somewhere! And there’s no point in pouting, either. Yes, I know I said it was a sexy look but that was 1789. Different times, my love, different times.’
Mother Courage shook her head, ruefully, as she pictured Mother Night up in the attic, her face pinched with irritation as she pushed old suitcases, piles of consecutively numbered magazines and boxes filled with moth eaten clothes to one side. Night had never liked getting her hands dusty, never mind dirty, and especially not to help that little sex pest, Cupid.
‘Well try underneath the pile of umbrellas then! If I could get up the damn ladder you know I’d be up there with you right now. And I’d find the thing in about two minutes flat! What do you mean, you’d like to see me try? Just shift the umbrellas and have a look behind them.’
She wheeled herself to the bottom of the ladder and shouted this last sentence up into the little square hole in the hall ceiling, which was the only entrance to the attic. She knew that Night preferred to stick with non-verbal communication but even now, after over five hundred years, she found telepathy easier if she spoke aloud at the same time. The fact that Night had no such choice was awkward, so she tried not to do it too obviously or too often; sometimes, though, only a bad-tempered bellow would do.
‘Aha! See! I did say that I remembered putting it up there back in the sixties, didn’t I? No, no – the eighteen sixties, dear. When that nice Doctor Hesselius came to visit.’ She spun her wheelchair one hundred and eighty degrees with practiced ease, and shot forward a few feet to allow Night room to get down the ladder. As her partner appeared from the hole, balancing an untidy collection of bric-a-brac on her shoulders, Courage kept a watchful eye on her. When Night wobbled and looked as though she might fall, she waved a hand in the air. The ladder shifted slightly underneath Night’s feet, restoring her balance, while the parcels lifted from her shoulder and slowly floated downwards. Mother Courage might not have the use of her legs, but she could still move things with her mind.
‘Stop that! I can manage!’ snapped Mother Night, irritated as ever by unasked for help. Instantly, Mother Courage’s influence evaporated, and the parcels fell the last few feet to the floor. In compensation for her muteness, the mysterious amulet the two had found all those centuries before had given her both the ability to communicate using her mind, but also the power to bend other’s wills to her own. She tried to use this latter power sparingly and only in necessity, but when she lost her temper a flurry of invective could have unexpected consequences. She reached the ground without further help. Sorry, I didn’t mean that, she ‘said’ to Courage, who smiled her understanding as she lifted the items Night had retrieved and wheeled herself into the sitting room.
The portal was old, and showed every sign of that fact. Courage remembered when they had found it. It had been some time in the 1920s, during an otherwise unproductive investigation. But if the cult of the Bright Young Things had turned out to be largely harmless, a frivolous fraternity of the young, idle and rich, the portal itself was something else. If the creature who controlled it was summoned correctly, it could be used to move the summoner to any period in time and any location on the planet.
Courage let the portal slide off her knees, onto the floor, where it leant against the wall under the window. To look at, it wasn’t the most exiting of objects, she considered. A square of rough wood, three foot on each side and held together by tape at the corners, the only supernatural or arcane element it contained was a crude drawing in its center: a hexagram with a heart at its crown. Courage pushed it with her mind so that it sat more securely against the wall, then wheeled herself back, the better to allow Night to have a look.
What was it that poor girl said she did to make this work? Night asked.
‘Exactly? Oh, I’m not sure I can remember exactly. Something about calling on Astoroth or Asgarth or something of that nature.’
Astoroth, I think. Yes, definitely Astoroth. Or maybe Asmaran. Damn!
Mother Courage closed her eyes.
…It had been a cold winter’s day, about eight o’clock in the morning. She remembered the frost on the ground making the wheels of her chair slip, and the bare branches of the trees against the dawn skyline. Night’s breath had come in clouds of white, billowing over her head, as she pushed the chair up to the door of the house.
The butler who responded to her hearty knock made no attempt to hide his displeasure at the two plainly dressed old ladies cluttering up his doorstep, but Night had found heaving a wheelchair up the long, steep driveway more work than she cared for, and was in no mood for snobby servants. She flicked her mind at the man and he stepped back and bowed his head slightly. ‘Please do come in, ladies,’ he said, obsequiously. ‘Miss Alexandra is in the drawing room with the Master.’
