Mwynwen - the witch
By Diana the Valkyrie
Mwynwen and Harry, Fred and Ginger 


Part 1

Bang bang bang.

I pulled my blanket over my head.

Thump thump thump.

I put my head under the pillow.

Crash crash crash.

It wasn't going away. I dragged my eyes open, switched on the bedside lamp. 
3 am. Urghhh.

Who's that a-knocking, a-knocking at my door? At such a ghastly hour? I wasn't
expecting the Geheime Staatspolizei, and it was too early for the milkman. So
I put on an old coat, and bleared downstairs. The only way to find out who's
trying to knock me up at this hour is to open the door.

"Harry! What are you doing here?" I asked. "Sharon chucked me out. Linda, I've
got nowhere to go, can I crash out here?". I beckoned him in. He looked awful.
Sharon had done a bit of rearranging on his face before she slung his hook. I
sat him down on my sofa, and gave him a pint of strawberry yoghurt, if he bled
into that it wouldn't notice. "This isn't just a lover's tiff, then?" "No,
Linda, she meant it. I think she might have broken a couple of ribs, too."
"Why was she so upset?"

It turned out, she'd found out about Harry and Mandy. Mandy, being a nun,
isn't really supposed to get into Meaningful Relationships with Significant
Others, and she isn't allowed to bonk, either. But that never stopped the nuns
of St Hilda's; never slowed them down much, either. "How did she find out?"
"Er. We were in bed. Together. Er. Sharon walked in. Um. Er."

Wow, I'd give a week's supply of yoghurt to have a video of that scene. Sharon
catches Harry screwing, or being screwed by, Mandy. "So there was a big
fight?" "Fight? You're kidding. It took Sharon about eleven seconds to totally
crush me." "No, I meant between Sharon and Mandy."

Sharon is big. I mean, like, Big. Cars lean to the left when she gets into
them sort of big. She turns sideways to get through doors kind of big. But
Mandy, well, Mandy's a nun at St Hilda's, and after several years on
Septadecaherbis, she made Sharon look normal. A fight between those two would
be worth seeing, worth taping, and worth selling in Hoxton Street market at
£20 per tape.

Sharon attacking Harry, Mandy protecting him, wow, what a sight!

"There wasn't a fight between Sharon and Mandy." "What?" "Mandy didn't do
anything, she just watched."

"She sat there and let Sharon beat you to a pulp?" Harry nodded. "And then
when I was lying on the floor trying not to breathe because breathing hurt
rather a lot, I heard them talking." "Talking about what?"

"Well, Mandy was admiring Sharon's thighs, and Sharon was admiring Mandy's
biceps, and I think one thing was leading to another, but I didn't want to
stick around to see what would happen next, I decided I'd better hop it while
I could still hop. Or rather, crawl. Linda, I really don't feel very well."

Yes, I could see that. I helped him off with his pajama jacket, and there was
this great glorious grey-blue-green-yellow bruise right across his upper body,
with what looked like knuckle indentations on his chest. So I helped him lie
down on my sofa, put my old coat on top of him, switched off the lights, and
went to bed upstairs.

You might be wondering why I didn't take advantage of him while he couldn't
put up much resistance. After all, even a fluffer doesn't get too many chances
at an set like Harry's. We call him Harry the Horse on account of his face,
but actually that's not his only equine attribute, if you follow my drift. But
if you'd seen the state he was in, you'd have taken pity on him too. Sure, I
could have forced myself on him in his current debilitated condition. But it
wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be moral.

Would it.

I mean.

Us professional fluffers have our Code of Conduct, you know.

Oh shit. I'm only human, you know.

I woke up the next morning after spending a very uncomfortable night on my
sofa, which isn't exactly good for one person to sleep on, and is absolutely
purgatory for two. I moved a bit, and that woke Harry, whose first words were
"Please no", which I guessed was a continuation of last night. I hopped out of
bed, showered, dressed, and started frying kippers, that being my way of
making amends. By the time I had them on the plate, with some toast, and
marmite, Harry was sitting at the breakfast table looking considerably the
worse for wear, which I swear to you was *entirely* Sharon's doing, wrapped in
a towel.

