The Kingdom of Carbonel

by Barbara Sleigh

  Suddenly, there was a very loud rumble of thunder followed by a flash of lightning. For one flickering second the whole scene was lit up, and just below them with his back against the little cliff was an old, old cat with a very small black animal beside him. Together they were warding off a huge, grinning sandy tom.

  ‘Merbeck!’ called John. ‘Calidor! It’s us, John and Rosemary.’

  ‘Greetings!’ panted Merbeck. ‘We can’t hold out much longer. This is our last stand!’

  A second shape took its place beside Merbeck just as the sandy cat made a vicious lunge at Calidor, and another flash of lightning showed Tudge laying about him like a windmill, and the sandy cat slinking away.

  ‘To me, Turleys!’ he called. ‘Us’ll go down fighting!’ From the mass of shifting shapes, here and there one would shake itself clear and force its way to where Tudge and Merbeck and little Calidor stood with their backs against the cliff.

  John was banging the palm of one hand with his other fist. ‘Go it! Oh, go it, Tudge and Merbeck!’

  ‘And go it me, too!’ came in an excited squeak from Calidor.

  So absorbed was John that he did not notice Rosemary tugging at his jacket and calling him anxiously.

  ‘John, John, you must listen!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Some more cats, a whole company of them, coming towards us along the ridge. I saw them in that last flash of lightning!’

  ‘More cats?’ said John grimly. ‘Then I should think that just about finishes it. Merbeck!’ he called through his curved hands. ‘There’s another company moving up behind you!’

  ‘This… is… the… end!’ panted the Councillor.

  In the added gloom that seemed to follow each flash, Rosemary saw that the dark shape of the approaching animals was nearly upon them.

  ‘They’re here, Merbeck!’ she called desperately. ‘I can see them!’

  Merbeck gave a gallant, despairing cry of, ‘Who goes there?’

  The answer came back clear and strong, ‘I, Carbonel!’ And in a double flash of lightning they saw him standing on the high bank. His magnificent head was raised inquiringly, while behind stood a splendid company of animals. For a second they were lit up so clearly that John and Rosemary saw behind him a lean, blue-eyed cat from Siam, a thin, big-boned cat from Egypt, a long-haired Persian cat, cats black as coal, white as milk and grey as woodsmoke.

  The lightning was gone, and with it the sight of the returning kings. But already the battle had begun to waver, and the whisper went around, ‘Carbonel! Carbonel is back! The kings are home again!’ And as the fighting gradually faltered and came to a standstill, the shifting mass was jewelled with pairs of glowing eyes, as one by one more and more of the battle-scarred animals turned and looked up to where the kings stood on the bank above them.

  ‘What is this unseemly brawling?’ asked Carbonel, and although he did not seem to raise his voice, it cut through the shuffle and murmur of the animals below so that the farthest cat on the Swimming Bath Slopes heard every syllable.

  ‘Is this the way you greet your king? It seems that much has happened since I went away, and there is much for me to learn.’

  There was a crash of thunder and another lightning flash which showed the sea of upturned cat faces below them, and as the thunder rumbled into silence, Rosemary felt a large wet raindrop fall on the hand still holding the matchbox.

  ‘Tomorrow I will hear all about this night’s work, and justice shall be done. Until then, home with you where you belong!’

  There was a shuffle and a murmur in the darkness below them.

  ‘We go, O Carbonel!’ came the answer.

  The lamps of a hundred gleaming eyes seemed to go out one by one, as the shamed animals turned away. There was a sighing, rustling noise as they surged past John and Rosemary and streamed away in the darkness. One final lightning flash showed Rosemary a curious sight. A wave of animals reached the edge of what in daylight was the garage roof, and with one movement, like a drift of snow when the thaw sets in, the dark mass slid to the ground, then broke up and disappeared.

  The thundery rain was falling in slow heavy drops by now, and the deep blueness of the night began to change to the thin grey that comes before the dawn. Dimly John and Rosemary could see the dark mass of Carbonel and the kings.

  A deep voice said, ‘We must be on our way, brothers, we have far to travel.’

