Curse of the Dream Witch

by Allan Stratton

  Curse of the Dream Witch

  Allan Stratton

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: The Great Dread

  2 : Into the Woods

  3 : And Then There Was One

  4 : An Unwelcome Surprise

  5 : In The Witch’s Lair

  6: The Dream Visitor

  7: Back in the Bottle

  8: The Toad Prince

  9: The Farewell Feast

  10: The Moment Of Truth

  11: Trapped

  12: The Tale of a Tail

  13: To the Dungeon

  Flight into Danger

  15: Down the Chute

  16: Reunion

  17: Meanwhile, in the Dungeon

  18: The Ways of the Witch

  19: A Matter of Honour

  20: Into the Woods

  21: Hunter and Hunted

  22: The Dream Marsh

  23: An Unexpected Encounter

  24: Prey

  25: Down the Burrow

  26: The Mole’s Larder

  27: A Parting of the Ways

  28: Hair, Nail, and Grindings

  29: Happy Ending?

  30: The Secret in the Armoire

  31: The Smell of Witchcraft

  32: In the Dream Witch’s Lair

  33: Betrayal

  34: Treasure Forever

  35: The Final Nightmare

  36: Dawn

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Inserted Copyright

  For everyone who has nightmares

  The Great Dread

  It was the twelfth year of the Great Dread.

  Once, the kingdom of Bellumen had been happy and safe. Feast days were celebrated late into the night in village squares, and children could fall asleep under the stars. No more. Now, youngsters who ventured outdoors after sunset were never seen again, and those who searched for firewood in the forest beyond the cornfields disappeared without a trace.

  King Augustine, felled by a stroke, lay shrivelled in his sickbed. His wife, Queen Sophia, ruled in his stead. She claimed that strangers and wild beasts were snatching the children and had her troops patrol the streets and countryside.

  It didn’t matter. There was only one person the people blamed for the kingdom’s misery: Princess Olivia. The Great Dread would only be lifted once the girl was gone.

  *

  The seeds of the Great Dread had been sewn on a cold, bitter midnight, thirteen years earlier, when King Augustine and Queen Sophia had slipped out of their castle in disguise. The king wore the woollen coat and cap of a peasant, and steered a small cart pulled by two billy goats. The queen lay at the bottom of the cart bundled in blankets and covered in straw. For years, the couple had prayed for a child without success. That night, they’d decided to seek the help of the Dream Witch who lived in the forest beyond the cornfields.

  The countryside was fast asleep; the air still, except for the chattering of the king’s teeth, the creak of the wooden cart wheels, and the clopping of the goats’ hooves. All around, miles of cornstalks, shrouded in frost, shimmered in the moonlight.

  They reached the bend where the road turned away from the forest. King Augustine helped his wife from the cart. ‘Have we made a mistake? Should we go home?’

  ‘Not if we want a child,’ the queen said.

  It was true. The enchantress was their last hope. Even the court wizard, Ephemia, hadn’t been able to help. Older than old, she’d lost her spell books years ago; while she still recalled some magic words, she couldn’t remember the order. It was too dangerous to experiment.

  Queen Sophia nodded at the forest beyond the cornfield. ‘Quickly. The witching hour will soon be past. Remember, whatever you do, don’t stare at her nose.’

  The couple held each other tight and edged forward. Dried stalks towered above them; husks rustled all around. A strange fog, smelling of rot, rose from the ground. Two red coals, like eyes, glowed through the mist.

  The king and queen froze.

  ‘What brings you here?’ came a voice from the haze. ‘What are your dreams?’

  ‘Dream Witch . . .’ King Augustine swallowed hard. ‘We want a child.’

  The sorceress chuckled. ‘Your own or someone else’s?’ Her voice had a grating sound, like metal dragged across stone.

  ‘Our own,’ the queen said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Dreams can become nightmares.’

