The Witchmoor Witch

By Mike Crowson

The Witchmoor Witch

A new sect – 'The Children of the Golden Future' – has appeared in Witchmoor Edge, and they are renting Weaver's Farm, once the home of the 18th century Witchmoor Witch, Bethany Weaver. Are they as innocent as they seem? Are they related to the dark and negative 'Ordo Nocturnis' which seems also to have moved in on the town?

DCI Millicent Hampshire and her team are investigating the murder of Bethany Brooks, a descendant of the Witchmoor Witch, now on the Planning Committee of Witchmoor Council, but occultist Tobias N'Dibe, his teenage protégée Chelsey Bradon, her dog Scruffy and her friend Elliot Wright are more interested thwarting the Ordo Nocturnis, which ends, inevitably, in an astral battle.

Fortunately that also solves the murder ... but it does leave one wondering whether Chelsey herself is now the Witchmoor Witch.

Mike Crowson is an adept of the Western Mysteries with 40 years on the path, while Ardane Stewart has a background in Wicca and runs a lodge of astral warriors – this book is authentic and a better guide to the philosophy and thinking of those on various western mystical paths than many textbooks

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Crowson
• Release date: Sep 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301833399

Mike Crowson

Former teacher, former national secretary of what became the UK Green Party and for 40 years a student of things esoteric and occult. Now an occult and esoteric consultant offering free and unconditional help to those in serious and genuine psychic or occult trouble

Book preview

The Witchmoor Witch

Mike Crowson & Ardane Stewart

© 2012 Mike Crowson & Ardane Stewart

Smashwords Edition

Please Note that All Characters included in this story are fictional and that (a) County Heritage Sites was not a registered Trademark in July 2012, when the story was written, and (b) nor was there a company called Weaver's Farm Enterprises Ltd. at that time.

Other Books by Mike Crowson

Acknowledgements

Mike Crowson is an adept of an order within the Western Mystery Tradition with more than 40 years on the path, Ardane Stewart has a background in Wicca and leads a group of astral warriors. They acknowledge the help of Jenny Morcom, another adept of the Western Mysteries who ran her own Wiccan coven in times past, Sean Richards with the same background plus a lengthy background in the Western Mysteries and experience as an astral warrior, and Joanna Crowson, long established as a shaman of the Mexican Toltec tradition

You should note that this novel, although fiction, contains more information on the practices and thinking of the Western Mysteries than many text books!

The Witchmoor Witch

Prologue – the late18th Century

The mill wheel was still turning, the wooden blades rising endlessly, dripping and sodden, from the water of the mill 'race', untouched by, and oblivious to, the flames leaping up through the timbers of the building.

The fells behind looked a more intense black, against the near darkness of night, illuminated only by the lurid glow. The dominant sound was usually that of the two streams as they rippled steadily into the pond, to supply the race that turned the wheel, and the sound of the race itself, the grinding of the wheel and the muffled 'thump' of the looms – on this night the only sound was the frightening roar and crackle of the fire. The walls of the house and the several buildings were local stone, the light of the fire reflected from them. The looms and woven cloth were gone in the blaze and tongues of flame rang along rafters and flared upwards, consuming uprights.

The roof of the weaving shed began to collapse in showers of sparks as the fire devoured the timbers supporting it, and the flames, freed of the restriction of the thin granite slabs making up that roof, leapt even higher.

Silas Weaver looked at the angry red light reflecting from the great store of baled wool and thought, 'That will be mine now that she's dead.'

Dead the witch certainly was: probably dead before the fire had been started and certainly dead now. Silas supposed he had better buy more drink before anyone in the crowd questioned what they had done.

The mob stood around watching and perhaps a few were beginning to be aware of what they had been party to, for a mob has an overriding mind of its own, completely gripping the minds of the individuals making up the mob. There are always those that feel uneasy afterwards, though most take refuge in numbers.

There had been no trial, just the hard luck of dead cattle and sheep of marginal hill farms and the drink supplied by Silas, plus his rabble rousing talk, of course.That didn't mean that it wouldn't occur to some of them later that he had come out of the affair rather well … in financial terms at least. Whether it reflected well on his character was another matter.

Chapter 1

Saturday Oct 23rd

Chelsey Bradon held on to Scruffy's lead and watched the gaudily dressed, parading dancers as they passed the Market Square. Elliot Wright stood alongside her.

