by B G Denvil
“If we stretch around for four miles—one, two, three and a half, make it four—and then go up just over the height of a tall man, let’s take Angdar as an example, then delve approximately one leg’s depth underground, that might work.”
I stopped listening. Butterfield was nodding cheerfully. “Do we make this screen of magical blockage, or some type of symbolic mind assumption?”
“We could make a simple magic in the human mind, making them all believe they can’t leave the village,” I nodded. “But I admit, I have no idea how to enter the mind of a rat.”
“Do they have minds?”
“Of course, though they are just being what they were made to be, and have little choice. But everyone hates them. That’s not really fair.”
“We have a bit the same.” I smiled. “We are simply what we are, and have no choice. But if those daft humans knew we were witches, they’d hound us out. They hanged quite a grand lady once, accusing her of witchcraft.”
“Humans have a fixation about curses. That’s because most of them would set curses themselves, if they only knew how. They judge others by their own unpleasant characters.”
I didn’t answer that, because it had been quite recent that poor Fanny had been cursed, so I changed the subject. “We shall start at the other end of Kettle Lane then, including all of our grounds and Postlethwaite farm opposite. Then we circle right around Little Piddleton, including the Trout farm and Magg’s brother, and end up back here again.”
“I shall make a genuine barrier,” decided Bertie. “No one will see it, but it can be touched. Flexible, of course, rather like water weed, but can be pushed only a small distance. No human will be capable of jumping over. Nor can a ladder be used, since there will be no solid object for a ladder to lean against.”
“And it can’t be cut?” asked Angdar. “Even with a magical axe?”
“Don’t try it,” I said. “An ordinary axe or a knife, definitely not.”
“And if we walk together around the entire area,” Bertie said, “I will need your focus, and perhaps a few more things. If you pass you own magical force into my focus, this should be achieved within the day.”
Butterfield, Bertie and I were all high-grade wiccans, but I called Peg and Edna, and we all trooped around the allotted area, tediously slow, sending out power of concentration to Bertie, which was even more tiresome. Actually, it turned out to be not only exhausting but extremely uncomfortable. When it was all finished, and supper loomed, we all flew back to The Rookery, even Angdar who held Butterfield’s hand.
We flopped at the dining table, ate like starving rats, and then hurried off to the hall, sank into the gorgeous big squashy chairs we’d make for ourselves and discussed the next stage. With Wolf stretched out at my feet and Twizzle on Edna’s shoulder, we told everyone what we had done, and asked for ideas regarding the rats.
We ended up with an interesting discussion but not many sensible ideas.
“Scoop them up with magic spades and send them to the moon,” suggested Harry, sitting close to Fanny with one arm around her shoulders in a proprietary clasp.
“Fly over Tickwick and poison them all,” said Dandy, which I thought most cruel.
“Pretend to be a rat catcher and play the pipes to make them follow you,” decided Emmeline. “Lead them to an island somewhere with lots of flooding. Then send a poison to kill fleas but not rats.”
“This is utter nonsense,” muttered Montague. “As if fleas can carry disease. They have no shoulders. They can’t carry anything. It’s the miasma that blows the disease. Everyone knows this.”
Usually Bertie didn’t bother to answer with these arguments, but this time he did. “Miasma in the air has long been the known cause of many diseases. However, I have done a considerable amount of magical study and research. I have delved into knowledge beyond our own. The plague is brought by rats, after having been bitten by infected fleas.”
It didn’t do a lot of good. “Rubbish,” mumbled Montague. “Where’s that old woman who runs this place? Is it Alice? Or Alfa? I’m sure she’s here somewhere – the female with that silly little brat of a child. The woman will know the truth.”
Bertie sighed and looked away. Personally, I was wondering if I could push Montague out somewhere, he’d be sure to catch the plague – miasma or not.
“Ignore Montague,” said Edna sharply. “What we need is someone who understands rats.”
“Rats don’t understand rats,” sniffed Mandrake.