I gave him a fork, and he started to feed his face.

"Uggle buggle ast die" he said, around a mouthful of hot kipper, as I plonked
down a mug of coffee for him, and opened a black cherry yoghurt for myself.
"What?" "I said, I'm sorry about last night." I sniffed. "I don't usually have
that problem". I snorted. Yes, I knew that, I've worked on enough porno vids
with Harry to know that droop is not a problem he usually has. "Linda, I'm
really sorry". I glared at him.

It's bad enough to have a rape on your conscience, to have a failed attempted
rape is ten times worse. None of the fun, all of the guilt. Not to mention the
potential slur on my reputation. I mean, I'm a senior fluffer for heaven's
sake. I'm supposed to be able to coax the limpest butterstick into its full
proud flowering rampant glory.

The phone rang. I answered. It was Sharon. "Hi Sharon!" I like Sharon, she's
nice, she's my chum. Harry got that deer-in-the-headlights look. "You're
looking for Harry?" Harry was shaking his head violently and making
throat-cutting gestures. "Sure, Sharon." Harry started looking frantic,
windmilling his arms, looking like roadkill. "If I see him, I'll call you." I
hung up. "I just lied to my good friend Sharon for you, Harry." Harry smiled
limply. "Linda, you're a brick, if she finds me she'll kill me, Mandy would
have told her ... er ..." "Told her what, Harry?" "Oh shit." "Told her what,
Harry?" "Um, you don't what to know ..." "Told her what, Harry?"

"About me and Norah." Norah was also on the jaunt to disrupt the Sex Olympics.
"You and Norah?" Harry nodded, and slumped over the table. "And Evadne". "You
porked Evadne? She's not even a full nun!" "She was full when I shagged her",
he said ruefully, and grinned, exhibiting his boyish charm look, which works
about as well on me as water on a ducks back. "Any more?" I asked? "Uh."
"Harry?" "Uh. You want a list?" "No, not really."

No wonder Harry didn't want to face Sharon. If he did, she'd rip off his leg
and shove it up his arse.

"Harry, you can't stay here." "Awww, Linda, please?" "Harry, Sharon's a chum
of mine, she's likely to drop round here with no warning, and then we get to
play Feydeau French Farce with you in the cupboard while she's in the
bathroom? This is not good."

Harry whimpered. "Whimper".

I thought a bit more. "Um. If Sharon and Mandy have become an item, then it
isn't just Sharon you have to worry about." "Whimper whimper". "And they might
have Norah and Evadne on your case, too." "Whimper whimper whimper". "Harry,
have you been playing fast and loose with any of the other Sisters of St
Hilda?". "Linda, pass the breadknife, I think I'll just cut me own froat."
"No, Harry. Nil desperandum. We need to get you out of circulation for a
while, until the heat is off." "Linda, I can't just hide, each time there's a
knock on the door I'll think it might be one of them, I'll be living in
constant fear and trepidation." "Yes, and a whopping great laundry bill."

Hmm. Trepidation. I don't think I've ever heard Harry use a four-syllable
latinate word before. Maybe this is the wrong time to dig into this further,
but I wonder if Harry really is the thick-as-a-brick sexual athlete that he
portrays himself as. "No, Harry, I wasn't thinking of just stashing you in
some hotel someplace. I think you need to spend some time with the Witch of
the West."

Harry's eyebrows shot North. "The Wicked Witch of the West?" he said,
querulously. "No, Harry, she isn't Wicked. Well, no more wicked than I am.
She's a Witch, and she lives out West." "Texas?" "No, Merthyr Tydfil" "Where?"
"South Wales, near the Brecon Hills. Her real name's Mwynwen, but everyone
calls her the Witch" "Why?"

"You'll see. And I suggest we leave now, before someone visits me." Harry
looked nervous, and nodded.

"Mmm, lets. But what about, you know. Sharon. And Mandy? And ... ". "Don't
worry about them, Harry. The Witch'll look after you."

