Eyes watering, Rose looked up at the sorceress, who was pouting at her reflection in the mirror for what felt like the ninety-third time that morning, and watched her apply yet another coat of red lipstick. Next she fussed with her hair, today styled in an elaborate up-do, with ringlets framing her face in a way that reminded Rose of the women on Greek urns. She frowned. She’d never seen Medea so fretful about her appearance – not even back at Hazel’s concert in London, when the newspaper photographers had been flashing their cameras in a sea of white lights – and it struck her as strange. Perhaps, she reasoned, the sudden glamour was some sort of sorceress-chic, a glitzing up for your most important feats of magic, but it still felt faintly disappointing, when there were far more important things to be thinking about.
‘Finished?’ said Medea, noticing Rose watching her in the mirror.
Rose nodded and the sorceress turned, walked towards the table and plucked a vial from the stand. She held it to the window, letting the sunlight stream through it, and peered closer, like a scientist studying the results of an experiment, her eyes following the glittering green flecks as they trailed steadily upwards.
‘Excellent,’ she murmured.
Rose felt another flutter of pride, thrilled at how far she’d come in learning to be a sorceress. She stared at the mixture she’d made, knowing that it would bring them the gold they needed to cure her father, and smiled, the thought dazzling like a big shiny diamond in her mind. Everything was going to work out perfectly.
Just as long as she helped Wat first, she reminded herself.
‘We need to talk,’ said Medea, drawing a stool up to the table and sitting down opposite Rose. Her face was cool and serious. ‘Tonight you’re going to see some frightening things. But whatever happens, you absolutely must hold your nerve. OK? Because I can’t do this spell on my own, Rose. Do you understand? It needs both of us.’
Rose nodded, feeling a shiver of unease prickling the nape of her neck.
‘Good,’ said Medea, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a black drawstring pouch. She opened it and began sliding the vials inside. ‘You’re a brave girl and I’ve always known you were capable of the strongest magic.’
Rose watched her, the jungle noise outside seeming to fade. In the fuggy stillness of the hut, the soft chink of glass grew louder as Medea slipped the last of the vials into the pouch, drew the strings tight and set it down by Rose.
‘Don’t you need any?’ said Rose.
Medea shook her head. ‘No. You’ll take all of them when you go out over the water.’
Rose stared. ‘Over the water?’
‘Yes,’ said Medea. She stood up, smoothed her shorts and walked back to the pot. ‘You’ll have to be above the gold when you tip the Levitation Potion in.’
Rose felt a wave of fear ripple down her back. The lagoon had been scary enough when she’d simply been gazing at it from the shore in the sunlight, long before Medea mentioned taking a moonlit paddle over it.
Medea tutted. ‘Well, there’s no need to look like that about it,’ she muttered. ‘If it makes you feel any better, whilst you’re pouring the elixir into the lagoon, I shall be dealing with far more unpleasant things on the shore.’
Unsurprisingly, this didn’t make Rose feel any better. Not even a teensy bit. For a moment she stared at the sorceress, wondering what could possibly be far more unpleasant than taking a trip over what was frankly a gigantic bowl of oil-black anaconda and caiman gazpacho.52
But Medea was already staring back into the pot.
The conversation was clearly over.
Around her, the smoke had changed colour, billowing in indigo curls, and as Rose watched, the sorceress’s face softened, the line of her mouth momentarily turning into a fond smile, before returning to its icy mask. When she looked up again, her eyes were as hard and grey as pebbles. Impatiently sweeping the room with a glance, she smoothed down her clothes and, primping her hair one last time, walked briskly to the door and glanced back over her shoulder.
‘Be sure you’re waiting here for me at six o’clock sharp.’
Rose opened her mouth to reply as the door slammed shut. For a few seconds she sat, bemused by the sorceress’s sudden exit, and, staring uneasily at the pouch of Levitation Potion on the table, felt the memory of that dark water seeping back into her mind.
