by B G Denvil
We still had two other tasks to accomplish. And we certainly needed a rest first. Peg conjured up a light dinner of fruit, which looked exactly like the rats’ food, but instead of insects and worms, for us Peg managed ham, bacon, cheese and piles of hot buttered bread rolls.
Spitting crumbs, we all had ideas about how to tantalise and tempt the rats into our traps. Easy enough. A spell would cover that. Not too strong since we didn’t want to have five thousand rats from all over England, all piling up on top of each other. That was comparatively easy, and Bertie did it quite quickly without needing help.
The next stage was harder. How do you kill fleas but not the animal they’re sitting on?
I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think I had ever been bitten by a flea. Perhaps they didn’t like magic blood. “Anyone know more about fleas?” I asked.
No one wanted to admit it.
“Oh, very well,” said Maggs eventually. “It’s really hard to get rid of them sometimes. They rummage into your bed and stay there. I saw one jump once. A huge jump for a very tiny creature. Being bitten is horrid because it itches for days and days, and if you scratch, which you have to, then it bleeds and get worse.”
“Do they look different when they carry horrid diseases?” asked Butterflied.
Maggs sniggered. “No. Most of the time you can’t see them anyway. Tiny, black specs, like a fleck of dust, but they cuddle inside your clothes, or into an animal’s fur. I hate them. Everyone hates them.”
“I’d wager the rats hate them too,” I said. “Let’s imagine we have these two underground caves with their own baths and dinner tables, and they’re full up with happy rats all munching fruit and caterpillars. But they start to itch. They start to get sick. And they can’t get out because they’re trapped. That’s just wicked.”
“So,” said Bertie, who was clearly enjoying himself every time a new unusual spell was needed, “I shall work on this for the rest of this day. I will try to come up with an answer before tomorrow, when I understand you must leave us, Rosie?”
“Whistle’s plans are too important,” I sighed. “But I do wish I’d asked for more time. I said three days. I should have said four. But I’ll work this afternoon and evening too, and see if I can get something to help.”
I looked at Peg and Edna. “You’ll help?”
“Naturally,” they said together.
“We will be on your doorstep within the hour,” Edna said.
Only Butterfield shook her head. “I’ve promised to go for a long flight with Angdar. He loves it, of course. He’s a bit heavy for me, but I manage. It’s fun. But I’ll see you at supper time, and if you still need help, then I shall come over for the evening.”
Being autumn, it was already getting dark. The moon was clearly eager for an early rise, and spun silver sheen from behind the clouds. I lit the candles, and Peg, Edna and I were seated around the flickering light with our noses in our cups of wine. We had ideas, but nothing secure. Do we entice the rats? Or do we dissuade the fleas? And how do you frighten a flea anyway?
For the very first time now that their isolation was over, Sym and his parents all came to the dining table for supper. By now it was quite dark outside, although the moon did its best to say good evening. But the darkness seemed to be the least of our problems. The entire table appeared to be in an uproar. Not such a great welcome for Bertha, though having Maggs there did help. It was the usual turmoil, which began with Montague arguing with Mandrake. It was also equally normal that both wizards were arguing in complete disregard to the other’s objective.
“Fleas?” Montague objected. “And just why do you think I know anything about fleas?”
Mandrake shrugged. “This has nothing to do with you. We are all discussing fleas in general.”
“General who?” demanded Montague. “I know nothing of fleas. Nor of lice, bed worms, scrummage beetles, nits, gnats, ticks, mites, leeches and bugs. I’ll have you know that your inference is extremely offensive.”
Sighing, I ignored Montague and addressed Butterfield. But she was listening to Montague and suddenly burst out laughing. I turned to Bertha. But somewhat unexpectedly she was giggling too.
Lemony called, “Salmon and haddock, only argue in the paddock.”
Which inspired Twizzle, sitting on Edna’s shoulder, to call, “Don’t spit the dummy, mate.”
I raised an eyebrow at Bertie. He nodded. “I believe I may have the answer,” he said. That was a huge relief.