Clothes. Harry had no clothes. Unless you counted his pajamas, which were not
exactly adequate. One of my sweaters was miles too small for him, and it was
clear that I'd never be able to wear it again after he managed to squeeze
himself into it and a tartan blanket became a kilt, and I threw a few things
into a bag for myself, and we caught the bus for Paddington Station.

Paddington. Gateway to the West. The London end of the Great Western Railway,
designed and built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel in the Broad Gauge (seven feet
wide) to connect the two greatest cities of the British Empire, London and
Bristol. Probably the finest railway ever made. I loved this beautiful old
Victorian station, with its vaulted ceilings like a cathedral to steam. We had
some time before the train left, so I told Harry to sit on my suitcase
(without a "Please Look after This Bear" label) while I spent a happy hour
looking at the baroque architecture of the station and accompanying Great
Western Hotel.

We caught the Express to Cardiff, changed there to the Merthyr Tydfil line
(formerly the Brecon and Merthyr Tydfil Junction Railway, and the location of
the first ever rail passenger journey in 1804), and at Merthyr we caught the
bus to the Brecon Beacons National Park. From there it was only five miles to
the Mountains of of Pen y Fan and Corn Du. I say "mountains", you probably
already knew that 3000 feet is considered to be pretty high around these
parts. Hills is more like it.

So it was no real big deal to climb up the mountain, especially as there was a
well-worn track used by tourists, plus I insisted that Harry, being the man
around here, carried my bag. We got to the top just as the sun was setting,
giving us a spectacular view of a red and gold sky. I cupped my hands over my
mouth and yelled. "Mwynwen".

Harry just stared at me. "Why are you swearing, Linda?" Duh. "Harry, I'm not
swearing, I'm calling." "Oh. Oh."

"Linda, who are you calling?" "Mwynwen" "Who?" "The Witch, Mwynwen." Harry
looked around. "There's no-one here. Linda, the sun's just set, it's getting
dark, it's cold, my ribs hurt, I'm hungry ..." "Shut up Harry." "What?"
"Harry, shut your gob. And look, there." I pointed. "Where?" "There, there."
"What am I looking for?" I turned and looked at Harry. "See the bird, just
there?" "Oh yes. Linda, I think we ought to be getting back ..." "Harry, just
watch the birdie."

Silhouetted against the red-gold sky that echoed the setting sun, a black
shape was flying towards us. "Linda." "Harry, close your mouth, you're about
to say something stupid". And then there was a rush of wind as Mwynwen shot
overhead, looped, did an Immelmann Turn right overhead, then a stall turn,
plummeted downwards, broke out of the dive just in time to avoid auguring in
and did an asymmetric bar landing in front of us.

"Hi Linda". "Show-off" I said.

She grinned. "Who's your friend trying to catch flies with his mouth?" "That's
Harry the Horse. We call him that because .." ".. of his face, yes, I can see
that. So what's up, Fluff?" I glared at her. She's not supposed to use that
name. It was bad enough at school, I thought I'd shaken it off by now. "Min,
he's in trouble, he needs help." "Yeah, him and three billion others, what's
his claim to fame?" I shivered, theatrically. Now the sun was down, the golden
sunset part of the past, and the clear sky meant it was getting cold, fast.
"Min, can we talk about this someplace warm?" She grinned. "Back at my pad?" I
nodded. "OK. Has he flown before?" "Yes, I have" "No he hasn't". Harry and I
both spoke at once.

"No, he hasn't" I said firmly. "Sure I have, Linda. Hey, you were with me last
time, at the Sex Olympics do" "Sex Olympics?" asked Mwynwen. "Long story" I
explained. "Harry, trust me, you don't know what you're talking about, you
have never flown. Min, I suggest we leave him here to start with, so he can
see what we're talking about." Mwynwen smiled, and walked towards me. "And no
stunts, OK?" "Sure, Fluff" The words "AND DON'T CALL ME FLUFF" were blown out
of my mouth by the force 12 gale streaming past as we soared into the sky. I
closed my eyes, Min's idea of "no stunts" wasn't quite the same as mine My
inner ear monkey instinct was telling me that I'd just fallen out of the tree
and was about to impact the ground, but it would have been ten times worse
with my eyes open.