“Go call the wedgies with a didgeridoo,” squawked Twizzle.
It was actually Issa who piped up from the kitchen. “Did a big hole outside here. The other end of Kettle Lane. Make a laneway going down. Fill it with rat food. They eat everything. When they’re all in there, make magic to kill the fleas. Then put a lid on the hole and don’t let them out until we know Tickwick is all clear.”
Three
“I can’t wait any longer,” said Whistle. “I’ve got the scent. I’ve been there, and I’m all excited. But I need someone properly alive. Being a squirrel or a snake or a wispy cloud is a definite handicap.”
I had flopped. Even at the age of twenty-five, younger than the others except Sym and Fanny, I found that using a hefty amount of magic was definitely more exhausting than normal hard work. I sighed at Whistle. “We agreed three days,” I said. “No more, I promise. But I’ve only had one day so far.”
“Seems more like ten days,” the squirrel moaned, combing his tail with his claws. “I suppose passing time isn’t the same when you’re dead.”
“I wish I could feel that way myself,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”
“You need to drink out of my silver cup more often,” sniffed the squirrel. “That’ll wake you up.”
Now that was a good idea. “True,” I said. “I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow we’ll be at Stonehenge,” he corrected me.
I was in the middle of shaking my head when Whistle jumped off my shoulder, presumably took pity on me and said he’d be back in the morning.
I slept like a bubble myself, peaceful and floating, and woke feeling considerably better, the night’s rest having donated the necessary rehabilitation to my magical inner source.
Already the squirrel was hopping up and down like an excited mouse, and I was in the middle of explaining to him this was still only the third day, when Peg trudged in with a disgruntled expression. “Humans,” she grumbled, “never appreciate what they’re given.”
“What have they done now?” I asked. “Not broken our bubble?”
“They’re far too stupid to manage that,” said Peg, her nose dripping as usual. “But one or two of them wanted to leave for some ridiculous visit or other, and they couldn’t get out, of course, so they’ve started a panic. There are people throwing stones and others sitting and crying about long-lost mothers, and some charging backwards and forwards and giving themselves headaches.”
“I have to drink some water,” I said. “Then we’ll go down to the village and see what we can do.”
Only Peg had the slightest idea why I would need to drink water first, but I pulled out the silver cup, filled it and drank. It really gave the most glorious rush of energetic exuberance, so I flitted off with Peg, Edna and Bertie to see what we could do to calm down the village.
Just as well Bertie and Angdar had realised the obvious sense of having our bubble open at the top. Now we could still have rain, bats, birds, and flying witches. Most sensible. Being mid to late autumn, there was no problem with flies, midges, wasps or bees.
The only remaining problem was the humans.
The principal chaos drifted over from the vicinity of Alid and Joan’s farm, where we’d erected one of the outer edges of our bubble. We plodded on, no longer able to fly. We heard the crowd before we could see them, but when we saw them it didn’t help. On the country lane leading past the farm, milled a pushing and shouting mob, all blaming each other, blaming Alid, or blaming the local priest.
Alid was there, yelling his head off, and Joan, large with child, was hiding behind him. Bertie was the first to elbow his way through, while Peg, Edna and I all scurried after.
“What’s the matter?” roared Bertie.
I hadn’t noticed Dickon the sheriff amongst the thrusting and complaining, but now, recognising me, he popped up at my shoulder. “Glad to see you, Mistress Rosie,” he said. “We’ve discovered something most alarming. In odd places around the edges of our village, there seem to be walls we can’t see, but they stop us leaving. We can’t get any further along this laneway, for instance.”
“Does it matter?” I asked rather stupidly. “No one here ever likes to leave, do they?”
“True enough,” said Dickon. “We don’t like to be faced by foreigners from other villages. But this started with Will Bloggist. He has a sick old mother in Credition on Marsh, and he reckoned it was time to visit her. It’s a long trudge, so he hired a horse and cart, but even the horse couldn’t get through. It got upset and started kicking and snorting, and so we all heard the noise and came running.”