Chelsey was sixteen going on seventeen, with rather unfashionably long, auburn hair, usually either hung loose or in a single plait. Although she was quite presentable in appearance and shape, and not off-puttingly studious, nor in any way 'gay', she had a kind of reserve that made her hard for boys to approach. Elliot was not a 'boyfriend' in any relational sense, though he might have been one, given the chance, but he was just psychic enough from his family background to realise that Chelsey was unusually so, and he often had the uncomfortable feeling she was aware of his thoughts, especially his thoughts about her. Despite this, he found her attractive. Chelsey was not sure what she felt about Elliot. He was in her class in the sixth form at school, doing pretty much the same A levels, his home background and younger sister interested her and he was certainly pleasant and largely stress free company.

The dog was a scruffy mongrel, and very appropriately named. At some point in his ancestry a brownish terrier of some variety had been 'friendly' with a black and white collie sheepdog. As a result of that friendship, he was ungainly, rather lumbering, good humoured, very attached to Chelsey … and he had an astral counterpart.

Elliot quite liked the dog and Scruffy quite approved of him in return, which was one reason why the girl found him so acceptable as a companion.

They look daft, prancing about like that, Elliot remarked, his accent sounding a touch more identifiably local West Yorkshire than the girl's.

It feels to me like they're enjoying themselves, she answered. I wouldn't want to make a spectacle of myself like that in the centre of town, though. But Scruffy agrees with me they're harmless, don't you Scruffy? she added.

The dog glanced up at her and wagged its tail.

I'll swear that dog reads your mind, Elliot remarked.

'Course he does, Chelsey agreed. He's as psychic as me.

Elliot looked at her and smiled a little. I doubt that, he said.

There were about 20 or so in the parade, dressed principally in orange and green: tops and tight trousers for the men, with hair in single plaits, or tops and long skirts for the women. A couple more of them, similarly dressed, moved among the crowd, handing out leaflets. A couple of the parade were drumming, which provided some sort of a beat for the dancers, but it wasn't a very organised or serious event, and the leafletting did not appear to be making a huge impression on the crowd, most of them there for the market. The parade was not a diverting entertainment for most of them – more a minor irritation.

One of the pamphleteers thrust a paper into Elliot's hand as she passed through the crowd.

What does it say? Chelsey asked.

Children of the Golden Future, Elliot read. They're the lot who've moved into Weaver's Farm, up on the Edge. Mum says they've applied for planning permission to rebuild some of the buildings and to build a new access road.

Elliot Wright was the son of of Sara Wright. She'd been a long time on the planning committee of Witchmoor Edge Council. Actually her family had been on the council for years: her mother had held the same post before her.

I didn't think you needed permission to rebuild something that was there already, Chelsey remarked.

You don't, Elliot agreed. Change of use needs permission though, I think.

Chelsey was sceptical. What, even something that hasn't been used for a hundred years! she said.

Elliot shrugged. Anyway, according to mum, they got the permission for everything but the road. Though I can't see the attraction of that old place, he added. It's supposed to be haunted, you know.

Chelsey looked mildly interested. I expect it was cheap, she said, taking the leaflet from Elliot and reading it.

You know, she remarked, This is a load of waffle. Of course it would be a better world if everybody loved everybody else.

You don't need to join this lot to love everybody.

No, Chelsey agreed hesitatingly, But people lose weight better if they join weight watchers than if they just make a new year resolution about losing weight.

What's that to do with it?

Chelsey scratched behind Scruffy's ears. Well, she said, If you're among people who feel the same way about something as you do, I guess it's easier.

It doesn't seem to stop sexual abuse by priests and monks, Elliiot objected.

Maybe they congregate – if you'll pardon the expression – with others of their kind.

What, all bonk together you mean? That sounds a bit anti-Christian.

I don't think that's quite what I did mean. Chelsey hesitated. I wasn't taking a religious viewpoint at all, just that if you get together with others that feel the same as you about anything it's easier to get carried along.

Maybe abusive priests are attracted to each other, Elliot suggested.

Or investment bankers lose all moral sense when they get with others out to make money, Chelsey said, obviously thinking out loud.

Hmm, Elliiot said, sounding unconvinced.

Anyway, Chelsey said, changing the subject, I need to buy a pay-as-you-go SIM card for my mobile phone. I want a different network.

I thought you were well off since that legacy?

I am. It's not the cost of the contract – I bought my iPhone for cash, but I don't like a network keeping track of where I am.

But they can track a pay-as-you-go.

Yes, but they don't know who you are when you're using it. I'm me and nobody tells me what to think or what to feel. Anyway, there's a market stall sells SIM cards. This way.

