“Lots, sir. One big bit with two points like a shovel handle. Clear as glass.”
There was another silence, and then Mark spoke again.
“What’s going on?”
“Witches, master.”
“Eh? What?”
“Things comes in the night, and takes lambs, and fowls, and geese.”
“You mean thieves.”
“Nay, not like thieves, master. Old Mother Deggins saw ’em the other night, and they fluttered and made a noise—great black witches, in long petticoats and brooms. It was a noise like thunder, and a light like lightnin’, she says, and it knocked her down night afore last; and she won’t live in the cottage no longer, but come next to ours.”
“Somebody tried to frighten her.”
“P’r’aps. Frightened two of our men too. They was coming back from Gatewell over the hills; and they see a light up by Ergles, where there aren’t no lights, and they crep’ up to see what it was, and looked down and see a fire, with a lot of old witches in long gowns leaning over it, and boiling something in a pot; and they think it’s babies.”