Luckily Edna had an idea and interrupted my stammers. “I would suggest,” she raised her voice over the rumpus, “that this may be a gracious and loving protection from your priest and the church.”
“Father George isn’t that clever,” someone objected. “Yes, a good man. But make a wall you can’t see? No way.”
“Why?” demanded someone else.
I said quickly, “There’s a terrible outbreak of the plague miasma in Tickwick Village. I think this is a wall of cleansing miasma to keep the plague out.”
Rollo, a young man I remembered from the tavern when I fell over once and landed on his lap, walked up. I also had a vague recollection of meeting him when I was a kid, but I couldn’t be sure. “I don’t believe in that miasma stuff,” he told me. “It’s washing we should be doing. Wash hands when we eat. Wash faces before bed. Wash all over every month. And when ‘tis some deadly disease that threatens, wash every week.”
I was quite impressed, but I knew this was also incorrect. “Well, I know there’s an outbreak a few miles from here, and I think this bubble thing is here to protect us. It covers The Rookery too. The wall comes to the end of Kettle Lane.”
“And what about me mum?” wailed the stout man sitting on his horse drawn cart.
“She doesn’t live in Tickwick, does she?” I asked.
“No, my mum lives in Credition on Marsh,” he said, patting his horse’s rump. “I don’t reckon she’s sick wiv the plague. But she ain’t a well woman neither. I reckon ‘tis marsh fever.”
I honestly didn’t know what to do. This time it was Bertie who helped. “Come with me,” he told Will and the horse. “I know another way out.” He hopped up beside the man and took over the reins, quickly disappearing back the way we’d come. I saw him turn and guessed what he was up to. Then I turned back to the crowd. Edna was already speaking.
“This is an act of kindness and protection,” she said with firm conviction. Well, yes, actually it was. “It is also a protection which no one here could know how to do,” she continued. “An invisible wall? And all around the whole village? It must be one of the great archbishops somewhere, or the great Lord Himself.”
A hush of considerable awe fell like – well – a miasma, all around us. Silence. One of two villagers bent to their knees and put their hands together, thanking the generosity and kindness of their Protector.
“But wot about Upper Piddleton?” demanded one man. “That’s wot’s the nearest to us, and it might catch wot we don’t.”
“It’s a punishment from the Lord,” insisted another man. “If they get it, then they deserve it. But this tells us we’re good folk and better than the Upper Piddleton lot.”
“What about the Tickwick folk?” asked an old woman. “I had a sister used to live there, though she don’t know more. I went there mighty often. They seemed like good gents.”
“But how long ago was that?” asked someone else. “Perhaps the good ones have left, like your sister.”
This seemed to satisfy most of the crowd, who considered it logical.
I waved to Alid and Joan, said goodbye to Dickon, and started walking back to The Rookery where I met Bertie coming down Kettle Lane.
“That was a nuisance, and I won’t be doing it again,” he said. “I had to take that fellow to a part of our bubble where no one else could see us, make a temporary hole for the horse and cart to drive through, and then sew the bubble back up again. It was quite a job on my own.”
I sympathised. “Now for the rat cage,” I sighed. “I liked Angdar’s suggestion, but it’ll take some sorting.”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Bertie.
Although I was about to agree, I quickly remembered Whistle saying the same thing. “No.” I shook my head. “I go off with Whistle tomorrow. It has to be this evening. It’s probably only dinner time, but you go to bed, if you need to. I’ll work with Edna and Peg, and maybe Butterfield.”
“How about just letting the rats live their usual life?” Bertie said. “I don’t remember you worrying about rats before.”
“I should have,” I decided. “And now you’ve explained how the plague comes, and kills even more rats than people, I have to try and help.”
