by B G Denvil
“And changing Godwin’s identity? Is that fair?”
“Fair is not a choice,” the cup said in a smug voice. “This human has been forced through the turmoil of death and believing himself dead for many, many weeks. He will be pleased with freedom, and his identity will mean nothing to him.”
“Is this all the work of Alice Scaramouch? Helped and inspired by the Shadow Magic?’
“Yes, indeed. And other situations which will come, as well as those not yet discovered.”
I swore under my breath. “I think maybe we should change our previous idea, and go and stop her now.” Then I paused, shaking my head. “But maybe we should do this first.” Oswald was asleep under my chin as usual, but I felt the ruby shiver. “What’s wrong?” I asked, slightly worried.
Oswald hiccupped. “Can’t kill Alice from the past,” he reminded me, “since she wasn’t dead back then. Can only stomp on Troilus beetle.”
“Very well,” I said. “But I can certainly go and see her and stop whatever she thinks she can do to hurt us.”
Peg and Edna were impatient. “Which to start with?”
“Rollo,” I suggested. “He’ll be the easiest.”
The three of us held hands over the prone body on the bed. It wasn’t difficult, but it wasn’t quick either.
Rollo blinked several times, and then promptly fell dead again. We tried again and repeated three times in unison, “Acknowledge life. You live, you breathe, your heart beats and your brain thinks. See. Hear. Move. Feel. Breathe.”
After the usual repetition and a short wait, we saw him breathing. This was quite exciting. Well, it felt as if we were bringing the dead back to life, although we knew he’d only been half dead anyway.
The final spell included Alice’s spell broken.
“You remain entrapped. Breathe out the sour words of entrapment.” Everything was said slowly, patiently, and with the three of us repeating the same words as though in a chant. “You live. Recognise your life. You live. Recognise your life. You live. Recognise your life. Tunnusta elämäsi. Breathe, cleave, you are freed, this is no time to leave.” And then, very, very loudly, “Wake and live.”
Yes, all that fuss and bother worked. It had been long winded but easy enough. It was, however, important the living man remembered himself, his skills, if he had any, his desires, apart from getting partially paralysed in the tavern, with his friends.
It was strange to watch him. He opened his eyes wide, breathed very deeply indeed, stretched and looked around. He vaguely recognised me, but it certainly wasn’t a vibrant awakening.
“What’s your name?” Edna asked him.
“Um! Rollo something. Rollo Snoop. Live in Little Piddleton. Where am I? Was there an accident?” Then he suddenly jerked upwards. “There was the plague. I didn’t catch that, did I? But I’m alive. I feel alive.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Peg.
“Yes, you are definitely alive,” I told him. “And it seems your memories are coming back. You were – knocked unconscious. Just a mild accident. Now I’ll give you a drink for energy and take you out to Kettle Lane. You can walk very slowly home.”
Edna conjured the drink, which was only ale, but contained three very standard spells for health, energy and determination. She added a dose of happiness to start him off.
Then I walked with him, as quickly as possible so as not to meet up with anyone flying along the way, and showed him the way out onto Kettle Lane.
He scratched his head as I pointed the direction for him to aim towards the village. “You’re a healer?” he asked. “I must thank you. Many thanks. I mean, am I cured of something? And – how much? I’ve got some coin at home.”
“No and no,” I said. “This is The Rookery, a home for the old and needy. We found you, so automatically helped you back to health. No trouble. No cost.” I paused a moment, then said, “But perhaps you shouldn’t go to the tavern for a week or so.”
He stared. “Don’t I know you?”
“In the tavern, perhaps,” I admitted. “I remember you from my childhood – I think.”
He frowned, nodded, tried to remember but then gave up, thanked me and walked on. I watched him go until he disappeared into the mist.
Back in our own grounds as I walked to the new cottage, I bumped into Angdar. Actually it wasn’t a ‘bump into’ – it was more of a ‘being jumped on top of,’ and his usual good humour had turned to ecstasy. He clutched my arm and grinned into my eyes.
“She said yes.”
