Greenwitch

  PRAISE FOR THE DARK IS RISING SEQUENCE

  “[A] thunderous fantasy.”—New York Times on The Dark Is Rising, a Newbery Honor Book

  “The excitement, suspense, and imaginative daring of the narrative are matched by the strength and style of the writing.”—New York Times on The Grey King, a Newbery Medal Winner

  “One of the best fantasies ever written. . . . A wondrous book that can be appreciated by lovers of great storytelling, both young and old.”—sfreviews.net on The Dark Is Rising

  “A brilliant, imaginative series of fantasies.”—Boston Globe

  “These classic fantasies, complex and multifaceted, should not be missed, by child or adult.”—Amazon.com

  “Susan Cooper . . . is the inheritor of strong mythic traditions and a craftsman’s understanding of the English language. With this series she has created a sweeping and beautiful tribute to both.”—Washington Post

  “Susan Cooper is one of the few contemporary writers who have the vivid imagination, the narrative powers, and the moral vision that permit her to create the kind of sweeping conflict between good and evil that lies at the heart of all great fantasy. Tolkien had it. So did C. S. Lewis. And Cooper writes in the same tradition.”—Psychology Today

  THE DARK IS RISING SEQUENCE

  Over Sea, Under Stone

  The Dark Is Rising

  Greenwitch

  The Grey King

  Silver on the Tree

  —THE DARK IS RISING SEQUENCE—

  GREENWITCH

  SUSAN COOPER

  SIM0N PULSE

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1974 by Susan Cooper

  Copyright renewed © 2002 by Susan Cooper

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Also available in a Margaret K. McElderry hardcover edition.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  This Simon Pulse edition May 2007

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Cooper, Susan, 1935-

  Greenwitch. / Susan Cooper.—1st ed.

  (“The dark is rising sequence.”)

  “A Margaret K. McElderry book.”

  Summary: Jane’s invitation to witness the making of the Greenwitch begins a series of sinister events in which she and her two brothers help the Old Ones recover the grail stolen by the Dark.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-30426-2 (he)

  ISBN-10: 0-689-30426-9 (he)

  [1. Fantasy. 2. Cornwall (England : Country)—Fiction.]

  PZ7.C7878Gr 1974

  [Fie] 73-85319

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-4966-4 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-4966-6 (pbk)

  For Kate

  When the Dark comes rising, six shall turn it back;

  Three from the circle, three from the track;

  Wood, bronze, iron; water, fire, stone;

  Five will return, and one go alone.

  Iron for the birthday, bronze carried long;

  Wood from the burning, stone out of song;

  Fire in the candle-ring, water from the thaw;

  Six Signs the circle, and the grail gone before.

  Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold;

  Played to wake the Sleepers, oldest of the old;

  Power from the Greenwitch, lost beneath the sea;

  All shall find the light at last, silver on the tree.

  GREENWITCH

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONLY ONE NEWSPAPER CARRIED THE STORY IN DETAIL, UNDER THE headline: TREASURES STOLEN FROM MUSEUM.

  Several Celtic works of art were stolen from the British Museum yesterday, one of them worth more than £50,000. Police say that the theft appears to be the result of an intricate and so far baffling plan. No burglar alarms were set off, the showcases involved were undamaged, and no signs have been found of breaking-in.

  The missing objects include a gold chalice, three jewelled brooches and a bronze buckle. The chalice, known as the Trewissick Grail, had been acquired by the Museum only last summer, after its dramatic discovery in a Cornish cave by three children. It had been valued at £50,000, but a Museum spokesman said last night that its true value was “incalculable,” due to the unique inscriptions on its sides which scholars have so far been unable to decipher.

  The spokesman added that the Museum appealed to the thieves not to damage the chalice in any way, and would be offering a substantial reward for its return. “The grail is an extraordinary piece of historical evidence, unprecedented in the whole field of Celtic studies,” he said, “and its importance to scholars far exceeds its intrinsic value.”

  Lord Clare, who is a trustee of the British Museum, said last night that the chalice—

  “Oh do come out of that paper, Barney,” Simon said irritably. “You’ve read it fifty times, and anyway it’s no help.”

  “You never know,” said his younger brother, folding the newspaper and cramming it into his pocket. “Might be a hidden clue.”

  “Nothing’s hidden,” said Jane sadly. “It’s all too obvious.”

  They stood in a dejected row on the shiny floor of the museum gallery, before a central showcase taller than the rows of identical glass cases all round. It was empty, save for a black wooden plinth on which, clearly, something had once been displayed. A neat silver square on the wood was engraved with the words: Gold chalice of unknown Celtic workmanship, believed sixth century. Found in Trewissick, South Cornwall, and presented by Simon, Jane and Barnabas Drew.

  “All that trouble we had, getting there first,” Simon said. “And now they’ve simply come and lifted it. Mind you, I always thought they might.”

  Barney said, “The worst part is not being able to tell anyone who did it.”

  “We could try,” Jane said.

  Simon looked at her with his head on one side. “Please sir, we can tell you who took the grail, in broad daylight without breaking any locks. It was the powers of the Dark.”

