by B G Denvil
“No longer a ninety-five?” I suggested. “But a full hundred?”
“Mmm,” Whistle digested the idea. “You could be right, my dear.”
Twenty-Three
Whistle and I sat there for several hours before he drifted off again. He was right in the middle of telling me what he had thought of the red spoon, so I certainly hoped he’d be back before too long.
Having admitted I’d been caught up in several rather major situations lately, it was wonderfully relaxing to sit back snuggled beside my own fire, not a real one, just in case I fell asleep and it sparked onto the rugs, and besides, I couldn’t be bothered collecting real wood, getting real splinters, and having to light the fire with all that real fuss and bother. I could close my eyes, think back on everything I’d done well since I replaced Alice and became the owner of The Rookery and its grounds, and made real friends at last.
Not to mention – I was a ninety-eight. Well, just in case you’ve missed that vital point, even though I mention it almost on every page. But I excuse myself. You try being a fifty for twenty-four years, and then suddenly you discover you’re a ninety-eight. It’s just a thrill out of that wild yondering blue.
Now we had protected the village from that terrible disease, and saved the rats too. I ignored the fact I was looking at one now, small furry black snuffles as it combed its whiskers by my front door, hoping it could get closer to the fire without me noticing.
My experience at Stonehenge had been both a dream and a nightmare, and once Whistle sorted himself out, I was determined to return. Whistle needed to explain a little more, and settle a little more too, but he was very, very close, and I had no doubts that he’d soon be a permanent living ghost, and I’d house him in the new building where he could have two large rooms and a lot more privacy.
Meanwhile Maggs and Mandrake seemed deliciously happy, and so did Butterfield and Angdar. More lovely friends. I hoped Harry and Fanny would settle into an equally happy partnership.
One day I might see more of Rollo, more of Brin, more of Dicken and even that somewhat objectionable priest, but there was no hurry.
I had sorted Alid and Joan, giving them a very comfortable future once she had her twins. Bob and his charming tavern would continue to be our nice little haunt once the winter weather improved, and I might be really good and work out a way of giving him something extra as well. But now it was creeping towards St Nicholas’s Day and the start of the Christmas season. I had some plans, but there was time before that. At least, I thought, it would be more fun than the recent Hallowe’en.
I was happy. Not that happiness was rare, but this was happiness without responsibility. Lazy me. Easy, cuddly, cosy happiness.
Alice? Forget Alice. She was probably a bug again, had probably run to church because of my monsters and was hopefully back to harmless insignificance. My small red thimble, red though it certainly was, seemed more friend than anything else, and I was extremely fond of it. One day I’d sort out exactly what it was capable of. No rush.
My father was back in his tree house, the crows were not too active in this weather, especially since I put out food for them every day, usually several times. As for Donald my donkey, he was usually snuggled in his hay and straw-lined stable with Twizzle, her yellow crest twitching, scratching behind his ears and squawking about red-back spiders hiding in the dunny. Wolf, on the other hand, refused to leave my rooms unless I was going out myself. When I went without him, he sulked until I got back.
And my beautiful favourite white cat? I hadn’t changed for some time and was considering another change just for the pleasure of a good purr, when Whistle popped back again.
“You were interrupted last time,” I said as soon as I saw him. “Tell me what’s happened, all about the Shadow King, the red spoon, the High Court and anything else you can think of.”
He regarded my beloved hound stretched out in front of the fire, leaving little space for anyone else, but seemed more amused by something I couldn’t see. “Do you know that you have a small black rat curled up inside your bucket of twigs?”
Nodding, I told him, “Yes. He’ll be off much later tonight, when the fire goes out. Now – what about your wonderful story?”
“Stonehenge,” Whistle began, “when first built, which is a very, very long time ago, was far smaller than we think of it, since it was enlarged over thousands of years. When I went there recently, on my own, for which I do apologise, but it was quite necessary, it had just received some of its extensions. Originally it had been dedicated to the sun, the moon and the stars, the seasons which governed the crops and therefore the lives of the people. Sadly, it had been over-run by the Shadow King. The people had no idea what they were getting, but the graves of their chieftains had summoned the wrong strengths, being the red rather than the silver.”
I shivered, although the fire was blazing. “I saw you. Did you know that? It was just a brief glimpse, and I wasn’t actually there. Visions again.”
