The Grimoire of Kensington Market

by Lauren B. Davis

  “What does that mean?”

  “He has a splinter in his eye, you know.”

  Maggie said that she did and buttoned up her coat.

  Perchta grunted. “Bad magic. People fooling around with things to which they have no right. She’s made a world for him. And he’s the centre of it, wanting for nothing, getting everything he demands. She gives him kisses too, oh, yes, she does that.” She cackled and rubbed her thighs. “Gives him things he never dreamed of. Icy kisses, icy lies. Icy bed and icy food and icy halls of white delight and all the while he dies a little more. Soon there will be nothing left of him that you would recognize.”

  Gans honked as though in agreement.

  “What can I do?”

  “You have something with you. A bear tooth, do you not?”

  One of Mr. Strundale’s gifts. She nodded.

  “There’s nothing more I can do, except direct you and tell you to keep your intentions clear. You’ll meet someone who’s lost something. You’ll know what to do. He may help you, or he may not.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles.”

  The old woman shrugged. “You only think that because you don’t know the answers. To me it’s perfectly plain. Her powers are limited, you see, by how much you’re willing to deceive yourself.”

  “More riddles.”

  “See things as they are, not as you wish them to be. It’s wanting things to be different that gets us into trouble.”

  “I don’t see how I can figure out what’s real and what’s not in a place like this.”

  Perchta snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is as real a place as any there is. Be practical. Think. Has your brother ever lied to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you know he was lying?”

  She considered this. “Yes, I think I always knew.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m not sure, the way he looked away when he talked, or I remember one time when I knew he was back on the pipe, even though he said he wasn’t. We were in a café, sitting at a table, just the two of us, and he kept putting things between us – a cup, a vase, a fork, a book. It was like he was trying to barricade himself behind things.”

  “Yes, good. What else?”

  Something came to mind, but she didn’t want to say it.

  Perchta said, “Come on, out with it.”

  “He stole some money from a friend, and when I asked him about it he said I’d never cared about him, that I never cared about anyone except myself.” She saw his face in front of her now, all flushed and sweaty, all defiance and venom. “He wasn’t wrong. I did care more about myself than about him. But,” she looked straight at Perchta, “he didn’t answer the question, and I knew, even though I’d hoped it wasn’t true, that of course he stole the money.”

  “You might want it to be different, but there it is. It’s wanting things to be different that puts the thorn under the skin.” She clapped her hands. “Your instincts are good. Your head is clear. But you’ll have to keep your wits about you, oh, yes, you will. Much will depend on how far the shard has burrowed inside him, and whether he wants it to come out or not. Someone pampers him.” She made a grunt of disgust. “Rot and duplicity. But enough talk.” She shrugged. “Get your things. It’s time for you to go.”

  This took Maggie by surprise. She had thought, as before, she would spend a day or so in this place before moving on. Why was she not as anxious to get going as she had been? Was she afraid? Yes, she was afraid she wouldn’t find Kyle, and she was afraid she would. Afraid it was all a fool’s quest.

  “The path only goes one way,” said Perchta.

  “I noticed.”

  “That’s still the only direction. No point wanting things to be different.”

  Maggie reached for her pack, but Perchta stopped her.

  “You don’t need that anymore. Take the box your friend gave you, with the bear’s tooth. Leave the rest. A change of underwear can’t help you now.” She cackled.

  “I can’t go off into the snow without anything.”

  Perchta pointed to the wall where a pair of boots and a coat made from the softest fur hung from an antler. “Take those. They’ll keep you warm. And the dog’ll go with you. Oh, and tuck this knife in your boot as well. You never know.”

  Maggie looked at Badger. He had fallen back asleep and was lying on his back, feet in the air, belly exposed. “Perhaps he should stay with you.”

  “Not possible. He goes with you.” Perchta’s face softened. “You know it yourself: he wouldn’t have it any other way. Would you, Badger?”

  At the sound of his name he snapped awake, rolled over and yawned hugely.