  ‘Not our dream of a child.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  The Dream Witch stepped forward; a great owl perched on her shoulder. She wore a cloak of woven bulrushes and a dirty, long-sleeved dress. Red-coal eyes burned on either side of her head. Under their glow, the king and queen saw her withered frame and long, curled fingernails. But what they mostly saw was her nose. Longer than an elephant’s trunk, and twice as wrinkled, its base spanned the width of her forehead, descending between her eyes to her waist, where it coiled around her body and looped itself into a belt.

  She eyed them coldly. ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the king lied.

  ‘Is it my nose?’

  ‘No,’ the queen insisted.

  ‘It’s rather big.’

  ‘We hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The king and queen hemmed and hawed and stared at their feet.

  The Dream Witch enjoyed their discomfort. ‘And you’re sure of your dream?’ she said at last. ‘Your wish for a child?’

  ‘Yes,’ King Augustine replied, his voice as dry as a desert.

  The witch scraped the kernels off a dried corn husk with her fingernails. She spat on them, muttered a few strange words, and gave them to the queen. ‘Grind these into a porridge and eat it on the next full moon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Queen Sophia’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. ‘And what would you like for your reward? We’ll give you anything for this kindness. We promise.’

  The sorceress smiled. ‘I shall let you know in good time.’

  ‘Please, tell us now,’ the king begged. ‘We are a small kingdom without power or wealth. We’d hate to disappoint you.’

  The Dream Witch waved a bony wrist. ‘Fear not, your Majesty. I am a simple soul who lives in a humble cottage in the woods. My needs are few. A little keepsake – so small it will fit in my hand – is all I shall require. Now go.’

  The king and queen did as they were told, and in due time the queen delivered a baby girl. They named her Olivia.

  *

  Olivia was a happy child. All day, she’d lie in her crib and gurgle. So much so that her parents feared she was simple.

  The old court wizard, Ephemia, reassured them. ‘All babies are like that,’ she said. ‘Wait till she’s two.’

  On the day of Olivia’s christening, the royal family rode to the cathedral in an open carriage pulled by six white horses. The king’s wig had rolls of plaited hair that spilled to his waist; his wife’s was shaped like a swan. Baby Olivia was no less elegant in a white christening gown with purple piping and lace trim.

  The ribbons in her parents’ wigs caused the baby to point with delight. It was the first time her parents had seen her do anything besides burping. They prayed it was a sign of things to come.

  At the cathedral, Olivia was nestled on a goose down pillow in a gilt pram. Everyone filed past to give her their gifts before the ceremony: Blankets from the weavers, bells from the blacksmiths, slippers from the shoemakers, and a very special present from Ephemia.

  Although the good woman’s spells could not be trusted, she still made the best pysanka
in the kingdom. These hens’ eggs, coated in colourful wax with bright squiggles, crosses, circles and lines, were said to provide protection against spirits. Yet only Ephemia’s pysanka had the power to confound the Evil Eye.

  The wizard placed a dozen of her talismans in a circle around Olivia’s body. ‘Precious child,’ she said, ‘may these protect you. Twelve pysanka for the twelve apostles, the twelve tribes, the twelve successors, and the twelve months of the year that roll us to infinity.’

  She placed a finger in the baby’s hand. Olivia gripped it tightly. ‘See how fiercely she holds it?’ Ephemia continued, the wrinkles in her smile more numerous than her years. ‘She’s a fighter. She’ll go far.’

  Suddenly, a bitter wind whipped black clouds across the sky. Thunder rolled – and the Dream Witch flew down on a giant meat cleaver, her hair as wild as a sea of snakes, her face as grim as a tombstone. Everyone dived for cover as the cleaver landed hard in the cathedral courtyard and sliced through the cobblestones before grinding to a stop near Olivia.

  The king and queen stood between the sorceress and their child. Peasants cowered. Little ones hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts.

  A great owl landed on the witch’s shoulder. ‘I trust we’re not too late?’

