The Case of the Spellbound Child

by Mercedes Lackey

  Well, that gave rise to all kinds of horrible thoughts. Had there been spots that could have been graves out in the yard? Or did the thing just take the comatose child out onto the moor and leave it for the wild animals? Or dump it in a fen to drown? They were all horrible to contemplate.

  I have to keep Simon’s strength up, she thought desperately. Or somehow get help.

  No, she had to do more than that. I have to keep all of their strength up. That way he won’t take too much from any one of them.

  As a couple of the others gathered around, she related what she’d seen so far—how the flour had been replaced, and the grain and the peas, but the ham and bacon had not. How there were chickens, how the chickens were kept in the yard, and all of them were missing a toe.

  “Witchery,” Ben said firmly. “I know how ’tis done. Dark One witched a bean, or a stone, or more like a bit uv lead. Droppet i’ some’un’s flour or peas or feed. Sinks to bottom, an’ ’tis a hole whut goes from there to ’ere.” He illustrated what he meant with a sort of pulling motion, but they all instinctively knew what he intended. Ellie felt her jaw go slack. “Do same wi’ bit uv bark, leave in someun’s woodpile.”

  “’Ow ’ee know thet?” she demanded.

  Ben shrugged. “Grammar wuz witchy. Good witchy, but tol’ me tales, afore she lay a bier.”

  “Then ’ow’d ’ee get ’ere?” she demanded, because she couldn’t see how a child who had been warned about these things could have ended up in the Dark One’s hands. “Grammar warnit ’ee, no?”

  “Grammar lay a bier,” he repeated. “Ma an’ Pa gone year afore. No sooner was they in ground, then m’lor’ come fer cottage, an’ turnet me out. Parish said, ‘work’ouse or get ’ee gone.’ Twas summer, so I were livin’ rough on moor, found the combe, same as ’ee.” He sighed. “Thought, ’ere’s a cot left t’rot, mine t’ take an’ make snug an’ bide. Saw garden gone t’weed, et a gooseberry. Next Es knaowed, Es be ’ere, a-chained.”

  One by one the other children told her their stories, but they were all depressingly similar. Robbie, too, had lost his parents. Rose came from Travelers, as did Ben and Deborah. Lily, Colin, and Mark’s single parents were all itinerant workers with a gaggle of children to keep track of. Stephen, Bill, Sam, and Jess had all been left with a grandparent who had died, leaving them to be turned out by whoever owned the land their cottage was on. Like Ben, Sam’s grandmother had been “witchy,” but in her case, she had been noted for her healing powers, things she had taught to Sam, whereas Ben had not been taught anything but tales by his. For one reason or another, either getting lost from the family group, or going out foraging, or taking off on their own because the choice was the workhouse or the moor and everyone was terrified of the workhouse, they had all found their way here and been caught the same way. They’d see the combe, take it as a good place to forage and shelter, find the cot, see that it looked abandoned, and eat something from the garden.

  “Why don’t no growed-ups find cot?” she wondered aloud.

  Ben, Robbie, and Sam looked at each other. Robbie shrugged. “Reckon ’tis ’id from growed-ups. Dark One don’ want ’em. The crathure on’y wants childer.”

  She nodded. That made sense. Children couldn’t fight back, weren’t big enough to be a threat, and obeyed.

  And that might be another reason why the Dark One did some things the ordinary way, and some with magic. Any magic it used, say, to draw water, would be magic it couldn’t use to hide the cot from adult eyes. In fairy tales, magic always seemed to be an inexhaustible resource, but the fact that the Dark One had to harvest it from the children here told her that it was anything but inexhaustible.

  Not that this helped any of them. Except that she desperately needed to figure out how to make them all stronger so none of them (Simon!) was in danger of being exhausted to the point of collapse.

  “’Oo bin ’ere longest?” she asked.

  Ben nodded. “’Twa yearn,” he said. “’Twas three more ’ere then. They be gone. Rest came arter.”

  They talked for a long time, while the room grew dark, and finally Robbie sighed. “W’as matter?” she asked.

  “A-hungert agin,” he confessed.

  Her own stomach growled a bit. And that was when she decided that “keeping up their strength” was going to start right that minute.

