So I followed Nadya down without hurrying, like a novice, slowing my progress by doing a snow plough, meandering across the slope and gradually piecing back together what I had forgotten. I thought what a shame it was that we hadn’t been to the mountains for a couple of years. It was really great up here… and how wonderful it had been when little Nadya used to ski down behind me, looking so funny and concentrating so hard…
We reached the bottom of the slope right beside the hotel where the Conclave was taking place. I hadn’t taken a close look until then, or maybe the hotel had been protected with some kind of witches’ spell of darkness, but down here the display of auras was dazzling.
Others.
Mostly Dark Ones.
Witches.
The hotel was called the Winter Hexerei, a name with an old-fashioned charm and air of menace about it. The Dark Ones are fond of provocative, revealing little jokes like that – vampires tell funny stories about blood, teeth and sucking, shapeshifters make wisecracks about wolves, fur and midnight. And witches just adore talking about sorcery.
The poster at the entrance was equally impish and provocative.
Welcome to the delegates of the DCLXV traditional convention of feminist gerontologists, cosmetologists, botanists and personal relationship consultants.
It was a bit long-winded, of course, especially in the German version, but it conveyed rather well the essence of what witches do. I would have added in zoologists too – lots of witches’ spells use substances of animal origin. But then that would have sounded really ponderous.
‘How did I do?’ Nadya asked as she slowed to a halt.
‘Really good,’ I said sincerely, halting beside her. ‘Did you check the probabilities through the Twilight?’
Nadya hesitated for a second before she confessed.
‘Well… just a bit. I got frightened halfway down and took a look. It was a good job I did – if I hadn’t slowed down I’d have fallen. Are we going in here?’
I nodded. We were standing beside the hotel entrance, with a leisurely stream of people flowing past us. Most of them were witches, most of them were old and most of them were wearing ski suits and holding skis.
‘Where shall we put the skis?’ Nadya asked as she took hers off.
I pointed to a rack beside the restaurant’s open-air patio. During the day people left their skis there while they ate, but now, with night coming on and the air turning colder, the patio was empty except for a few people smoking by the door. The sky had turned dark very early, as it always does up in the mountains, and lights were coming on all over the valley – beside the hotels, along the road, on the ski trails.
‘Let’s dump them here,’ I said. ‘It would be rather absurd to lug them in with us, wouldn’t it?’
‘They’re good skis,’ Nadya sighed. But she obediently put her pair beside mine. ‘It was so fantastic to go skiing again…’
‘When this crisis is over we’ll take a trip into the mountains,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
Nadya flashed a quick glance at me and nodded. But I could see she didn’t believe it. I didn’t even believe it myself.
‘Herr Gorodetsky? Young Fräulein Gorodetsky?’ a plump middle-aged woman wearing a luminous white and orange jumpsuit asked as she walked up to us.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I replied.
The question was rhetorical, naturally, since we could see each other’s auras. The woman was a witch. A Higher Other.
‘Etta Sabina Waldvogel,’ said the witch, holding out her hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Herr Gorodetsky.’
I struggled frantically to recall an old memory. ‘Frau Waldvogel . . .’ I said, nodding, and asked: ‘Would I be correct in assuming that you are the author of Guidance on Journeying and Journeyers?’
Etta Sabina’s eyes glinted with curiosity. ‘Have you read it, Herr Gorodetsky?’
‘No, I was unable to obtain a copy.’
‘It is rather rare,’ Waldvogel said offhandedly. ‘And I’m not sure that I can release the Guidance to anyone outside our own community… or that such highly specialised literature would be of any help to you… But I can let you have Frau Etta’s Brief Trasology. It’s more popular and easier to follow.’
‘I’d be glad to read it,’ said Nadya.
‘And I’d be glad to give it to you, sweetheart,’ Etta cooed. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere a bit warmer!’
We followed Etta into the foyer of the hotel. There were no normal people there, only witches, including at the reception desk. Even the waitress carrying little jugs of mulled wine round the foyer was a rather high-ranking witch. Unlike our escort, they were all disguised as beautiful young women.
‘What a pleasure it is for me to see an Absolute One, my child!’ Etta said sweetly, putting her arm round Nadya’s shoulders and hugging her. After the cold, frosty air she looked exactly like a charming, ruddy-cheeked, genial, middle-aged woman.
The owner of the little gingerbread house that Hansel and Gretel visited probably looked exactly the same.
Or maybe she and Etta had actually been acquainted and used to visit each other for supper?
‘Thank you, Grandma,’ Nadya replied, lowering her eyes modestly. ‘It’s such a pleasure for a foolish and thoughtless girl like me to be invited by such wise women and given an opportunity to improve my mind…’
Waldvogel laughed. ‘Oh, what a sharp little tongue!’ she exclaimed, patting Nadya on the neck. ‘Why, you’re a witch, little girl!’
‘I’m not a witch,’ Nadya objected. ‘You’re mistaken, Grandma.’
‘A witch, a witch!’ Etta repeated cheerfully. ‘All genuine sorceresses are witches…’
Nadya jerked her shoulder out from under Etta’s arm. I looked at my daughter curiously – she had tolerated the embrace for a long time, although ever since she was a child she had always hated this kind of physical contact from genial strangers who stroked her hair or patted her on the cheek. She didn’t actually suspect that people’s intentions were bad. She just didn’t like undue familiarity.
‘I’m not a witch, Etta Sabina Waldvogel,’ Nadya said in a low voice that resonated strangely, filling the small foyer. The witches froze. ‘I’m not a witch, I’m not a werewolf, or a vampire, or a sorceress. I’m something more than that. I’m an Absolute One. Remember that, Mother of These Mountains.’
For a brief instant Waldvogel changed, as if someone had run a damp rag over her, wiping away her magical make-up. The charming woman standing beside us was replaced by a bloated, ancient crone, with little beady eyes drowning in loose folds of skin that were covered with a cobweb of fine red veins. Her half-open mouth was absolutely toothless, and I suddenly recalled that one of the traditional sins of witches in the Middle Ages was drinking a mother’s breast milk. Apart from sucking out Power – probably at least as much as vampires sucked out – there could have been another reason for doing that…
Then ‘normal vision’ was restored, and the cheery, red-cheeked lady was there beside us again.
‘And all with just the voice…’ Waldvogel said admiringly. ‘I haven’t removed that appearance for thirty years – I’d almost forgotten how to do it. I’m impressed, little girl. Well, come along now, come along!’
The bustle in the foyer resumed, with witches scurrying to and fro. Some came in and sat at the bar in their ski suits and boots, drinking hot wine, while others went off to their rooms.
Witches certainly knew how to throw a good party for their Sabbath!