A few minutes later, she let go of me, and I hoped that we were on terra
firma. I opened my eyes. It was Gingerbread Cottage. "Fluff, you put the
kettle on, I'll go get Harry." But the time I'd yelled "Don't Call Me .." she
was out of sight.

Part 2

I watched Mwynwen and Linda fly out of sight. It took me several minutes to
get my brain functioning well enough to be able to close my mouth, and then I
told it to think about all this. It took a couple of false starts, but I
cranked up the old Difference Engine and started to look for explanations of
what I'd thought I'd just seen. The most obvious was that this was all a
figment of my imagination, and I was actually lying unconscious after Sharon
had punched my lights out. Well, that's a plausible and very attractive
explanation, because it implies that I'm not insane, but one that had no
payload. I mean, if this was all a dream, then it wouldn't matter what I did
about things, so it's best to assume, in the teeth of sanity, that this is
real. Cogito ergo sum.

OK, assuming this is real, what just happened here. I replayed the movie. You
know, things you saw recently, you have a little loop of movie on your head, a
low resolution MPEG with sound, you can replay it and have another look. So,
she put one arm round Linda's waist, Linda put her arms round her neck, she
leaned back, punched the other arm upwards, and followed it. Was there a rope?
Did she climb up a rope? Maybe there's a kite? A balloon? Then I played back
from a bit earlier, she'd been doing aerobatics, and Linda called her a
show-off. Linda didn't seem too put out by all this, Linda must have seen this
before. Yes, of course she had, that's why Mwynwen was asking me if I'd flown
before. Hang on. I suddenly saw the implication of that. A small detail, but
... if Mwynwen asked that, it meant that she didn't already know the answer,
which means that she can't the only one who can ...

Calm, Harry. Breathe. In. Out. Focus. That's a detail, think about the
important stuff. She called Linda "Fluff". That must be a nickname, and I
didn't know about it, and I thought I was pretty close to her. And from
Linda's reaction, she's none too keen on the name. Those two must go *way*
back. And Linda brought me here and called her, so she expected her to come on
call, so they must be really close. And I'm chasing details again. Concentrate
on the main thing. She was flying. People don't fly. What the fuck's going on
here?

OK, people don't fly, therefore Mwynwen isn't a person. Yes, like that's a
great help, it's just undermining my definition of "person"; she looked
entirely personable to me. And she's an old friend of Linda's, Linda wouldn't
be hanging out with some, with some, with some. Something. Something. What the
fuck is she? Linda said she's a Witch, the Witch of the West, but there's no
such thing as witches, plus they burned them all a couple of hundred years
ago. Did Linda mean that, or was she just being funny? Linda's got a wicked
sense of humour, and she isn't the Wicked Witch, Linda said so. Plus, she
wasn't wearing shoes. Why wasn't she wearing shoes? Oh yes. Because her feet
aren't part of the locomotion.

She punched one arm up and followed it. You can't do that, conservation of
momentum. You can't move without some sort of propulsion, Newton's Second Law,
action and reaction, you can't have one without the other. You can't just rise
up against gravity, General Theory of Relativity. Harry, stop thinking about
why it didn't happen, what about wondering how it did happen? No, wait, no
point. Let's assume there's something I don't know about, and she does, and
that's how she does it. What's the consequence?

The first consequence that hit me was that Linda had said "we leave him here
to start with", which meant that Mwynwen was coming back for me, and I was
going to, going to, going to, oh shit. Oh shit. I mean, I'm as brave as the
next man, meaning not very, and I'm as confident about heights as the next
ape, which means not at all. And she was coming back for me, and then, and
then, oh shit, oh shit. Sharon's knuckles seemed soft and comforting compared
to this. Maybe if I hide, maybe I can get back to the railway station, get
back to London. Maybe if I say I'm really sorry Sharon will forgive and forget
... who am I kidding. That wasn't just anyone she caught me tupping, that was
one the nuns, one of Linda's pals, she'll have told Sharon about the others, oh
shit, oh shit. Come on, Harry, wotcha gonna do?