  ‘This night’s work makes us the more anxious to return to see what awaits us.’

  Somebody laughed.

  ‘Go on your way, my friends!’ said Carbonel. ‘And may your homecoming be more peaceable than mine!’

  Against the sky, the two children saw them go, a splendid procession of cats of every kind and colour. One thing they disagreed about afterwards. Rosemary was quite sure that on every head there was a small, shining crown, but John said she imagined it. When they turned back and looked where Carbonel sat alone, he certainly wore no crown. The curves and broken lines of Cat Country seemed to waver and straighten as though they had been redrawn with a ruler. Then they realized they were no longer standing on grass but upon the wet tiles of the garage roof, with their elbows on the coping of the roof of Fallowhithe Swimming Baths.

  ‘Father!’ called Calidor. ‘I pushed a great, grownup tabby right out of Cat Country, honest I did. But I don’t like getting my paws wet,’ he added plaintively.

  The rain was pouring down now. ‘Let’s go and shelter in the bicycle shed!’ said John.

  John and Rosemary sat on the rack which in the daytime held the bicycles, and Carbonel perched himself on the saddle of a machine that for some reason someone had forgotten to collect. Calidor strutted around, still full of excitement over his part in the fight, and singing a rather conceited little song. They were joined by Woppit, who had an indignant Pergamond beside her. The old cat had refused to let her join in, and together they had watched from the safety of a distant chimney pot. Merbeck was there, too. He had to be supported by Tudge because he was so exhausted.

  The rain drummed on the tin roof above them, but nobody noticed it. Carbonel listened in silence to the long story. His golden eyes moved from one to another as they took up the tale in turn. When the threat to Blandamour and the kittens was told, his ears flattened and his tail lashed angrily. But when Rosemary opened the matchbox on the palm of her hand and the minute white cat stepped delicately out, he did not know whether to growl in fury or purr with pleasure that Blandamour was at least safe. In the end he did neither, and his tiny wife stretched up and licked his nose with a tongue which was no larger than the petal of a scarlet pimpernel, but was none the less loving for that. Carbonel’s eyes were troubled. Even Miss Dibdin, whom John had put down on the paving stones beside him, still inside the potted meat jar in case someone should tread on her, seemed to fill the Cat King with grave concern.

  ‘There is much to think about in your story,’ said Carbonel. ‘Two things only are clear; first that my family and the cats of my kingdom can never pay the debt we owe to John and Rosemary.’

  Rosemary blushed a rosy red and John made embarrassed noises in his throat.

  ‘Secondly,’ went on Carbonel, ‘Mrs Cantrip must be curbed and the magic undone once and for all. But it has been a long night for all of us. Tomorrow we will meet again.’

  ‘In the Green Cave after breakfast?’ suggested John. Carbonel nodded.

  ‘And until then I leave my dear Blandamour in your charge.’

  ‘I’ve thought of the very place!’ said Rosemary. ‘My old doll’s house, and Miss Dibdin can keep her company!’

  31

  The Final Magic

  When John and Rosemary reached home again, the rain had stopped, and the rising sun gilded the wet streets and roofs of Cranshaw Road as though they were made of beaten gold. They were too sleepy to do anything when they crept indoors except pull Rosemary’s old doll’s house out from the bottom of her wardrobe. She had not played with it for
years, as was clear from the jumble of furniture inside. However, she put the bed on its feet again and made it as comfortable as she was able with folded handkerchiefs. Released from the potted meat jar, Miss Dibdin, still in a dazed condition, climbed gratefully in and Blandamour curled up beside her. The two miniature creatures seemed to find comfort in each other’s company.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ yawned John as they latched the front of the little house, ‘but I found it quite difficult to hear Carbonel talking last night. His voice seemed faint and far away.’

  ‘Just because we’re so tired, I expect,’ said Rosemary. ‘Come on, let’s go to bed.’

  They slept late that morning, but they woke as refreshed as if the night’s adventure had been nothing but a dream.

