The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  "Unfortunately, there's not much you can do about them by law," Joby went on. "They're a protected species, you see. Most of them have been wiped out in this country, mainly by pesticides and ignorance—people deliberately destroying them. Conservationists stepped in just in time to beg the government to act."

  "You're saying we can't touch those things?" I asked incredulously.

  He bowed his head gravely. "Mammals, actually. They're either the pipistrelle or the long-eared bat, depending on size—pipistrelle is the smallest."

  "I didn't take too close a look."

  "The pipistrelle favors woodlands, but is quite used to residential areas, and the long-eared bat likes to sleep in caves or cellars or lofts."

  "That sounds like our boy, then."

  "I promise you, you're in no danger from them. Insects and moths are what they like to eat, so they may even be doing you a favor."

  I was doubtful, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. Slowly shaking my head, I said, "So it looks like we're stuck with them."

  The guy called Kinsella spoke in a conspiratorial voice: "Look, Mike, if it really gets to be a bad problem, maybe we can help you smoke 'em out or somethin'. No one else need know."

  "Yeah, well, we'll see how it goes."

  He flashed those pearlies again. "You know where to find us if you need any help at all, but we'd like to see you at any time."

  "Shall I fetch the gift, Hub?" The girl was looking up at him like a puppy dog looks at its master.

  "Oh, sure, almost forgot."

  Gillie ducked into the open window of the car and drew out a square red biscuit tin. She held it over the gate toward Midge.

  "One of our sisters is a fantastic cook, so when we realized you'd moved into Gramarye we asked her to make you a welcoming cake," Gillie told us. "Nothing very grand, but I think you'll enjoy it."

  "Our small way of welcoming you to the neighborhood," said Kinsella, holding his arms away from his sides as though he could hug us.

  "What a lovely thought," Midge enthused, accepting the gift and beaming all over her pretty face. "Perhaps we can invite you over once we're straight—we'd love that, wouldn't we, Mike?"

  Kinsella cut in before I could respond. "You can be sure we'll be saying hello from time to time. Once we've made friends we don't like to lose 'em."

  He said that with all geniality, so I wondered why it made me feel uneasy.

  "Meanwhile," he went on, "we'll let you get on—I'm sure there's a lot to put right in the cottage. The previous owner was a little old to maintain the place properly, I guess."

  "You knew Flora Chaldean?" asked Midge.

  "Oh, most people around here knew of her," said Gillie.

  "But no one got to know her," said Kinsella. "We spoke to her a coupla times, is all. Now you just remember what I told you: any help you need, you only have to call."

  "We'll remember, er, Hub," I said. Then, "Is that a nickname?"

  "Short for Hubris. My folks had a sense of humor."

  Not much of one, I thought. "Well, good meeting you and thanks for that info on bats. Doesn't help any, but at least I know where we stand."

  We shook hands rather formally, then the group climbed into their car, Kinsella taking the wheel. They waved from the windows as the Citroen pulled away, and we returned the waves, watching them until they had disappeared from view.

  "Weren't they incredibly nice?" Midge exclaimed, holding up the cake box for me to see.

  "I suppose so. A mite too friendly, maybe."

  "Oh, Mike, you're such an old cynic sometimes. They were only being neighborly. I wish a few more people had their outlook."

  "Yeah, but what are they, Midge? How come a mixed bunch like that is living together in a manor house? Did you notice Gillie referred to our cake-maker as sister?"

  "What difference? They probably belong to some religious organization. What does it matter as long as they're nice people?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah, you're right. I felt a bit crowded, that's all, like they were too keen to get to know us."

  "How many times do I have to tell you: things are different in the countryside, people are friendlier. You mustn't be so suspicious."

  "Sorry, Midge, didn't mean to be. Finding those bats upset my peace of mind."

  Her tone softened. "I can understand that. But it's true, you know, bats really are harmless."

  "So long as they know that."

  The slightest of breezes rustled the nearby trees and stirred the flowers. Midge tucked the cake tin under one arm and linked her other through mine. We strolled back to the cottage, the sun warm on our faces.

