by B G Denvil
The other two shook their heads. “Not a thing.”
“Then we start with Ethelred and Toby,” she said. “And if we decide it’s not them, I’ll visit out delightful sheriff. Hopefully Whistle will come back and help.”
One at a time they flew from the underground cave and reappeared on the bank, crossed back over Kettle Lane and re-entered The Rookery. They each looked distinctly disappointed and were relieved to see the dining table empty, food scraps thrown to the animals and birds outside, and everything else washed, dried and stacked with a click of Uta’s fingers.
“Now – or tomorrow morning?” asked Peg.
“Now,” Rosie answered quickly. “I should never have waited before. And we’ll go together in case one of us catches a clue that the others miss. First – who?”
“Together?”
“No, one at a time in their own rooms.”
“But probably asleep considering the time.”
“What is the time?”
“I have no idea.”
“Toby first then. We’ll just have to wake him up.”
Toby was sitting outside beneath the trees, avoiding the three lines of graves. He leaned on the edge of the well with one elbow, eyes shut, but facing away from the house.
He jerked as Rosie touched his shoulder. “Toby, dear. Are you alright? We didn’t see you at supper? Don’t you approve of humans?”
Swinging round, he stared at Rosie and the other two behind her. Clearly he had been almost asleep. “Yes. Well, no,” he said. “Not really. But that had nothing to do with the supper thing. I felt the crowd and the noise might be too much.”
“Toby, you’re always dancing. You like feasts and crowds.”
“If I have to be honest, though I don’t see why I should,” Toby objected. “It’s Mandrake. He’s so embarrassing about that woman. He can’t look at her without smiling that soppy grin oozing adoration. It’s disgusting.”
“So you’re jealous?”
“Yes, of course I am.”
“And have you been out here the whole time?” Edna asked. “It’s been hours. What have you done?”
“Slept a bit, I suppose,” Toby said. He looked tired, and that didn’t seem like a good sign.
“You just stood out here all evening?”
“Oh, goodness no,” he said. “I wandered into the village and went to the tavern. It was quite funny. I only came back when it closed.”
Rosie, Edna and Peg all look at each other with ill-disguised suspicion.
“That idiot Dickon was there,” Toby continued. “He was changed – just sat in the corner all evening with a glum mask and no smiles, not a single arrest. He could have been deeper asleep than me. But Bob was in an even stranger state. Kept dancing. People told him to shut up, but he danced and sang rubbish words. ‘Brisket and biscuit, pennies and lemons, bonk on the demons and the bells of St Clements’ or something like that. I just kept laughing, but that old woman started throwing cups. Even when the cups broke, Dickon didn’t look up, and Bob didn’t stop singing.”
Rosie frowned. “The magic is going crazy, and it’s all around us. No escape.”
“Not unless you’re lucky enough to fall in love and live happily ever after.” Toby sniffed.
“But we don’t know if it’s going to work with a human yet,” Edna pointed out. “I’d wager Mandrake hasn’t told her he’s a hundred and sixty years older than she is.”
Toby sniggered. “I’d marry a rabbit if I could just have a great romance to dream about.”
“I’ll catch you one,” Peg said, “but now you should go to bed. And so should I.”
It was not bed, however, where Rosie, Peg and Edna now headed. It was Ethelred’s bedroom. Not entirely sure of Toby, they couldn’t say innocent or guilty. “But,” Rosie said, “innocent seems most likely. Now it’s the other one’s turn.”
But Ethelred’s small bedchamber was entirely empty, except for long narrow drips of black, like paint, that streaked the walls.
Eighteen
Her hand stroking Donald the donkey, Rosie stood in a vague dream of indecision. She scratched behind his ears, and he made whuffling noises of utter contentment. The bumps of his backbone were beginning to disappear beneath a carpet of flesh, and his legs were sturdy. The bloody raw grazes on his haunches had almost gone; the haunches themselves now resembled well-stocked shopping bags, and his neck was thick and comfy as Rosie cuddled it, making soothing and kissing noises into his ear.
“Another week, and you’ll be a sweet little fatty,” she told him. Donald’s eyes conveyed deep brown hope, and his nose wrinkled in gratitude.
