by B G Denvil
Glaringly scarlet, this was three or four times larger than the silver token Whistle had made. It seemed heavy, studded and engraved, and the holes across its mushroom top were each shaped like mouths with reaching teeth. Yet it was almost hidden by smoke and flame which blew out constantly from those mouths, symbolising its spots.
The creature carrying it with such pride was as ugly as I could imagine, with flaming drool dripping from his eyes, nose and mouth; his hands were claws, and his bare feet were thumping red veined stones. He swallowed back the smoke and flames and supported the red toadstool as though it was a trophy, or perhaps an award.
The ultimate parasite. It smelled so vile, I collapsed on the grass and vomited.
Yet when I woke, I didn’t feel sick. I understood a great deal, and Whistle had probably understood even more. Moments later Edna and Peg woke, and even Wolf rolled over with a cheerful snort.
“It’s the first of November, and I’ve had the strangest, the most beautiful, and yet the most repulsive and the most important dream of my life,” I said.
And Whistle asked, “You want to go home?”
Peg nodded at once. “Now I understand the necessity of opposites and the need for extremes,” she said. “But I don’t think I’m capable of learning anything else just yet.”
Wolf said, “Woof,” and I agreed.
Only Edna disagreed. “Home then,” she accepted. “But surely we must come back one day. If no one else wants to, then I shall come on my own. This has given me insight I never thought possible. It hasn’t just opened my eyes. It has given me brand new eyes.”
“I shall be coming back,” Whistle said, “and not too far into the future.”
“I may come with you,” I said softly. “It depends what happens in the meantime.”
We all felt faintly pathetic for giving up so quickly, but it was only Whistle who seemed regretful. Even Edna felt she needed some days before facing that again. I leant her my apron, and Whistle hopped into the pocket, whilst I designed a harness with a wide sling in which I could carry the considerable weight of dear Wolf, and after we had cleaned up and made every minute trace of our visit disappear, we all whizzed back to The Rookery and its welcoming warmth.
Most were glad to see us back, and hurled themselves on us, either asking endless questions concerning what we had seen and done, or spent a garbled half hour telling us what had been happening in Piddleton with the villagers and the rats.
“What has it been like?”
“They wanted church, but the priest had gone out of the village to see Father Combustion, and of course he couldn’t get back in.”
“You actually saw the red toadstool? Did you touch it?”
“Don’t say you had to drink from the spoon?”
“And when Bertie let Father George back in, he said he’d heard the squeaking and scratching of a thousand rats under his feet.”
And I am even more ashamed to say I ignored the lot of them, and promptly went to bed.
Nor did I dream. Shocking but sweet.
St Victorinus Day, the second of November, and I woke in blissful comfort. Wolf was cuddled at my back, half under the eiderdown, and snoring in my ear. I rolled reluctantly from my bed, decided I had slept almost fourteen hours, and had to move myself. I clicked my fingers for a warm woolly high necked gown and cosy slippers and pottered into the dining room for breakfast, only to be told that breakfast had finished two hours ago. I went looking for Edna and Peg, woke Peg up and said she’d slept for three days, and found Edna in the great hall, sitting by the fire and talking to Whistle.
“Are you telling me,” Edna was saying, “that good couldn’t be as good as it is, if there wasn’t the shadow side?”
“Not entirely,” said the squirrel. “In our generally alive countries, the inhabitants mustn’t be rotten. That could infect others, just like the plague. People need to be growing, learning and improving, without being tempted into some sort of horrendous swamp which will drown not only them, but their essences too.”
I squashed in beside Edna. “But what if they’re tempted in the opposite direction and become – well – humanely wonderful – whatever that might involve.”
“Plenty do,” Whistle said. “But then they don’t need to be alive. It would be like insisting on sending your sons to school, even after they know everything, far more than their teachers. Anyone that good just floats on up to the High Court and stays there.”
“You mean humans as well as us?”
