by B G Denvil
There was too much to think about. The swimming buzz gyrating within her head now began to thump and pound. Rosie shut her eyes as the headache grew worse. Lights spangled both inside her closed eyes and outside her head. She tried to summon the spell which would at least clothe her back in her usual smock, and even that failed when she found it was on back to front. So she tried to call Oswald, and then realised he was still pinned to the back of the tunic. Then she silently called to the silver spoon and toadstool, asking them to hide somehow within the wide flax droop of her sleeves. She could not be sure this would work, but was delighted to feel the sudden cold angles of something close to her arms.
With both hands clasped to her head, she scrambled from the bed and bent towards her father.
“Please,” she begged, “you have to tell me a little more. Please explain something. Number one, am I adopted? Number two, who wants to kill me? Number three, what have I done?”
Standing, and reaching out to Rosie to help her also stand, Alfred gulped, tottered and croaked, “Adopted? Yes. In a way. Who? I cannot tell you, my sweet. And you haven’t done anything. Nothing at all. You’re a little angel, and so I told them. But now we have to hurry.”
He aimed for the open window, and Rosie followed but squeaked, “Papa, I can’t fly either.”
“We’ll jump,” he said, and took her hand.
It had been a day of sunshine, but the night was cold. A wind whistled through the trees, and Rosie remembered Whistle’s horrible death and wondered if that was exactly what she now escaped. In a swirl of creamy star spun glitter, the heavens were at peace, but she felt that the world was ending.
They stood together on the narrow window sill, heads bent in order to get through without absolute decapitation. She was so terrified, she could hardly breathe, and Alfred was white-faced with his hair in a knotted cap of tangles.
“One. Two. Three and–” muttered Rosie.
The jump from her window one storey up had jolted her entire body, and her knees felt almost broken, while her headache pounded like a huge drum in her head. Fear made her sick. She doubled over, but Alfred grabbed at her again. “No one saw us,” he said hopefully. “Now we run.”
“Run where?”
“There’s a hollow tree just a little way off.”
They ran across the two sad graves, and Rosie noticed her father was wearing large brown boots with mud on the soles and a bedraggled old cord to lace them up. She heaved again, but kept running.
With neither a cloak nor a blanket to warm her, she was freezing at first, but the rush had done a better job than a cloak, and now she was hot, but could hardly breathe. They passed the tree where Alfred’s house had been built and raced beneath where the crows nested, babies now fast asleep nestled beneath their mothers’ wings. Kettle Lane meandered off towards the hills beyond, but Alfred did not follow the path and headed towards a great yew tree rising in its strangled twists from an enormous girth into an equally great height. Although at first it looked dead, and the trunk was bent, sufficiently gnarled to be many hundreds of years in age, sprigs of fluttering threads of leaf grew from several of the branches. Within the main trunk and high behind the leafy clusters was a wide uneven hollow, big enough for half of Alfred’s overhead cottage.
“There,” he said.
“I’ve got to hide in a dead tree?” Now her heartbeat was louder than her words, and the ramming thunder in her head was louder still. “Must I climb all the way up there? I can’t fly. Not unless I hold a hand. And even you couldn’t fly that high, Papa.”
“I’m not your father,” he replied. “Although I wish I was. But don’t you know any spells to get you up there?”
She shook her head and wished she hadn’t since it was screaming at her. She wanted to be sick. “I don’t know proper spells. I’m only a fifty. And I know you’re only a twenty, but you’re older, and you’ve learned more than me. And I think I’m going to die. Won’t you please explain a little more? Just a little bit? What makes you think I’m next on the list?”
“Because it’s almost happened,” He said. “Hurry now. You have to go.”
“Oh, come on,” said a small rough voice behind her. “I’ll help.”
She wondered who on earth it was, and so did Alfred. Then she realised. “It’s Oswald. He’s – well, I think Whistle sent him to me.” She paused, took a deep breath and asked, “Oswald, can you help me fly up to that hole in the tree?”
“Naturally,” said the voice.