  The bishop held up his silver staff. ‘It is always too late for you, Dream Witch. Step not on hallowed ground.’

  The sorceress ignored him. ‘I’m here to claim my reward from the king and queen.’

  ‘No! Depart, Impious One! Begone to your lair in the forest.’

  The witch pinned him with a glance. ‘You of all people should know my power, Bishop, you who came to me on the last new moon.’ She waved her monstrous nose at the crowd. ‘All of you, you come to the cornfield by my woods to make your dreams come true. You seek a spell to wither a neighbour’s crops, or to speak to your dead, or to bring forth a child from a barren womb. Yet you who seek me out by night – you would deny me in the day?’

  King Augustine stepped forward. ‘No, we’re true to our word. We promised you a keepsake, so small it would fit in your hand. What is it you want?’

  The witch smiled. ‘The heart of your little girl.’

  The crowd gasped.

  ‘Monster!’ the queen exclaimed. ‘Take anything else.’

  ‘I want nothing else,’ the witch said. ‘The heart of a princess is all that I lack to cast the most powerful magic of all.’

  ‘Seize her,’ the king cried.

  Guards leapt at the witch. She reared her trunk and trumpeted a mighty blast. The guards flew into the air. Another blast, and a powerful force bound the peasants to the ground and froze the king and queen like statues.

  ‘Now to take my reward,’ the sorceress said. She flashed her fingernails, sharp as steak knives. The crowd screamed. But when the witch drew near the baby, her hair scorched and her skin sizzled. ‘Pysanka!’ she screeched, and staggered backwards.

  ‘Yes, Servant of Hell!’ Ephemia declared. ‘This precious babe is protected by my talismans.’

  The Dream Witch peered down her trunk. ‘Ah, if it isn’t my old friend Ephemia,’ she sneered. ‘Are you still living? The centuries have not been kind. I remember when last we met; the night you dared enter my lair in search of spell books.’

  ‘My spell books. Which you stole.’

  ‘Which I found after you misplaced them. You were nothing without them then, and nothing without them now.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. For I have one remembered spell, and with it I send you to the Devil Himself!’ Ephemia raised her wand. ‘Prixus Amnibia Pentius Pendor!’ The wand splintered into a thousand pieces and Ephemia vanished in a puff of smoke.

  The Dream Witch laughed. ‘So much for meddlers.’ She arranged her nose around her waist and turned to the crowd. ‘Hear my curse: By the morning of the princess’ thirteenth birthday, these twelve pysanka will be destroyed and I will have her heart. Until it beats in my hand, none of your children will be safe. You shall live in terror, bound in a nightmare without joy, without happiness, without hope. I am the sum of your fears. Know me and despair.’

  With that, she flew off on her cleaver. And the Great Dread fell upon the kingdom.

  Into the Woods

  ‘Stop treating me like a child,’ Milo demanded. ‘Why can’t I walk in the woods? In a month I’ll be thirteen.’

  His parents said nothing. His father sat in his rocking chair by the window of the little hut, whittling a bird carving from a piece of birch wood. His mother squatted on a stool peeling potatoes over a bucket. It was infuriating.

  Milo struggled to control himself. ‘I know children go missing,’ he said calmly. ‘But I’m older than them. And anyway, how do you know the Dream Witch steals them? Maybe they just run away.’

  His mother and father kept on peeling and whittling. It was always like this. Whenever he asked to hike in the woods or go out after dark, they closed up like clams.

  ‘Hello? Answer me.’

  ‘Quit your nagging,’ his father said without looking up.

  Milo had had enough. ‘Guess what?’ he taunted. ‘I’ll bet those children did run away. Who can blame them? Working in the cornfields all day, being locked up all night. What kind of life is that? I should run away too.’

  His father stopped whittling. His mother stopped peeling.

  ‘Milo, please understand,’ his mother said.

  ‘No. I won’t. All I understand is you don’t care about me.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is. Neither of you listen to a word I say. You don’t know who I am or what I want. And you don’t want to know, either. Well, you know what my dream is? To leave this place forever.’

