By now the rest of the Camp had come running, and after a babble of welcomes and introductions, Fred told Dan: 'They said in the village we'd find you up here.'

'But driving, for God's sake! Where did you get the petrol?'

'Oh, that,… We've been saving it. We've been holed up near Chipping Norton till the Madness was over, and ever since then we've been trying to pick you up. Tarot, I Ching, map-dowsing, the lot and getting nowhere. Then suddenly, three nights ago, Jean said she knew. Somewhere in these mountains, a forest near a lake. We thought it was Bala at first but she was positive it was somewhere around here. So we reckoned it was worth the last of our petrol and headed this way – then in Llanfyllin we picked up your trail from a family who said you'd saved their lives by telling their cousin in New Dyfnant about the vinegar masks. So here we are – and if there's a litre left in the tank, I'll be surprised… May we stay? Have you room for us? We'll work hard.' He grinned again. 'I know I'm only a bloody-clerk but Bruce here is a builder. And both the girls are gardeners.'

'Room for you?' Moira smiled back. 'Look around – you bet there is. And I've a feeling you're only the first.'

18

‘If Mac sounds off once more about the evils of witchcraft,' Beaver grumbled, poking the fire viciously, 'I'll…'

'Yes, Beaver? What will you do?' Wally's question was crisp and sardonic and when he was crisp and sardonic he was dangerous.

Beaver moderated his voice. 'Just that his preaching's a bloody bore. We're clobbering witches, aren't we? – and doing all right out of it. Can't we just get on with it and manage without Mac's lectures?'

Wally poured himself a whisky. 'Let him talk. You don't have to listen'.'

'Easier said than done. He's got a voice like a dentist's drill.'

'All the same, you'll do it. Mac's our lifeline to Beehive. Where'd we be without that? No petrol dump, no ammo -we'd just be one more brigand group putting the fear of God into the locals. The couple of dozen we can reach in an hour's walk. No future in that because they've got nothing worth looting.'

'They've got some cattle and things.'

Wally laughed. T can just see you settling down to a quiet life milking Buttercup every morning.' He switched off the laugh and went on incisively: 'We are mobile and we have fire-power. They're the things that matter and it's Mac who supplies them. All we have to do is wave a Crusader banner for him. Personally, I don't give a damn if we're clobbering witches or flat-earthcrs or guys with red hair. But it's witches we're paid for – in petrol, ammunition and other things. And that's worth a few boring speeches from Mac. He really believes in it. And he's ready enough to do his bit if a raid turns into a fight. So let him talk, if he wants to.'

Beaver sighed. 'I suppose you're right… Tell you one thing, though. Petrol and ammo are fine but here's the six of us in a nice cosy manor house and it's like a bloody monastery. If Beehive really wants to keep us happy why don't they send us some women?' r

'Poor deprived Beaver.' Wally regarded him thoughtfully. 'You have a point, though – some resident crumpet would be good for morale. It might even be able to cook.'

'There's Little Big Tits, at the mill. I could sort that man of hers with one hand.'

'For Christ's sake, Beaver – I've told you before. Foxes don't rob the farms they live on. So hands off the locals. We want 'em scared of us, sure – but not hell-bent on revenge. No aggro within five kilometres of base and that's an order. Again.'

'It was just a thought.'

'I'll do the thinking around here.'

'Think me up a redhead, then.'

Wally was silent for a minute, then narrowed his eyes into the chilly smile that announced an idea. 'Would you mind if she was a witch?'

'I'm not Mac. She can be a Confucian Methodist Jewess if she's built right. And preferably under eighteen.'

'Business and pleasure,' Wally mused. 'Two birds with one stone. Yes, why not?'

'There's six of us,' Beaver pointed out. 'That means six birds not just two.'

'Fair enough… Have you ever heard of Woodbury Croft? Well, I have. I keep my ears open, which is more than you do. And I've been saving that one up.'

Molly Andrews had looked at the sky, sniffed the air, tapped the barometer and decided it was not going to rain. 'Right, Jane. If you get Team A on to lifting onions, I'll take Team B for sowing summer cauliflowers – that'll be a quicker job, so when we've finished we'll come over and help your lot. Barbara, Team C on the cows.'

'Where are we storing the onions?' Jane Hooley asked, with her usual slightly anxious frown. The youngest of the three teachers, she was earnest and meticulous; the girls had teased her a good deal when she had first come to Woodbury Croft a year ago and Molly had wondered if she was going to prove suitable. But she had won the girls over by some indefinable alchemy of her own and the teasing had petered out.

'In the end garage, dear. Spread them on that long bench by the window, where the sun can dry them. If there are too many for the bench, we'll make some wire frames to extend it… And, Barbara, see what you think about Snodgrass, will you? I'm not happy about him, and he's the only bull we've got till Peppy grows up. Hell, I wish we had a vet.'

They discussed Snodgrass's symptoms while the girls assembled in the gym for the morning briefing. Molly had been a teacher for twenty-three years, and Principal of Woodbury Croft for the past nine, and she was still both bewildered and exhilarated by finding herself, all of a sudden, more farmer than teacher, in charge of what she called 'this agricultural nunnery'. In the summer term there had been seven staff and ninety-three pupils; now there were only three staff and eighteen pupils. The crisis and the witch-hunt had hit the school badly, for Woodbury Croft was, in its modest way, as well known for its pagan orientation as Saffron Walden and Sidcot were for their Quakerism. Four out of five of the girls had come from witch families and Molly and her deputy Barbara Simms were both open witches. The non-witch girls had been withdrawn by their parents and two of the staff had resigned at the time of the first Order in Council. Molly, though naturally worried, could not blame them. The rest had simply not come back for the autumn term, except for Jane and Barbara and the eighteen girls who were still with them, and with the witch-hunt in full swing, Molly was surprised that any had returned at all. Then, with the earthquake, she had found herself responsible for them all. No word had come from any of the parents or from Jane's brother in Huddersfield or from Barbara's fiance in London. They must all be presumed dead till proved otherwise. Meanwhile they themselves were alive, thanks to a good stock of vinegar for pickling, and Molly's prompt reaction to the Prime Minister's broadcast.

The period of the Madness had been a nightmare. They had no defence but a twenty-year-old revolver that had belonged to Molly's soldier father and exactly six rounds of equally ancient ammunition. Molly had managed to stockpile some food but it had had to be rationed to near-starvation level because they had no idea how long the siege would last. For siege it was. Woodbury Croft was in isolated Midland country but they saw roving madmen almost every day. Molly had had no choice – with eighteen girls aged eleven to seventeen on her hands – but to barricade the school's main building and stay inside it. On three occasions, when all seemed quiet, she had made a quick sortie with two of the senior girls (she picked the best sprinters) to gather what they could carry from the vegetable garden, Molly armed with the revolver and the girls with axes. The third time, they had been taken by surprise by a barefooted madman who had rushed at them out of a shrubbery. The bigger of the two girls had tried to hold him at bay with her axe and then Molly had shot him, astonished that the gun worked.