by B G Denvil
“And he’d like plenty of them,” she said, and shrugged. “Blankets, I mean, not beds. I’m happy to share his dream. Being a witch, I know what’s going on around me, whether I’m shut in a box or not.”
“You’ll be wanting your own privy next,” I said.
“No, the privies will be quite close enough thank you.” They could be rather smelly.
My rooms were on the opposite side of the main house, furthest from the privies, but I didn’t admit I had a little secret one of my own tucked in a little corridor off the bedchamber. “But you’ll be on the opposite end to the well,” I reminded her.
She shook her head. “I can make my own water.”
Angdar watched, jumping up and down, grinning, shouting suggestions, clapping hands in excitement and occasionally cheering us on in Norse.
A two-roomed cottage with a wide attic didn’t take long to erect, and most of the extra details could be left to Butterfield anyway. I liked what was appearing, with its upper bedchamber with a lower room for living, the roof was pretty, the attic had an open doorway to welcome the wildlife, and the doorstep was green, to blend with the grass, daisies scattered through the centre.
As Butterfield and Angdar rushed inside their new home to finish the furniture, Bertie turned to me with a sigh. “I wanted to see them happy,” he said, “and it seems they are. But we apparently have a different problem now.” I waited as he paused, almost reluctant. Then he sighed again. “It appears we’ve become extremely popular with the increasingly large number of local rats.”
“Oh.” My fault, of course.
“They assume we’re friends, suppliers of luxury foods and providers of safety and shelter.”
He showed me.
I could hear the squeals of delight and surprise from within the new house, with calls of, “No, that’s not advisable. The roof will fall down.”
“Then put in poles to hold it up. We need beams anyway for the bats to hang from.”
“And another puffy pillow each, wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Are you ever satisfied, my dear? Remember, we’re not married yet.”
But I was staring down at my feet where a large group of rats had settled, nestling cheerfully beside my boots, as if saying good morning.
Butterfield and Angdar’s new home was built near the end of our original house, leading to the hedge dividing The Rookery from public land between us and the village. This was not the rats’ evident direction, and besides, they were far too happily busy to notice anything smaller than a dolphin.
But as I walked back to my own rooms, I was followed by a cheerful trail of small black bodies and a few tiny exhausted big blobs as new baby rats were desperately trying to follow their mothers. The incessant squeaking was certainly an irritation I didn’t feel I could live with for the rest of my life. I looked down at the eager swarm.
“We have owls,” I said. “We have hundreds of crows. Sometimes there are badgers. Even stoats and weasels. We have a very large dog, which used to be a monster and still looks a bit like one. You might be seen by the farmer over the road who won’t like you. I strongly advise you to separate, and go to find homes elsewhere.”
They all sat exactly where they were, staring up at me in hopeful adoration. Clearly, they didn’t speak English.
I stepped over them with some care, and hurried off to my own rooms. Bertie sniggered at me, and went back to his, while Peg and Edna scampered after me.
“I believe,” said Peg, “we’ll have to make a cottage for them over beyond the forest, but not bother too much about beds in cupboards or chimneys or squashy chairs.”
I was not amused. “They’re very sweet, and I didn’t want them all killed,” I said. “It doesn’t mean I want to live with them or make them friends for life.”
They were all sitting there around me again, eyes gazing up with love, as if waiting for me to tell them a story. Their fur was a little scrubby and coarse, not soft and fluffy, but they were pretty little things, and it seemed they were good mothers, and didn’t quarrel too much. The odd squeaky fuss did occur, but also quickly faded out.
I wondered if I should have kept the underground caves we’d built for them, but although they’d loved it there, they would soon have over-run it since having more and more babies appeared to be the constant pastime. Besides, it had meant us constantly visiting to bring food, clean water and check on their conditions.
“I can’t be mother to a thousand rats,” I complained. “And soon it would be two thousand rats. They’ve got to go.”