But, as she quickly scolded herself, this was what it had all been about and if she truly wanted her father back, then she’d have to get on with it, wouldn’t she? Do whatever she had to, however scary it seemed. Besides, why was she sitting here, wasting time and thinking about herself, when she still had Wat to find and use the Reversal Potion, tucked in her pocket, on him? Giving herself a brisk mental shake, she stood up, ready to leave.
Which was when the pot rumbled again.
Rose turned, realising that in her rush Medea had forgotten to snuff out the flames. She stood, braced for the door to fly back open, waiting for her to thump back in and put out the fire. And, when nothing happened, she walked over to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of the sorceress striding out between the huts towards the jungle.
Eager to sneak a peek before she left, Rose hurried over and peered into the pot. Inside, a thick lumpy sludge muttered like prehistoric swamp and, curious, Rose plucked up the peacock plume and tore off some tendrils, throwing them into the goo, the way Medea had.
Nothing changed.
Frustrated, she waited a few seconds more and then, thoroughly dismayed, tossed the feather back down on the floor. She didn’t have time for this. Not when she needed to find Wat. Thinking of the enormousness of the task ahead made her heart feel heavier than lead. Where was he? Still at the lagoon? Keeping a lonely vigil at his grave? Or somewhere in between, lost and bewildered, in some patch of jungle that resembled every other patch of jungle around it? For a long moment she stood, recreating the horrified look on his face in her mind, seeing him again that last time, as he turned and stomped off into the trees in a flurry of lace and satin. Frowning, she imagined how unhappy and alone he must be and, curbing a fresh stab of guilt, turned to leave. Just as the pot let out an almighty belch.
Flinching from a flying gobbet, Rose peeped back in and was startled to see the mixture roll flat and lie completely still. Holding her breath, she stared as the surface began to sparkle with brilliant crystal colours, yellow and green and blue. Curls of purple smoke twisted from the surface as its colours merged and whirled, bouncing against the sides of the pot, before tumbling into patterns, shapes and finally a picture. Rose rubbed her eyes, at first wondering if she was imagining the familiar headstones, wonky and green with moss, basking beneath a perfect sky. But when she spied the croquet mallet, leaning against the buttress root at the edge of the clearing, she suddenly understood what the pot was for and that, somehow, thinking hard about Wat must have conjured this picture. Astonished, she stared down, knowing why the sorceress had been so obsessed by the smoking mixture. The brew must work like some sort of magical surveillance camera, she reasoned, enabling Medea to spy on whomever she wanted, and now, feeling slightly sick, Rose forced herself to concentrate harder. She stared at the mallet again, certain that it meant Wat was somewhere close to the graveyard, and squinted about the scene for a shimmer of satin between the trees. When something golden caught her eye, twinkling at the edge of the picture, she felt her heart lift, sure that it must be a button or strip of brocade.
Except that it was bigger than either. Hard and rippled, it curled round and round like a winkle shell.
Twirling.
Glittering.
Ridged with ripples.
Feeling a strange lurch in her chest, she dragged her hair off her face and leaned closer for a better look.
‘Aries?’ she whispered, feeling utterly ridiculous.
How could he possibly be up on Earth? Here in the Amazon rainforest? And so close to Tatu? Confusion fogged her brain, muddying her mind, yet her eyes insisted that it was unmistakably and absolute
ly one of his horns.
A moment later, he stepped properly into view and she burst into laughter, thrilled to see the familiar curve of his jaw, his flaring black nostrils, his muzzle crumpled up in puzzlement as he stared at something on the ground.
‘Aries!’ she yelled, punching the air in delight.
Blinking, she wondered at the lop-sided harness, tied crudely around Aries’ girth. A lyre dangled over his rump. An ugly-looking statue poked out of a saddlebag. Then Alex stepped into the picture too, and Rose squealed again.
Leaning closer, she was amazed to see that he was carrying what appeared to be a shield of living snakes. Most people, of course, would have felt alarmed at this. But not Rose, who giggled as the funny little green one dropped from the metal disc and squiggled over the earth. At least until a sudden flash of panic crossed her mind: was this what Medea had seen? The reason she’d been obsessed by the pot all morning and had left in such a hurry? Dread bristled in her chest, so hard and spiky that for a few seconds she could barely breathe, before a surge of logic lit up her brain, pointing out that the sorceress had actually headed into the jungle in the opposite direction from the graveyard.