I congratulated him. “And how do Vikings marry?” I asked. “Nothing too peculiar, I hope.”
“We just say it.” He seemed bemused.
“A hand-fasting?” I was pleased. I’d had enough of pretending while in the church, and this wasn’t just wizard marrying a human, it was witch marrying a dead human. “Ah well, all’s fair in love and war, they say.”
Once back in the cottage I looked down at Godwin’s slack body on the settle, his head half off the cushions, and his feet stuck under the wooden arm. I’d sent him into a deep sleep, but he was certainly breathing. In fact, he was almost snoring with deep little nasal grunts. Edna, Peg and I started that whole business again. Holding hands, speaking together, repeating over and over. But after we’d managed to get half way through, though Godwin was still sleeping, now more peacefully, we began the changes. This involved a whole load of somewhat pointless discussion, but if we didn’t agree ahead of time, we’d all send different changes and he’d end up looking like moss on a thatched roof.
“Your eyes are now larger,” we told the sleeping beast. “Large brown eyes. Although his eyes were shut, we could see this happening beneath. “Your cheekbones longer,” we said several times, and smiled as it changed in front of our own eyes.
We made him considerably taller, which I was sure he’d like, with a smaller nose, which I was sure he’d hate, and a handsome square chin – excellent. We then gave him thick brown hair with a nice shine, and larger, more practical hands. He might even be encouraged to work more this time around.
While we left this new man to continue sleeping, we discussed his identity, and knew it wouldn’t be simple to construct a whole new set of memories out of the air.
Name: Brin Smith.
Age: Thirty years of age on Christmas Eve.
Status: Unmarried, and both parents dead.
Trade: Heavy work on farms and excavation.
Character: Sociable and willing to help.
“Will he ever believe all this rubbish?” I pleaded with Edna.
“If we can really make him believe that’s what he is, he’ll become it,” she insisted. “You convince me I’m only thirty years old, and I’ll start dancing and singing. Not that I can sing. But I might try. But maybe don’t encourage me.”
“Convince this idiot he’s a nice man, and he’ll become one?” Peg said doubtfully. “Surely not. He’ll just expect everyone to like him more than they ever did.”
We even made his ears smaller and his feet larger, and shoved a love of farm animals into his rather squashed little brain. “That way, he might want to work on farms again,” I said. “And he can go back to work with Alid and Joan. He’ll find that faintly familiar which will help.”
We worked on Godwin for hours, and it was deep night when we finished and woke him up. “Hello, Brin,” I said, trying to smile.
He peered back. “Wot?”
“Brin Smith,” I assured him. “You had an accident, but you’re fine now. You must surely want to go home.” He had sat up, but was rubbing his eyes, yawning and clearly didn’t recognise the name Brin.
Peg and Edna tested the rest of his memory. “I likes sheep and cows and goats,” he muttered, as if puzzled to discover such beliefs at the back of his mind. “But I ain’t got nowhere to live.”
I surrendered and gave him a purse half full. “You’ve got plenty of money,” I said, thrusting the little leather sack into his larger than previously hand. “Go to Alid’s
farm, I’m sure you remember it. They’ll let you in, if you say Rosie sent you. You can sleep on their floor by the fire.” We all smiled. “And you’ll be fine.”
Fourteen
Conjuring the monster was a good deal easier than all that dead and alive business we’d achieved the day before. I actually slept in the following morning, and found the huge warmth of Wolf beside me in the bed.
I was thankful at least my donkey didn’t try and get onto bed with me. Dear Donald was extremely comfy in his cosy stable full of frequently replenished food and constantly cleaned water, not to mention the company of his favourite friend, Twizzle, who loved to imitate the call of the kookaburra and squawked constant rubbish.
But Wolf was a persistent companion, and could be useful on a cold night. He was often useful in other ways too.
“The big monsters,” he informed me as I sat making up the appropriate spell, “is not like this happy dog. Them monsters got to look wicked.” I failed to tell him he did still look a little like that. “Make him red or blue,” Wolf advised me. “With very big teeth like carving knives.”