“Right,” said Edna with more determination than I was feeling. “We’ll walk slowly, so they follow us, then right on the other side of the little forest, we’ll conjure a few burrowing tunnels, and rooms for separate families, and tunnels leading out under the trees and a little drip hole where rain water can collect.”
“No privies?” suggested Peg, and Edna replied with a dirty look.
“And if any come back here,” I finished off for her, “we shoo them away or take them back to the forest.”
Building Butterfield’s new home had taken all morning, and now settling the reluctant rats took another couple of hours, so we missed dinner, but I didn’t care about that, since we knew we’d have a feast that evening for the imminent wedding. But having finished a fairly elaborate underground home to accommodate at least a few thousand rats, hoping they could enlarge it themselves if necessary, I filled it with food and watched them all scuttle cheerfully inside. But this time there was neither blockage nor roof, and they would soon have to find their own ways out and hunt for themselves.
I waved goodbye, even felt a little soppy and sad, hoping they’d be alright, and stood there a long moment as hundreds of teeny little whiskered and bright-eyed faces popped out of every entrance, staring up at me.
We walked away. Several times, highly suspicious, I turned to look down and around, but no rats appeared. Too busy eating, I supposed. A little happier, I wandered home with Edna and Peg, and immediately became deliciously entangled in the arrangements of the wedding ceremony. We set up the table with huge embroidered napkins and a table cloth in golden silk. This was going against the proper sophisticated preferences of the nobility, where pure white linen was obligatory, but we were definitely not nobility and got away with all sorts of things between ourselves. Like coloured platters. Not silver, and certainly not gold. Nor pure white earthenware, and definitely not the wooden platters that most had now, or the stale bread which the poor frequently used once it was solid enough not to leak.
Candles in huge golden stands soared almost to our vaulted ceiling. An enormous flaring and snapping fire blazed in the hearth and buzzed up the flue, zooming its reflections across every wall and onto every detail of our dining table.
I kept the platters matching, a concession to respectable habits, and designed them large with a small rising lip, so that the multitude of food from Issa wouldn’t be oozing off the edges. Every plate and every cup were rich green with patterns of leaf and fern, bush and plant, and somewhere on every one was a little wild face poking out. Some were birds, others were moles, otters, baby foxes, bats, swans or badgers. No rats.
I had enormous fun with this, and naturally Peg and Edna helped, making sure Edna’s platter had Twizzle poking her head through the leaves, and I had Wolf grinning from the undergrowth on mine.
I hadn’t taken Wolf on my village visits, nor on my rat expeditions, so now he wouldn’t leave my side, and his big hopeful eyes were constantly at my shoulder. Being taller than Peg, she was not such a Wolf lover, but she was quite fond of him as long as he kept a distance.
Twizzle screeched, “Fair dinkum, mate. Good as a bar-bee. But reckon I’m off to Kakadu, play two up with the cane toads.”
My shimmering minstrels sat stock-still waiting for me to flick my fingers once everyone had arrived, sat down and begun to help themselves. First would be the wine, of course, poured from its vast flower covered jugs, Then the clatter of
spoons and knives, and cheers of delight as the amazing selections arrived and were tasted.
Only the occasional scrap of food was left. It had been too good to leave. I confess I handed quite a few meaty handfuls down to Wolf who stayed hidden under the table at my ankles, and I even wondered about saving some for the rats, but I resisted the temptation.
Butterfield and Angdar sat together at the head of the table and kept toasting each other with enough wine to have them fall under the table to join Wolf, but somehow, they managed to avoid such an ending, and they stuffed their mouths with some of everything.
It was as everyone sank back in their chairs, stomachs swollen and mouths open for hiccups while they refilled their cups. After all, many of them were happy to keep drinking until the jugs were empty, even little shy Gorgeous Leek was enjoying herself while eating and drinking to capacity.
The music continued, but as we neared the end of the evening, the music quickened and moved into a dancing beat. One by one, our tipsy residents rose and began to exercise their legs, although Inky decided to be different, and flew around the ceiling shouting, “Long live the best in the west, long live the Vikings, wiccans and all the rest.”