Relieved, Rose grinned as Aries jabbed his hoof at something lying on the ground and swung his head up to talk to Alex. As they stared down, she peered closer too and felt her smile vanish. A heap of disturbed soil lay at their feet, and sliding her eyes sideways she saw that each of the Spaniards’ graves was ringed with silver stars, just like Wat’s had been when she and Medea had summoned him back53.
Something strange had happened to them.
And, feeling a sudden fear for Wat and her friends replace her elation, she backed away from the pot, turned and raced out of the hut.
50 Levitation means making things rise or float up, rather like the parlour-trick of old Victorian magicians, who’d make tables, chairs and ladies in long frocks sail towards the ceiling stiff as a board, in front of them. And yes, I know it’s a funny way to spend your time, but television hadn’t been invented back then.
51 Of course, some people might point out that crocodiles are always snappy.
52 Cold soup to you.
53 Remember that dazzling bolt of magic that spilled on to the other graves? Thought you might.
A FRIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR
Alex gazed along the row of twinkling graves, feeling a prickle of sweat across his brow that had nothing to do with the humidity of the jungle.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said.
Beside him, Aries drew a front hoof through the nearest spangling halo. Instantly the stars spun out, fizzing with tiny bolts of lightning, and then streamed up around his hock. Intrigued, Grass Snake stuck his snout closer for a better look, tilting his head one way, then the other, mesmerized by the lights.
‘I think it’sss pretty,’ he sighed, his eyes rolling round and round.
A clatter of branches echoed above them and, glancing up, Alex saw flashes of russet fur as an eerily silent troupe of howler monkeys swung away through the branches. Even the animals didn’t seem to like it here and, sensing the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he felt certain that there was something terribly wrong with this place.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Suddenly the clearing exploded in a frenzy of yells and whoops. A high, thin laugh screeched through the trees.
‘Lads!’ commanded the Gorgon.
Instantly Viper whipped hold of Grass Snake and jerked him, befuddled, back on to the shield, where they instantly froze into defence mode with the others beneath the veneer of silver.
Alex gasped as a thickset man lurched out from behind the huge tree trunk at the far edge of the clearing and charged towards them. Dressed in a metal helmet, breastplate, striped knee-length pants and boots, he bellowed furiously, unsheathing a whip-thin sword, and Alex barely had time to lift the shield in front of Aries and himself before the man skidded to a stop, twirled his weapon above his head and brought it down with a whistling shrill until its tip quivered three millimetres from the end of Alex’s nose.
Shuddering, Alex felt himself go cross-eyed as he stared up the shining blade to the snorting man at the other end.
‘Who are you?’ demanded the man in armour, glaring red-faced from beneath the rim of his gleaming helmet.
‘Alex Knossos,’ spluttered Alex, instantly understanding the question though not, of course, realising that it was actually asked in Spanish.
Alex held the man’s gaze, his heart hammering hard, and slowly, slowly, inched his hand down towards Achilles’s sword. Staring back at the man’s neat black moustache and triangle of a beard, he wrapped his fingers around its hilt as three more men burst out of the stand of trees and stomped over the ferny ground towards them.
‘Intruders, Carlos?’ asked the tallest amongst them.
Thin and bird-like, he stopped and leaned forward to gaze down his pointed nose at Aries. Blond hair stuck out like straw from beneath his helmet.
‘Thieves, Enrique,’ muttered the first man, sheathing his sword again.
Alex shook his head, astonished at the suggestion. Thieves? What could they possibly steal in the jungle? Horrified, he slid his eyes sideways to look at the others: an old man with a grubby grey beard who stared back at him with rheumy, suspicious eyes and a small, weasely man with the leering smile of a gargoyle. He felt his stomach lurch as he realised that they were all dressed in exactly the same way, precisely like the picture of the old soldiers in Hazel’s book. He searched his memory quickly for the caption beneath the picture.
