by B G Denvil
Rosie saw no one as she entered Alice’s grand bedchamber overlooking the garden at the back of the house. The ground floor, of course, since Alice was unable to fly. The room was empty, and immediately Rosie pulled out the last wooden chest hidden beneath the bed.
Having been already opened by Dodger, the lid sat a little ajar, and inside Rosie was able to see exactly what Dodger had described to her. She brought out the large decorated cup which she could not remember ever being given. As a valuable object, she assumed Alice had taken it for herself as soon as Whistle was out of view.
Rosie took the cup and put it into her apron pocket, where it hung heavy. She reached out to take the red cup, but pulled back her fingers, before touching, for a sudden spike of scarlet fire sprang from its centre, and the smoke was black and fierce. Even without touching, her fingers felt burned, and the stench curled upwards, crawling into her face, her mouth and her nose.
At once, Rosie ran to the well outside, leaving the bedchamber door open. Pulling up one bucket of water, she ducked in her entire head, clearing her sight and taste.
Slowly emerging, her hair dripping and water rolling from her face, she turned, and stopped.
“Frightened, my dear daughter?” said Alice.
Rosie wasn’t sure what to do. Against a fifty, she now knew she could protect herself, but there was some dark power resident in that cup, and it had befriended Alice. Whether that brought their power to an even force, Rosie didn’t know. The other power might be still greater than her own. Raising her chin, Rosie faced the other woman and laughed.
“Do you expect me to kill you? I’ve no desire to do that. But I shall take you to court for fraternising with the shadow side, and for the murder of three wiccan folk, including the great wizard Whistle.”
“Take me to court? I’d like to see you try.” Alice was fiddling in her own apron pocket.
There was no overpowering stink, therefore Rosie guessed she had a knife and not the red cup, so continued to smile. “They’ll come for you, once I denounce you formally, you know. The court officials will come to fly you off for trial.”
“They can’t touch me,” Alice growled. “I have protection of another sort. You can’t imagine my strength. I’ll not be dying any time soon, wretched girl. It’s you in danger. I should have killed you long ago, but I needed Whistle dead first. Now you’ll be joining him.”
Alice grabbed the long carving knife from her dirty apron pocket and rushed at Rosie. She raised and then swung the blade, but Rosie simply raised one finger and called, “Be still.”
Alice seemed paralysed, her arm high, her hand clutching the knife handle, and her face contorted in hatred and anger. But nothing quivered, nothing changed. She remained unmoving. And as they stood there facing each other, there was a swoop of black feathers, and a large crow hurtled down and grabbed the knife from Alice’s hand.
“Shall I drop it down the well?” cackled Wolfy.
“You’re the best crow in the world,” Rosie laughed. “Throw it back through the kitchen window. And my love to Wobbles and Cuddles and all the babies.”
“They’re growing up a bit now,” Wolfy said. “But feeding them is so exhausting. I’m looking forward to the day when they finally learn to feed themselves.”
“Well, here’s a thank you,” Rosie called – and clicked her fingers. A short distance from Rosie’s feet, a pile of food suddenly appeared, scattering itself across the grass. Make-believe worms and beetles, small buzzing flies obligingly sitting there waiting to be eaten, pieces of bread torn into long crusts, gulps of cheese, and a few other small wriggling things that didn’t actually exist.
“Quick,” Rosie pointed. “All the other crows will be grabbing this as soon as they see it. There must be at least a hundred funny little baby crows around here, all squawking with hunger.”
As Wolfy grabbed a huge beak full, Rosie turned back to Alice, releasing her from the spell. But as Alice jerked once more into action, Rosie again pointed a finger at her and shouted, “You will obey me. Listen carefully and obey. You will enter your bedroom where you will find one of your hidden chests pulled out from under the bed, and its lid wide open. Beneath the red cup of some evil power which you keep there, is a document signed by Whistle Hobb. You will bring it to me. You will not bring the red cup.”