Still no Whistle, but everyone else had turned up, and I watched Mandrake dance lovingly with Maggs, Fanny wrapped around Harry, and Dipper the gardener hauled me up to dance with him.
I was desperate for a rest, so we flopped down on whatever chair or stool was closest, and Angdar stood, taller than anyone else, waved both arms in the air, and began, most unexpectedly to sing.
Butterfield stood quietly by him, face as bright as the candle flames, with her arms wrapped around Angdar’s waist from behind. His voice was throaty and deep and not terribly melodic, but his song was amazing, and although we couldn’t understand a single word, we all clapped enthusiastically once he’d finished.
Then he grinned at us, and chuckled. “Well, none of you know what all that was about, do you?” His chuckle turned to cackle. “’Tis what out chiefs sing before one man gives his hand to his woman. It’s words of good luck, but if you do go sailing off across the oceans, you won’t drown and won’t find sea serpents, and come home safe to the woman who’s waiting.”
He waited while we all clapped again. Then he turned to Butterfield and took both her hands, squeezing her fingers and gazing into her eyes, bright blue to bright blue. “I promise to protect you,” he told her. “I’ll look after you with my life, little one, and if I dance, it’ll be with you, and if I fight with anyone, then it won’t be you.” And he leaned forwards and kissed her so deeply, eyes still open, that we couldn’t be bothered waiting, and all began to dance again.
Twizzle came and squawked at us as we swirled and twirled, and the blazing fire perked up and flared golden. Wolf hurtled around the room dancing around everyone, and a plume of bats rushed in upon us, flapping through our hair and squeaking as their wings skimmed our noses, and tangled our hair, occasionally stopping to grab a left-over crumb from the table.
Wolf bounced, and both Cabbage and Dodger flew in and stared at us all in huge wide-eyed surprise, and Mandrake and Maggs got into such a cuddle, they decided to slip off home.
Angdar danced with exuberance, often lifting Butterfield fully in his arms and one time held her over his head like a joyful trophy, while she wriggled and demanded to be put down. Once the music stopped, without a word, Angdar clutched Butterfield’s hand smiled at the look in her eyes, and they left the room.
Seventeen
Unsurprisingly we all got up late the next morning, wanted no breakfast except the usual cup of ale, and flopped back into our rooms. There was absolutely no sign of Angdar or Butterfield, and even Wolf seemed unwilling to roll from the bed. I took advantage and told him to go back to sleep. Then I slipped out and whispered for Edna and Peg.
“We opened up the bubble,” I said softly, “so I should make sure they’re all getting back to normal. We really ought to tell anyone who doesn’t know, maybe Alid and Joan. But,” and I sniffed as if waiting for the right smell, “I don’t want to see a single rat.”
The village was overflowing with them. I cursed under my breath, but at least none of them came running to me. A few stopped and looked, but then scampered off. Life was back to normal at least as far as the rats were concerned, having run in for food. It was not market day, and being Sunday, the tavern was closed. I simply presumed the rats didn’t know the days of the week.
Bob and his son were sitting on stools set outside the tavern window, a mug of beer in one hand, and a bread roll with cheese in the other.
I wandered over, and pointed to a tiny black rat rushing past our feet. “So you know the village is open again?” I asked.
“Yep,” said Bob. “Took the horse and cart yesterday, we did, and road out to Tickwick. Past The Rookery, it were o’course. And a right noisy party you lot was having. I’s a touch surprised all them old folk can make so much of a pandemonium.”
“A friend of ours was getting married,” I grinned back.
“Pandemonium,” nodded Peg, “can be a lot of fun.”
“Well, you was still at it when we comes back, wasn’t they?” He turned to his son who cackled and then disappeared into his ale mug.
“It was a late night,” Edna admitted. “And a late morning.”
Bob now shook his head. “But we had to get up mighty early fer early mornin’ Mass. ‘Tis Sunday, mistress, I hope you ain’t forgot. Asides, it were Father George as first told us that Piddleton were free again. We was right proper pleased, and the priest, he says as how we ortta make a proper thank you to our Lord for doing it all. There ain’t no sick folk in Tickwick no more.”
