by Angie Sage
“Stop … playing … with … my … cat,” she hissed furiously.
The pain in Simon’s hand was jangling his head and he forgot how important it was to be polite to a Witch Mother. At all times. He said a very rude word and added, “… you and your filthy cat.”
A sharp intake of breath came from everyone in the kitchen and Simon stammered, “I—I’m sorry.”
“You will be.” The Witch Mother glared at him. She put her hands around the cat’s sticky-out ribs and hissed. “Teeth Release!” The cat let go and Simon grabbed his hand back. White-faced, he held it tightly while drips of blood dropped onto his boots.
The Witch Mother smiled. “Blood,” she hissed. “Give!”
“Uh?” Simon felt faint. He hated the sight of blood.
“Give it. Then I might, just might overlook your attack on poor little Tiddles.”
Simon began to come out of his daze. He realized what the Witch Mother wanted. He held his hand up and watched the steady drip of blood from the cat’s jagged tear drip into the Witch Mother’s cupped hands. When there was a small pool, she rubbed her hands together and went back to the table, elated. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of human blood before. Now the Clothing Bones was sure to last long enough to get DomDaniel past the end of the street and safely out of sight. She didn’t want to be walking by a resentful pile of bones every day.
“Now we shall begin,” said the Witch Mother happily. “With the blood of a Cowan, it will go well.”
Sucking his injured hand, Simon watched. Once again the chill descended and this time no cat stopped it. The circle began to chant in high, squeaky witch voices and move slowly around the table. DomDaniel’s head followed them, swiveling complete circles in the way that Simon found so chilling. Around and around it turned, eyes fixed always on the Witch Mother. The witches’ singing grew higher and fainter as they increased their speed until it sounded like the distant trilling of birds. Faster and faster they went, until Simon could no longer make out who was who, and all he could see was a faint blur buzzing around DomDaniel’s head. By now the head had—wisely, Simon thought—stopped following the witches and was sitting on top of its black cloak with its eyes closed and its lips reposed in a smug little smile.
And then it happened. There was a flash of brilliant, bloodred light and a loud craaack. Suddenly, standing on the table, his bones fully Clothed, was DomDaniel. A little unsteady, it is true, and fatter than Simon had expected—but he looked as human as anyone in that room.
The witch circle slowed until each witch was once again visible and the chill in the room was replaced by the old warm fugginess overlaid by a lingering smell of burnt pumpkin. The Witch Mother regarded her success—who was now nervously trying to work out how to get down from the table without upsetting his Clothed Bones—with excitement. The Darke Toad was as good as hers.
6
GOING OUT
DomDaniel looked down fretfully at his large, rounded stomach. “Pamela, I was never this fat.”
“Yes, you were,” the Witch Mother told him. “In fact, if you ask me, I have erred on the thin side.”
“And look at the state of these clothes—they’re disgusting.” DomDaniel inspected his tunic. “There’s dried egg all down the front.”
Simon was surprised how curt the Witch Mother was with DomDaniel. “Oh, stop moaning, Dommie. That’s how I remember you, and that’s the way you are now.”
DomDaniel sighed loudly. “I suppose it will have to do. Help me down, Pamela, will you?” Supported by the Witch Mother, DomDaniel gingerly stepped down from the table.
“Right,” said the Witch Mother, “time to go home. I’ll see you to the door and you can hand over the toad.”
“I need a little rest first,” DomDaniel said.
“What—here?” the Witch Mother said unenthusiastically.
“If it were anywhere else, I would have to get up and go there, wouldn’t I? Then it wouldn’t be a rest, would it?” DomDaniel said snappily as he lowered himself onto the lumpy sofa with a sigh of relief. The newly Clothed Wizard looked suspiciously at the Witch Mother. She was up to something, he was sure. “And then, when I have had my rest,” he said, “I shall go for a little test drive.”
“A test drive?” asked the Witch Mother. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I want to check that everything works properly, Pamela. And then, if it doesn’t, you’ll be able to fix it.” DomDaniel glared at her. “Won’t you?”
“But what about the toad?”