Whistle shook his head. “I can’t be sure. There might be two separate courts, but it hardly matters. That’s the general idea.”
“And the really bad ought to mind its own business and stay off our world,” added Edna. “But they’re cheating, and using the symbols of greed and vice, they come down to tempt the wizards and witches, and I suppose the humans too.”
“At least they’ve lost the red cup,” I sighed.
“But we need to get the other two,” said Whistle. “Or we’ll see worse than the plague in attack.”
“Which reminds me—” I said.
But then Twizzle flew in with a screech of delight, and landed on Edna’s shoulder, pecking at her ear and teasing her crimson curls.
“Strewth,” squawked Twizzle. “The sheila’s back. Bloody ripper.”
But Twizzle did not accompany us when we trotted down Kettle Lane in the opposite direction to the village. We were off to visit the rats. Bertie came with us, but I left Wolf with Fanny. He snuffled but accepted when I promised I’d be back in an hour.
Arriving at the spot with all that squeaking underfoot, we whipped off the covering. This startled the rats, but they were too busy being well fed to take too much notice. It was, however, too soon to let them free.
“But we don’t need to wash them anymore,” said Bertie with considerable determination. They’ve lost all those fleas in the last two washes I’ve given them; you can see that’s true simply because they’re all alive.”
I accepted his logic, so we stuffed in some more conjured food, clean water and straw to keep them warm, then plastered back the lid. “But what about the village?” I said.
“Come along then, and we’ll see,” Bertie answered.
Instead of cutting our way through the Piddleton bubble, we flew over and landed in the least discernible spot we could find, out near Alid’s farm. Hoping he wouldn’t see us flying down, we landed beside his fields, and began walking into the village centre. No one seemed any more crazed than usual, so we turned happily towards the Juggler and Goat. Bertie, Edna, Peg and I all enjoyed the tavern. It was the obvious meeting place, apart from the church and the Friday market, so we slipped in and found our favourite corner table empty. We sat down quickly and let Bertie hail the owner for our drinks.
Bob hurried over, but he had more to say than just, ‘Yes, back in a moment’, since evidently some interesting and unexpected events had been surprising the Piddleton residents.
“But,” I said quickly, “no terrible deaths? No plague?”
“Oh, goodness no,” Bob assured me. “We’ve heard of dreadfully shocking deaths in most of the villages nearby, but we’ve been saved. It’s a miracle, a real positive miracle, and we’ll never stop thanking the Lord. But I must tell you we’ve had some very peculiar days as well. How long have you been gone, Mistress Rosie? I reckon I’ll have a lot to tell you.”
Eight
I related Bob’s stories to Maggs the following day. Although human and officially married to Mandrake in the Piddleton church, and with the full – or let’s say almost full – understanding of what we are and what her husband can do – Maggs still liked to visit her brother and sister-in-law, and spend some time with her family.
There were unpleasant memories going back to the day she was pushed into an arranged marriage with Godwin Trout, who abused her in every way he could think of. But he died, which he probably should have done sooner. Though, and this puzzle had remained for some time, no one seemed
to know how Godwin died or who had killed him.
There were now several versions amongst the village folk, all entirely different. Little Piddleton residents had a habit of remembering what they wanted to remember, and allowing it to float around and alter over time. Yet not only Maggs was concerned, since this had been her husband, however much she had loathed him, but she had been arrested for murder herself at the time.
My own initial interest had been wiped out by everything else which had occurred since, but now one of Bob’s stories had brought the puzzle back to me. I trotted over to the cottage I had built for Maggs on our grounds, and sat comfortably on the big squashy chair I had conjured up myself.
A cup of ale was thrust into my hands. “Sorry,” said Maggs. “It’s just the real thing. Mandrake isn’t here to create something more exciting.”
“Ale is ale,” I smiled, “whether real or conjured. And this is great. But I have a funny story to tell you.”
“Good. I need cheering up,” she told me.