  "Let's take a look at those monsters you're so afraid of," she said coaxingly.

  "You want to go up there?"

  She became indignant. "Of course. I can't wait to see them."

  "You're full of surprises."

  "I study wildlife, remember? I paint animals for stories. I enjoy watching them. Besides, these little devils may give me an idea for a future book, one I could write myself. Better yet, one you could write for me. It's about time you put that particular talent to good use."

  "A horror story for tiny tots? You may have something there."

  "No, nothing like that. There isn't anything nasty about bats anyway."

  "You wait till you see 'em."

  She left the cake on the kitchen table and we went upstairs, me leading the way and muttering under my breath about the dire consequences of socializing with Dracula's kinsmen, while Midge prodded my buttocks and gave me fair warning to quit my craven rambling.

  In the attic room, my future music studio, I picked up the flashlight still lying on the chair and tapped it against the palm of my hand, confronting Midge with a sober expression.

  "You really want to go through with this . . ." I asked darkly, ". . . despite knowing what happened to Pandora?"

  "Get outa here," she replied, poking my chest with rigid fingers and putting one foot on the chair.

  "All right, all right. I'm serious now, Midge: I honestly don't feel like going up there again."

  "You don't have to—Just help me up. I won't tell all our friends.' She struck a pose, one fist clenched against her hip, foot still on the chair. Her grin was grim. And, of course, challenging.

  Groaning miserably, I pulled her away and climbed onto the chair myself. I'd closed the hatch when I'd scrambled down earlier, perhaps imagining the bats might follow me, and I said, "I'll open up, then lift you through, unless you want to go get the stepladder."

  "You'll do." She folded her arms and waited.

  "Yes'm." I pushed at the hatch and it sucked open once more. "Nothing to get excited about, guys," I quietly called through. "Only the landlord come to check the air conditioning." Although not as nervous as before, now that I knew something about our somnolent guests, my attempt at light-hearted banter was somewhat forced.

  The hatch slammed back against an upright timber as before and I ducked low at the sudden bang. I caught Midge hiding a smile behind her hand.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you," I said grumpily, stepping down and handing her the flashlight. I made a stirrup of my hands. "Catch the side of the opening with one hand and put the light inside, then I'll lift you through."

  "My hero," she said, resting a foot in my hands.

  I straightened and she rose easily, switching on the flashlight and placing it through the opening in almost one graceful movement, her weight no problem. Midge sat as I had, her legs dangling in space.

  I scrambled up after her, using the chair and trying to make it look easy now I had an audience; she quickly moved aside to allow me room.

  Once inside, I whispered, "See what I mean?" The familiar smell wrinkled my nose again.

  She was swinging the beam around the loft and I shuddered inwardly when I saw the black hanging shapes.

  "Oh, Mike, there aren't that many," she said scornfully.

  I blinked as I followed the roving light. There really didn't seem
to be as many bats as before. "I, uh . . . I'm sure there were more than this."

  "I think you were so alarmed you imagined more. Even so, there must be at least thirty or forty scattered around up here."

  "But they were crammed together last time. A lot of them must have taken flight."

  "In broad daylight? No, the light beam must have cast their shadows so it looked like there were more." She patted my thigh reassuringly. "When you're basically chicken, things have a way of becoming exaggerated." She pointed the light up under her chin, making an evil relief of her grinning face.

  "Oh that's funny, that's really funny. Just gimme the light, will you?"

  I snatched the flashlight from her and crawled further into the loft, keeping to the joists, reluctant to have a knee go through the ceiling below. I shone the beam into the further recesses, although I couldn't see behind the water tank; nevertheless, nothing was skulking anywhere else. Midge joined me, walking rather than crawling, making me feel even more foolish.

  I stood, grabbing at a crossbeam for balance, careful not to brush against a sleeping bat. I expected to find Midge smiling mockingly at me, but she was far too intent studying one of the dangling bodies nearby.