Immediately Rosie found herself in the air. She looked down frantically, waved goodbye to Alfred and promptly found herself sitting upright in a large hollow, lined with dry moss, a few old dried leaves and a large sleeping owl cuddled up tight, head buried in its neck feathers as it slept with an occasional humph.
She sank back, didn’t want to be sick all over the owl, even though it certainly wasn’t Cabbage, and tried desperately to sooth her headache. Finding the space unexpectantly comfortable, Rosie explored. The base was thickly carpeted in leaf and dry moss, creepers and owl feathers. This kept it warm. It was, she decided, like a small wooden cave and not so small at that. She couldn’t stand up, but she could lie down if she curled her legs. Indeed, the owl was a very cosy comforter. She simply hoped, as the nest’s presumed owner, it would not turf her out once it woke. Already night, and she reminded herself that owls woke and went hunting at night. This one, however, was fast asleep.
With a thousand thoughts in turmoil still spinning in her head, Rosie found sleep impossible, so she twisted her tunic around, mumbled good morning to Oswald with a special thank you for the flight up the tree and pulled out the silver spoon and toadstool. Pressing against the smooth wooden wall at her back, Rosie begged for explanations.
“Am I in danger? Was my father right?”
“He’s not your father,” sniffed the toadstool.
“Danger, yes,” the spoon interrupted. “Imminent? Perhaps. Good idea to hide? Yes indeed.”
“So I have to stay here?” It was a terrifying thought.
“Well,” said Oswald. “Perhaps not for the rest of your life. Just a few days.”
“How do I eat or drink?”
“As a giver of considerable importance,” said the spoon with a click of the tongue it didn’t actually have, “I shall supply all meals. Being an expert chef, you will eat better here than back in The Rookery.”
She was thinking of her mother’s magical failures at cooking, when another thought occurred to her. “So,” Rosie asked timidly, “is my mother really my mother?”
“Of course not,” replied Oswald. “Bad tempered old crow. Nothing like you. And your father – who isn’t your father – already informed you about being adopted.”
Rosie sank down, confused. “She’s just not the type of person I’d expect to adopt a baby. What would she want a baby for? Or was it my father’s choice? And who am I? Another witch’s baby? Or the child of ordinary humans?”
“Questions, questions, too many questions,” objected the toadstool. “I’m going to sleep.”
“We need the silver cup,” sighed the spoon. “We really don’t operate very well unless the three of us come together.”
“I never found it,” Rosie shook her head. “I searched and searched, but even my mother didn’t seem to have it when I looked.”
“Not your mother,” Oswald reminded her.
But the fear and the confusion, and the thought of living in a tree for weeks were all too much for Rosie, and she promptly burst into tears.
Woken by sobs, the owl fluffed up its wings, looked around and was so startled by what it saw that it jerked wildly and hit its head on the roof of the tree-cave.
“Oh dear, by all the lilac bushes in Wiltshire,” it said in a horrified rush, “I’ve been invaded by aliens.”
Rosie stopped crying and apologised. “I mean no harm,” she said at once. “But I had to hide. Do you mind? I’ve got nowhere else to go, but I promise I won’t stay too long.”
The owl twitched its ears, which were rather long and stuck up from its head in two little dark twists. His feathers, a mottled brown, white and black, were all sitting up on the defensive, and the huge white feathered circles around his staring eyes, seemed a little manic.
“Bother.” Then he settled again, deciding there was no instant danger and added gently, “You got anything to eat?”
Rosie turned to the spoon. “Have we?”
“The menu is vast,” answered the spoon. “What would you like? Dead rats? Live mice? fish? Tadpoles? Frogs? Bread and cheese? Come on, make a decision.”
Eyeing the owl sideways, Rosie muttered, “Fish and dead rats, but not real ones. They just have to taste real. And I’d love some bread and cheese.”
The spoon rose and dipped, with all items falling from its scoop. Rosie grabbed the bread and cheese before the owl could get it, while the owl then gobbled everything else. A rat’s tail was dangling from his beak when he stared at Rosie with those huge eyes, and said, “I’m pleased to meet you. I presume you’re a witch. I’m Dodger.”