  Without saying anything to them, she went back out and built up the fire, and mixed up a big bowl of flour, salt, some of the bubbling yeast, eggs, honey, and water, making up pancake batter as best she remembered it. Pancakes were the one thing Mother had taught her to make that she was pretty sure she could do without mucking them up too badly. She used as very little of the lard as she could manage to grease the big frying pan, put it on the hearth, and made pancake after pancake until every drop of the batter was gone. Then she cleaned up the bowl, spoon, and pan and took the pancakes to the others.

  They weren’t the best; they were thick, a bit doughy in the center, rather tough, and a bit burned around the edges, but nobody complained and everyone ate every crumb. “’Ee thin’ ’ee’l get inter trouble?” Sam had asked with some alarm when she brought the cakes in.

  “On’y thin’s Dark One don’ witch up’s eggs an’ honey,” she replied. “If it sez, Es say eggs was cracked an’ rotten, an’ Es dun use much honey i’ the makin’. If it don’ cotch on, when it gae oot, Chell make pancakes.”

  Sam rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. “Right swant, goin’ t’ sleep all full,” he said, but looked worried. “Don’ go makin’ Dark One think ’ee’s twily, Ellie!”

  “Nae be so unket,” she told him. “I got ideers.”

  “Ideers wut’s got Es ageest,” Sam countered, but went back to his bed and lay down anyway. Ellie made a last check of the Dark One’s room to make sure everything was neat and tidy and there were no signs of her illicit meal-making.

  As always, she woke with the Dark One toeing her awake, and without a word, she stumbled straight into the other room and went to work. Right now, she reckoned her best chance at getting away with doing things for the other children was to make herself so useful that the Dark One stopped paying attention to what she did and she could sneak comforts in.

  Although this morning when she took a sidelong look at the creature, it didn’t seem to be paying attention to much at all. It moved about as if it were still half asleep, it made its breakfast out of the pease-porridge instead of eggs, bacon, and fried bread, and once it was satisfied that she was doing her job, it actually went to bed again!

  Greatly emboldened by that, she started the baking early, and increased the number of loaves she was making by half again. She didn’t dare do quite as much in the way of cleaning as usual for fear of waking it up, but she had an idea, and she decided to try it.

  She dragged her mattress out while the others watched, and hauled it to the compost heap, where she carefully unpicked the stitches at the one end and saved the string, then dumped out all the mildewed and rotting straw. Then she cleaned the bag as best she could and left it over the gooseberry bushes to dry while she gathered the day’s veg. It was dry by the time she brought the basket of veg in, and the Dark One was still asleep, so she punched down the dough, portioned it into “loaves,” and left it for second rise. And while it was rising, she got the now-dry bag and took it to the straw-heap, where she stuffed it half full again.

  Then she watched. And to her glee, saw the straw replacing itself.

  She made a crude sort of needle—or at least something she could use to thread the string back through the holes in the sack—and stitched it back up again.

  Then she dragged it back to her sleeping-place, got the blanket, took it out, and washed it too, spreading it out over the bush. By that time the Dark One was stirring, and she had begun feeding the others their veg and bread. Unsurprisingly, everyone that could fit joined her on her less-filthy bed.

&nb
sp; But now would be the moment of truth. Would the Dark One notice how many more loaves there were, waiting to rise and bake?

  Well, it didn’t say anything. It just silently went about its business as she shoved as many of the loaves in the oven as would fit, then went on to the second batch of dough. For its part, it went out and got a cabbage and made fried bacon and cabbage for its nummet, ate it, and then watched her work.

  It finally spoke up when she pulled out the second batch of loaves. “Tha’s more then I shewed ’ee—”

  She turned around, shaking so hard she could barely stand. “Uns ’ungry. Sleepin’ makes uns cruel ’ungry. . . .”

  “Do it, naow. . . .” It contemplated her. “But not ’ee. ’Ee didn’ Sleep.”

  “Bu’ Es works,” she pointed out, trembling at her own temerity.

  She waited for a long time, while that dark cowl just stared at her. Finally—“’Ee’s lucky ’ee’s useful,” it hissed. “’Ee kin make more bread.”

  She thought she was going to faint with relief.