  She reached out and gently tugged at a folded wing.

  "Hey," I hissed, "what're you doing?"

  "Shine the light over here, Mike, I'd like to get a good look at this chap."

  "Midge, it might be dangerous. Christ, it might have rabies!"

  "Stop being such a wimp. There's no rabies in this country. Remember what I said about hamsters with wings? Just keep thinking of them that way. Now come on, bring the light over."

  Spunky brat, I thought grudgingly, doing as I was told and treading warily on the joists. "Don't blame me if you get bitten," I warned peevishly.

  The bat twitched and tried to retract its extended wing; Midge held the wing firm. The brute's ugly mouth opened in annoyance, revealing tiny Lugosi teeth, although it appeared not to wake. All the same, I kept my distance, stretching my arm to provide Midge with the light she wanted.

  "See the fingers?" Her voice at least was hushed. "See how long the last three are? The wing is just skin between them. Look, it goes right down to the bat's foot and tail."

  "That's really interesting. You think we could let him doze in peace?"

  "And look at his furry little body. He's a cute little feller."

  "Cute! He's as ugly as sin!" I instantly regretted raising my voice as the fine membranes over the bat's tiny eyes quivered open for a second.

  "He's offended," observed Midge.

  "He'll have to live with it. Look at that horrible squashed-up nose and pointy ears." I made a disgusted noise.

  "That's his radar around the nose."

  "It doesn't help cosmetically. Can we go down now, Midge? We may have to cohabit with these hanging prunes, but we don't have to fraternize with them."

  She let the wing fold back inward, then squeezed the flesh above my hip. "I didn't know you were so allergic."

  "To be honest, neither did I. I've just got a funny feeling about them—can't help it."

  "At least you know there aren't as many as you first thought."

  "I could've sworn . . . No matter, the shock must have made me see double."

  "Or treble. Let's get down to where the air's sweeter."

  We held hands crossing the joists and I stood with legs across the hatchway to lower Midge onto the chair below. With one last look around, I dropped the flashlight into her waiting hands and eased myself through, balancing on the chair to catch the side of the hatch and close it after me. This time the wood was lowered into place with less panic.

  I hopped to the floor and slapped dust off my hands, glad to be out of the gloom. By then, Midge had gone over to one of the small windows in the attic and was trying to open it.

  "I thought I'd let some air circulate up here," she said over her shoulder, "but this window's stuck."

  I joined her. "Might be paint on the outside. The builders should have left the windows open till they were dry. Here, let me have a go."

  Before I could give the sash on one half of the double-window a good thump, Midge held my arm.

  "Do the bats really bother you, Mike? You know, we can always do as Hub suggested and find a way of getting rid of them without anyone knowing."

  I gazed at her steadily. "You wouldn't like that very much, would you?"

  "I don't like the idea of them spoiling Gramarye for you. It's more important to me that you're happy here, so if it's a choice between that and the bats staying, then they're the losers."

  We touched foreheads briefly. "You're probably right," I said, "they'll be no trouble at all." I turned back to the window. "But any midnight bat orgies and they're out—the sound of all those frenzied wings would drive me crazy."

  I banged a palm against the sash, then tried again, biting my lip at the smarting of my hand. On the third try, the window juddered open an inch, and it was easy to push it wide after that. The half next to it was equally difficult, but again on the third thump it budged open. As I widened the gap, slipping the casement stay onto its catch, I glanced over at the woodland opposite, drawing in a deep breath of sun-warmed air as I did so. I stiffened before exhaling.

  Was that a figure standing in the shade just beyond the first line of trees? Somebody watching us again?

  "Midge," I said, the sound strained because I still held a lungful of air. I let the breath go as she moved closer. "Midge, somebody's over there watching the house."

  I didn't look at her, but I knew she was peering into the forest.

  "Where, Mike? I don't see anyone."

  I took my eyes off the still figure for a moment and put an arm around Midge's shoulders, pulling her even closer.

  "Over there," I whispered unnecessarily and pointing. "Just inside the trees. A dark figure looking directly across at the cottage."