“Edna and Peg had some ideas,” I told him, “but we aren’t confident.”
“What conference?” Montague demanded. “About me? You want to discuss my fleas behind my back. I’m telling you; I don’t have any.”
“How did you get rid of them?” asked Angdar with a sneaky smile, hands raised as though pleading for the answer.
Montague, taken very much by surprise, said, “Well, I mean, I scrubbed myself with oleander leaves and had a deep bath with soap. I made a large white woolly mat and covered it in sticky sap which caught them and showed them up and then I burned the mat.”
Everyone stared at Montague, either with disgust or with surprise. Bertha clapped her hands loudly. “I’m most impressed. How clever.”
Montague actually smiled.
The conversation, however, moved to rats, and here Montague became more insulted and infuriated, and left the table. It was Bertie who suggested, “Perhaps we can make some use of dear Montague’s habits. We could spray the rats with a mild sticky substance, though not strong enough to stick them to each other, and then after a couple of weeks, we go back and wash them.”
“Individually?”
“I think not, since we might have more than a thousand of them. A deluge of water with some magic involved.” Bertie leaned back, arms crossed.
“But you already had an idea before Montague’s,” I reminded him.
“Pure magic,” he explained, although the explanation was certainly beyond some of us. I only just hung on myself. “First, the ‘up’ magic, repeated six times, which will turn a few of the rats upside down, but shouldn’t hurt them. All fleas, which are weightless, will float up. But the ‘up’ must be limited, otherwise the creatures will jump out and infest other villages.”
Edna frowned. “It’s a one-way tunnel with no way out.”
“The tunnel stops the retreat by weight. Being weightless, many of the fleas could escape.”
“So, then?”
“Once we have all bugs at the level of the roof, we exercise the wind spell, which will capture any last remaining hangers-on. Finally, the death spell, but with careful direction, and limited to creatures only of a certain size blown to the roof.”
“I like that one,” I said, jumping up, probably just like a flea, “it’s the best idea.” Actually, it wasn’t far off the plan Edna, Peg and I had devised, but a little more prepared. “Can we go this evening and see if any rats have turned up? Then, could you do it without me for a few days to sort out the late comers?”
Naturally Bertie agreed, and we all ate blackberry jam tarts and custard with considerable enjoyment.
Cutting and sewing the bubble was once more a trial, but we were delighted to see that a considerable number of rats had answered our call. They were stuffing themselves into the one-way tunnels as we arrived. Several hundred in each cave, but sadly, one little black creature was already lying dead.
The rats within the cave underwent the full treatment devised by Bertie. None of them complained, and they didn’t seem to mind at all. They were too busy eating.
Naturally we saw no streams of dying insects, but we assumed it had worked, and sent in the spell for a quick wash. Many of the rats were somewhat distracted by this unexpected hygiene method, but it didn’t stop them eating.
I suppose we stayed there for roughly two hours, and a few more rats scrambled through the tunnels as we stood there watching.
“This clean out may need to be done every day,” sighed Bertie. “Are you sure it�
�s necessary? The death of a thousand or more little rats might be an excellent improvement for most villages.”
But I could imagine some poor little creature lying panting on its side, eyes glazed, as it died in misery and pain. “No,” I said. “I’m a good witch, and I’m staying that way.”
We tramped home, wary of flying, and I greeted Cabbage and Dodger on arrival back at The Rookery. They were our owls, and we were great friends, but invariably they went out as we came in, which left just enough time for a “Hello again, I hope you’re well.”
And a, “Oh certainly, thank you. Very well indeed. Have a good night.”
Usually the bats had already left in a great dark swarm, silent and impressive as they swept upwards into the darkening sky shortly after sunset.
But now it was very late, so I went to bed pleased with our various methods for keeping safe from the worst disease ever known, and the protecting of Piddleton and the rats. But tomorrow morning I would be flying with a squirrel in my apron pocket, and I was nervous of the dark power resident at Stonehenge.
Five
I woke to a small brown gaze surrounded by reddish fluff.