“You’ll get your toad. A bargain is a bargain,” said DomDaniel. “But I won’t be rushed, Pamela. I am going to sit here and get used to my new Clothes; then we shall take a little walk around the Port. To make sure that nothing falls off.”
Veronica and Daphne were overtaken by a fit of giggles but Linda was made of sterner stuff. A walk with DomDaniel presented the opportunity she had been looking for.
“Now that we shall have a Darke Toad,” Linda said to the Witch Mother, “we will need a servant to answer the door.”
“Ooh, yes,” Veronica chimed in. “A servant. That would be fun. But one that lasts, not like all the other ones.”
“They never last, Veronica,” said the Witch Mother. “That’s the trouble. You just can’t get the staff nowadays.”
“Maybe if we fed them,” said Daphne, “they would last a bit longer.”
“Feed them!” The Witch Mother sounded shocked. “Don’t be ridiculous, Daphne.”
But Linda wanted a servant. And what Linda wanted, Linda got—especially now, after Dorinda’s elephant ears.
Linda had it all worked out. “We’re not dragging some idiot Port girl off the streets this time; we need a professional who is used to a tough life. I reckon if we feed one just a bit—we don’t have to give it much—then we’ll get at least six months’ use before it wears out.”
The Witch Mother looked impressed. She had never had a servant long enough to wear one out. “That’s a good idea, Linda. But what kind of professional? Not a nasty little Wizard Apprentice, I hope.”
Linda laughed. “No, something much better than that. A ship’s rat!”
“A rat?” The Witch Mother sounded scornful. “We’ve got plenty of those living in this rubbish.” She kicked at the floor and sent flying a shower of liquified carrots. As if on cue, a rat fled for cover.
Linda sighed. “Not a real rat, Witch Mother. It’s what they call those kids who work on the ships doing all the nasty jobs that no one else wants to do. They’re tough little things. One of those would last for ages.”
The witches fell silent. Simon could tell that the suggestion was not popular.
“But Linda,” Daphne ventured, “those rat kids live on ships. And ships live on salt water. And, well, you know what happens to us in …” Daphne trailed off. It was considered bad luck to mention that Darke Witches had a tendency to dissolve in salt water (which is why you will never see a Darke witch cry).
“I know exactly what happens to us, Daphne, thank you,” said Linda. “But we shall not need to go near any of that saltwater stuff. Because we will get the kid to come to us.”
“How?” asked Daphne.
“Woodworm,” said Linda.
Daphne went pale. She could tell that Linda had something nasty planned.
Linda turned to the Witch Mother. “Tell Daphne to go get her giant woodworms, please, Witch Mother.”
“Go get your giant woodworms, Daphne,” the Witch Mother said obediently.
Daphne looked horrified. “Why?”
“Why?” the Witch Mother asked Linda.
“Because I say so,” said Linda.
“Because she says so,” said the Witch Mother.
“B-but …” Daphne spluttered.
“Unless, Daphne,” Linda snarled, “you, too, would like a pair of elephant ears. So that you and Dorinda could have little elephant-ear styling sessions together.”
The Witch Mother cackled loudly and Veronica d
utifully joined in.
Daphne gulped. “How many woodworms would you like, Linda?”
Linda smiled, her yellowing teeth glinting in the light from the stove. “All of them.”
Daphne looked horrified. “All of them?”
“You heard. Get them!”
Daphne fled. She clattered up a ladder and disappeared through a hole in the kitchen ceiling.
Simon and DomDaniel sat awkwardly on the sofa together, watching the preparations for going out. Drowsy in the warm fug of the kitchen, Simon fell asleep and was woken half an hour later by the nasty, squashy sensation of DomDaniel’s hand squeezing his shoulder.
“Come on, Heap,” his Master said. “Time for my test drive.”
Simon got blearily to his feet and very nearly fell over the wheelbarrow.
“Mind my woodworms!” yelled Daphne.
“Oh. Sorry,” Simon mumbled.
Daphne glared at him. “You will be, if anything happens to them.”
