Reluctantly, Jack found himself entering the Wind Witch’s den. He had to stoop to pass through the many shrouds that hung from the ceiling like ancient cobwebs. The room stank of sulphur and charred hair. A couple of candles flickered in the gloom and a stone hearth smouldered red with the remains of a fire. Dried herbs, wrapped in bundles, were scattered on the floor. From tiny wooden cages, stacked along the rear wall, Jack heard scurrying and high-pitched squeaks and saw black shapes twitching in the darkness. In the centre of the room was a rough wooden table upon which a bowl, a small pile of animal bones and a dagger lay. But there was no sign of the Wind Witch.

Jack hesitated, wondering if he should call out. In truth, being wary of such magical practices, he was glad to have missed the witch. But, as he turned to leave, a heap of rags burst into life.

‘Do not fear going forward; fear only to stand still,’ croaked the old crone’s voice.

‘I think … I’ve changed my mind,’ excused Jack, backing out of the doorway.

‘To come so far and turn at the last step is a journey wasted,’ said the Wind Witch. ‘If you want to know the road ahead, Jack-kun, you must ask those coming back.’

Hearing his name, Jack faltered mid-stride. He had assumed that this Wind Witch simply weaved fortunes that people wanted to hear. Yet this old crone seemed to promise much more than that.

‘Sit!’ she demanded, beckoning him impatiently with a bony finger.

Jack warily took his place opposite the Wind Witch. He couldn’t make out her features beneath the cowl of rags, but could smell her fetid breath and see the glint of her devil-black eyes.

‘Fortune favours the fair,’ said the witch, studying his features.

Jack’s skin crawled as her eyes raked over his face. ‘I don’t have the means to pay you,’ he admitted.

The Wind Witch clicked her tongue in annoyance. Then her hand shot out and seized him by the hair. Before he could pull away, she’d hacked off several locks with the dagger.

‘The mane of a golden child will be payment enough,’ she said, rubbing the locks between her skeletal fingers and sniffing them appreciatively.

Pocketing the hair in the sleeve of her raggedy clothes, she kept a few strands back and placed them on the table. Then the witch snapped some twigs into the bowl and, using the embers of the fire, set the tinder alight. She ground down herbs and sprinkled them over the flames, sending potent wafts of smoke into the air. With the dagger, she shaved off several pieces of bone into the bowl, then spat on the mix, her spittle sizzling in the fire.

‘Your hand,’ she instructed, without looking up.