by B G Denvil
Her old house looked like a mistake. A pile of rubble. Some sort of indication that there had once been a thatched roof still remained, but it squatted on the ground, with a mess of beams, broken plaster and window frames poking out from underneath.
“I can see why you didn’t bother selling,” sighed Peg.
“I suppose you couldn’t – mend it?” whispered Fanny.
“Easily,” Edna told her, “but I would never do it. How would we explain to these intolerant humans that I somehow managed to rebuild an entire house with a few simple words and a click of the fingers? And all overnight?”
“For humans,” I added, “it would probably take a week or more just to clear the rubbish away. And some of the locals would expect to be employed and paid.”
“You stand here, a little apart,” Edna directed Fanny. “And wait while we have a sniff around.”
It didn’t take long. I crouched and stuck my head under one ragged piece of thatch, breathing in deeply. Immediately I was coughing and backing out. “Yes,” I told them all. “Something’s wrong. I can smell it.”
Edna and Peg, more curious than nervous, followed what I had done, and they came back making disgusted faces too. “Stinks,” said Peg.
“Repulsive,” Edna said. “But we need to explore considerably more if we hope to understand a thing.”
I had an excellent way of creeping into smaller spaces, but there were already one or two nosey residents watching us with curiosity, so I tried to disappear more thoroughly under the ruined thatch. I was quickly covered in dust, bird droppings and general filth, but I persevered and then sat down, head bent, in the darkness, and began to change. I did so very much enjoy changing. It was like saying a wonderfully warm hello to an old friend. My shoulders twisted, and I saw my front legs become slim and furry. I stretched out my claws and yawned. The yawn turned to my kitten face, I pricked up my ears and couldn’t resist washing my pretty white haunches.
Though now my sense of smell was even more precise, I could slip into the tiniest spaces, so kept delving. The deeper I pushed, the more sinister the smell became. I refused to be scared off, but I admit I was tempted to run. My inner kitten helped, since she was rarely scared of anything. No strange noises and nothing else to see, but the smell of wickedness, burning, and hate was overpowering.
“There’s only two possibilities,” I told the others, once I had crawled out changing back into my larger self. “First, a very unpleasant wizard no doubt known by your father, Fanny. They’d argued perhaps, or your father had done something to upset him. Or alternatively, it could be a very strong wizard who had some bad luck, or he was looking for the red cup and couldn’t find it – or something occurred that made him hate everyone within a short distance, and he cursed the lot.”
“Not very helpful,” Edna sniffed. “That covers just about every wizard and witch in the world.”
“So that I’m right then,” I defended myself with a grin.
Nodding fervently, Peg, the tiniest witch you would ever see, had managed to crawl under the fallen house, and now had her own opinions. “A wizard,” she announced, “with a very strong grade indeed. Angry – crippled in some unusual way – blew out a curse in a particular direction. It just somehow doesn’t smell right. But I can’t say why.”
Drawing back towards the sunlight, Fanny murmured, “So probably someone I never even met?”
“It’s what I sensed,” Peg insisted. “I felt someone falling. Falling, falling such a very long way into a huge hole, and screaming out, but without anyone coming to help. Perhaps he didn’t even realise he was actually sending out a curse, he was just too furious.”
Fanny was looking very muddled, and Edna put her arm around her. “I couldn’t get as close as you, my dear. But it all seems strange. Not the usual easy to read situation where there’s a wizard with a bad temper and he sends out a curse and that’s that.”
Peg insisted, “But the falling came strongly. And being trapped. And splitting the magic.”
“What a wonderful story,” I told her, most impressed. “Did you get all that from the house?”
Peg paused, looked a little guilty, and then said, “Well, more or less. I was poking around waiting for a voice or an identity to float into my head, and finally the story came. But,” and the guilty look floated back, “I sort of guessed half of it. And I don’t have his name, and I don’t know where the hole was. Most of all, I don’t know what curses hit Fanny and her father.” She turned to Fanny. “You don’t have any incredible never-ending holes very close, do you?”