The Master must have heard that, and known who had come to visit. Before they reached the room, they heard the snick of a lock being forced into place and the unmistakable sound of an invocation beginning. ‘Open,’ Courage commanded, and the lock shot back, followed by the twin doors, which slammed hard into the walls behind them. She’d had a lot of trouble getting doors to swing open gracefully in those days - and besides, she found virgin sacrifice a personal affront.
Night was already through and into the room, however. Courage imagined that they heard her shout stop! right across the city, but even so, it failed to stop the magician from turning the innocent girl into a living weapon. As he attempted to force open a window, she spun in the air, a few feet from the ground, enclosed in a sparkling mist, from which tiny winged things emerged and launched themselves at the two women. Courage felt Night grab the handles of her chair and push her forward at speed, batting the things from the air as they came within range. With all the force of her will she grabbed a nearby vase and launched it at the girl. Instantly, she fell to the floor, the mist fading to nothing along with the flying things. Night moved towards her unmoving form, but the magician was quicker, pushing the old woman to one side. In the clearing air, the portal was exposed on the wall, the hexagram pulsing redly as though the daubs of paint were blood in living veins. ‘Help me, Astoroth!’ the man shouted just as Mother Night slammed a chair across her back, knocking him out cold...
‘Astoroth.’ Courage opened her eyes as she spoke. Mother Night smiled her appreciation. Well done, dear heart. Before you set the portal up, though, I think we might need some assistance. Whatever that ludicrous imp Cupid tried to warn us about, and whoever these Jisa are, I suspect we may have need of a certain amount of brawn.
‘Theo?’
Unreachable, I believe. As is Dogberry, before you ask. Nobody’s seen that old reprobate since the twenties.
‘What about Señor 105? He has responsibilities these days but he’s always proven willing in the past.’
Night nodded her agreement. As Courage pulled down a book on ancient cultures, she heard the familiar voice in her head. Señor 105? Can you hear me?
Señor 105’s fingers were blue with cold and sent shooting pains up into his arms every time he touched anything. He blew on them and clenched and unclenched his hands in an effort to restore some circulation. He suspected he had little time to waste.
‘Move! Move!’
The voice was guttural and rough, the Spanish approximate at best, and with an accent 105 couldn’t place. He sat, unmoving, as a dirty red hand reached past him and effortlessly turned the wheel forty-five degrees then flipped the heavy metal up, exposing a ladder leading down into the Earth.
‘I’m obliged,’ he said, turning slowly round. He barely had time to register cold eyes before the same red hand smashed into the side of his head and sent him sprawling in the snow.
He was back on his feet and facing his attacker before that individual had time to press home his advantage. He moved to one side to get a better look at his opponent as the wind abated and the snow died down momentarily.
The figure before him was tall, taller than his own six fe
et by at least a head. It wore a suit similar to 105’s, but where his was well tailored and fitting, the demon’s was torn and filthy, and hung loose on its frame. Its skin was a scaly and coloured a bright, malignant red. Two small horns sprouted from the top of its head and, as it circled to face him again, he had a brief glimpse of a forked tail. In one hand it held a leash, connected to a massive black dog, teeth bared, with saliva dripping from its mouth, causing the snow to dissolve with a hiss.
There was little chance that he could hold his own for long against Pitch, 105 knew. The question was not if he would survive, but if any purpose would be served by risking almost certain death. He could retreat now and regroup at home, speak to the Mothers if nothing else, find out if Cupid could remember anything new. There was no shame in living on to fight another day, and only a fool would think otherwise. But if he fled now, he would be no closer to locating Nick, and with his only real lead gone. He doubted very much that the demon would leave the ladder exposed; he would lock the wheel again and disappear, taking all hope of 105 rescuing his friend with him. He continued to circle while he considered how best to turn the situation to his advantage.
Pitch
Senor 105 and the Secret Santa Page 6