A grating laugh came from Linda. “Get used to it, Daphne. A lot is going to happen to those boring—ha ha, boring, get it?—little biters.”
Excited now by the prospect of a servant and the Darke Toad—and much encouraged that the Clothed Bones were still Clothed—the Witch Mother smiled, her makeup cracking like a dried-up riverbed. “Ah, Dommie,” she said. “Off out on the town, eh? Just like the old times.”
DomDaniel sighed. The old times with the Witch Mother had been nothing but trouble. “Indeed, Pamela,” he murmured.
“Oh, you know you can call me Pammie, Dommie.”
DomDaniel grimaced and Simon suppressed a smile—clearly that was a step too far.
“Off we go!” The Witch Mother threw open the kitchen door and offered her arm to DomDaniel, who obediently took it and led her out. A quick scuffle between Linda and Veronica ensued over who should go next. It was settled by a nasty kick to the shins that left Veronica hobbling down the corridor in Linda’s wake.
Simon followed Daphne and her wheelbarrow, in which lay a large black metal box containing, he guessed, the woodworms. The box was covered in tiny writing, which Simon stared at, trying to decipher.
“Nosy, aren’t you?” said Daphne.
Simon sprang back. “Sorry,” he said. “I mean, about your woodworms.”
Daphne immediately thawed. No one had ever been nice about her woodworms before. “They’re my friends,” she said. “I know every single one of them. Look, I’ve written all their names on the box.”
Trying to be friendly, Simon asked, “Gosh. How do you think up so many names?”
Daphne looked indignant. “I don’t think them up. They tell me what their names are. Stupid.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course they do.”
Daphne sighed. “They are all in there except for Louise, Paulie, Bernina and Freddo, who are stuck on the spikes of the Witch Mother’s shoes. Oh, and Dukey, who died last night. Do you want to see him?”
“Oh! Well, no, thanks, I—”
But Daphne was not listening. From her pocket she pulled out a surprisingly large—and clearly dead, judging by its stiffness and the amount of pocket fluff stuck to it—segmented fat brown worm with stumpy legs. “He was one of my favorites,” Daphne said sadly. “I used to tell him bedtime stories, and he had his own little house and everything. But he got ill last week after I fed him some cat food. You don’t think I killed him, do you?”
Simon thought that Daphne probably had, but he knew better than to say so. “No, of course not,” he said.
Daphne dropped the ex-Dukey back into her pocket, wiped her arm across her eyes and sniffed. “It was probably Linda. Nasty cow.” With that, the witch grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled out of the kitchen.
Simon followed the procession down the dark corridor toward the front door. Suddenly everyone came to a halt. A door opened and Dorinda came out, a huge towel wrapped precariously around her head.
“Oh, hello, Dorinda,” the Witch Mother said, as though nothing to do with elephant ears had ever happened. “We’re going out. You coming?”
Dorinda gingerly patted her towel and gave a small, brittle smile. “Oh, not tonight, thank you, Witch Mother. I’ve just washed my hair.” And she wandered back into the shadows.
The witches staggered down the corridor and fell out of the front door, screaming with laughter.
From its perch on the doorknocker, the Darke Toad watched its Master go. It waited its statutory Listening Time—five minutes and a little bit more—then it hopped down and set off along the street, following its Master as a Darke Toad must.
7
ALICE AT THE WINDOW
It was two in the morning, and a small, high window on the ground floor of the Customs House still showed a light. Alice Nettles, Chief Customs Officer to the Port, believed in doing her fair share of the late shift, but she was beginning to wish she weren’t quite so evenhanded. A large shipment of brown Wellington boots had come in on the late tide and a dispute had arisen about the classification of the boots (work or domestic use) and consequently which rate of duty applied to them. Alice had settled the argument by impounding the lot, and some half an hour ago had sat down to write her report. It was tedious but it had to be done—tomorrow was another busy day.
