks of 200 years of Astley family witch hunting.”
He moved over to a large glass case, looking down at it with a smile. “My personal favourite.”
Sophie went over, peering curiously at the large yellowed sheets, bound with what looked like leather straps. Faded ink was shaped in medieval handwriting that looked familiar, assumedly Latin. “What does it say?”
“Malleus Maleficarum, maleficas ut earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens. Which roughly translates as ‘The Hammer of Witches which destroyeth Witches and their heresy like a most powerful spear’.” Hunter read out the first couple of lines, his fingers tracing above the words. “It’s from the-”
“Malleus Maleficarum: ‘The Hammer of Witches’ or ‘Witch-hunter’s Handbook’. Published 1487. You have an original printing, impressive.” Sophie suddenly recited.
Hunter looked at her in surprise.
“As I said, I’ve been doing my own research.” Sophie added with an off-handed shrug. “You can find out about anything on Google.”
“Yes, well.” Hunter walked over to a bureau and picked up another book, relatively new compared to the rest. “This is something you won’t see on the net. The Malleus Maleficarum - 37th Edition. The Handbook gets updated every thirty years or so. This was brought out four years ago.” He handed her the book. It was small, only A5, but thick. And when she opened it and flicked through the pages, the text small and dense.
“These are given to witch-hunters only.” Hunter said, reclaiming his copy. “The Council will give you one when you are ready. I’m sure you’ll find it as interesting as reading the Bible, but it’s a sorry necessity to know it well. In the meantime, there is something I’d like to give you.”
Hunter turned to a little dark door and another key was taken out. It was cold on the other side and as a pale light flickered on, Sophie followed down a set of stone steps. As she reached the bottom she shivered. It was a large stone room, which had originally been designed as a wine cellar.
Now it was like a private museum for the occult. One case displayed a score of knives and daggers, all remarkably designed. A long shelf held a bizarre collection of bottles - containing what Sophie dare not guess. Everywhere there was the glitter of silver bowls, the gleam of bronze bands.
“What is this stuff?” Sophie asked, still gazing about in amazement.
“Just stuff collected over the years. Things my family have confiscated from the witchkind. Some of it is quite useful.” He pulled at the chain around his neck and lifted out a soldier’s dog tags. “This, for example. We think it was originally used for protection during World War Two. It’s served me very well when I’ve gone up against witches. It deflects all sorts of spells and attacks - it must’ve been a very strong witch that made it.”
Sophie looked disgusted. “You horde dead witches’ stuff? And then use it?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Well, ok, maybe it is. But we’re not going to turn down extra protection. Anyway, it’s safe. Dangerous stuff is disposed by the Council. Everything else is analysed, then returned to the witch-hunter. Most of us have an amulet of some sort.”
Hunter turned to a cabinet and took out a silver necklace with a cloudy stone hanging from it. “Look, I’d like you to take this with you.”
Sophie reached out and took it, then turned it over carefully in her hand. “I don’t know what to say.” She replied quietly, her eyes lowered.
Hunter shrugged. He wasn’t one to throw gifts at relative strangers, especially not when the gift came from his own collection, but he felt incredibly guilty about setting Sophie up for a dangerous life.
“HUNTER!” James did insist on shouting in Hunter’s house, even though Astley Manor was equipped with a state-of-the-art intercom system.
Hunter traipsed up the stairs again, followed closely by Sophie.
“Hey, it’s sorted.” James said quickly, “Sophie’s gotta go straight to Brian Lloyd. He’s his usual grumbling, unhappy self about it, but he’s expectin’ her.”
“Right! That’s great.” Hunter turned to Sophie and shook her hand briefly, “Nice meeting you again, Miss Murphy. Brian will give you a good start, you’ll learn a lot. James will give you directions and see you out.”
And that was it; Hunter turned and left for the second time expecting not to have to see Sophie Murphy again.