  After breakfast Rosemary tidied up the doll’s house. She gave Blandamour a tiny piece of fish and half a thimbleful of milk, and from her own breakfast she saved a piece of bacon the size of a postage stamp for Miss Dibdin, and a crumb of bread and butter. She even made her some tea in a doll’s house teacup with a single tea leaf.

  ‘Let’s take the whole caboodle down to the Green Cave,’ said John, so they carried it down between them.

  Raindrops still glistened like diamonds on the leaves of the currant bushes. Carbonel was already there, sitting on the biscuit tin, and Merbeck with Tudge, who seemed to have taken on himself the job of personal attendant to the old Councillor. Calidor and Pergamond played about among the fallen leaves, with Woppit sitting at a respectful distance. The leaves of the currant bushes were beginning to change to yellow and orange.

  Carbonel studied the doll’s house with great interest.

  ‘A palace for my lovely Queen, and conjured up at a moment’s notice! That is the sort of little attention I appreciate,’ he said.

  ‘Did all the Broomhurst cats go back?’ asked John.

  ‘They went,’ said Carbonel grimly. ‘A rain-soaked, shamefaced collection! There will be no more trouble with them. My old friend Castrum, the husband of Grisana, was so deeply ashamed of his wife’s wickedness that he has given up his throne to his son Gracilis. He will make a fine ruler. He is a bachelor, but some day we hope, his father and I, that Pergamond –’

  ‘Your voice is awfully faint, Carbonel,’ said John. ‘We can hardly hear you speak. What is happening?’

  ‘The power of the red mixture is wearing off. You can take another spoonful, but not until the power of the first has entirely worn off. You had better bring the bottle with you.’

  ‘Bring it with us? Where to?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘Fairfax Market,’ said Carbonel. ‘We have work to do. Firstly the minuscule magic must be undone. A wife who fits into a matchbox, though in many ways exquisitely beautiful, is a little inconvenient, and I dare say the little human –’

  A torrent of tiny twittering came from Miss Dibdin, which they took to mean that she, too, disliked being no larger than a fountain pen.

  ‘Secondly,’ went on Carbonel, ‘although Mrs Cantrip has no more magic left, she is so set in her wicked ways that she will go on making mischief for someone for the rest of her life unless something is done.’

  ‘Wait a minute while I get Miss Dibdin’s travelling jar,’ said Rosemary.

  There was a further agitated twittering from Miss Dibdin. Rosemary put her head as far as she was able into the doll’s house. By standing on the tiny table, the little creature was just tall enough to reach Rosemary’s ear, and by shouting as loudly as she could, she managed to make herself understood.

  ‘Not a potted meat jar,’ Miss Dibdin said indignantly. ‘So undignified!’

  Rosemary ran back to the flat and returned with a green glass jar with a bow around the neck that had once contained bath salts. Carrying the jar with Miss Dibdin, and the matchbox with Blandamour curled inside, John and Rosemary headed the procession for Fairfax Market.

  ‘Perhaps it would help if we found something to keep Mrs Cantrip busy,’ said Rosemary. ‘Then she wouldn’t have time for much mischief.’

  They had just reached the house as she spoke.

  ‘It looks as though she’s been pretty busy already,’ said John.

  The lace curtains were gone from the window. Over the top, on a board which had been newly nailed, was some wobbly lettering, the paint still wet. It read:

  K. CANTRIP, GREENGROCER

  By Special Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen.

  Displayed below was a box lid full of nettles and another of dandelions, a tray full of clumps of whitish stalks which might have been celery but which Rosemary suspected were hemlock. There were one or two jam jars containing a dark brown substance labelled HENBANE HONEY, and a soup plate full of toadstools of every colour of the rainbow supported a notice which said, ‘Try them with bacon.’

  ‘We aren’t a minute too soon!’ said John. ‘Come on!’

  The shop door was open as though to welcome early customers. Mrs Cantrip was sitting beside the counter she had arranged, slowly printing something on a piece of cardboard.

  ‘Good morning! What can I do for you?’ she said, barely looking up from her work.

  ‘You can give me back my Queen!’ said Carbonel.