But I hadn’t meant that sort of funny. “A strange story which won’t cheer you up at all,” I told her. “I popped into the Juggler yesterday, and Bob told me how they’ve been coping since we locked them down, without them knowing, of course. Most really were funny. Go to the tavern, if you want cheering up, and Bob will have you laughing without doubt. But one of the things he told me was very weird. Lots of the villagers saw Godwin.”
Maggs jerked upwards with a splutter of ale. “Saw him. How?”
“Well,” I said, “we never did find out how he was killed, and we never actually knew anything about his funeral. It was all so odd, but you were so happy with Mandrake, we all chose to forget about Godwin.” I waited, then said in a hurry, “You haven’t quarrelled with Mandrake, have you?”
“Oh, definitely not,” Maggs brightened up. “I’m just hoping I’m going to have a baby, but it never happens. Mandrake said he might be able to find a spell, but I don’t want that. I want it in the normal way.”
“It hasn’t been long,” I pointed out.
“Every day seems like a month. But what’s this about horrible Godwin?”
“Bob said he went down to his own cellar for more barrels, and there was Godwin, sitting on an open keg. Bob was quite scared, because he thought it had to be a ghost, so he ran back upstairs. But as he ran, he could hear Godwin calling, ‘You killed me. Bob, you’re a killer.’ Anyway, Bob thought it must have been his own imagination, but later on he heard other village folk saying they’d experienced exactly the same thing.”
“Who?” asked Maggs. “I often wondered if it was Dickon. Or maybe my brother or even Joan. But never Bob.”
“Evidently Dickon had the same shock, and got so upset he had to go to church and sit there for a day and a night, asking forgiveness and trying to remember the truth. Maybe Alid and Joan did too, but they never mentioned it to Bob. They hardly ever go to the tavern anyway.”
“Well, thank the Lord,” Maggs murmured, “Godwin never came back to accuse me.”
“Nor me,” I said. “But he did to Rollo and Rollo’s friend Martin, and he did to three or four market folk, and others as well.” I paused, then asked her, “How many different stories did you hear when it actually happened?”
Maggs shook her head. “I hate even thinking about it.”
“But I think this matters,” I insisted. “It was never sorted at the time, but that was when everyone was going crazy anyway.”
“And I was more interested in just escaping.”
“I remember three versions,” I prompted her. “Number one, Godwin was seen dying in Dickon’s arms on the road just outside your house.”
“I sold that house.”
“Yes, I know, but that doesn’t matter. Number two, that he was discovered on the same road, already dead, no blood, just as you came back from the market with two bags of shopping.” She nodded, and I continued. “Number three, he was found inside your house, already dead, just lying peacefully.”
“True,” Maggs said. “But I think people just got muddled. And the trouble is, now I can’t remember who said what. It’s as if the confusion was like smoke blowing in our eyes, and I don’t even feel sure of what I saw myself. Must I try and remember?”
“I suppose not,” I said, “but it sounds as if Godwin himself doesn’t know, and is trying to find out. And if he keeps on, it could be a really upsetting situation.”
“He’s a ghost?” Maggs shivered. “It sounds like I’ll never get rid of him, even now he’s dead.”
“Oh, we’ll get rid of him,” I assured her, “but it might mean discovering the truth first. And what with all the really weird experiences we had at Stonehenge, and the danger of the plague all around us, it’s certainly a very difficult time.”
“And me wanting a baby.”
I must admit that particular problem hadn’t seemed that important to me. They hadn’t been married long, but of course Maggs didn’t know Mandrake was around two hundred years old. But she’d never had children with Godwin either, so probably she was frightened she was barren. I patted her shoulder. “Not the best time for babies anyway,” I pointed out, “just enjoy your early months of marriage.”
“Well, if Godwin dares to visit me,” Maggs replied, “I shall hit him over the head with my new shoes. Ghosts can’t fight back, can they?”