It was only after giving the order that Rosie wondered if she had done something remarkably stupid. She wanted the document, and she hadn’t wanted to touch the vile thing lying on top. Her solution had seemed perfect. But she had known her own power for an extremely limited time and had not yet learned every way to use it. Alice had walked off in a daze, rigid and obedient. But once she herself touched the red cup, Rosie wondered if Alice would change.
She moved away, ready to fly back to Edna if it became necessary. Then she saw the truth of it.
From Alice’s bedroom, a great black flame exploded outwards. For one brief blink, Rosie wondered if this was the high court’s form of execution. Perhaps they had telepathically heard the truth of Alice Scaramouch and immediately passed sentence. But within one more blink Rosie realised the opposite. The black flame grew vast and swept across the garden towards Rosie.
The flame halted, flickering as though frightened. Its tip curled in upon itself as though licking its own wounds. Then Rosie turned and understood.
Every single resident of The Rookery stood grouped behind her. Legs apart, expressions determined, some with wands pointing at the flame and at Alice, others with their hands up and facing outwards to block whatever came next. In front and directly behind Rosie, Edna stood tall, and Peg stood short, and both of them pointed to Alice, small golden flames rushing from their fingertips.
“We’ve called the High Lord,” Edna yelled at Rosie. “The power will be with us just long enough for them to find her guilty.”
The black flame had hurt her, and Rosie knew herself injured, but her power remained, and she flung out one arm, and with the tingle of the immense power all around, the black flame disappeared in a sprinkle of dark ash, and Alice fell. She tumbled to the grass, first screaming threats and then screaming for mercy. Every part of her head and body began to vibrate, and clearly she was in pain. The croaks and yelps were at first piteous, and having thought of Alice as her mother for twenty-four years, Rosie had a moment’s sympathy. But she did not move and said nothing. She simply watched.
Slowly Alice diminished. Her back shrank until she was forced to bend over onto her suddenly distorted hands and feet now tiny and wrinkled, inching into the ground. Her shoulders popped and became glued to her back, her legs turned to minute sticks, and her entire existence was blushed into a ragged brown, muddy colour which would disguise her entirely as she crawled and hunted. Last to change was her head. It shrank slowly, and with it her expression concentrated into narrow invisibility. For a moment she cried, but soon all the sounds had gone, and on the grass sat a tiny and extremely ugly insect, a troilus, one of the most insignificant but unpleasant insects in the country.
“The court,” said Rosie, “has passed sentence.”
Twenty-Four
Lying crumpled and damp on the grass where Alice had stood, was the document she had been ordered to bring. Rosie bent and picked it up. There was no lingering smell of wickedness nor any wisps of unpleasant smoke, but she made no attempt to read it and handed it to Peg.
“It’s Whistle’s writing,” she said, breathless. “But I don’t think I can read it.”
Peg took it eagerly and bent over, her nose almost to the page. Edna meanwhile turned to Dipper, who stood behind her. “The sad corpse lies out under the trees, but Boris must be buried as the others,” she said. “There is also a highly unpleasant cup which I want buried deeply beneath him. None of us wish to touch that cup, so once the grave pit is dug, I shall summon that vile thing and order it to drop itself in. Then you can pile Boris on top. But first, we have some things to rejoice, and probably something to listen to afterwards.”
Rosie stood just a little apart. She smiled at the crowd in front of her. Twenty-three witches and wizards stood there smiling back, including Dipper, carrying a spade, and Alfred with Dodger sitting on one shoulder, and Cabbage perched on his arm. There was Edna and Peg, peering over the badly creased document, trying to read what had been written there so long ago. There was Emmeline and next to her stood Ermengarde. Dandy Duckett was trying to stick his wand back into the opening of his doublet, and Toby Tucklberry was hopping up and down trying to see where Alice had gone.
Ethelred Brown was attempting to summon a cup of ale but couldn’t manage it, and had to ask someone else. Obligingly Vernon Pike produced a large tankard full of strong beer and Ethelred wandered off. Nan Quake and Uta Hampton were gossiping together, and Julia Frost was telling Gorgeous Leek to stop being so timid just because she was only a dismal nineteen, and to remember what a fantastic result she had just achieved.