  Maggie took off her own coat and put on the new one, took the little box with the bear tooth and slipped it into a wide pocket. She looked into the flickering lamplight, thinking this might be the last time she’d be anything even close to warm. She’d taken warmth for granted, as she’d taken lamplight. What a fool she’d been.

  She and Badger followed Perchta and Gans outside. The night – or day? – was the colour of dull tin, with the faintest opalescence along the far horizon. The caribou had returned. They stood or lay all around, a forest of antlers, like the thicket of thorns surrounding the sleeping princess of a fairy tale. The sky was an argent charcoal, and the green and pink and blue lights rippled against the darkness. It seemed as though they touched the top of the trees.

  “Usko will take you part of the way, until you reach the stone marker at the boundary between her land and ours. But beyond that he cannot go. You and Badger will be on your own from there on in, do you understand?”

  Maggie said she did. The blood in her veins seemed thick with ice crystals. She shivered. Perchta told her she couldn’t take the sleigh, but must ride Usko, holding Badger before her. The herd of caribou parted and from the stately way Usko walked forward and the deference the other caribou gave him, it was clear he knew both his duty and its gravity. Perchta placed a hide saddle on his back, with stirrups made from horn. Maggie clambered up and Perchta lifted Badger to her. The dog was uncomfortable and struggled, but Maggie calmed him as best she could and he stilled, facing her, with his head on her shoulder.

  “I don’t ride,” said Maggie. She glanced at the animal’s great antlers, which looked very sharp and far too close to her face. “I’ve never even been on a horse, let alone a caribou. How do I stay on?”

  “Use your legs. But don’t worry, Usko is, as you’ve already discovered, a caribou of unusual talents. His gait is smooth. You probably won’t fall off more than a dozen times or so, and the snow’s soft. You’ll get the hang of it.” She must have seen the look of panic on Maggie’s face. She put her hand on Maggie’s leg. “Don’t worry. Just make sure Badger doesn’t jump off. Usko won’t drop you, will you?” The caribou jingled his bells.

  Before Maggie could voice more doubts, Perchta stood back and said, “Good luck to you, girl. Darkness is spreading and we depend on you.” She looked up. “You’re to have company after all.” The two ravens circled above. “You have friends in high places.” Perchta laughed at her joke, and slapped Usko on the hindquarters. “My prayers go with you.” Gans honked, her head held high, her chest puffed out and her wings spread.

  Usko ran, but his stride was so smooth it hardly felt like they were moving at all. Only the wind in her face, and rippling through Badger’s fur, indicated their speed. Within minutes they were beyond the woods and the landscape became so unchangeable and so empty that had she not looked behind her and seen the trees dwindle to a speck with alarming rapidity, she could have fooled herself into thinking they moved at a slow walk. The only sound was that of Usko’s bells and the occasional caw from the ravens. She watched them, swift as arrows, flapping furiously and then tucking their wings at their sides as though riding the wak
e of air from Usko’s passing.

  The path did not disappear behind her this time; there was no path at all. It was just empty white snow, without even Usko’s hoofprints. It was as though he didn’t touch the ground. The cold made her forehead ache and her eyes water, and she pulled the fur hood over her head. Badger’s body shielded her and warmed her. His fur was thick, but he must have been cold as well, for he buried his face inside her hood, his wet nose on her neck making her shiver.

  After some time Usko began to slow. Ahead stood what looked like a tall dark man. The figure was stout, with arms outstretched. He was motionless and the air behind him was oddly opaque. How, she wondered, could he stand so still? Surely, he must tire. Surely, he must freeze. As they neared, she saw it wasn’t a living man, but rather a stone figure. Thick legs and larger, wider rocks for his body. Two stones were positioned in the centre of the top body stone, forming arms, and over the middle of these two, where they met, was another stone, set as a head. This, then, was the marker Perchta spoke of, the boundary between Srebrenka’s land and this one. The stone man looked as though he was warning travellers to pass no farther.