Conquistadors.
But that was too ridiculous. Those men had ridden through the jungle over five hundred years ago. Yet here they were, dressed in the same uniform, even down to their helmets, ridged like walnut shells over the crowns of their heads. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he felt the unmistakable spider’s touch of Medea’s meddling once again.
The oldest one, the grandfather of the group, stepped forward. A rotted red and yellow sash hung over his breastplate. A tatter of red feathers drooped from his helmet.
Beside him, the wiry soldier grinned through yellowed teeth. Now Alex noticed that as well as his sword, he was carrying another, odd-looking weapon. Made from a long pole of wood, it made him think of spears, except that it had no pointed tip, only a hole drilled down its middle and a curled metal catch halfway down its length.54 Alex held his breath as the man stopped and lurched forwards until he was nose-to-nose with him. ‘Gold rats!’ he hissed, his breath rank with the smell of onions and brandy.
Twisting away, he stretched out his arm, drawn by the sheen of one of Pegasus’s fans tucked into Aries’ harness.
‘Pretty,’ he muttered, stroking it with a filthy finger, before poking the bundles of embroidery and twanging the harp loudly. Then, spotting the Nemesis statue, his beady eyes lit up. ‘Matias like this,’ he grinned, starting to unbuckle it from the harness.
Snorting, Aries stamped backwards, taking the statue out of his reach.
Alex looked back at the other men. ‘We’re looking for Tatu Village,’ he said as evenly as he could.
‘Tatu Village?’ said Enrique, in a high whine. ‘Carlos? Do you hear that?’
Carlos stroked his beard and scowled nastily. ‘There is no village in this hell of green!’ he replied.
(Which, as far as Carlos and the others were concerned, was true. After all, when you’ve spent the last five hundred years or so haunting the taverns of Seville, before being accidentally summoned back to the jungle, you’re hardly likely to know what’s been happening in the Amazon, are you?)
‘Is a dirty lie!’ cried Matias.
He pulled a dented flask from his pocket, uncorked it and took a swig. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he belched loudly as if to agree with himself.
‘Charming,’ muttered Aries.
The men froze.
Several seconds later an eyebrow lifted, a mouth snapped shut and a look of astonishment boun
ced between their grubby faces.
‘What crazy sheep-animal is this?’ demanded Enrique. ‘What trickery?’
‘Devil’s work!’ announced Matias and jabbed Aries in the belly with the harquebus, so that its butt left smoky-circle marks on Aries’ skin. ‘I don’t think we like you.’
Aries flared his nostrils in disdain. ‘I’m not much bowled over by you, either,’ he grunted.
Matias reached for his sword.
‘Everybody!’ said Alex quickly, lifting his hands in surrender. ‘This is all a silly misunderstanding. We didn’t mean to intrude on you, er, gentlemen.’ Hearing Aries snort derisively at the last word, Alex continued quickly. ‘So we’ll just leave you to it and carry on.’
‘Leave you to it and carry on?’ said Enrique. Looking round at the others, he held a finger to his cheek and looked up playfully as if to consider the remark. Then he looked straight back at Alex and leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. ‘No!’
‘Kill the boy,’ said Señor Granddad. ‘Eat the sheep!’
Upon which four metallic hisses rang through the clearing as the men unsheathed their razor-sharp blades in unison. Four swords of Toledo steel glittered in the sunlight, forming a claw over Alex’s head.
Aries reared up, clanking his horns against the blades.
‘Get him out of the way!’ demanded Carlos, as Aries paddled his hooves high in the air towards him.
Immediately Matias and Señor Granddad slid their swords back into their scabbards and leaped forward to gruffly seize hold of Aries’ horns. Then, cursing wildly, they hauled him roughly out of the way. Aries struggled and snorted, dragging his hooves in the earth to try and stop them, but the ground was slippery beneath his feet and now, gasping at a bolt of pain in his wounds, he was unable to summon up his usual ferocious strength. Finally, jerking his head left and right, he tried to jab them with his horns.
Rampage! Page 22