It wasn't quite dark. It was dusk, twilight. Gloaming. Still some light in the
sky, left over from the spectacular sunset of a short while ago. And,
silhouetted against the darkening sky, I saw an unidentified flying object.
Except that I was pretty sure I could identify it. Too late to run, nowhere to
hide. I stood very still.

There were no aerobatics this time. She just dived down, half-tumbled and
landed on her feet, like she'd jumped down a couple of steps. I shivered.
"Brrr. Chilly out tonight." I said, and shivered some more. "Scared?" she
asked. "Who me? Scared?" "Yes, you. Scared?" "Listen, lady. Why would I be
scared?" "You ready to go, then?" I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry
as the bottom of a Norwegian Blue's cage. "Lady, scared isn't the word." "Call
me Mwynwen. So what is the word?" "Uh. How about terrified, petrified, and in
a state of total funk. It's a wonder I haven't wet myself."

She laughed. "Harry, I think it might be a good idea if you had a quick Jimmy
Riddle before we take off. Then there's at least one thing you don't have to
worry about." Smart girl. I didn't mention the other potential consequence of
me losing control. I moved to the edge of the road, and looked over the
railing that stopped tourists from plunging off the side of the mountain to a
certain splat below. I guess I was displaying a certain bravado by standing so
close to the edge, and I opened up the blanket that Linda had made into a kilt
and pointed Percy at the precipice. Mwynwen casually came and leaned on the
railing to watch. "It isn't just a face like a horse, then" she remarked.
Don't you hate it when someone comes up behind you when you're in full flood?
I turned my head to look at her, she was grinning fit to kill a possum. I gave
it a couple of shakes to clear the bore, and wrapped the kilt back around me
with as much dignity as I could muster. "OK, I'm ready" I lied. She looked at
me. "OK, I'm not ready, but I don't think I ever will be, because the thought
of streaking through the air supported by one of your arms round my waist is
turning my knees to water. So, I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." She
nodded. "Harry, don't *ever* try to lie to me, it doesn't work." She came
closer.

Now I'm not a small guy. I mean, apart from that, I'm no shortie. I'm
five-eleven. She was barefoot, and she was taller than me, a few inches
taller, which doesn't sound like much, but, well, you know, you expect women
to be a bit shorter. And then I thought, hell, this woman can fly, what
difference is a few inches? And then she came closer, really close, and I
started to realise the implications of flying when you can't, uh, fly. How
does it work? I mean, how does she support my weight? I mean, never mind how
does she fly in the first place, let's not get into that just yet, but what
are the mechanics of flying with a partner?

She took one of my hands in hers, and sang "I won't dance." And I, naturally,
replied "Don't ask me." "I won't dance." "Don't ask me, I won't dance, Madame
with you." "My heart won't let my feet do things they should do." "You know
what? You're lovely" And we danced the old Fred and Ginger number from
Roberta. She did the Fred part, I was Ginger. Not that I was very good at it,
but she was, it was like she was floating on air, like Fred did. I guess she
probably was floating, at that. And I wasn't so scared, I mean dancing isn't
really scary, you know what I mean? And what she was really doing, of course,
was getting me to relax and just follow her moves, which is very important in
dancing with a partner, you have to just let them steer you, follow their
lead, trust them.

Then she sang "Only when you're in my arms", and I did the next line "I can
reach up to heaven", and she whispered "Close your eyes", so I did, and I had
my arms round her waist, and she had one arm round my neck, and she leaned
back, and I leaned forward to follow, and she leaned further back, and I
leaned further forward, and then she was falling backwards, and I was falling
on top of her, and one of her legs was between mine, and my whole weight was
on her body, and, well. We didn't hit the ground. It was as simple as that. We
just didn't hit the ground.

