Shamanka by Jeanne Willis Page B

fails to notice it’s drawn on ancient, hand-pulped paper. Mind you, the light is fading.
    She changes trains several times. The warehouse is a long walk from West India Quay and by the time she arrives, it is dark. She’s not at all sure this is where she should be. There’s no warehouse – just scorched earth, scrubby wasteland and rubble.
    Hang on … maybe this is the right place. There could have been a warehouse; she can make out where the old foundations used to be – but why isn’t it here any more? The wasteland is deserted. There’s an ominous chill rising from the wharf. Sam shivers; this is a warehouse grave. Kitty is no longer here, there’s no point in staying. She decides to retrace her steps back to West India Quay, catch a night train and sleep at St Pancras station. She’ll catch the first train to Mrs Reafy’s in the morning.
    It’s late and dark, and she has a long way to go, so she begins to run. But something in the soil doesn’t want her to leave; it trips her up. She falls, grazes both hands and cuts her knee open on sharp metal. As she crouches down to examine her wound, a hunched figure slips out of the shadows and moves quietly about its business.
    It’s coming towards her.
H OW TO TEAR A COIN IN HALF
    You need: A large coin, tin foil, an envelope
    1. Cut the corner off an envelope so you have a square pouch.

    2. Cover the coin in tin foil and press so the coin is imprinted on the foil.

    3. Open the foil, take out the coin, then refold the foil so it looks like a solid coin.
    4. Show the fake coin to the audience, put it in the pouch and rip it up – they’ll think you’ve torn the real one.

RUTH ABAFEY
    S am stands as still as Bart Hayfue to make herself invisible to the warehouse ghost. She sighs with relief as it brushes past her: this is no spectre; it’s a tiny woman, scratching in the dirt like a shy night creature. A Moon Lady. She hasn’t noticed Sam and talks softly to herself.
    â€œAh, milkweed! Milkweed in full bloom and it’s a full moon.”
    She pulls the herb up by the roots, blows the soil off and places it in a woven basket. Sam wants to ask her about the warehouse, but if she speaks suddenly, it might scare her away. She decides to sing a lullaby; a lullaby is never threatening – unless it’s sung by Aunt Candy.
    In order not to frighten the Moon Lady, Sam sings airily, so that the words sound like night breeze or the patter of moth’s wings. “Rock a bye baby, on the tree top, when the—”
    The woman cocks an ear and mutters softly to herself. “Hark! Is that the call of the Torresian crow? Or is it the wind? No, it is a
girl’s
voice!” She straightens up like a rabbit trying to guess where the vixen is lurking. “Girl? Show yourself! Come out of the shadows and show yourself.”
    Sam waves her hand slowly. “Here I am… I hope I didn’t scare you.”
    â€œNo, no. Not scared – just wary until I get the measure of you.” She shuffles closer. She’s so short and hairy, Sam wonders if she’s stumbled across a goblin. The woman looks her up and down. “Stay standing still, just like that. Then I can get on with it.”
    â€œGet on with what?”
    â€œMeasuring you, of course! Name, name, name?”
    â€œSam – Sam Khaan. What are you going to do with
that
?”
    The Moon Lady has pulled a length of red cord from her pocket. Is Sam about to be strangled? She steps back, but the woman reaches out to her.
    â€œDon’t panic, Sam Khaan. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Do harm to none
– that is the Wiccan Creed, the rules by which witches must abide.” She smiles brightly.
    Sam has got the measure of her too; she has nothing to fear. “Is that what you are? A witch?”
    Yes, indeed. Her name is Ruth Abafey and she’s a solitary hedgewitch. She has nothing to do with the devil, nor is she