“A good idea. Red, I think.”
He shook his head, which made all that floppy hair shower outwards like a horse’s mane. “Monsters,” continued Wolf, “have no choices. This happy dog was monster.
“My beautiful boy,” I told him, both arms around his neck as I kissed his snout and scratched his ears, “is no monster. My Wolf is beautiful, and I love him very much.”
Wolf licked my face. “Happy I now has choice. Choice is for loving lady mistress.”
Sitting complimenting each other was somewhat distracting. “I need to make a convincing monster,” I said. “I want to frighten the wicked witch.”
We sat together and worked it out. Eventually Edna turned up, and a little later so did Peg. It turned out to be quite fun. And then I thought of something else which should be even more fun.
Alice had never known of my ability to turn into a little white cat. I hadn’t known myself at the time I was her daughter, and it was only the discovery of my early beginnings that had taught me I was actually half cat. Now I could change at will. I didn’t do so often, but I decided now I most certainly would. For as a very small and inconspicuous cat, I could see where and how Alice was living, and watch her reaction when she met with the monster. My idea of fun anyway.
I left Edna and Peg to enjoy dinner with Whistle, and I asked them to check on Maggs, in case she’d heard Godwin was alive again, and then check on Butterfield and Angdar in case he’d thought of something stupid.
Then I wandered out into the garden, preferring not to be watched for some silly reason, stopped in the shadows of the iron gate, and there, I gradually changed. I wanted to keep my changing private, but not because I was ashamed of it in any slightest manner. I adored the change in every tiny squiggly little fibre.
Changing meant condensing so each whisk of white fluff soothed me, my muscles and tendons became vibrating energy. Indeed, the experience of concentrating a large body of enthusiastic energy into a very much smaller space, was almost ecstatic. I buzzed. I had to move, to make the buzz buzzier, and that happened with jumping and skipping in circles. I might be a bit old for a cat, but my cat was never too old for me. Perfumes, sudden movements, the swirl of colour, and every tiny minute noise dazzled in my head – not in confusion – but in delight.
My first movement was, as usual, a leap. And I made that leap as high as I could. My back legs could spring upwards and over, without strain and almost without effort. It symbolised joy.
I leapt the hedge, raced up Kettle Lane, sat a moment – not to catch my breath which was entirely needless – but to groom my tail for balance – raced across the green – saw Bob emptying the chamber pot onto the bank outside the tavern, but naturally he thought himself unseen – and headed for Trout Farm.
Having decided to avoid Alid and Joan, I skirted the hedges separating the fields, keeping well away from the main house. I jumped some hedges, squeezed through others and investigated every shed, barn and storage shelter. I did not find Alice for some time.
The weather was oozing anticipation, that knowledge that the sky gathers energy before explosions of lightning and thunder. Already the clouds were black. Grey had darkened into absolute doom, and the threat was imminent.
Two fields held sheep, and they already clustered together beneath the trees, I hoped their woolly coats would keep them warm. My fluffy coat kept me warm. It would not, however, keep me dry if I was caught in a storm. It was coming. I heard thunder rumbling from some distance, and that told me to hurry inside.
There were two large barns within a hop and scuttle, and both seemed well occupied. I heard the cattle type complaints and a squeak of piglets. As the first huge drops of rain pounded down on me, I stopped and asked for one moment of magic. Which barn. Then I knew, and ran for it.
The closed door did not matter. As a creature without humanity’s limits, I scaled the outer wall’s wooden planks, digging in claws and using the initial push, I sat on the angled wedge of thatch on the roof, discovered the space beneath and silently pushed my way through. The loft was piled with hay, almost half the storey reached by a ladder but inaccessible to the animals below.
One cow sat, and beside stood another, munching at the dribbles of hay and straw which had drifted down from where I sat. Another smaller and younger picture of bovine contentment stood against the other wall—eyes open but half asleep. A large mother pig seemed equally content, stretched out on her side suckling her five little piglets, five bundles of avid pink hunger, as sweet as any kitten.
