by B G Denvil
“Well,” Joan sniffed, clearly upset, “I had a young donkey once, but he ran off quite some time ago.” She looked down at her energetically bouncing stomach, but she looked ashamed. “Strange things were happening at that time, and Alid and I weren’t getting on too well. That poor little donkey wasn’t looked after. I just hope he found a good home.”
I decided to sort-of confess. “I wonder if it could the same,” I half lied, “but we had such a sweet little donkey wander into The Rookery grounds one day, quite sick and skinny, so we fed him up, and he’s very happy now. We call him Donald. I wonder if it’s him?”
“Mine was called Ron,” she said, as if that mattered, “but whoever found the poor fellow had best keep him.”
I therefore changed the subject. “Did Alid and Brin repair that barn?”
Evidently they had, and cleaned it out, and put the livestock in the other barn, once again, assuring Alice was in neither. Not unless she was back to being a bug again.
Once the baby, or babies, arrived I felt I should make some kind of improvement for them, since they’d become friends of a sort, and the highly unpleasant Joan had become a far different highly pleasant woman now, while Alid was as sweet as ever. But they needed more money. Another small problem to think about.
I was still busy thinking about this as we wandered home, tripping over a couple of rats on the way. We waved to Bob and Edgar still sitting outside in spite of the bitter cold frosty morning, tripped over another couple of rats and walked down Kettle Lane, busily avoiding yet more rats.
We passed a few people ecstatic at discovering the bubble gone, dancing down the road, yelling, “We can get out. We can get in.”
One elderly woman stopped us. “You’re the lass as runs The Rookery, ain’t you?” she asked, stepping over a rat.
“I am,” I said. “I’m Rosie, and these are my friends Edna and Peg,” I indicated my frozen friends.
“I remember the previous one as did it,” said the woman. “A sweet old crone, she were. Not yer mother, were she?”
“No,” I was able to say without even lying. “And she’s – gone.”
“But I seen her the other day just gone,” frowned the woman.
We took more interest. “Where?” asked Peg.
“Going into church,” she told us.
It seemed so unlikely, and I couldn’t imagine why. I had been impressed a couple of times by the very pleasant atmosphere within that church, and how it seemed to cancel out some of the shadow power. “Alice Scaramouch went to church yesterday?” I repeated, unbelieving.
But the woman nodded. “It were the first day I found our funny wobbly wall open at last. You knows, I’s sure, how we bin locked in fer weeks, but now we’s free. ‘Tis a good feeling. I went out to see me friend in Tickwick, but when I comes back, I gotta walk past the graveyard, ‘cos that’s where me little house is, up behind there, it is. And I seen that sweet Alice. She were scurrying into church like she were running from summint.”
Too late for the monsters I’d sent her, but perhaps she was still frightened of seeing more. But I was puzzled.
“Thanks,” Peg said. “But we’d rather not to see that woman at all.”
“Not me,” said the one we were talking with, “a dear old pickle-head, she was.” She nodded, waved, tripped over three rats and walked on. But she turned once, waving from within the huge dark cloak. “But remember me, lass. I got stuff to tell you one day.”
Peg, Edna and I walked on in the opposite direction, frowning at each other. Alice in church troubled me and, in a small way, so did the old woman. I should have asked her name. Bent and plump with lots of wrinkles, she had seemed somehow both odd and interesting.
At least it wasn’t raining, but the clear blue sky, delightful to see, actually made it colder. The wind wasn’t strong either, but just the air had a bite, and there were prickles of white along the top of the hedges.
Arriving back home, hopping over a couple of inevitable rats, we saw Angdar and Butterfield talking to the crows, and that reminded me of what Joan had been saying earlier. I therefore walked quickly to the stables, and met up with Donald. He was looking a little gloomy, but that could have been my imagination since he was munching on carrots, and blinked at me. I leaned over the half door, and cuddled his neck. Twizzle, as usual, was asleep on top of the donkey’s head, her own head under her wing. I handed Donald another carrot, two halves of apple and scratched behind his ears.