Alice was an imposing, businesslike woman, with gray hair and more often than not a stern expression, which she had acquired from her time working as a judge at the Castle. But tonight she looked tired and a little lonely as she sat in the chilly little office with her deep blue Customs Officer robes wrapped around her. She was, to her relief, reaching the conclusion of her report: … inclusion of child-size footwear indicates domestic destination, therefore shipment impounded until the higher rate of duty paid … when she heard yet another disturbance outside.
It had been a noisy night in the Port. All Hallows’ Eve—or Hallowseeth, as it was known—was a festival that was ignored in the Castle but enthusiastically celebrated in the Port. It had kicked off just after midnight, and since then the revelers had done nothing but make a nuisance of themselves, thought Alice. And would continue to do so until dawn. Alice sighed. She wouldn’t mind, but the Customs House had important guests that night in the form of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard and her new Apprentice. Alice dragged her chair over to the window, stood on it and looked out to see what kind of trouble was happening now.
To Alice’s surprise, some foolish people had been brave enough to dress up as the Port Witch Coven. They were obviously performing some kind of comedy routine centered around a wheelbarrow that contained a large box over which they were fighting. Alice tutted under her breath. She hoped the revelers knew what they were doing—it was well known that the Port Witch Coven did not take kindly to being made fun of. Alice watched the performance, which was turning a little violent now as one of the characters—she wasn’t sure which witch he or she was meant to be—had hurled themselves across the box and was kicking another, much taller witch. Alice winced as the taller witch aimed a nasty kick in return that sent the smaller witch sprawling onto the ground. The trouble with Hallowseeth, she thought, was it always got out of hand. It was at times like this that she missed the peace and quiet of the Castle.
Alice was just wondering if she ought to call the Harbor Master for help to break up the fight when she saw something very peculiar. Someone was hanging around the witches dressed as DomDaniel. That, thought Alice, was very rash. (Alice shared the Port Hallowseeth superstition that dressing as a particularly evil human called up bad things for the night.)
Alice watched the witch theater continue. Things had calmed down a little, and they had now opened the box. Three of them were standing around it while the small, chubby witch lay on the ground pretending to cry. Alice’s view began to get obscured by the growing crowd of costumed people who were gathering to watch the show—but not before she saw the three witch figures embark on what looked like a very good imitation of a typical witchy spell, involving a lot of arm waving and jerky dancin
g around the box.
A party of very tall Grula-Grulas now moved in front of Alice’s line of sight and the show was lost to view. But the crowd of ghouls, black fairies, Chimeras, mummies and a large amount of Gragull (it was easy to look good in a blood-sucking Gragull costume) continued cheering and shouting encouragement, and the noise filled the little office. Alice was about to get down from the stool and find some earplugs when she saw the crowd part to allow the DomDaniel figure through—no one wanted to touch him. Alice shivered. Whoever had been stupid enough to dress up like that had done a good job; it was just how she remembered him. The figure was now out of the crowd and heading toward the Customs House. Alice realized that her lighted window must be shining out like a beacon; she suddenly felt very exposed and fought a desire to duck down and hide.
“Don’t be silly, Alice,” she muttered to herself. “It’s not really him.”
Alice had met DomDaniel in his time as ExtraOrdinary Wizard, and his parting words still invaded her nightmares: “I will see you again, Miss Nettles. Unfortunately for you. Ha ha.” But Alice was determined to tough it out—she was not going to be scared by a Hallowseeth reveler. She watched the figure walk carefully across the cobbles, bright with rain from the recent downpour; she saw a gust of wind take his cloak and wrap it around him; she saw the light flashing from his rings—in particular, the creepy ring with two evil green faces that he always wore on his left thumb; she saw his ringed hand reach up to keep hold of his tall stovepipe hat and she saw his sweaty, excited face shining in the glow of the harborside torches. And when he stopped right beneath the window and his dark green eyes stared straight into hers, Alice went cold.
“It’s him,” she whispered in horror. “Sheesh. It’s the real thing!” Alice leaped off the stool, hurried over to her desk and blew out the candle. Then she collapsed into her chair, shocked.
Alice sat in the dark, trembling. “But how could it be DomDaniel?” she muttered to herself. “He’s dead.” Fighting down her panic, she began to think things through.