  But she didn’t. And as soon as she could manage to make her trembling legs work again, she went back into the prison room, dragged out Simon’s bed, and hauled it past the unspeaking Dark One, hauling it back in again, cleaned, without it saying a single word.

  She got one more of the beds and blankets done—Sam’s—before it was time for supper, and the now-increased bread ration. The children fell on the extra loaves like wolves—all except Rose, who still seemed foggy-minded and had to be coaxed to eat her share. Robbie watched her worriedly. “Un’s daver,” he whispered to Ellie, who he seemed to have decided was now his right-hand person.

  “Can Sam—?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “This ain’t what Sam kin mend,” he replied. “Un’s givin’ oop.”

  “Cain’t blame un,” Ben put in, sadly. “Usn’s bein’ et, alive. Us’ns ain’t niver gettin’ oot.”

  “’Ee best remember that.” The Dark One had slipped up to the open door when they weren’t paying attention, and had evidently heard that last. They all jumped—except for Rose, who just slowly looked up at the creature, dull-eyed. “Yer mine, niver ferget. ’Tweren’t fer me, ee’d be layin’ a bier on moor. Be grateful.”

  It walked away. Ellie sat frozen on Robbie’s bed for a very long moment. Finally she got the courage to creep out into the Dark One’s room—

  Just in time to see it going out the door again. She ran to the window and watched it summon a pony, mount, and leave.

  “It’s gone!” she called out, and ran back to them.

  “It said Es kin make more food,” she told him, in case he hadn’t heard the Dark One giving her permission. “It didn’ say Es couldn’ make pancakes, so Es will!”

  Some of the children let out feeble cheers. Some burst into tears. She well understood both reactions. Robbie fell on her neck and hugged her fiercely. “’Ee’s a angel, Ellie. ’Ee’s a angel for certain-sure.”

  She shook her head. “Bain’t nomye angel,” she said. “But thet’s a divil.”

  And us’ns got to fight it, she thought, but dared not say. Or . . . us’ns all lay a bier.

  10

  BREAKFAST at Alderscroft’s bungalow, so Sarah discovered before going to bed by asking a housemaid, was a buffet at which everyone was to help himself, and the laying-out of it was signaled by the sound of a gong. Since this was at approximately the same time that breakfast was taken at the school, the three of them were already up and dressed and about to make a foray into the rest of the house to discover what the arrangement was for themselves.

  That had been at roughly seven in the morning, which was, by fashionable standards, horrifyingly early. But when he was not hosting guests who kept fashionable hours, his Lordship himself followed a schedule closer to that of common, working people.

  Alderscroft already knew they’d refuse any offer of servants to help them dress, so none had appeared, but a housemaid was lurking just outside the door to the lavender room and whisked inside to start cleaning and tidying up as soon as they had vacated.

  “You know she would have materialized like a djinn if we’d rung the bell,” Sarah said in an aside to Nan. Suki giggled. They’d all helped themselves to the coolest possible outfits in the wardrobes, without regard for whether or not the outfits would have been considered “appropriate” for breakfast. Which meant Sarah had chosen a tennis dress, and so had Nan.

  Evidently the Watsons were used to this arrangement; they were in the dining room ahead of the girls, and Alderscroft and his secretary came in shortly after Sarah and Nan and Suki. The buffet spread was impressive, but Sarah confined herself to toast and fruit. The day was already warm and she really didn’t want to even think about the heavy meats that were on display. She just hoped the staff had heartier appetites than she did.

  “I regret to say,” Sarah announced once everyone was seated, “that our results last night were disappointing. There don’t seem to be many ghosts in the part of Dartmoor we were able to explore, and there is quite a lot of Dartmoor.”

  “The ghosts we found were also not terribly communicative,” Nan added.

  “They was all a-tatters,” Suki confirmed, and tapped the side of her head with her finger. “Addled, mostly.”

  “I spoke with several Earth Masters and several Earth Magicians,” Alderscroft told them. “None were aware of anything untoward, but I still have another evening of communications ahead of me—most Earth Mages are either physicians or healers of some sort, or landsmen, and it’s simply not feasible to pull them away from their work by day.”

  Mary Watson nodded to confirm this. “While we could send an Air, Water, or Fire Elemental to alert a magician that Alderscroft wishes to speak with him, we have no way of knowing if we’re interrupting something important. So we send an Elemental to speak with his Elementals, who will know best when to get his attention.”