I had two distinct problems on my mind now. How to get a good amount of money and increase business for Alid and Joan without them realising there was any strange magic involved, and what to think of Alice being in the village, fully visible, not in hiding, and actually hurrying into the church.
Edna and Peg had both decided they had no conceivable reason for missing an afternoon doze, so I went for a walk over the grounds, between trees and hedges, avoiding the three graves and a considerable number of happily frisky rats.
Trout Farm supplied fresh pork and milk. In winter the pork was hung on beams over a low tray of smoking ashes. It would result in smoked bacon and keep the meat edible for several months. Only the mother pigs were kept in the barn, for they had to feed their babies until they grew big enough in the spring, and could then have some more. The fresh milk was sold daily. But I couldn’t imagine four cows were going to make anyone a fortune.
My magical grade was just as strong, indeed even a tiny bit stronger, than Whistle’s. But I really wished he’d reappear and give me ideas for Alid and Joan, and then solve the puzzle of Alice entering the one place she should never have considered going.
Yes, Alice would have been trapped in our bubble, just like everyone else, and since she’d never been able to fly, it might have seemed a problem. But for most of the time she’d been hidden away in the farm shed, and was cheerfully continuing her spells of disease and disaster. A delightful way for her to pass the time. Hadn’t she eaten? Hadn’t she drunk anything? I certainly couldn’t imagine her sitting down and milking a cow.
I shut my eyes and called Whistle.
Eighteen
Whistle didn’t answer, but I saw immediately where he was.
He stood beneath the great circle of stones now known as Stonehenge, but this was long ago, for the circle was complete. He was no squirrel, and he was not alone.
Whistle was once again the wizard I had first known—a small but fascinating man in odd clothes—with a face of such intelligence, it lined his skin and gave unusual perception in his eyes, making his gaze seem more like a depth of tunnels into the sort of knowledge no one else could have.
He stood quietly, gazing with an expression of slight indignation at the thing in front of him.
It was the Shadow King I’d seen at Stonehenge myself, but this time he towered over Whistle, staring down at him, back bent over, as though discovering a small creature previously unknown.
“You have come to my Chapel of Light, little human,” said the king. “Do you know this means your death?” His voice was disturbed as if speech was not a common thing.
“You lack wisdom, thing of the deep,” Whistle said. “You cannot cause the death of one who has already died. I am no more human than you, although my existence, when it lived, was more subtle and more salutary.”
“Subtlety,” said the thing, “is the mask of the powerless.”
“On the contrary,” answered Whistle. “It is the powerful that has no need to shout and swagger, pretending power he does not have. The bully punches out because he fears his own weakness. Are you also hiding the inescapable weakness you feel inside?”
The thing laughed. Not a genuine laugh, but a croak of derision, and the flames thundered from its mouth, great plumes of red and black smoke from its nostrils, and the flicker of red sparked soot from his eyes. Whistle knew, somehow, what would come. Before it even came, he had dodged. The blast of fire struck his side, and as it struck again, Whistle had moved once more. Now he stood back. He stretched out
both arms, the fingers pointing directly at the thing before and above him, extending almost like arrows from the dark swirl of his cloak.
“Do not threaten me,” Whistle called, threatening the thing himself, “or I shall diminish you from this place so you operate only from your invisible clouds.”
It stretched over him, its mouth wide open like the hunger of a shark. But the flames did not come, and the thing did not move.
Whistle lowered his voice, and watching from the distance of my own mind, I hardly heard him.
“Where are the toys you create for play and for spite? The spoon to nourish your own hunger for cruelty? Where? I feel it and know it lies somewhere beneath my feet.”
The thing shivered like a small wind in a fruit tree, but did not speak nor acknowledge Whistle’s demands.
I waited. And then, as though disempowered, or perhaps even forced to obey the demands of another creature more powerful, the thing remained in its cold bent paralysis, and at its huge clawed toes appeared a large rounded shape of gleaming scarlet, a spoon far grander than the red cup I had seen before.