“I’m Rosie,” Rosie said, mouth full. “Don’t you go out hunting at night?”
“Not if I can help it,” Dodger said. “It’s shockingly cold. I see no reason to suffer when it’s nice and warm in here. I must say you seem to have an exceptionally useful spoon.”
“It would be even more useful,” Rosie sighed, “if I could find the missing silver cup.”
A thin draught of cold wind had sneaked its way into the yew nest, and both Rosie and Dodger snuggled down, inching closer and closer together for extra warmth. Eventually, as the idea of sleep became more and more attractive, they became positively entangled, and with feathers tickling her nose, Rosie slept with Dodger close beside her.
She had not expected to sleep again, for the confusion and fear felt too great. Yet she sank into an almost immediate doze, for the warmth and protective comfort of the owl brought such peaceful ease, almost like a whispered promise.
It was much later when both Rosie and Dodger woke. Dodger rubbed his head against Rosie’s and nibbled at her eyebrow. “Breakfast?” he suggested.
Obediently the spoon also woke, and within moments, both Rosie and the owl were sitting together cheerfully eating scrambled egg on toast with bacon on the side and a cup of orange juice. Dodger turned his beak up at the orange juice, so Rosie drank both cups.
Sixteen
That same morning, although a little earlier, Peg and Edna met on the landing outside their two doors and greeted each other warmly.
“I must admit,” added Peg in a conspiratorial mumble, “I have now decided you know a good deal more than you’ve admitted so far, my dear. But you are most certainly intending to help. There’s no shadows leaking through.”
“Quite right, my dear,” smiled Edna. “We are beginning to understand each other very well. I came here for a very special purpose.”
Although Peg’s hair was a murky grey turning thin white, and she was very small and a little hunched, Edna, once she removed her richly feathered hat of many colours, had bright red hair which hugged her face affectionately. Tall and slim, she appeared much younger than her probable age of more than two hundred, and possibly a lot more. But although the two women were quite different in size and appearance, they were growing inseparable.
Twizzle, hopping from one foot to another, was sitting on Edna’s head. Edna did not appear to have noticed, but her bright scarlet hair contrasted neatly with Twizzle’s pure white feathers.
“I shall flit down,” Peg said, “and see if Rosie is up yet. No doubt she’s already making trips to the well. Those buckets must be extremely heavy. Never mind. Soon she’ll be able to fetch water by magic.”
“And get someone else to do it anyway,” Edna nodded.
This, however, was not unknown to Peg now, as she had spent many hours talking with Edna while Twizzle had become bored and sat on the back of the chair muttering, “Hiya, mate, give us a cold beer.” So Peg shrugged and flew down the stairs to knock on Rosie’s door.
After four knocks with no answer, Peg decided she must already be up working, but just in case, she pushed the door open and peeped inside. She promptly gasped, turned in a flurry and called Edna.
The room was almost entirely upside down. The bed was now attached to the ceiling, and all its covers had fallen off onto the floor with the mattress hanging on by just a few feathers. The little table was stuck to one of the side walls, its legs sticking out, and the small items it had supported were now also on the rug below. One rug was held down since the bed covers had fallen on it, the other rug was flapping about trying desperately to find its proper place. Objects such as candles and Rosie’s spare clothes lay in a heap in one corner, and the few papers which Rosie had managed to get from Whistle’s collection were no longer where she had hidden them beneath her pillows.
Peg stared, and Edna stood beside her, staring over her shoulder. “Disaster,” said Edna in fury. “We have to find the girl as quickly as possible.” She clasped both hands to her forehead, attempting to magically decipher Rosie’s whereabouts. Peg took the more practical choice, so marched down to the ground floor and started to shout.
“Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. Where are you Rosie?
It was, however, Alice who came from the kitchen. “Yes indeed,” she said. “Where is the girl? I have no beds made, no water collected, and no one to help serve breakfast.
Peg certainly didn’t offer. “I assume you don’t know,” she said, “that your daughter’s bedchamber has been turned into a madman’s chaos. It has been searched and left in a terrible state. And meanwhile Rosie is nowhere to be found.”