  At the sound of his voice, her pen dug deep into the cardboard in a spatter of ink. Carbonel leapt on to the counter. The black cat and the old woman stared at each other through narrowed eyes.

  ‘So you’re back, are you? Why should I give you back your Queen?’ said Mrs Cantrip harshly.

  ‘Because your day is over and your power is done!’

  The old woman looked around at the ring of accusing faces. Merbeck, Tudge and Woppit had joined Carbonel on the counter. Even the kittens stared with angry eyes from the safety of Rosemary’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re all against me!’ she said at last. ‘Just when I’ve turned honest shopkeeper!’

  ‘Honest!’ said John indignantly. ‘What about those toadstools? Have you ever tried them with bacon?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be so silly,’ said Mrs Cantrip scornfully. ‘I can’t help what my customers do, can I? Well, can I?’

  ‘And the “Special Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen”,’ said Rosemary. ‘That couldn’t be true!’

  ‘I never said which queen, did I?’ snapped the old woman. ‘There’s a queen bee I know comes to my garden regular.’

  ‘But you can’t go on like this!’ said Rosemary. ‘Think of all the trouble and anxiety you’ve caused us. And then there’s Queen Blandamour and poor Miss Dibdin. Why, you’re crying! I believe you’re sorry!’

  Two hard, round tears fell from Mrs Cantrip’s dimmed eyes, and steered an uneven course down her wrinkled cheeks.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Mrs Cantrip. ‘Ah, I’m sorry right enough, but not because I made a bit of bother, not me. As promising a bit of mischief as ever I had a hand in. I’m sorry because I didn’t enjoy it. And when a witch doesn’t enjoy her wickedness any more, it means she’s finished, done for!’

  ‘But surely you could enjoy doing something else if you only tried?’ asked John.

  ‘Only if I could do the final magic, and I won’t ever be able to do that.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t do it by myself. To make it work. not one, but two people must give up the thing they value most for my sake.’

  ‘But what will the final magic do to you?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘It will turn me into what I might have been if I’d not taken up with the ways of darkness.’

  ‘And if you make this final magic,’ said Carbonel, ‘what of my Queen, my Blandamour and this… this potted person here?’ He waved toward Miss Dibdin, who was anxiously peering over the edge of the green glass jar which stood on the counter.

  ‘The spell that changed me would undo all that is left of my magic. They’d become their own size sure enough. But what’s the good of talking? Who’d give a bent farthing for me, let alone their dearest possession?’

  ‘I would!’ said Rosemary.

&nb
sp; ‘And so would I!’ said John stoutly.

  ‘Think well what you’re saying,’ said Mrs Cantrip.

  ‘I’d give up my new cricket bat!’ said John.

  ‘I’d give my sewing box. It’s inlaid with mother of pearl, and it belonged to my great-grandmother,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Think well, think well!’ said Mrs Cantrip again. For a moment her eyes looked large and appealing as they might have done when she was a girl. The slyness seemed to have been wiped from her face as though with a sponge, leaving nothing behind but a deep anxiety. ‘It must be the most precious thing you have, or it’s no good!’

  ‘Oh, John,’ said Rosemary. ‘Do you remember what we said in the wood yesterday – that being able to hear Carbonel and the animals talk was the most exciting thing that had happened to us, and that we couldn’t bear it to be taken away?’

  John pressed his lips tightly together. He was very pale, but he nodded.

  ‘Oh, Carbonel!’ said Rosemary. ‘Must it be that?’

  ‘If that is your most precious possession, and if you want to save Mrs Cantrip and undo her magic, it must.’

  Very slowly John drew from his pocket the bottle of red mixture.

  ‘Come into the garden,’ said Mrs Cantrip, and led the way.

  The garden was much the same as the last time Rosemary had seen it, on the day when she had escaped in the flying chair. The curious weeds were still neatly staked, and the beehive stood in the corner.

  Mrs Cantrip moved the garden seat from the little square of grass. Then, in the middle of the grass, she spread the scarlet headscarf with the black squiggles. She looked around.