Whistle leaned over, immediately creating a soft sponge-like covering, and the spoon, its shape and its vivid colour all disappeared into the colourless wrapping.
Whistle immediately picked it up and faded from the scene.
I fell back against the tree trunk where I had been sitting, opening my eyes with a jolt. Whistle wasn’t there, and nor, thank goodness, was the Shadow King. I jumped up and hurried home. But Whistle wasn’t there either. I wondered if I had seen something already in the past, or a scene yet to come. But at least I knew without doubt we had the red spoon, although I wasn’t sure even what that might mean. Hopefully that the Shadow Power was diminished and would remain so.
But no Whistle. Jumping over a couple of rats, I bounced back into my bedchamber and collapsed on my bed.
A very small voice, very like a small child asking for approval, echoed from my table. My eyes snapped open once again. This wasn’t proving to be a restful day after all.
“Has I done good, mistress?”
“Probably,” I mumbled. “Or maybe not.” I stared around. The voice did not belong to Oswald, who was far more confident and spoke with insolence and determination, nor from Wolf who had a much deeper voice. My silver trio never spoke unless I asked a question after going through the usual water ritual. I peered around for a crow, a bat or even a talking rat.
Finally, completely puzzled, I asked, “Who are you?” And immediately saw the tiny red sparkle from the shelf above my table. I had totally forgotten its existence. Before it had time to answer me, I said, “You’re the red thimble that helped Alice do nasty things.”
The thimble sniffed. “Not my fault, mistress. I does as I’s told. I was gived to the Lady Alice, so I gotta do wot she says. I done it. Now ‘tis you, Lady Rosie, wots me mistress.”
I decided not to laugh. “You made Montague, and the others I’m not so keen on, do flips and flops? You were trying to please me?” I could imagine this minute red creature snuggling down with a grin, knowing it had done the right thing.
“’Tis true,” said the little voice. “I likes being naughty, but I ain’t gonna do nuffin’ to upset me lady.”
“Good,” I said. “I should just like to remind you I will not allow anyone or anything to actually be hurt. Even people I don’t like. Except perhaps Alice.” Then, thinking about it, “Not even Alice. Try never to go too far, and never poke at my friends.”
“Yes, yes, I promise to be good,” said the thimble.
I wondered if I had encouraged it too much, and really didn’t approve of mean behaviour. Yet I had found Ermengarde and Montague’s falls utterly hilarious. Even poor Dandy deserved comeuppance sometimes. But I giggled at myself too. What would Whistle say, after his enormously courageous face-off with the Shadow King, if he discovered I had my own titchy little red scamp, ready to be naughty on my behalf?
I slept a good deal longer than usual that night, and hoped to wake with a soft fluffy squirrel at my side.
Instead I woke to Wolf cuddled up and snoring, the sound of angry crows and a soft tapping on my door. I slipped out of bed to answer the door, but as soon as I moved from Wolf’s warmth, I was frozen. I immediately clicked my fingers, created a reasonable heat within my rooms and put on my robe, I opened the door just a crack to keep out any blasts of frozen wind.
The neat little nose of Harry Flash peeped in, which was a considerable surprise. I saw him constantly, of course, as one of our more sociable residents. But he’d never visited me before. I pulled him into the room and conjured up toasted rolls with jam and a cup of ale.
“Sit down,” I ordered him, “what on earth do you want at this early hour?”
“Nearly ten of the clock,” he said, a little puzzled. “You’re usually up at dawn.”
Oh well, alright, I’d slept late. But it was late November, so dawn practically coincided with midday anyway. “How can I help?” I asked him. “Anything to do with Fanny?”
“Well, yes.” Surprise, surprise. “I feel we have a lot to enjoy together. That l-o-v-e is a hard one to say – especially for me. But it’s what I feel for Fanny. She’s – special.” He was blushing furiously, and I resisted the urge to giggle. “And I was thinking – well,” he continued with huge embarrassment, “perhaps, if she likes the idea, we could get married. Everyone else seems to be doing it.”
“Not quite everyone.”