Edgar slurped his ale. “I ain’t sure if everyone o’ Piddleton knows we be open, but them as comes to church all knows, since it were the priest what announced it to the congregation.”
I felt fairly sure Alid and Joan would have attended church, but since I couldn’t be entirely sure, I suggested to Peg and Edna we ought to go there.
Wondering whether I should speak to Father George myself, since it must have been a great puzzle for him to have Rollo lying by the pulpit for three days, and then abruptly lose him, and have the dead Godwin back. Well, at least Godwin was now entirely gone, having been replaced by Brin, and Rollo would soon be back in the tavern. But when I mentioned this, Bob frowned.
“I knows naught about Rollo. Ain’t never been dead, far as I knows. Yeh, Godwin was seen by a few. Well, we all believes in ghosts. Let’s hope he settles quick, and we don’t see him no more. Any more puzzles, reckon you’d best talk wiv Dickon.”
That was the last thing I wanted to do. “We’re off to Trout Farm,” Peg told them. “See you on the way back, no doubt.”
Naturally Dickon managed to bump into us anyway. He hurried across the green from the church, having seen us pass by. “All clear, all free, all saved from the plague, thank the Lord,” he said.
We stopped politely. “I see,” Peg nodded. “Two days now. I hear it was Father George who first discovered the open doors.”
“Well, as we know,” said our studiously boring sheriff, “the big towns and the cities all have huge stone walls to keep them safe, and that’s a wise thing to do. Keeps them safe from the marauding French, you know. And they lock the gates at night and open them in the morning, leaving all souls free for the day. But us little villages, well, we’ve never had the coin to build walls.
“I remember my grand-papa wanting to collect coin once. Well, we have to give to the church each week. My grand-papa said we could leave the church since it had a very rich Pope, and pay instead for putting a wall around the village. He was frightened of the Scots at the time. He was expecting invasion. Well,” and here Dickon lowered his voice, “now there’s been warnings of invasion from the Frenchies again, you know, with that Welsh fellow Tudor, who tried to invade before. Well, he didn’t make it, silly fellow, and near fell overboard in a storm. Just shows – the good Lord knows what He’
s doing.”
The conversation was less than logical, as far as I was concerned, and Little Piddleton was far too small to warrant a huge stone wall surrounding all our non-existent treasures. “Yes, all terribly true,” I said quickly, “but thank goodness this wasn’t a real wall, just a sort of bubble, really.”
“We were closed into a bubble?” Dickon thought about it. “But the birds still flew in. I saw them.”
“An open bubble, perhaps,” I corrected myself. “But I’m afraid we’re in a hurry.”
Rushing off, we hopped over the occasional rat, walked up the path to Alid’s small cottage, and knocked on the door.
Joan answered. She looked as though she might burst. “How long before you’ll need a midwife for your twins?” I asked her as we walked in to her little downstairs room, and sat on the waiting stools. Alid, evidently, was out on the farm working with Brin.
She giggled at me. “Not twins,” she insisted. “I’d never cope. “And my little boy’s due shortly after Twelfth Night, I believe. Hard to be sure, of course, but that’s what I think. There’s plenty of folk argue over time in the womb, you know, but most agree around nine months or so.”
“A January baby?” Edna leaned across and patted Joan’s knee, though you couldn’t actually see much of it. Her knees just managed to peep out beyond her stomach which had swallowed her entire lap.
“And you know the strange bubble that kept us in Piddleton and saved us from the plague, has gone now?” I said.
“Oh yes, my dear.” Joan smiled. “We had a cow that ran off, a day or two before that strange magic shelter went up, so we couldn’t get her back. We were upset, I can tell you. She was a good milker. But we couldn’t even shout for her. Then yesterday, back she came. No apology.” She laughed. “And we’re so pleased to have Sally back, and be free to go to other villages sometimes, and visit friends.”
“I hope your animals don’t wander off too often,” said Edna.