“Oh bother,” I sighed. “You’re here already.”
“You’ll not get out of it this time,” said Whistle with a voice of deep determination which didn’t fit a squirrel at all.
“I promised, and I keep my promises,” I muttered, wishing I didn’t have to.
I had suggested a few possible companions, but Bertie had to stay, see to the rats and the village – while Butterfield and Angdar spent a considerable time in Piddleton, making sure nobody was badly affected by our bubble enclosure. Uta, Fanny, Harry and even Mandrake and Maggs shared the task, enjoying visits to the Juggler and Goat.
I said a brief goodbye to my various friends, including the donkey, who made funny honking noises in my ear as he snuffled me with love, various crows, bats and owls, even Twizzle who seemed totally unmoved and squawked something about not forgetting my didgeridoo, and she’d send me a koala to keep me warm at night.
Even more than my dearest Donald the donkey, I was sorry to say bye to Wolf, my favourite monster. Wolf was my special darling now, of course he wasn’t a monster anymore. I had to stop calling him that. He licked my face, slobbered over my hands and told me he’d miss me. “This hound is a happy hound,” Wolf informed me. “And this happy hound is thankful to his beloved leader, Rosie the magnificent. To the end of his days, he will love the beautiful Rosie for saving his life and making his life so very happy with snappy happy food and cuddles every day.”
“I won’t be gone too long,” I promised him, meaning it.
“The now tearful dog could run across the country to join the lady he loves,” Wolf suggested.
“No, no,” I said in a hurry. “You need regular food, and that might be hard to find by Stonehenge. And I shall be very busy.”
“Woof. This happy boy dog is not so happy. Woof.”
He was feeling rejected.
“I love you best of all,” I said cheerfully, since I knew my donkey couldn’t understand, especially as I hugged his neck and scratched his whuffly nose. “And, my darling, I promise to be back very soon. Meanwhile you can sleep on my bed, if you like.”
And after all that, I had to say goodbye to myself. With Whistle telling me what to do, I wouldn’t feel like me anymore; I had an idea I’d just be his digger. Squirrels weren’t going to be doing much handy work. I even had to wear my old apron, since that was the only pocket to carry him in.
Thank the merciful moon that both Edna and Peg wanted to come along. “As if we’d leave you to cope all alone with that wretched squirrel,” Peg said as Whistle snickered.
“It will be a most fascinating experience,” added Edna. “I believe I can magic up a decent tent every night. It will be bitterly cold, I imagine. Those big open hills and fields invite the wind, and in late October it won’t be a kind wind. Wrap up warm.”
“What exactly is the date?” I asked. “I can’t remember,”
“The twenty-ninth of October,” Peg told me. “Not that I see why it matters.”
Well, of course it mattered. At our witching hour on the thirty-first of the month was the night of Calanmai, which the church had changed to the celebration of All Hallow’s Eve, to be followed by folk tottering off to family gravesites. “I have to tell Bertie,” I said. “The local people will be trooping to their family’s graves in every nearby church yard.”
“That’ll cheer up the fleas.” Peg was clutching her warmest cloak, which she had just recently double lined in a sort of fur resembling something more like a hedgehog than a rabbit. “Shall I pack a bag? A drinking flask? What about a clean apron, dear?” She was looking at my unclean apron.
“It’s only for carrying Whistle. I’ll chuck it one day.”
“And do you want a turnip for carving a face?” smiled Edna.
“It isn’t funny.” I sniffed. “Calanmai may bring a whole load more ghosts, including some less pleasant than Angdar and Whistle. What do they call it now?”
“Samhain. All Hallow’s Eve. Hallowe’en. And perhaps Stonehenge isn’t the place to be on such a night.”
But Edna grinned. “Sounds specially fascinating to me,” she said. “Come on. Stop packing, Peg. We can produce anything we need once we get there. Not that I know the way. Hopefully someone does.”
“Whistle,” I nodded. “Will lead us the right way while sharpening his claws inside my apron.”