Twizzle had been sitting on her shoulder, but now flew to Rosie’s head, not such an easy perch, but keeping a wary distance from the donkey. “Give us a wombat,” shrieked the cockatoo. “Give us a platypus – pus – pus. I don’t want hungry donkeys.”
“Donkeys, however hungry, don’t eat cockatoos,” said Rosie, fishing out some carrots and apples from her apron pocket.
Donald, who did not understand a word, nuzzled Rosie’s hand as she fed him, but then looked up with those brown loving eyes and whuffled at Twizzle. Twizzle squawked and moved back, claws digging into Rosie’s head. She pushed him off, and Twizzle flapped back to her shoulder. Donald immediately stretched forward and nuzzled Twizzle’s feathers.
Twizzle was enchanted. Donald was in love with Rosie and Twizzle both. Rosie sighed. She left them to get to know each other, conjured up a huge pile of hay with shreds of carrot mixed in, and a large handful of sunflower seeds. Both animals settled down together to enjoy their feast.
Wandering off, Rosie found Edna and Peg waiting for her in her own rooms. “Finally!” Peg objected. “We’ve been waiting a month or two.”
“That poor donkey was starving,” Rosie said. “I want it to feel fat and loved.”
“I’d quite like the same experience,” said Edna. “But it’s unlikely to happen, and we have something more serious to sort out this morning.”
“Is Ethelred back?”
“He is,” Peg said. “But deep asleep. He’s in some sort of coma, I think, and I can’t wake him. But the black marks on his walls are still there. It makes my skin crawl.”
Edna nodded. “It makes me shiver. I wanted to touch one, just briefly, to see if it was just an illusion, but my finger refused to go that close.”
“Interesting.” Rosie sat down and drew out the silver toadstool, spoon and cup. Then she reached to take Oswald from the side table and held the hatpin tightly. “Now the jug of water.” She raised one finger and the jug appeared, brimming with cool clean water.
She was still pouring water into the toadstool when Oswald interrupted. “He’s dying,” said Oswald.
Rosie, Edna and Peg all started around. “What? Who? Why?”
“More to the point, where!” said Oswald with the usual snap. “Ethelred, naturally. He’s spent the night out on Alid Bank’s farm, and only managed to stagger back home a couple of hours ago. Poor wretch is in a proper mess. Deserves it. But a deserved mess is no more pleasant than an undeserved mess.”
“I need the whole story,” said Rosie. “Or am I expected to rush over and help save the idiot who stole the red cup for himself.”
“Oh pooh,” sniffed Oswald. “Ask the toadstool.”
Rosie did, filling and drinking until she swallowed the entire cupful, smiled widely, heaved a deep breath and asked, “What did Ethelred do? Why is he now in such a state? And what should I do about it? Then – lastly – where’s the cup now?”
“And where’s Alice?” Edna reminded her.
“Ethelred has always suffered from his own feelings of weak inadequacy.”
“Sounds like every human,” murmured Peg.
The cup continued. “Being the fool he is, he asked the red cup for just a little more power, hoping to feel stronger and more proud of himself. He specified no sin, except that of pride. His foolishness remains powerful as always, but the magical power ha
s increased, doubling the previous grade. Yet the entire increase wallows in evil.”
Oswald added his own opinions. “So stupid he thought a source of evil was going to be sweet enough to give him a few tiddly bits of angelic improvements and nothing bad. What a twit.”
“And Alice?”
“Ethelred sleeps with the cup wrapped beside him on his bed. And Alice sleeps in the cup. None can wake until the red cup absorbs Ethelred into the wickedness of the power given him.”
“I have another idea,” said Rosie, and stood so abruptly, the cup fell over with a moan. She turned to Oswald. “Can you contact Whistle?”
“Of course I can,” snapped the hatpin. “We’re almost the same person, except he’s busy eating nuts out in the trees.”
“Call him,” Rosie ordered. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done before. And I’d feel safer if Whistle was with me.” She turned to Edna and Peg. “And will you both come too? I admit to being a little nervous.”