“I’ve been most impressed,” he said, “by these houses you keep building. First that four-storey one, well, I mean, that’s really big. Space for everyone, and now we’ve got a whole load of vacancies, and several new residents already. In particular Fanny.”
“Yes, she’s definitely special,” I said, and meant it. Thinking back on that terrible year she’d experienced and the wicked curse she’d suffered, I certainly did feel she was now due some happiness.
Harry was still talking, peeping over the brim of his cup. “But there’s a problem. At least – she thinks there is. I don’t see it as a problem, but I can’t change her mind.” He finished a mouthful of hot bread. “She’s a seventy-seven.” He swallowed loudly. “And I’m a forty.”
Actually, Fanny had mentioned this discrepancy to me before. I hadn’t seen the problem, but she felt it would hurt them both. “Tell her that marriage usually has one stronger than the other, with one better at some skills, and other better at something different. Maggs isn’t magic at all, and Mandrake doesn’t mind.”
“But he’s the strong one and the man.”
“Oh pooh.” I pinched a piece of his toasted roll. “What about Butterfield then. She’s the magic one, and he’s – well – just a ghost.”
“But he’s Angdar – which is different,” Harry mumbled, and I understood exactly what he meant.
“But I’m not sure how I can help,” I told him, somewhat feebly. “Do I increase your grade, or weaken hers?”
He was shaking his head wildly. “Not weakening, oh no, she’d hate us both. But can I work at getting stronger? I mean, apart from winning Fanny, I’d like it anyway. A forty grade is fairly pathetic, not even close to average.”
“If I got you up to average,” I thought aloud, “she’d still be stronger. But would that be enough?”
Now his hair was in his eyes because he was nodding wildly. “Oh, to get up to a sixty, that would be fantastic.”
“But I don’t even know how to do it,” I told him. “I’ll have to study a bit. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
“Fanny tried to study too,” Harry sighed. “But she couldn’t find a way to get me up to forty-one, let alone a sixty.” He was now waving at my window. “And those absolutely beautiful little cottages you’ve put up for the married couples. Would we ever get one of those?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “But let’s work on increasing the grade first. And can I tell Fanny and get her to help?”
“Oh yes indeed,” he assured me. “She
suggested me coming to you when she couldn’t get it done. I mean, these grades are quite difficult to understand sometimes. She’s a seventy-seven. But you’re a ninety-eight.”
“Anything over sixty is good,” I told him. “I’ll try.”
He finished his toast and ale and thanked me a hundred times before he left. I sank back on the chair and closed my eyes. Wolf had wandered down beside me and was now rubbing against my legs. I scratched under his chin and began to list my problems as usual.
“Number one, where is Whistle? Number two, what is happening with that red spoon? Number three, should I get rid of the red thimble? And number four, where is Alice? Is she still herself or back to a bug? And why did she, of all people, attend church? Number five, how do I make Alid’s farm more profitable? And now, number six, how do I make Harry’s magical grade increase by a whole twenty-one points?”
Once again, I was speaking aloud, even though I was simply talking to myself, and I certainly expected no answers. Wolf was accustomed to my habits, and only answered me if he knew I was speaking to him. But a small voice was actually trying to answer.
From the little shelf which was now over my head as I sat at the table, a funny child’s grumble said, “I can’t be knowing all that, mistress. I ain’t that clever. But I likes to help, so number one, your Whistle person done gone up to talk to your judge fellow at the Cloud Court. He got the red spoon with him so that’s number two. Number three is simple. No. I ain’t done nothing naughty, has I? I’s a good little thimble, and I fink ‘tis proper rude to say you might be chucklin’ me out. Number four, my Lady Alice, I can tells you, wivvout me she can’t stay big no longer. That be why she done gone to church, to see what befuddling she could do to replace me if she done nicked one o’ them crosses or summint. But she never done no good, so’s she’s back as a bug. Number five, ‘tis easy, you gives him more o’ them milky cows so’s he got ten or so, and you grows some fig trees on the back where he didn’t know they was there.”