Mandrake marched around the whole group shaking hands, and Lemony Limehouse sidled over to Percy Rotten and asked if he’d like a walk in the sun. Berty Cackle stood on his own wondering whether he should find the Alice beetle and stamp on it, while Montague looked around vaguely, saying, “Isn’t that the funny little girl that sweeps the stairs? Why doesn’t her mother take her in hand?”
Harry Flash was jumping up and down in excitement, while Inky Jefferson, Butterfield Short and Pixie West went hand in hand to congratulate Rosie for finally getting rid of her mother.
Rosie thanked them but tried to explain that it hadn’t been quite like that, when she was interrupted by Edna.
Holding up the sheets of creased but fluttering document, Edna spoke loudly, addressing everyone. “You will be interested to know a few things,” she announced. “Personally, I don’t care what any of you choose to believe, but here, at last, is the truth.
“Nearly twenty-five years ago, Whistle Hobb found himself, let’s say for convenience, with a new born daughter, a child of tremendous potential. But he was a busy man with a constant stream of things he wished to do, and had very little time or patience. He rightly decided he could not possibly take on a baby to look after, and eventually, deciding the child needed both a mother and a father, that she must go to a married couple. He could not envisage giving the child to any ludicrous humans, but amongst the wiccan folk, there are few couples either married or living as a pair.
“But here, in The Rookery, one pair existed. A lowly but quiet couple, Alice and Alfred seemed the perfect answer. Whistle asked them if they would care to adopt the little girl, yet they apologetically declined. They knew nothing about babies and didn’t want such a strong one, who would surely swamp them. So Whistle thought of a plan.
“At the time he was, and always had been, the sole owner of this entire property, the buildings, the forests, the gardens and almost the whole of Kettle Lane. Whistle had inherited it. He was, of course, a rich man. But he offered Alice and Alfred a term of twenty-four years and eleven months to take over the ownership entirely, and all the funds, payments and profits paid by the residents during this time, on the strict understanding and legal agreement that when his child reached her coming of age at twenty-five, she would inherit the property herself. Indeed, he states that should he die before that day, she should inherit immediately as long as she was over the age of fifteen.
“Well, we know that did not happen, for it was Alice who murdered Whistle, sending Boris to kill him so that she might keep The Rookery with no one knowing that she was not the legal owner.
“Simple as that. She wanted to keep it all for herself, and had made, and probably also cheated, a great deal of wealth from the temporary ownership.”
Peg was losing her voice with all the shouting, but with a few croaks and gulps, she managed to finish. “Whistle and Alice made the agreement, and it was signed in court, but kept secret. None of us knew. But it is all here in several documents.
“Naturally over the years as Alice realised what she was about to lose, she made horrible plans, and also received help from a dark shadow. That is something we must certainly destroy. In the meantime, our High Wiccan Court has passed judgement, found Alice guilty on all counts, and turned her into a very small beetle. She’ll stay that way until someone treads on her. And that might be me, if I see her. Or perhaps a crow will eat her and then probably feel sick.”
A magnificent barrage of cheering and clapping followed this announcement, congratulations called to Rosie, Peg and Edna, and everybody hugging everybody else.
“So now The Rookery belongs to you, my dear?”
Rosie had barely absorbed the facts herself, but in the midst of the turmoil and chaotic happiness, Edna grabbed Rosie’s hand, and they flew back up to Edna’s rooms. Peg was beside them, and they all arrived with a puff and a gasp, sitting back at the little table with the silver toadstool, the spoon, the cup and a jug of water.
Twizzle said, “About time too,” and snatched the chair away with her beak just as Peg was about to sit down. Twizzle cackled, and Peg looked up with a threatening glance.
“If you don’t behave yourself,” she muttered, “I shall turn you into a sand fly and send you off to the Gobi Desert.”
“Do you have Oswald with you?” enquired Edna of Rosie as she helped Peg up off the floor. Gradually they settled, and Peg called for a cup of best wine each and a very large one for herself.