  “It sounds terribly complicated,” Sarah observed, brows furrowed. “Like court etiquette, or something.”

  Mary Watson laughed. “You’re not far off. A great many Elemental Magicians are quite touchy about how they are approached. The Earth Magicians very often are quite particular and set in their ways. They tend to be the most old-fashioned of all of us.”

  “I’ve also sent a telegraph to the constabulary at Yelverton, which seems to be the nearest town to Sheepstor—which is not saying much,” Alderscroft continued. “Sheepstor is in the middle of nowhere, and we already can guess from the letter that the letter writer lives a further distance still from Sheepstor, perhaps in one of those ‘villages’ with only two or three families in it, too small to have a name. Sheepstor does not have a telegraph office, but hopefully Yelverton can spare a constable to ride over to get us more details, or possibly even interview the writer herself and find out just how long it has been since the children went missing—or if in fact they have returned.”

  “I’d very much like it if it turned out to be a false alarm,” Sarah admitted, and found herself flushing a little. “Although I wouldn’t mind if we could impose on your hospitality here for a little.”

  “My dear child, you are always welcome!” Alderscroft laughed. “By all means, stay until we have an answer that will let us know what we need to do next, and beyond. Besides, it makes it all the easier to dispatch you, if you are here rather than in London. You needn’t even send to your flat for anything; I can supply whatever you’d need for the journey.”

  “I’d noticed,” Nan said, just a touch dryly. But Alderscroft knew her too well to take offense.

  “What I would like you to do today while we Elemental Masters work,” he said, as they finished the last bites of breakfast, “is to see if the Oldest Old One will be willing to tell you if there is anything afoot out there.”

  “He probably won’t,” Sarah warned. “He’s told us before that mortal affairs are m
ortal affairs and he doesn’t meddle in them.” Not that long ago, in fact, she remembered, and wondered if, by deliberately coming to tell them that, he was already warning them that there was something going on that needed their intervention.

  “In that case, just in case, you should ask him if he can teach you the dialect of those that live near Sheepstor,” Alderscroft continued. “I know he has done that for you with the Welsh tongue, so he should be willing to do that much. Otherwise, when you get out there, neither you nor the moorfolk will be able to understand one another.”

  “Now, that I think is certainly possible for him to arrange, if he’ll answer us,” Sarah confirmed. “And it’s a cracking good idea.”

  With that in mind, she, Nan, and Suki took their leave and went out the garden entrance. They decided to consult with Alderscroft’s head gardener as to the best place to summon Robin, and it certainly wasn’t hard to find him, directing a couple of underlings who were replanting some herbs. It was quite a relief to be able to talk to the servants openly about magic and psychical matters—all of Alderscroft’s people were entirely cognizant of what their master was, and many of them had a touch or more of magic themselves.

  The gardener rubbed his bearded chin, and his eyes had a faraway look as he considered every inch of his Lordship’s property. “Well, miss,” he said, after a very long time—the girls made sure to show no signs of impatience, although the same could not be said of Suki, who was hopping from foot to foot. “I’ve naught but the barest touch of Earth Magic, meself, but if I was to pick a spot where it’s thick on the ground on this property, I’d pick a special little clearing surrounded by firs just off the east bridle path.”

  He gave them very explicit instructions, and sent them on their way, returning to his task of replacing herbs that the cook had decimated.

  The bridle path in question began just past the stable and stableyard, and curious horses gazed at them with wide eyes as they made their way past the paddock and took the turfed path that led eastward, rather than the other two that began there. The path very soon led them beneath the thick branches of a mixed forest of oak, beech, hornbeam, and birch, a beautiful green tunnel through forested land that held trees that were at least several hundred years old. Sarah remembered what she and Nan had learned about Alderscroft’s land, when he’d given over the family manor to the school. It went back in the family almost all the way to the Norman Conquest, and the woods that stood here now were at the least the direct descendents of the woods that had stood here in those times. That was not uncommon, among the families of Elemental Magicians who were among the landowners, whether mere farmers with property or the landed gentry. They tended to hold onto their properties much better than any other group of landholders.