She began to push her way into the market, as the parade moved off and the watching crowd dispersed. Scruffy followed amiably and Elliiot tagged along after her.

* * *

To say that Gordon Spellman was a dangerous man to cross is putting it mildly and to say that he was currently angry and in a bad mood would have been a serious understatement. He had been crossed by the planning committee of Witchmoor Edge Council, though to be fair they were unaware that he had made any planning application at all. In fact he hadn't – not directly.

The facts of the situation are that his company, the harmless sounding 'County Heritage Sites', had loaned Weaver's Farm to the Children of the Golden Future for almost nothing and paid for the planning application Elliot Wright had referred to.

Spellman prowled round his office. He thumped the desk, making the telephone jump. He paced like an angry tiger. His attitude to the cult and his apparent generosity towards it cannot be construed as benevolence or disinterest: Gordon Spellman was self centred and basically unpleasant and unscrupulous. If something concerned him, particularly if it helped him make money, he was interested – otherwise not! He didn't give a damn about a 'Golden Future' for anyone other than himself and he was angry, because that road had been important to him.

The office was in the first floor of a small detached building, formerly a chapel, in the industrial area of Witchmoor. It was an old building, but its original users had been hard and joyless and its present owner cold, self centred and with a high opinion of himself. Neither the office nor the building radiated anything warm or friendly. In the basement meeting room was another feature that was pure Spellman, and that was not warm and friendly either.

So, he snarled at Stephanie Spellman as if it was her fault. Rana has his planning permission, so he can rebuild, but I haven't got my road.

The Council said it was a long way round and would cause unnecessary disturbance of the view, as well as needing a new bridge over the mill stream. They indicated that the existing road could be improved more cheaply and efficiently.

Yes it bloody could, he snapped, But that way it doesn't service the land on the other side of the stream.

I know that. You know that. The Council doesn't know about your plans for that land and even Rana doesn't.

Never mind what Rana does or doesn't know. He was supposed to help me, but he doesn't need to know why.

It wasn't Rana's fault!

Spellman paused, his face black with rage and his aura even blacker. No. It wasn't. It was down to that Planning Committee. I'll have to get some people I can trust to fill the vacancies.

His wife looked puzzled. There aren't any vacancies on the planning committee, she said. She looked at Spellman's expression. Oh!. she added.

Get back to the Golden Future and help Rana celebrate. I have calls to make, Spellman said, dismissing his wife like a servant. He was unaware of her resentment at being treated like that, but he wouldn't have been in the least concerned, even if he had been aware

* * *

Joseph Appleton's forge at East Morton stays open on a Saturday, because there is a steady trickle of customers for his wrought iron work. The furnace itself isn't lit and his assistant isn't around, but the double doors of the long, low stone building are open and some of his wares and fine craft work are on display outside.

The two storey building is very ancient. A visitor would be uncertain as to the exact age, but the pointed stone window frames suggest a building of the 17th century or even earlier.

Joseph was standing at the forge door, idly chatting to his landlord, who lived upstairs, though the upper story had rather unused look as if a part of the forge. Appearances were deliberately deceptive.

Approaching your closing time, is it not? Tobias N'Dibe asked the old man conversationally. Actually Joseph Appleton was younger by a couple of years than N'Dibe, but you somehow didn't get that impression.

Aye, well. I've a customer coming in to pick up a commission, Joseph said. I don't like to close up on him, but he's late. He took out a pocket watch and studied it. I'll just give him five more minutes, he added.

Obviously just making conversation, he went on, I hear as how that fancy lot has got permission to rebuild Weaver's Farm.

Children of the Golden Future, N'Dibe suggested, just as Chelsey and Scruffy turned in at the gate. She avoided a car turning into the car park of the Craven Heifer hotel next door and strolled up to the two men.

Hello uncle Toby, hello Joseph, she said.

N'Dibe was not her uncle, but Chelsey had no uncles and N'Dibe no nieces – or other family for that matter – so it was a well established, harmless and friendly fiction.

Did I hear you talking about 'Children of the Golden Future'? Chelsey asked.

Indeed so, N'Dibe agreed.

Aye, Joseph acknowledged. Daft name.

But harmless, Chelsey countered. They were parading around town and handing out leaflets this dinner time.

You were there? N'Dibe enquired.

I was down at the market with Elliot Wright, Chelsey explained.

What did all them folk down the town make on 'em? Joseph asked.

Chelsey thought about it. I think it was generally a mixture of amused tolerance with a sprinkling of irritation, she said at last.

And your own opinion? N'Dibe enquired.

"Harmless.