At first Rosie couldn’t remember what Oswald was. Her mind was once again in a whirl. The adoption made sense, and she knew her adopted mother’s character well enough to understand how the whole situation had happened. She had never known that Whistle was the original owner of The Rookery until recently, but then very few others had known either. They had only settled into the house as they felt their age slowing them.
But there was one thing she did not understand. “So Whistle was my father? I must say, he didn’t take much notice of me, considering I was his child, but I suppose that was the whole point of the adoption. Maybe he even thought that all that bad treatment from Alice would be good training for me. And the blockage and suffocation of my magical power, well, either he thought I was weaker than he’d thought, or he knew I’d get all my force back when I came of age.”
“Yes, yes, all very correct and logical, dear,” said Edna. “But you haven’t answered my question. Are you wearing Oswald?”
“And,” Rosie mumbled frantically, “clearly Alice wasn’t that bad in the beginning. It was all the temptation and rising greed that got to her and changed her. But what I have to know, is who is my real mother?”
“Perhaps,” sighed Edna, “I had better repeat my question once more, dear. Are you still wearing Oswald?”
“Oh.” She tapped the ruby hat pin clasped just below her chin on the collar of her tunic. “Yes. He’s here, probably listening to everything.”
“You were given Oswald when you were whisked off into never, never land,” Peg reminded her. “You lost all the other hat pins, but this most precious one stayed with you. Now I know why. Would you hand him over for a moment, my dear?”
Quickly she did as asked. Unclipping Oswald, Rosie gave him an affectionate little rub and passed the hat pin to Edna.
Edna did not hold onto the ruby pin but immediately laid it on the table in front of herself. “Now,” she said, settling back. “You may wish to ask various things afterwards, which is why I have your obliging silver trio sitting here patiently ready. But I am going to tell you a story first, and then Oswald will join in. I’m afraid some of this will sound distinctly odd and probably quite unbelievable, but I just hope you will not be upset. I am going to tell you who you are.
“Whistle owned The Rookery and everything that goes with it for many long years. He rented it out to the elderly wizards and witches who wished a calm life, and he employed a very good wiccan cook and three maids. The place was beautifully run, but he himself took very little notice of what went on here. I wasn’t staying here myself back then, but I was Whistle’s far off friend.
>
“A brilliant wizard as I’m sure you always knew. A ninety-one, more or less, probably higher. And one day he decided to do the impossible. He summoned all his might and all his skills and a nice collection of feathers and down, water from the well and from the skies when it rained, small blossoms, flowers and growing plants, and mixed these all up with his endless spells.
“I came over several times to help him, and once I brought my own little kitten, very fluffy and white. On request, I left her with Whistle. He carried on with his spells, adding various things when he found them, such as fluff from a duckling, a couple of butterfly wings, a few drops of ink, a crow’s feather and down donated by Cabbage, briar rose petals and rippled bubbles from a stream. Whistle went out often with his basin of precious objects, especially during the full moon, and sat in various parts of the grounds and the forest, singing to himself and stirring the mixture. When autumn came and he still hadn’t finished, he added leaves of all kinds and all colours, sedge and moss.
“And then one night he went out again. There was a full moon, but there was also a dreadful storm with forked lightning. He made sure that the lightning did not strike directly into his basin. But it still wasn’t enough and didn’t produce exactly what he wanted. He added snow during the winter, then mushrooms and berries, the roots of many tiny plants due to grow in the following spring, and he went on adding feathers, fluff and spells of all kinds.
“He was becoming somewhat impatient, having worked a whole year on his experiment. But he refused to give up. Eventually as the weather improved in June, he believed he must now succeed. He felt he needed just one more thunderous storm, and this time he would encourage the sparks to dive straight into the basin. The storm arrived, crashing from light to dark and from silence to thunder. Whistle waited, holding the bowl high and hoping for the final spark. It took a long time in coming. Several times he wandered home with no result. But he never lost his trust. He was, after all, a ninety-one.