  “Pop off, sonny,” Barney said. “And take your fairy stories with you.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Jane said. She tugged distractedly at her pony-tail. “But if it was the same ones, somebody might at least have seen them. That horrible Mr Hastings—”

  “Not a chance. Hastings changes, Great-Uncle Merry said. Don’t you remember? He wouldn’t have the same name, or the same face. He can be different people, at different times.”

  “I wonder if Great-Uncle Merry knows,” Barney said. “About this.” He stared at the glass case, and the small, lonely black plinth inside.

  Two elderly ladies in hats came up beside him. One wore a yellow flowerpot, the other a pyramid of pink flowers. “That’s where they pinched it from, the attendant said,” one told the other. “Fancy! The other cases were over here.”

  “Tut-tut-tut-tut,” said the other lady with relish, and they moved on. Absently Barney watched them go, their footsteps clopping through the high gallery. They paused at a showcase over which a long-legged figure was bending. Barney stiffened. He peered at the figure.

  “We’ve got to do something,”
Simon said. “Just got to.” Jane said, “But where do we start?” The tall figure straightened to let the be-hatted ladies approach the glass case. He bent his head courteously, and a mass of wild white hair caught the light.

  Simon said, “I don’t see how Great-Uncle Merry could know—I mean he isn’t even in Britain, is he? Taking that year off from Oxford. Sab—whatsit.”

  “Sabbatical,” Jane said. “In Athens. And not even a card at Christmas.”

  Barney was holding his breath. Across the gallery, as the crime-loving ladies moved on, the tall white-haired man turned towards a window; his beak-nosed, hollow-eyed profile was unmistakable. Barney let out a howl. “Gumerry!”

  Simon and Jane trailed blinking in his wake as he skidded across the floor.

  “Great-Uncle Merry!”

  “Good morning,” said the tall man amiably.

  “But Mum said you were in Greece!”

  “I came back.”

  “Did you know someone was going to steal the grail?” Jane said.

  Her great-uncle arched one white-bristling eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

  Barney said simply, “What are we going to do?”

  “Get it back,” said Great-Uncle Merry.

  “I suppose it was them?” Simon said diffidently. “The other side? The Dark?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did they take the other stuff, the brooches and things?”

  “To make it look right,” said Jane.

  Great-Uncle Merry nodded. “It was effective enough. They took the most valuable pieces. The police will think they were simply after the gold.” He looked down at the empty showcase; then his gaze flicked up, and each of the three felt impelled to stare motionless into the deep-set dark eyes, with the light behind them like a cold fire that never went out.

  “But I know that they wanted only the grail,” Great-Uncle Merry said, “to help them on the way to something else. I know what they intend to do, and I know that they must at all costs be stopped. And I am very much afraid that you three, as the finders, will be needed once more to give help—far sooner than I had expected.”

  “Shall we?” said Jane slowly.

  “Super,” said Simon.

  Barney said, “Why should they have taken the grail now? Does it mean they’ve found the lost manuscript, the one that explains the cipher written on the sides of the grail?”

  “No,” said Great-Uncle Merry. “Not yet.”

  “Then why—”

  “I can’t explain, Barney.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his bony shoulders. “This matter involves Trewissick, and it does involve that manuscript. But it is part of something very much larger as well, something which I may not explain. I can only ask you to trust me, as you all trusted me once before, in another part of the long battle between the Light and the Dark. And to help, if you are sure you feel able to give help, without perhaps ever being able fully to understand what you are about.”

  Barney said calmly, pushing his tow-coloured forelock out of his eyes: “That’s all right.”

  “Of course we want to help,” Simon said eagerly.

  Jane said nothing. Her great-uncle put one finger under her chin, tilted her head up and looked at her. “Jane,” he said gently. “There is absolutely no reason to involve any of you in this if you are not happy about it.”

  Jane looked up at the strongly-marked face, thinking how much it looked like one of the fierce statues they had passed on their way through the museum. “You know I’m not scared,” she said. “Well, I mean I am a bit, but excited-scared. It’s just that if there’s going to be any danger to Barney, I feel—I mean, he’s going to scream at me, but he is younger than we are and we oughtn’t—”

  Barney was scarlet. “Jane!”

  “It’s no good yelling,” she said with spirit. “If anything happened to you, we’d be responsible, Simon and me.”

  “The Dark will not touch any of you,” Great-Uncle Merry said quietly. “There will be protection. Don’t worry. I promise you that. Nothing that may happen to Barney will harm him.”

  They smiled at one another.

  “I am not a baby!” Barney stamped one foot in fury.

  “Stop it,” said Simon. “Nobody said you were.”

  Great-Uncle Merry said, “When are the Easter holidays, Barney?”

  There was a short pause.

  “The fifteenth, I think,” Barney said grumpily.

  “That’s right,” Jane said. “Simon’s start a bit before that, but we all overlap by about a week.”

  “It’s a long way off,” Great-Uncle Merry said.

  “Too late?” They looked at him anxiously.