So this is what it's like.

It didn't actually feel like flying at all. It felt like we'd fallen to the
ground, her facing upwards, me on top of her, except we weren't on the ground,
and I was beginning to feel the wind in my hair as we gathered speed. I
tobagganed down hills when I was young and foolish; that's pretty much what
this felt like, except I wasn't laying on a tobaggan. She didn't seem to have
any trouble taking my weight, which I guess is not a big surprise, because
women generally don't seem to have any trouble being underneath, and when I
thought that, I suddenly realised the position we were in, and for a moment
things started to happen, but only for a moment, because then it struck me
that the only thing between me and a me-shaped hole in the ground was Mwynwen
and this was not a good time to, uh.

All the comics you read, all the pictures you see, they're completely
different. It's either one arm round the waist, or a cradle carry. I suspect
they do that in order to get within the Comics Code, because kids aren't
supposed to know about you-know-what. But I thought about it, and it's really
obvious that this has to be the position for a woman flying a man through the
sky. Either that or two-up on a broomstick, and Mwynwen didn't seem to be the
broomstick kind of witch.

After a while, I cautiously opened my eyes. The first thing I got was a blast
of cold air into them. I've been a biker, so I was able to guess we were doing
60, maybe 80 miles per hour. Fast, but not dangerously so. And then I thought,
yes, that's on the road, air travel is usually a lot faster, so this is really
very slow. Still I guess we don't have far to go, as the crow flies. Which we
were.

The next thing I saw was the countryside below. There was a half-moon, and I
could see the black of the fields and the blacker of the forests, not very
much to see, really. And over in the distance I could see a line of lights
which must be a road, and that was it. Night time, nothing to see.

And then I did something pretty insane. I started to sing "Heaven... I'm in
heaven" from Top Hat, and she joined in "And my heart beats so that I can
hardly speak", and you might think that singing isn't completely irrational,
even when you're flying across the Brecon Hills in the middle of the night
under a half-moon, compared with the rest of the situation, except that I
should have guessed that Mwynwen wouldn't just sing. She started to dance.

Dancing is just movement, movement to the rhythm of the dance. We were moving
forward, of course, but then she started to yaw to the words, only gently, but
swaying from side to side as we flew forward. "And I seem to find the
happiness I seek" And then she added a roll to the motion, and before long she
was doing the full pitch, roll and yaw; dancing in three dimensions. This, of
course, is the same corkscrew kind of motion that induces the sort of severe
seasickness that makes you afraid you're going die, then sure that you're
going to die, and then afraid that you're not going to die. And the only thing
you want in the whole world, is for it to stop.

Except this wasn't a ship, I wasn't seasick, and I wanted it to last for ever.
But she got to the end of the song "When we're out together dancing cheek to
cheek" and then we flew on in silence.

All too soon, we arrived at our destination. I was wondering how we'd land.
I'd seen her land twice, both times it was like a gymnast coming off the
assymetric bars, half a tumble and she'd land on her feet. But if she did that
with me aboard, it couldn't work; I'd fall off, land on my head, and that's
not a good way to arrive. Then she started to sing again, and I joined in.
"Nothing's impossible, I have found, For when my chin is on the ground, I pick
myself up, dust myself off, Start all over again." It turned out that landing
was just the opposite of take-off. We were still horizontal, as we approached a
small bungalow with lights in the windows, and there was a small grassy area
in the front. The front door was open, and by the light streaming out of it, I
could see Linda waiting for us. When we were nearly grounded, Mwynwen rotated,
pitching up rather in the way that a 747 flares for landing, except she was
going a lot slower and pitching more, and I found my feet on the ground and we
danced, but in the conventional two-dimensional way, "Pick yourself up; dust
yourself off; Start all over again". And then we went into the Fred-and-Ginger
clinch, and she kissed me, and I think that was the exact point that I fell in
love with someone I haven't yet seen on account of it having been dark
throughout, haven't talked with, and all I knew was that she was completely,
totally, utterly impossible.

"Cocoa's ready" said Linda.