  Usko halted. The ravens perched, one on each of the figure’s outstretched arms, facing into the strange thick air beyond. Badger jumped down, sniffing, his hackles up. Maggie slid from Usko’s back and looked, or tried to, past the stone marker. She could see nothing. It was like a wall of cotton. The caribou’s bells tinkled, and Maggie turned to him. He stamped his hooves. She rubbed his muzzle and laid her cheek against his nose. He smelled clean and sweet as grass. Usko stepped back and shook his massive head. He looked at her gravely, with deep solemnity, and appeared to be waiting for something. She nodded, giving him permission. He ducked his head three times, then turned and sped off, leaving no prints in the snow.

  He vanished. There was nothing to see except miles and miles of undulating snow, a white ocean, deceptively placid, undeniably lethal. She turned back to the stone marker. One of the ravens, the more rumpled of the two, cocked his head, fixing her in the glitter of his eye.

  “This is it, isn’t it?”

  The raven bobbed.

  Oh, Kyle, she thought, what have you done to us? She saw him as he’d been that day in the greenhouse at Allan Gardens (it seemed like years ago), when he’d asked to stay with her and she’d refused. His dark eyes glinting with need, the lines around his mouth so hard. He’d been so thin.

  So many strands, a spider’s web of links and connections, making everyone responsible for everyone else, tied to them, wrapped up and snarled.

  Kyle’s hands reaching up for her when he was a little boy, frightened by a dream. The look of disbelief on his face when she left home and left him behind to fend for himself. Little Brother of the Sparrow.

  She tucked her hands inside the front pocket of the fur coat. The box from Mr. Strundale, with the tooth and bit of mistletoe, felt warm and comforting, but still her heart pounded. “Oh, Badger,” she said. And then she turned her face skyward and stared into the vast emptiness.

  “You wanted me here,” she shouted at the sky. “And here I am. Now do your part. Do something. Do anything. I don’t want to do this. I want to go home!” She wiped tears away. She listened. Nothing. Just Badger beside her, whimpering.

  Well, to hell with it. Standing here wasn’t going to save either of them. They’d freeze and become a pair of markers to stand next to this one. Just let it be done, one way or the other. She supposed there were worse things to die for than love.

  Maggie stretched a hand into the whiteness, half expecting her hand to freeze instantly, but whatever it was seemed no more than a veil. The ravens squawked loudly and beat their wings as though urging her on. She was afraid she might lose Badger in the fog or mist or whatever it was and so she took her scarf off and fashioned it into a leash, tying it to his collar. He danced nervously, straining forward.

  “All right. Here we go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AS SHE STEPPED FORWARD, THE RAVENS FLEW straight into the whiteness, and then she lost them. It was snow all around. But the snow didn’t fall from the sky, nor was it snow as she expected it to be. It was snowflake creatures. Plural. Hundreds of them. Thousands? They dashed at her, each flake as big as a cat. They threw themselves at her, hitting her like snowballs. Some looked like huge quilled rodents, others like snakes tied into knots with their heads ready to strike, others like bats. They nearly blinded her they were so white, so bright.

  She swatted them with one hand and with the other clung to Badger’s scarf-leash. She had no doubt at all who sent these things, nor who controlled them. She pulled Perchta’s knife from her boot and sliced and stabbed at them as Badger, at the end of his leash, snapped and bit. But it was no good; the creatures were too many and too swift. As soon as she sliced through a creature, it fell, but then re-formed and came at her again. Their touch felt as if they had teeth. Badger yipped and yelped but fought on. Somewhere in all the whiteness, the ravens cawed and shrieked.

  Soon she and Badger would either be battered to death, buried or frozen, or all three. It was becoming harder and harder to walk as the snow thickened. Badger, snarling, plunged through the drifts as through deep water. Both did what damage they could to the things assailing them, but she began to lose what little hope she had and battled on only through the instinct to survive. She needed some sort of protection, but there was nothing she could use. A spell, a charm. Force wouldn’t work against these creatures. She needed magic and power. Something, something … What had she read about charms? What could she use? Winter. Protection. And then she knew. While she continued to slash and fight, she remembered. Druids. Winter rites. Mistletoe. With her left hand, she reached for the box Mr. Strundale had given her, and it was warm. And it moved.