Peg looked aghast. “You don’t plan on finding that cup and talking to it yourself?”
“She does,” added Edna with firm conviction. Then, looking at Rosie, said, “And you’re nervous? My dear child, you should be terrified.”
“I’m not going to touch it,” Rosie said. “But now I know where it is, without even waking Ethelred, I can talk to it from a distance.”
“With a squirrel on your shoulder, and two old idiots either side of you?”
Rosie grinned, which helped. “That’s right. But you forgot to mention the hatpin on my apron.”
Neither squirrel nor serpent, Whistle arrived as a swirling twirling transparency of himself, a ghostly glow in a long blue cloak over striped trousers and bare feet. Rosie started to tell him what had happened, but clearly, he knew already, and actually knew more than she did. “Off we go,” he announced, and they flew after him through the window of Ethelred’s room, and stood in a half circle around his bed.
Never a grand room, the space was now darkened by the slush of black down the walls, and the silent unmoving body of the figure on the bed. He lay on his back, face seeming to gaze upwards. But the eyes were shut, the arms lay lose at his sides, the mouth also closed, and the chest did not even rise to his breathing.
“But he’s alive?” Rosie asked Whistle. Whistle’s ghost hovered over the bed. Reaching down one transparent swirl of fingers, he twitched the heavy cloak from the cup at Ethelred’s side. The gleaming crimson flame billowed like fire from the depths. Even Whistle moved higher. Ethelred did not move.
Whistle called, “Shadow source, keep your power controlled. None of us here will either touch you or want your touch. We are of the light and will not challenge your shadows. We are here to challenge how you have chosen, without authority, to misdirect your power. No wizard now living and no witch still in living form has asked for absolute absorption into the shadow.”
There was a very long silence, but the gleam from the cup slithered, licking at the black ooze. Finally, soft voiced, the cup said, “I have no need of authority. I have given authority to myself, and I have taken that authority from myself. The shadow force entitles me to actions beyond any authority either light or shadow bound. I accept no boundaries. I accept no master. I accept no limitations nor need of permission. I accept only restrictions within my own power. This wizard asked for his power to be extended. The shadow power has extended that of the light. He is now equal in both sides, neither greater than the other. My choice is my own and shall be as always.”
The voice made them cringe, a slithering sickly sweetness that leaked its own vile diseases and slipped like an evil stench of venomous oil, and again each person listening moved backwards.
Whistle spoke again. “But you take an assumption of ability which you snatch, taking from a closed hand and not from an open palm. If you neither release nor retract, this wizard will die. This does not matter to you, and that is contained within your accepted direction. But what will die will not be this wizard alone. The power of the shadow which you have foisted upon one unwilling to take it, will also die with him, and you will lose that proportion of your own shadow.”
Hesitancy hung in the air. “I will suck it in and spit it out before it dies,” the voice eventually said.
“Where is Alice?” Rosie asked suddenly.
“Within the storm,” answered the cup.
Rosie shook her head. “Explain.”
“I do not answer the demands of the foolishly righteous,” replied the voice.
“I command it,” Rosie said, and grew as Whistle smiled and the others watched.
She rose straight into the air above the bed, not wafting as Whistle did, but appearing as a rod, steel, silver perhaps, with eyes of blinding white.
The cup actively shivered. “Alice Scaramouch curls within me,” said the cup. Its voice had changed and instead of the slithering evil, it crackled as through breaking, and then sank back into the shadows of the cloak.
Rosie’s own shadow fell across the cup, but it was a shadow of vibrant gold, while she herself was now pure white. “You have exceeded your own limits,” she said, and her own voice had changed and was now a gentle chant, almost a song. “You can only act within your capacity. You were given permission to take this foolish wizard and increase his power. Such greed is within the reality of the shadow. The wizard knew shame of his own weakness, and desired a greater strength. He wished for power. That is also within your realm. But the wizard also rightfully begged for the remainder of righteousness, and not to be led into evil. And yet you have ignored the magical barriers.”
The cup whispered, “He asked for a weight of upgrade to seventy. I doubled his own grade, no more. I did not exceed his wish. I gave less.”