“No,” Alice flung her head back and threw both arms in the air. She shrieked, “Don’t tell me that my own beloved daughter has been killed as well?”
Montague and Emmeline had both jumped up from the dining table where they had been sitting waiting for breakfast.
“Who’s Rosie?” demanded Montague.
“That dear little girl,” moaned Emmeline. “I consider her one of our nicest residents.”
“Which is exactly what she is,” said Peg. “We have to find her. It could be urgent. It’s not as if she might just have gone for a walk or visit the crows or the bats. With her room left in such a state, something is desperately wrong.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Montague. “Not another nasty wretched murder?”
Edna straightened her shoulders and glared at everyone. “If that girl is found dead like the others,” she said, “I shall burn this whole house down.”
With equal anger, Alice strode forwards, her hands on her hips. “Don’t you threaten my property, madam. Rosie may be my daughter, but I am the householder here, and since I am a personal friend of the local sheriff, I will have you arrested on suspicion of murder.”
“I wasn’t even here when you had the first one,” Edam said, looking suitably autocratic.
Having trudged down the stairs on foot, being another resident incapable of flight, Boris Barnacle looked rather frightened. “Another death? Oh no, I hope not. Not the pretty little maid?”
“Rosie is not a maid,” Peg now objected. “She’s the owner’s daughter. Just sit down and keep out of the way.”
Boris nodded. “Woofy woof,” he said without emphasis. “I always do as I’m told. Plumpetty Plod.”
“Is the man mad?” whispered Edna.
“Who cares,” Peg said loudly. “I’m off to find Rosie.”
Alice did not seem too worried. “The girl’s useless at the best of times. I expect she’s up playing with Cabbage, or she’s gone for a walk to the village.”
“Not this early,” Edna said, and she and Peg hurried from the kitchen out the back where the two sad graves lay in the rising sunshine. The grass was quickly growing over the two slight mounds, and Whistle’s little hillock already sprouted a daisy.
On one side of The Rookery was the well, and on the other side a row of three privies
. The front gazed out onto Kettle Lane. At first, Peg ran one way and almost fell into the well, whereas Edna ran the other way but turned back because of the smell.
Meanwhile, discussing the advantages of magic, Rosie and Dodger were becoming the best of friends. Dodger was particularly interested to hear all about Cabbage. “And she’s a she?” he asked. “I’m a he. Hes and shes usually get along. I’d like to meet your Cabbage.”
Rosie thought Cabbage might very well enjoy meeting Dodger too, but said, “I’m afraid I can’t leave this nice cosy tree until someone tells me it’s safe. But I could explain how to get to her, and then you could just mention that I sent you.”
Dodger’s smile was quite impossible to distinguish from his normal wide-eyed expression, but Rosie assumed he was smiling. “Brilliant idea,” he said. “I shall go this evening. Now, explain the route.”
“With someone flying easily like you,” Rosie explained, “I think you’d only take a moment. Cabbage lives in the thatched roof of the main house called The Rookery, right in the middle of the actual rookery on Kettle Lane.” Rosie pointed in the right direction. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased. Cabbage is awfully sweet.”
“And so am I,” said Dodger. “So we’re bound to get on well.” He thought of something and turned his head in a feather less than a full circle, and added, “But what sort of owl is she?”
“Same as you. A long-eared owl. Big and lustrous with beautiful eyes. Yes, just like you.”
“And,” Dodger continued, “I should be delighted to help all those who help me. So where is this silver cup you keep mentioning. I gather it’s important?”
“Well, yes.” Rosie was curled on the moss, hugging her knees. The silver spoon and toadstool appeared to be asleep, but Oswald remained very much awake. “The trouble is, I have no idea where it is. I searched over and over. But my silver spoon and the silver toadstool can do wonderful magic, if only they have the silver cup with them. Then it has to rain – not sure why – and with all three of them together, they can make wonderful things happen. And now that I’m in danger, I need wonderful things even more urgently.”