  She pulled it out and, nearly blinded though she was, she opened it. As soon as she did a tendril of mistletoe inched out, tipped with waxy, nearly transparent white berries. She pulled the sprig from the box, making sure it hadn’t attached to the bear tooth, and put the box safely back in her pocket. Even as she watched, the sprig grew and grew. The snow creatures around her shivered and pulled back slightly. Badger stood next to her, growling, but he wasn’t snapping at anything. Indeed, he didn’t need to, for the snow creatures retreated before the mistletoe. It grew ever faster, so that now it spread along the ground, forming a circle around her and Badger, a line the snow did not penetrate. She looked up. High above her, stars glinted, but outside the circle, all was still white and wild. And then the mistletoe slithered rapidly along the ground and the snow backed away so that a path opened up, wide enough for Maggie and Badger to walk side by side. The ravens stood on the path in front of them. They preened their feathers and looked quite indignant, and horribly ruffled, but no more damaged than that.

  The ravens flew ahead and Maggie and Badger started along the path, their sides heaving, their breath ragged, and the snow did not touch them. Indeed, they were dry and quite warm. The creatures tried time and again to breech the mistletoe’s force field, but were frustrated. It was impossible to forget they were there, but after a few minutes Maggie’s breathing normalized and she stopped flinching every five seconds. The ravens flew and then stopped on the path, checking to see that Maggie followed, and then flew on again.

  A set of gates appeared. They were made from ice or glass, so that it was hard to see them until one was nearly upon them. The ravens perched on a snowbank. As Maggie reached the gates the birds flew over and disappeared from view. She feared she would have to climb over, leaving Badger behind. Perhaps she could dig through the snow walls surrounding the gate. But when she put her gloved hand on the latch, it swung open easily.

  There stood a great palace, made entirely of snow and ice. The thick slabs of carved ice that served as doors opened as easily as had the gate. It was as cold inside as out, although being away from the wind was a relief. It was p
ossible to see through the thin panes of ice that acted as windows, but the view was blurry. Besides, beyond lay only snow and more snow. She walked through one enormous empty hall after another, staircase after staircase and room after room … Chandeliers hung from the ceilings, but instead of candles, they were lit by strange blue lights, like tiny stars trapped in frozen cages.

  Maggie wandered from room to hall to staircase to hall to room, but found no sign of Kyle, or anyone else. The silence was thick, as was the fog from her breath. She lost all sense of direction. She hadn’t seen the ravens since she’d opened the gates. Badger padded by her side, the scarf-leash slack.

  “Can you find Kyle, Badger? Can you find him?”

  Badger looked at her and sniffed. Maggie wanted to call out, but didn’t want to alert Srebrenka if there was a chance her entrance had gone unnoticed. It occurred to Maggie this palace was nothing more than an elaborate labyrinth, a trick to keep her wandering until she froze. How long would that take? She couldn’t last long, not without fire and food.

  The walls glinted, and the floors glimmered. Beneath the silver-blue lights the ice flickered. As Maggie exited another room she looked down a long hall and there, at the end, something moved. A dot of black among all the white and crystal. A small white fox with a black nose and black eyes. Predatory. Skulking. Dangerous. Badger growled. “No, Badger. Leave it.” The fox trotted close to the wall. Then another Arctic fox appeared from a side door, and then another. Badger, unable to control himself, lunged, but Maggie kept his scarf-leash firmly in her grip, telling him to stay. He barked madly. Five foxes, six, seven, all of them slinking along the wall, turning to stare at Maggie and Badger, as if teasing the dog, tempting him.

  That was probably exactly what they wanted. To lure Badger away from her. Well, if Srebrenka wanted her and Badger to go that way, she’d just turn and go the other. She pulled Badger and began to run in the opposite direction. He resisted at first, but then ran with her. She turned and looked back. The foxes were gone.