He hadn’t known. “I’m glad I didn’t see you,” he said. “I was so busy keeping myself alive, even though I was dead, having to keep you safe too would have been a terrible distraction. That shadow king smells like every rotting thing you can imagine, and the decay of everything that ever died. The smell alone can kill. Its eyes can kill, and perhaps even its voice. I despise fear, especially since death. But facing that malevolency, fear came crashing back.”
“You didn’t look scared. I was so impressed.”
“I was near fainting with it. But I couldn’t show it, not to that thing. It would have eaten me, ghost or otherwise.”
“But you call it a King?”
“I’d sooner not call it anything. I don’t even want to know what it is. Power? Shadow power, of course. But we have our own King of Silver, and England has King Richard, a good man with good intentions. That flame and smoke shouldn’t be called a king, but he is.”
I was fascinated of course. “How did you get the spoon?”
“A ninety-five isn’t too stupid,” he said, “even compared to a sweet young ninety-eight. I knew I was standing right on top of it. I could feel its strength beneath my feet, rising up and into me. I knew it gave me power, but I didn’t accept that power. It was evil. I felt sick. But strong. Then the shadow king manifested, hurtling from shadow to blazing fire. The smoke from it was so disgusting, I retched. But it didn’t care. I suppose it took that as a compliment. And it knew the red spoon was almost in my possession.”
“Almost?”
“Now I knew exactly where it was, and how to get it without digging, just by claiming and calling, the king could not deny it to me. But he wanted it back. Naturally. We began to make bargains.”
“How do you bargain with a virtual demon?”
“By refusing to see its power. Not even to acknowledge its strength, or supremacy. I made myself feel the strongest.”
“And it worked?”
He laughed quite loudly, and I wondered what he was remembering. Clearly there was more of this story to tell. I sat forwards, leaning towards him, elbows on my knees. The fire was now scorching my face, but I didn’t care.
Whistle’s face was equally avid. “I was blocking him while I summoned the red spoon up from its burial and into my hand.”
“You had it, in your hand?”
“I held it. It was between his feet and mine when I claimed it. But my hand was covered by a layers of sponge, leather gloves, by linen napkins, by silk – ”
I was expecting him to disappear at any moment, and so I was grabbing hold of every syllable in case – in case – and of course, he did. Right in the middle of ‘silk’ he disappeared. But I was amazed he’d been able to hold that terrible spoon, such a cruel source of evil. I most definitely wanted the rest of the story and more details in every tiny aspect.
Always the case with me, I suppose, I wanted something but had to wait for it. At least I knew Whistle would return and tell me the rest of the story. Hopefully he’d soon be bac
k to live here permanently and that was certainly something to look forward to.
December! Freezing! I materialised three hundred blankets to appear on the villager’s doorsteps. They could think it was the church, or the monastery a mile away. But I decorated my blankets with woolly pictures of stars and moons, or sunshine, rainbows and sunset over the water. Quite creative, I thought. I couldn’t know who needed them most, but hoped they’d reach the elderly and sick at least. Now I was feeling smug again. I even conjured up a book of spells for Sym’s early education.
The Christmas season started with children running down the street, singing and waving banners. The village folk were trying to organise a special play on the village green, but such cold weather didn’t help. December 6th splattered the grass with crinkled white frost, and even the cobbles were rimed. My windows were rimed too, which I thought quite unnecessary.
I woke that morning to a strangely hushed silence. The silence echoed around me, forbidding sound. Rolling from bed, my cocoon of cushioned silence, I then tiptoed to my window.
It was snowing.
Far more beautiful than the blankets I had created, this was a softly flowing breeze of purest white, flakes like tiny crystals of sugar or kitten fur, a gentle cascade of silence and utter beauty.
A blackbird, wings braced, cut through to peck for food in the collecting freeze. The crows kept to their beds, heads beneath their wings. The bats and owls would have swarmed back some hours ago, and would now be nestled under the thatch. Wolf had buried himself head first within my bed covers when still night. I watched, mesmerised, hungry only for the sight of it. Magic as sweet and more gorgeous than my own.
Under a thin crisp covering the snow piled, settling, ice below, soft drifts above, a deceitful beauty hiding the depths which could hold, cling and kill.
Still standing, enraptured, I suddenly heard a knock on the door. It was a heavy and determined rapping, surprising since it was very early morning and the weather wasn’t welcoming, but I was dressed and shuffled off to see what idiot wished to visit the wiccans. I hoped for Whistle.