  But when I returned my own gaze, the figure had disappeared.

  "Still don't see it, Mike," said Midge, and I turned to her speechlessly, then quickly looked back at the trees. Definitely nobody there.

  I began to wonder if the country air was so fresh it caused hallucinations.

  PROGRESS

  THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks flew by, keeping both of us busy and me free of any more "hallucinations." We spent the days (and often the nights) stripping old wallpaper and replacing it with new, and painting the walls and woodwork that we hadn't paid the builders to do. One or two evenings had turned chilly and we soon discovered all sorts of sneaky drafts creeping in to make us shiver; I did my best to locate their source and seal them. We washed, scrubbed, polished and cleaned. I fixed the front door bell so that it clanged rather than clunked.

  We had the chimneys swept in anticipation of cozy winters around the fireside, and we had the cesspool cleared (the smell when they syphoned into their huge tanker was awful and we were warned to keep every door and window shut while the operation was in progress). A plumber came in to do various jobs, including plumbing in the washing machine and getting the hot water to run hot rather than lukewarm (that required a new and bigger immersion heater in a cupboard upstairs, which cut heavily into our budget). The water ran clear thanks to the tank O'Malley had installed in the loft, and even the poor TV and radio reception somehow managed to shape up and clear itself after the first week. The television picture still wasn't brilliant, but then we were in a remote area.

  I set up my music studio, still dreaming of the expensive equipment I'd be able to have some time in the future (not too distant, I hoped), while Midge prepared her own self-contained art studio beneath one of the large windows in the round room. I could tell she was itching to get back to painting—pictures, I mean, not walls—just as I yearned to get back to some serious music. Occupied though I was with manual labor, my head was swimming with ideas for songs, stories and the glimmerings of a full-scale rock musical. All ideas were tentative, but they're usually the most exciting kind; I wond
ered if they would look so good on paper or sound so terrific on tape. Despite that creative urge on both our parts, we resisted the temptation and persevered with the task in hand—that of preparing Gramarye for a comfortable and productive future.

  We did our best with the garden—or should I say Midge did, particularly where the flowerbeds were concerned— but strangely enough it seemed to be thriving on its own. Even the rabbits—and it was like Watership Down territory hereabouts—thoughtfully left our flowers alone. We cleared the flowerbeds, but were relieved to find that many of the weeds had disappeared of their own volition, obviously daunted by the flowers' rude health and giving up the struggle to overthrow (I was naive enough garden-wise to believe this possible and Midge, who knew better, made no comment). I bought one of those hover mowers from the hardware store in the village for the grass shoulder beyond the fence and the area around the back of the cottage, and quite enjoyed working in the sun, stripped to the waist, tanning my back. I fixed the fence, replacing missing or damaged struts, nailing others upright, cheerfully painting over rotting wood with plentiful layers of white.

  We made several trips into Bunbury, buying a few pieces of second-hand furniture and the odd knick-knack or two.

  Rumbo became a regular visitor and I often asked him why he didn't move in permanently. He was a great one for conversation and although we sometimes felt he understood us, his toothful chatter didn't mean a lot to Midge and me. We assumed, however, that somewhere in the woods was a Mrs. Rumbo, and maybe little Rumbos too, a family he was happy to go home to after each day's adventure. He enjoyed games, did Rumbo, chasing after rolling tennis balls, pouncing onto our shoulders when we least expected it, furiously nibbling books or magazines to pieces while we pursued him around the cottage in an hysterical form of household paper chase. There was something of the dog in that squirrel, a kind of dopey intelligence mixed with hints of craftiness that we found both amusing and often exasperating. He was good company.

  Plenty of phone calls came in from friends and business associates, many of the latter ringing up with tempting offers of work—all of which we resisted. We'd decided upon a full month free of any professional engagement or commission and we meant to stick to it. At first the line was annoyingly crackly, as if the wires had gone rusty from lack of use, but the more calls we received the more distinct the voices became.