  “No, I don’t think so. . . . Is there anything to prevent the three of you from spending that week with me in Trewissick?”

  “No!”

  “Nothing!”

  “Not really. I was going to a sort of ecology conference, but I can get out of that. . . .” Simon’s voice trailed away, as he thought of the little Cornish village where they had found the grail. Whatever adventure might now follow had begun there, deep inside a cave in the cliffs, over sea and under stone. And at the heart of things now, as he had been then, would always be Great-Uncle Merry, Professor Merriman Lyon, the most mysterious figure in their lives, who in some incomprehensible way was involved with the long struggle for control of the world between the Light and the Dark.

  “I’ll speak to your parents,” his great-uncle said.

  “Why Trewissick again?” Jane said. “Will the thieves take the grail there?”

  “I think they may.”

  “Just one week,” Barney said, staring pensively at the empty showcase before them. “That’s not much for a quest. Will it really be enough?”

  “It is not very long,” said Great-Uncle Merry. “But it will have to do.”

  * * *

  Will eased a stem of grass out of its sheath and sat down on a rock near the front gate, despondently nibbling. The April sunshine glimmered on the new-green leaves of the lime trees; a thrush somewhere shouted its happy self-echoing song. Lilac and wallflowers scented the morning. Will sighed. They were all very well, these joys of a Buckinghamshire spring, but he would have appreciated them more with someone there to share the Easter holidays. Half his large family still lived at home, but his nearest brother James was away at a Scout camp for the week, and the next in line, Mary, had disappeared to some Welsh relations to recuperate from mumps. The rest were busy with boring older preoccupations. That was the trouble with being the youngest of nine; everyone else seemed to have grown up too fast.

  There was one respect in which he, Will Stanton, was far older than any of them, or than any human creature. But only he knew of the great adventure which had shown him, on his eleventh birthday, that he had been born the last of the Old Ones, guardians of the Light, bound by immutable laws to defend the world against the rising Dark. Only he knew—and because he was also an ordinary boy, he was not thinking of it now.

  Raq, one of the family dogs, pushed a damp nose into his hand. Will fondled the floppy ears. “A whole week,” he said to the dog. “What shall we do? Go fishing?”

  The ears twitched, the nose left his hand; stiff and alert, Raq turned towards the road. In a moment or two a taxi drew up outside the gate: not the familiar battered car that served as village taxi, but a shiny professional vehicle from the town three miles away. The man who emerged was small, balding and rather rumpled, wearing a raincoat and carrying a large shapeless holdall. He dismissed the taxi, and stood looking at Will.

  Puzzled, Will scrambled up and came to the gate. “Good morning,” he said.

  The man stood solemn for a moment, then grinned. “You’re Will,” he said. He had a smooth round face with round eyes, like a clever fish.

  “That’s right,” Will said.

  “The youngest Stanton. The seventh son. That’s one up on me—I was only the sixth.”

  His voice was soft and rather hu
sky, with an odd mid-Atlantic accent; the vowels were American, but the intonation was English. Will smiled in polite incomprehension.

  “Your father was the seventh in that family,” the man in the raincoat said. He grinned again, his round eyes crinkling at the corners, and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m your Uncle Bill.”

  “Well I’m blowed!” said Will. He shook the hand. Uncle Bill. His namesake. His father’s favourite brother, who had gone off to America years and years ago and set up some sort of successful business—pottery, wasn’t it? Will did not remember ever having seen him before; he was sent a Christmas present each year by this unknown Uncle Bill, who was also his godfather, and he wrote a chatty letter of thanks annually as a result, but the letters had never had a reply.

  “You’ve grown some,” said Uncle Bill as they walked to the house. “Last time we met, you were a little scrawny bawling thing in a crib.”

  “You sound like an American,” Will said.

  “No wonder,” said Uncle Bill. “I’ve been one for the last ten years.”

  “You never answered my Christmas letters.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  “No, not really.”

  They both laughed, and Will decided that this uncle was all right. Then they were in the house, and his father was coming downstairs; pausing, with an incredulous blankness in his face.

  “Billy!”

  “Roger!”

  “My God,” said Will’s father, “what’s happened to your hair?”

  Reunions with long-lost relatives take time, especially in large families. They were at it for hours. Will quite forgot that he had been gloomy over the absence of companions. By lunchtime he had learned that his Uncle Bill and Aunt Fran were in Britain to visit the Staffordshire potteries and the china-clay district of Cornwall, where they had business of some complex Anglo-American kind. He had heard all about their two grown-up children, who seemed to be contemporaries of his eldest brother Stephen, and he had been told rather more than he really wanted to know about the state of Ohio and the china-making trade. Uncle Bill was clearly prosperous, but this seemed to be only his second trip to Britain since he had emigrated more than twenty years before. Will liked his twinkling round eyes and laconic husky voice. He was just feeling that the prospects for his week’s holiday had greatly improved when he found that Uncle Bill was staying only one night, on his way from a business trip to London, and travelling on to Cornwall the next day to join his wife. His spirits drooped again.