“It doesn’t help us find him, though, does it?” Edna was making faces at an old human female who was staring at us with a very rude snuffle. “Even if we find this weird hole, it won’t tell us who fell into it. And what was an idiot wizard doing, poking his head into holes, anyway? Without him already being known to Fanny, just how do we get him?”
“Trace him from the curse itself,” I pointed out.
Fanny was busy apologising to all of us, when, somewhat unexpectedly, the old woman who had been silently staring at us, hobbled over. She spoke at once to Fanny.
“I believe you’re the young lady who used to live here with Master Jinks, the widower,” she said. “I know you fell into terrible luck when your poor father died. I’m so please to see you’re back on your feet.” She eyed the satin gown, which looked extremely expensive.
Staring back, half frowning, Fanny asked, “I don’t suppose you remember if my father ever had any real enemies, do you? Someone who hated him? Who might even have killed him?”
“Goodness, no, my dear,” said the woman, backing off. “No one ever hated your poor papa. He was a good man. Come around to my house, Fanny, dear, and I’ll pour you some ale. You look as though you could do with a strong drink.”
Looking back at me, Fanny asked, “Should I, Rosie? Will you come with me?”
But the woman looked quickly away. “I can’t invite more than one, my dear, my house is too small. And it’s only you who I recognise.”
Edna was definitely worried, and she shook her head. “Another day, perhaps,” she said in a hurry. “We have to get back.”
Fanny didn’t seem to mind and quickly caught my hand. But she turned away again when the old woman called back, “Well, another day, do remember me, Fanny. I’m old Gertie Diggins, as I’m sure you know. Still going strong.”
Actually I had been quite suspicious at the start, which shows just how horribly suspicious I had become, since there was no unpleasant smell about her at all, nor even the faintest wisp of magic.
Between dinner and supper, Fanny went off with a bit of a skip to spend the afternoon in her new luxurious room, lying on the bed bathed in sunshine from the window. After all, our windows were real glass, which was so rare in the villages; we were perhaps the only ones in Piddleton. Even half of London, I’d been told, could only afford thin horn, parchment or nothing at all – completely open to the elements. Well, not for us! Magic was certainly a very useful tool. But it wasn’t achieving as much as I wanted right here and now. I wanted answers.
So with Edna and Peg beside me, we retired to my own rooms and fished out the silver toadstool, spoon and cup which often answered the questions I could not answer myself. I also had Oswald pinned to my collar. A ruby-headed hatpin might not be a common companion, but this was one given to me by Whistle after he’d died. I knew that sounded rather odd, but we were a little odd, I supposed.
I had to go through the usual procedure –pour fresh water into the toadstool through its beautiful carved spots and drink it. Pour more water into the spoon, and drink it too, and finally the rest of the water into the cup. And drink! How I loved that final drink; it tasted like rebirth or magical awakening.
These were the all objects that my friend Whistle had once made with rare and wonderful magic. They weren’t without fault, but they still offered amazing help and guidance.
“So,” I started, Peg bending over on one side,
Edna on the other, “what can you tell me about the curse sent to Master Jinks and his daughter Fanny about a year ago in Copplestone on Hill?”
They went through the usual clinks and whispers, just as Edna, Peg and I whispered together. Finally, the silver cup announced, “This is not a simple curse. This is a poison of magical powers.”
I half choked. I’d never even heard of such a thing, and I looked in surprise at Peg and Edna, who both shook their heads.
“Who delivered the poison?” I asked at once.
The cup did a little more whispering, so I looked down at Oswald, fastened to my collar. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” I asked.
“Pooh,” said the hatpin with distain. “Everyone has.”
“Well, everyone doesn’t include me,” I complained. “And not Peg and Edna either. So come on, show-off. Who? What? And why?”
“Oh, well,” Oswald said with a smug know-it-all voice, “it’s magic, of course, which attacks other magic and kills it off. Like human poison which kills off the human.”