Bertie admitted it was too early for bed, and eating a delicious dinner gave him back his strength. So it was Peg, Edna, Maggs, Bertie and myself who sat in a circle on the grass outside the new cottage and arranged what exactly we needed to be doing.
“I had a lovely cousin and her husband with her seven children,” Maggs said sadly. “And they all caught that horrible Black Death a few years ago. I didn’t dare go and help, but it sounded terrible.” She hung her head and sniffed. “They all died, every one. And there’s no way they were bad people needing punishment. They were lovely folk, each and every one. And the little one, he was only six months old. How could a six-month baby be wicked?”
“The plague has nothing to do with punishment,” I said. “It’s a disease carried by fleas to rats, and from rats to people.”
“From fleas to people,” muttered Bertie. “And we can save our village.”
“And us,” said Sym’s father. “We do thank you for it. If we’d stayed in Tickwick, we’d have got it, that I’m sure.”
“Can’t you wizardy people take it away?” asked Maggs hopefully.
“Even wizards can’t do everything.” I smiled at her. “But now we have to stop the rats. And protect them too.” When she stared at me as if I was more crazed than magic, I added in a hurry, “Well, if we stop them getting those fleas that kill them, they can’t pass on the fleas to anyone else, can they?”
“We’ll save the rats and kill the fleas,” said Peg with a reassuring grin as she wiped her nose on her skirt.
“I can tell you,” Maggs said, “rats eat fruit and insects and bits and pieces of everything. Those naughty little black things. They’ll creep up to your attic to have their babies, and run down in the night to pinch whatever food you got left.”
“Thank you,” I told her. “That’s a big help.”
“Alright, I’m ready,” said Bertie. “Call for your spades, ladies. The longer we leave it, the more folk die.”
We made quite a large crowd in the end, with Maggs coming along. Two wizards, four witches and a female human. What more could you ask?
Bertie cut open the bubble for us, as he had done the day before, and we helped him sew it up again. The plague rushing in during the hour we’d need, would have been horribly stupid. Once we were sure the open-topped bubble was secure, we travelled on some distance until we came to an open field, trees grouped on the far side, not belonging to any farm or any household. We stopped here, agreeing it was the ideal spot, and sat down to summon the magical concentration.
Magic took effort. Concentration. Talent. Brain muscle. And determination. But to Maggs I wagered it seemed as though no effort at all was involved. We summoned our large scoop
ed spades, and told them to keep going until we gave the sign to stop.
The hole was deep but not excessive, wide and long and roughly circular, and the sides were even, steep and flat.
It was Edna and Butterfield together who developed another bubble between them, arranging it over the sides, over the bottom, where the ground was a little muddy, and up over the top. There was just one small gateway. Here, it led to a very narrow path which started in the grass, where we were all now sitting, and tunnelled down to the hole itself. We then ordered our spades to cover over the top with a good layer of earth laying over the bubble’s invisible ceiling. That was it.
“Now for the food, the enticing spell, and the magic to kill the fleas.”
Four
Great piles of fruit were conjured, already chopped, and told to lie around the walls. We also shoved in some manifested beetles, worms, flies and other insects, none of which were real, but all of which would taste delicious to a rat.
We conjured a very clever –I did it so of course I thought it was clever – source of fresh clean water. It was a permanent puddle in one small spot by the far wall, and it was ordered to replenish every single day, never to run dry.
“What else?” I asked, “Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s big enough for four or five hundred rats,” nodded Edna.
“Personally,” Peg added, “I think we need two of these. The rats will come running.”
Butterfield agreed. “Sorry. But she’s right. If we put on a spell to invite them in, they’ll be coming here from far and wide.”
“Oh dear.”
We did it all again. Once more we packed in fruit and insects, and made sure the base was warm and comfy, even a little soft for comfy rat-sleeping. The water supply was repeated, and the way in was engineered so that once in, they stayed in. No way out. Something else I considered very clever, but this time it was Edna and Peg who fixed it up. The way in was constantly welcoming. The way out was constantly impassable.