“But what you gave was evil alone. That is not permitted unless the existing grade already sits in shadow, or the wizard you face is one who craves the full shadow. That is not what you heard here. You have pretended the power of the shadow himself. You are the cup alone. You have no accompaniment. There is no parasitic growth. There is no spoon. And there is no Lord of the Shadow.”
Rosie had grown further, and the cup had diminished. It sat small amongst the folds of the dark cape, and a deep red crack had appeared down one side. Rosie now did not resemble herself. She seemed to represent the power of light, huge and gleaming. She looked down at Edna, Peg and Whistle.
She addressed the cup, holding out both her hands over its cowering colour. “You will follow me,” she said, still chanting. “And you will not release the creature which has overtaken Alice the Troilus bug.”
The cup rose a little, shivering and reluctant, the crack in its side opening wider. Then, entirely fighting the orders it had no wish to follow, it sank back. Again, Rosie held out her hands, then raising them slightly. Slowly, the cup followed her demands.
They all saw the tiny curled and frightened form of the bug. Its minute legs were crooked, and its antennae were shrivelled stalks. Covered in brown shards, it was a small twist disguised as mud, enabling camouflage but not beauty. Alice clung to the cup’s inner base but did not move. It was impossible to see whether it was afraid, but Rosie spoke, “Now I know where to go, and will take you to be judged by your leaders and mine.” She nodded to the others, who nodded back. They had all, many long years previously, attended the High Cloud Court for their coming of age celebrations, and the granting of their grades.
Now they followed Rosie.
Nineteen
Mandrake traced one fingertip down the side of her face as Maggs sat curled in his arms. “There,” he whispered. “Does that vibrate, my beloved, and tingle my magic through your body? Do you feel my love, carried to your mind through my finger?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed. “It’s – exhilarating. It’s truly magic.”
He laughed. “Because it truly is.”
She gazed up into his eyes. “I wish I could do that to you.”
His eyes deepened as though he saw through her. “But you
do it already, my love,” he told her, his voice a little hoarse. “Every time you touch me, and every time I touch you, the thrill makes me feel more alive.”
“I never knew love could do this before,” she whispered back.
“Because it is magic,” Mandrake said, even more softly. “Real magic. More powerful than my own. And proof that magic really does exist.”
The morning sky was deliciously blue and bright, with no lingering memory of the wickedness birthed the day before. Yet way beyond sight of the countryside below, the cloud of the High Court travelled the essence of the light and drifted like a watchful beam, reflecting the sun.
Rosie arrived through the swinging door which most magicians called the way of comprehension. It was the door which never closed, for as it closed one way, so it opened on the other side.
She was her own parade. Ethelred floated, still deeply asleep, flat on his back, even though nothing supported his drifting weight. Behind him came the red cup, as though pulled by chain or rope, and unable to pull away. Rosie led with Whistle, Peg and Edna, one by one through the swinging door of thick patterned stone, luminous in white, as though studded with light.
The immediate beauty of nature welcomed them, although Ethelred remained unconscious and the red cup trembled. The colours were a shimmering cascade with trees soaring above them, their soft golden leaves swimming along the dancing silver branches. Flowers hanging from twig and leaf, or detaching and attaching higher or lower as they wished.
“I wish an appointment with the High Court,” Rosie told the official in his vibrant clothes and vibrant smile.
“He expects you,” said the tall figure. And he led the way.
Rosie and her strange procession followed.
The court was open to sky and cloud, trees, flowers and the shimmering beams from the sun. Lord Humbugus Tripaz seemed as amiable as ever, and sat on a garden bench with his hands clasped in his lap and a smile in his blue eyes.
“Well now,” he said, most unlike any judge of humankind, “it’s pleasant to see you all once more. But Peg and Edna, it’s been so long since your coming of age celebrations, I had almost forgotten you. It’s a real pleasure to see you all again. And welcome back, Whistle. I have a proposition for you later on, but we’ll deal with this first.” And he turned to the red cup which sat glumly on the short grass and its bloom of daisies. “And you, my lad,” said Humbugus, “have definitely been too black for your red.”