“Umm,” I said with a carefully vague assurance, “no, not usually.”
Accepting this rather pointless pronouncement, Maggs asked me about the more enjoyable stories Bob had told me. I told her about Father George having been out visiting another village when we put up the bubbles, so when he came home the next day, he walked head first into the invisible screen, and rebounded with a backwards tumble. He sat there shouting, and then ended up crying. He must have felt so rejected. Finally, along came a couple of villagers, and they all fumbled around, trying to find a hole. Eventually Bertie heard about it, and turned up to help.”
Now giggling, Maggs cheered up.
“But the Great Killer hasn’t come to us,” Bob had repeated to me. And quite rightly the people had some idea they were being protected, and were therefore spending a great deal of time in church, being very loudly thankful. Father George, aware that at first, he had been rejected, later entered the safe haven thanks to Bertie, who never went to church, was grateful, puzzled, and equally troubled. One day he pottered down to The Rookery to find Bertie and thank him again, but that frightened the wits out of all our witches and wizards who didn’t like the idea of being seen by a priest, so Bertie had to walk back to the village with him.
I flopped a lot. What a bad habit for a young, healthy grade ninety-eight witch, owner and controller of a huge property.
Godwin coming back when we were trying to sort out the secrets of Stonehenge, the secrets of the plague, protecting men, women, children and rats, which were not our normal pastime I might add, as well as the unexpected three quite new human additions to our residents, one of which was a ghost, was bad timing indeed.
A thriving donkey, an eccentric parrot, and a somewhat monstrous hound were also now new companions, not to mention Whistle the squirrel. What’s more, for the first time since my birth, there were romances developing, one sealed, and two more getting close. Fanny and Harry were somewhat mismatched, but were clearly in love. Butterfield and the Nordic ghost, Angdar, were even more mismatched, but it was probably exactly that which appealed to them.
It was the first time since I was old enough to remember, that such unexpected eccentricity had coloured The Rookery, and lo and behold, exactly at the time I had taken over running the place.
Some cheered me for it. Others did not.
At least I hadn’t seen my adopted mother lately, and hoped she had scuttled far, far away.
Angdar was dancing. He loved to beat a rhythm and move to it, stamping feet, kicking high, and whirling, arms out stretched. We often watched him, clapping to his own chosen beat. Butterfield was always enthusiastic, and e
ither sat clapping and stamping while watching with delight, but sometimes he grabbed her arm and swirled her around with him. This was so unlike the type of dancing popular amongst all the folk of our time, I quite enjoyed watching as well, and two or three times had even joined in. But quite suddenly this time I realised he was fading. Butterfield had jumped up too, calling urgently to him and trying to grab his disappearing hands.
The sound of his cheerful voice echoed back to us while we saw a shimmering outline of where he had been. Butterfield gazed around in panic, running in one direction and then in another. Finally, she sat down and burst into tears. I could still hear a faint semblance of his voice, very, very faint but calling desperately, “Butter, my butter, my love—” and then nothing. I nearly burst into tears myself.
But then, tapping both feet but not as deliberately as Angdar had done, I stood, pulled my tangled hair back from my face and crossed my arms.
“That’s enough,” I shouted. “It isn’t right and it isn’t fair. We have to sort this out, and we have to become masters of The Rookery again. Everything has been utterly chaotic for the last month. And now our good friend Angdar completely disappears for no apparent reason. The time has come.”
“What for?” asked Fanny in obvious fear of what I might say next.
“We’re being messed about,” I said. “First, there’s the plague. But do we even know if it’s really happening out there in other villages. Yes, Sym, I know you said it was in your village, and two people had died, but you all left immediately so you can’t even be sure what happened afterwards. It might have been influenza or something else. Number two, all that shadow power at Stonehenge.”
“No need to continue,” Bertie said, coming over to my side. “It’s obvious. Someone or something has been causing chaos. And either it’s coming from within our own company, or its being sent from outside.”