And partially below the piled platform where I waited, watching, sat my adopted mother in her original form. Alice had either plundered or conjured a comfortable chair of basket weave, cushioned in sheep shearing cuddles. No doubt as warm and as comfortable as any other more luxurious covering. There she sat, eyes firmly closed, dreaming up her next attack on me, no doubt, and on anyone I liked, or on anything else which seemed attractive to her. On her lap, was a thimble, far too tiny for a cup, but in the same shape, and as bright as any scarlet cinnabar stone could be.
I stared at it in horror. How could the woman who had once tucked me into bed, now adore the shadow side? She disgusted me, but I didn’t move. The hay where I sat would easily shift and fall. Staring at this thing on her lap, I watched Alice summon power and design her next packet of cruelty.
She slipped the thimble onto her finger, and at once I felt a strange tingle beneath my kitten’s chin. Where I had a small ruby hat pin, which was pinned to my fur. And now it was very much awake. Not speaking aloud, naturally, but I felt the pinch.
Alice was mumbling, tapping the tumbled finger into the palm of her other hand. A tiny fizzle of red spark dodged from between her fingers.
Whatever nasty ideas she had, I couldn’t hear them or read them, but I decided it was time I interrupted. Carefully settling myself within the bulk of hay, I summoned my first monster. As soon as I heard the arrival, I summoned the second. With excellent timing, the storm burst outside.
Already the rain was heavy, but sank on the thatch and made little sound. But the first sprig of bursting lightning crashed close to the barn. The piglets stopped suckling and rushed beneath their mother’s bulk. All three cows shivered, and their multiple stomachs rumbled like thunder. Then the real thunder tumbled like the fall of a forest.
Alice paused, catching her breath. What a convenient weather pattern, kindly providing exactly what I needed.
The barn doors, already battered by rain, swung open with appropriate suddenness, and applicable drama.
Alice stood in alarm, dropping both the thimble and her confidence.
The monster came first, and the ghost second. The monster was bull sized, bounded on its back legs, and snarled. It was as red as her thimble, and as it snarled, its teeth stretched out dripping red blood. The teeth were fire. Actual flames, flaring and crackling within their shape. The eyes were blac
k. Its cloven hooves, both upper legs raised, slashed down towards Alice who fell back towards the terrified pig and her babies.
I actually felt quite guilty, poor little things. But I wasn’t sure how to soothe them, nor the three cows who looked ready to collapse.
The monster stood before Alice, and grew. As it reared, its great tufted ears flicked the roof. And then, as it seemed prepared to crash down onto Alice below, another creature, very different, slid into the barn’s doorway.
This was black and hard to see with any clarity. It swam, veered and swirled. Blurring its own shape and whatever lay behind it, the ghost figure began to sway, circling as it chanted softly in a nasal slur. The words meant nothing, since I had made them up myself, but I was quite pleased with the achievement, since the chanting sounded threatening—evil, profane and meaningful.
It wasn’t actually any of those things, but Alice shrank back with eyes staring in absolute terror.
Then my black menace and my scarlet monster saw each other and leapt into furious contact. I could almost hear Alice’s heartbeat pumping.
Black translucent hands gripped the monster’s neck, and fingernails like swords ripped into the scarlet skin. But teeth made of fire sank into the black swirls, and the ghost fell in tatters. The monster leapt on its fallen prey and began to eat the shredded pieces. Alice screamed.
One of the cows hurtled against one wall which tumbled outwards in splinters. The cow galloped into the rain, followed immediately by the two others. The pig and its litter remained cowering in the corner, squeaking tiny plaintive noises of desperate fear.
Alice ran. I immediately banished my two revolting creations, and the pig stared around, wondering if it was seeing visions or going mad. Mad pigs seemed a reasonable possibility. But Alice couldn’t fly, and was running in panic, her raggedy skirts now soaked and falling heavy against her legs, her hair clinging to her head and neck, water sluicing her and pelting harder than she pelted herself, desperate to get as far away from monsters as she could.