“It sounds,” I told him, “as if it killed off the father first.”
“Even worse,” said the hatpin cheerfully. “A curse first. Followed by the poison. The full job. Must be a powerful wizard.”
“So why?” Peg leaned forwards.
“I’ve no idea,” said Oswald. “So I shall go back to sleep.”
“Most helpful,” I told him, and returned to the silver cup. “Any more ideas?” I hoped.
“Jealousy,” it said at once.
Which naturally didn’t make any more sense than anything else.
It was over supper, as Fanny looked around at everyone, that I asked, “Fanny, dear, have you ever been courted by a man who you didn’t want, and sent away?”
I’d introduced her to everyone, and as usual they were all – or nearly all – friendly. Mandrake and Maggs were still in the cottage we’d built for them, and a few of our residents never came to supper anyway, but Fanny was excited and grinned at everyone over and over again. She also grinned at the food, which was so good it deserved a few smiles.
As she answered my question, she just looked amazed. “Never,” she said. “I was too young, and my father never let me out of the house unless he came and held my hand and glared at anyone who smiled at me. Then when he died, I was too depressed. And finally, I was a raggy mess, and they chucked me out of town.”
So none of us were getting any closer to the truth, which was frustrating. But there was plenty of time left.
Fanny certainly settled in, and eventually I introduced her to Whistle. He was entirely dead unfortunately, yet this was not your average ghost. Most of the time he visited us as a small russet furred squirrel. Either he sat on a table, or on someone’s shoulder since he was too small to talk at us from the ground. Once he had climbed a tree and threw acorns at me because I wasn’t listening to all he wanted to say. He could sometimes just be a swirling and transparent burst of colour, but he quite liked being a snake since it was a simplistic shape, and he didn’t need to create arms and legs and necks and fingers.
It was a squirrel who jumped on my shoulder as I called him to meet Fanny. At some length I went through the whole explanation again.
“And if there are any more poor cursed wizards or witches or children out there,” I said firmly, “I want to build more rooms for them. It’s a shocking way for any of us to be forced to exist. Almost as bad as being human.”
The squirrel agreed.
“I know the average curse that some wizards repeat, and then think they’re so clever,” Whistle told us. “But a poisoned curse is quite new to me. I shall have to go and find out.”
“Well, this is Fanny.” I took her arm, and much to her delight, the squirrel sat on her shoulder and snuffled into her ear.
But after a short examination, he leapt to the table. “Not easy,” he said. “But I shall be back.”
Three
Standing in the garden staring at the stables with Peg and Edna beside me, we watched the sun rise behind the thatch.
“There,” I said. “And with a cosy stable at the side for Donald the donkey. And the gardeners can have the ground floor rooms. What do you think?”
“How many rooms?”
Edna was so infuriatingly practical. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead,” I told her. “How about – one large room and an extra one next door for everyone? And we’ll accommodate four on every floor.”
“Up to the sky?”
“Oh, botheration, Edna,” I told her. “I’ve only just started thinking. How about four floors, four people on each, plus the two gardeners on the bottom. That’s – oh dear, maths isn’t my strong point – I think that makes thirteen or fourteen.”
“And the donkey on the ground floor,” Peg reminded me.
I sighed. “Do you really think a donkey needs a bedchamber plus a small living alcove? No, he’ll have a separate stable at one end. And privies at the other.”
It sounded like an excellent idea to me. I hated to think of our wiccan folk out there suffering from curses and poisons, and above all, discrimination because we were different and silly humans got frightened if they found out. Peg and Edna had both agreed, and I’d discussed the idea with Fanny too. She was extremely enthusiastic and offered to help. Unfortunately, she’d just be in the way since her magic was now too weak.
But I did talk to Pixie and Butterfield Short. They were both a fairly high grade, and I was sure they’d not only be really useful, but also happy to help. Pixie giggled and said she’d be delighted. Butterfield was entirely serious.