I arrived first, though saw others coming along the corridors and down the stairs. Edna arrived, full flight as I pulled open the double doors.
Looking out into the persistent gentle whiteness, I saw no one and nothing. Then, before shutting the doors, I looked down. Something had squeaked. I thought perhaps a kitten, although it certainly could not have knocked so hard on the door. Rats squeaking again, perhaps. But they weren’t known for knocking on doors either.
There was a basket, old and battered and long used for shopping. It seemed packed with a bundle of knitted scraps, smaller and larger, and some creature within since the bundle squirmed as if living. I bent down, and put a finger to the centre of the movement. Already the snow was collecting across it, almost hiding the basket’s handle.
Then I saw what had been wrapped and placed on my doorstep, and what I had heard squeaking.
It was a baby, a human baby, as sweet and as uncomplaining as though cuddled by parents beside the fire. Yet this tiny creature was lying beneath the white freeze, little naked toes as delicious as the snow crystals themselves, poking from the little woolly scraps.
At first astounded, I grabbed the basket’s handle and hurried inside. Into the hall, already warm with an inglenook almost the size of a house and blazing with a forest of flames, put the basket close but not too close and unwrapped the bundle. A little pink wriggle of baby excitement somehow appeared in my arms. It wore a mess of unravelling swaddling clothes, a somewhat wet layer around its middle and between its little soft kicking legs, but nothing else. Its naked body was warm, but hands and feet freezing, and I rubbed them to warm them up.
I had virtually the entire Rookery leaning over my shoulders now, making those odd googley noises intended to please the new born, and a few delighted fingers managed to squeeze beneath my arms, touching and enjoying that soft breath.
For a moment I thought of Joan, but that was absurd, and I quickly brushed that thought aside. This child belonged to nobody I knew. I could only assume it had been handed over to a good home by a mother who was too poor or too sick to manage. And the baby was such a delicious parcel, I could never imagine it being lost without tears.
Thrilled with being carried, touched, and warmly, lovingly cuddled, it waved its arms and kicked its legs, smiling with a toothless delight and big blue eyes. “You gorgeous little thing,” I addressed the child, “I wonder how old you are.”
“A month perhaps?” I knew nothing about baby humans, but Maggs was telling me, leaning over to smile back at the smiles. “No more,” she said. “So tiny, but well fed. Plump and not a skinny bone to be seen.”
The child’s hair was a soft gosling down of palest gold. I couldn’t let go. I hoped I could conjure clothes as pretty as possible to fit such a snuggly little shape. Or – I thought – should I try and find the mother and give it back with coin and clothes and whatever else would help. Yet now I didn’t want to give it up. It seemed to fit in my arms as though meant, designed just for me, and me for it.
The cooing and fussing all around me sounded like a flock of pigeons, but I was enjoying my own now silent conversation with this gorgeous little creature, and it gurgled back to me, still with a gummy smile. But since its minute backside was sodden, I asked Edna to summon me some clean and thicker than usual nether cloths, and attempted to dry it off.
Lying there naked on my lap as I attempted, clumsily, to wrap it up again, I fell in love even more powerfully. This was an adorable little girl of no more than a month old, perhaps a little less, who was, without doubt, to be all mine. I couldn’t take my eyes from her and began thinking of a suitable name.
And then, quite suddenly, I discovered why her distraught mother had abandoned her on my snow deep door step, for the child wriggled her tiny dancing fingers, and a myriad of spangles and sparkles flooded the air, spinning around us like a thank you, or perhaps simply an expression of joy.
My new little daughter Avola, was a witch.
The end for now
By B G Denvil
The Rookery Cosy Mysteries
One Small Step
Kettle Lane
The Piddleton Unrest
Hobb’s Henge
Children’s Bannister’s Muster Time Travel Series
Snap
Snakes & Ladders
Blind Man’s Buff
Dominoes
Leapfrog
Hide & Seek
Hopscotch
There are other books written under my full name, Barbara Gaskell Denvil— but these are not Cosy, and contain elements of violence, swearing and sexual content.
You can find them on my website at barbaragaskelldenvil.com
About the Author
My passion is for late English medieval history though I also have a love of fantasy and the wild freedom of the imagination, greatest loves are the beauty of the written word, and the utter fascination of good characterisation. Bringing my characters to life is my principal aim.
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barbaragaskelldenvil.com