I adored the bite of that sharp wind in my face. It seemed like the most beautiful music. Reborn. Wake up. Remember what life can bring you. I let my eyes water, and my nose felt as moist as Peg’s. My skirts whipped around my legs, sticking to my thighs and blasting into my apron pocket.
“Are you still alive down there?” I asked Whistle.
“It would have been better with doming to snuggle into,” answered the squirrel. “A cushion, perhaps. Or a fur coat.”
“But you already have a fur coat,” I pointed out. “You’re the lucky one.”
“Why not two? A fur coat over a fur coat sounds very pleasant to me.”
“I’ll make one up for next time,” I sighed. “But quick, where do we go next? And you know those little dropping things that squirrels do. I’m not going to find any of them in that pocket afterwards, am I?”
The reply sounded more like a snort, and a particularly haughty one. “I am a ghost,” he said. “Kindly remember that ghosts do not need to leave little droppings.”
The great stones were an amazing sight from above. With the swoop of two ravens across the clouds, and the whistle, not of Whistle, but of the wind across the rise, this place already seemed magical. Edna and Peg, having seen our destination just as clearly, began to descend, and I followed. Our own Whistle was now peeping from the top of my pocket.
“It’s a sad little remainder,” he said, “since originally there were seventy-five great stones, you know. Not all the blue stones from Wales, but several circles, all roofed to enclose the solstice. But we,” he added with such a lack of humour, “are here to explore beneath ground. There are a thousand graves, perhaps more. And more than a thousand spells buried even deeper.”
I knew the risks. We all did.
Those magnificent stones silently slipped their shadows across me as I landed, taking it all in and loving it. Peg had lain down flat on the grass in one of the great shadows, her hands straight out at her sides. Edna, holding her richly feathered and flowered hat to her head, was weaving a twisted path between the stones, whispering to herself. I just stood there, breathing and staring. The wind was singing, the shadows murmured, blending, and the great stones sang. The song was terrifyingly beautiful. But sad, for lost worlds. And threatening. Not everything that had happened here had been kind.
I turned and looked at Peg, and knew she was deep in enchantment. Edna was standing against one of the stones, her hands grasping the edges, and she wasn’t moving. I watched Whistle. He sat in
the exact centre, and he hadn’t moved either.
I wanted to move. I almost wanted to dance. Not really dancing, but turning, twisting, weaving, following what my eyes told me. And yet now my eyes were closed.
Then I realised none of us had designed our own reactions. We were doing what the shadows told us. Shaking my head, biting my lip, I tried to throw off the creeping hands of some other magic holding me. With a very deep breath, I threw off the music, and the enchantment and the spell which held me, and I clapped my hands as loudly as I could.
We woke, every one of us, and I breathed freely again.
“Oh, my mother’s entrails,” Edna gasped. “What happened?”
“I was – taken,” grunted Peg.
“Unacceptable,” I said as loudly as my lungs allowed me. “I refuse to accept the enchantment of another, unless it is a healing spell.”
“But this wasn’t the shadow power,” said Whistle, scampering to my shoulder. “Oh, magical shadows from the stones, yes, indeed. But not the Dark Shadow itself.”
“What is it?” I whispered.
“The old, old haunting,” he told me. “When the first stones stood. Perhaps seven thousand years ago. But the old wizards were not ignorant, and their magic was never simplistic. In two days, you’ll begin to understand. We all will.”
Edna looked at me, and Peg looked at Edna, and I looked at Whistle. Only he had the slightest idea what he was talking about.
“The magic here is actually older than the dark power?”
“Of course,” he said. “Before the good and the wicked were divided.”
Actually, this frightened me. Once again Edna had more sense. “Fascinating,” she said, her eyes sparkling beneath her drooping flowers. “The discovery of good and evil, and the first realisation that there are extremes which either soothe or threaten. But magic has never been the best way to separate them.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Peg at once.
“I was,” said Edna. “But the world still finds the separation difficult to judge. To murder is wicked, we all say. Yet to kill your enemy in battle is courageous and applauded.”