“I’ll dig the foundations,” she said.
“But,” me being me, “I don’t mean real building. Just magic.”
“Naturally.” Butterfield looked at me with sympathy. “No need to worry, my dear. I’m not quite an idiot. But foundations first will let us build solid and strong, and maybe have a cellar or two.”
“For cells to lock away the criminals?” I laughed.
“You never know,” she laughed.
It was a few days later when we started. I shifted Donald, in case he got scared by all the noise, and tethered him by the old privies, with a nice long lead so he could have fun winding himself into knots.
Fanny, Peg, Edna, Pixie, Butterfield and I all held hands around a great empty space, flat and covered in grass. It certainly wasn’t far from the main house, but it gave us all room to walk between and not feel too squashed. Well, what I should say was that it gave us all space to fly, and that was important as we did tend to do it possibly a bit too often.
Deep foundations. It sounded as if we were going to build a castle, but I accepted Butterfield’s word for it. What difference did it make? Just another hour’s magical digging.
That’s what I thought at the time, of course. But it turned out that our foundations made a great deal of difference after all. Far more than most of us could have expected.
Edna and Pixie were digging as if they actually were, although in the air. Hands supposedly gripping something, heaving downwards, then scooping it up and chucking it back over their heads. I was extremely glad that it wasn’t real digging, since we would have been up to our knees in dirt by now.
“One, two, three, deeper and deeper.”
And then I squeaked in alarm and held up one hand. “Stop,” I said, meaning to shout, but the noise only came out like a scared mouse.
Everybody stopped and stared at me. Their eyes followed down to where I was pointing.
A skeleton, carefully laid out, of a tall man were clearly visible. It could have been a woman I supposed, but beside the bones was a huge battle shield, a beautifully made long bow of the type still used, a quiver of arrows and a gorgeous double-bladed sword. I was impressed. But we had dug deep. I had no idea when this unexpected burial had originally been done, but I knew the Rookery had been built by Whistle’s father, and this indicated somewhere in the region of three hundred years gone, or more.
&nbs
p; Everyone stared down in fascination, and I turned to Butterfield. “You insisted on the foundations,” I reminded her. “You didn’t know about this, did you?” It was becoming obvious that she’d known all along.
She was apologetic. “I dreamed about him. He came to me six nights in a row, and I wasn’t sure whether it was real – or important – or what. But I had to find out. I’m sorry, I should have told you the truth, but I thought you’d say I was a nuisance.”
“Am I usually so bossy?” Perhaps I was. “But this is quite interesting. Did this warrior speak in your dreams?”
“He did. But sometimes he spoke a different language. Eventually he realised I couldn’t understand him, so he spoke accented English at last. He said his name is Angdar, and he died here after being hailed as a hero.”
Suddenly I knew. “He’s a Norseman,” I said, clapping my hands. “That’s before the Normans invaded and brought in their lords and made all of us peasants and fiefs.” Well, I’d never been a history scholar, but I remembered Whistle telling me about the Vikings and some of his stories about Ragnar and others. Now here I was staring down at one.
Everyone else was chattering like mad and seemed quite excited.
“This is all very well,” I said, “but we’re supposed to be building a large cottage, not discovering bones.”
“But he’s not just bones,” Butterfield objected. “We’ll have to bring him up and see if he’s able to come back.”
Whistle was a ghost now, and a rather special one since it turned out he was my father, but I’d never been a lover of ghosts, and a huge warrior ghost from centuries ago didn’t appeal. But I was trying not to be a control-freak, so I stood back. “Bring him up,” I shrugged. “Lay him somewhere safe maybe out in the sun to dry out, while we try and get on with this house.”
I lost Butterfield. She and Pixie and Edna carried over the bones to a sunny flat spot by the front of the Rookery where the briar roses were growing, their blossoms still fragrant although it was now mid-September. Edna and Pixie hurried back, but Butterfield stayed there, talking to her new if somewhat bony friend.