  He stormed to the door.

  Milo’s mother leapt to her feet. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the cornfields. What does it look like?’

  ‘Come back here,’ his father barked.

  ‘No. You don’t own me. Not anymore.’

  ‘Please, Milo,’ his mother cried. ‘Don’t be foolish. We love you. We only want to keep you safe. If anything happened to you we’d die.’

  ‘Hah!’

  *

  Milo had been born on the very same day as the Princess Olivia – almost thirteen years ago. But while she grew up in a castle, he was raised in a hovel. While she was destined to be a queen, he was destined to work in the cornfields. And while everyone in the kingdom knew her story, the only people aware he even existed were his parents and a few neighbours.

  There were other differences, too. As a baby, Olivia was known for her gurgling; Milo for his kicking. He’d practically booted his way into the world, and immediately begun to explore. By the time he was a year old, his terrified parents had found him wedged in the woodpile, curled up with the piglets, and teetering on the lip of the well. They’d had to tie him by a rope to a fence post until he was old enough to pick corn.

  A year ago, his father lost his right foot while chopping firewood. He’d carved himself a new one, but field work was impossible. Milo had dutifully tended the farm alone ever since. He fed the pigs and the chickens, fetched water from the well, planted and reaped the corn, and traded what he could at market. What with all the feeding and fetching, the sewing and reaping, the tending and trading, he never had any time for himself. Except at night, and then he was forced to stay inside because of his parents’ fear of the Dream Witch.

  Milo kicked a stone into the cornfield. He hated being angry. It made him feel stupid. Worse, it made him look childish, which is exactly what his parents said he was and what he wasn’t. His parents loved him – he knew that – but all the same: It’s not fair, he thought. According to them, I’m only old enough to work. ‘You can walk in the forest when you’re older,’ they say. Well when’s older? What’s older? I bet they’ll be saying, ‘Wait till you’re older,’ when I’m sixty.

  Milo closed his eyes and walked between two rows of corn. It was a trick he used to clear his mind when he was
mad. The object was to take as many steps as he could without bumping into the stalks, turning left or right every fifty steps. His record was three hundred and twenty paces. Being scrawny helped – he easily fitted between the rows. Still, it was pretty amazing considering the fields ran over hills and some of the rows were uneven.

  Today, skill and luck combined. Before Milo knew it, he’d counted three hundred and fifty steps – a record – and was still going strong. He was so focused on the game that memories of his quarrel had faded. Soon he was at five hundred steps. Then eight, nine – a thousand. A thousand steps and he hadn’t once touched a corn stalk!

  Milo burst with pride. He took three more steps and walked into a tree trunk.

  What was a tree trunk doing in a cornfield?

  Milo opened his eyes. Somehow he’d walked from the field into the forest. He’d dreamed of going into the forest but now that he was here he was petrified.

  He whirled around. To his relief, the cornfield was only ten yards away. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and butterflies fluttered on the corn tassels.

  Milo laughed at his parents’ fears. Here he was in the forest and the Dream Witch hadn’t got him. Even if she appeared, he could easily run back to safety.

  Milo decided to test his luck. ‘Hello?’ he whispered.

  Silence.

  ‘Dream Witch?’ he called out with greater confidence.

  More silence.

  ‘YOO HOO, DREAM WITCH,’ he sang, ‘TELL ME MY DREAMS!’

  A shiver of fear tickled his forehead. Was the evil one ready to leap from a foxhole or pounce from a rotten tree stump? He stopped and listened hard.

  All was well. The sun still shone. The birds chirped freely.

  Milo couldn’t wait to tell his parents. He’d gone where they’d feared and what had happened? Nothing. They’d feel so foolish. From now on, he’d be free to come and go as he pleased.

  Flush with excitement, Milo saw something glitter a few feet away on the mulch of leaves that carpeted the forest floor. A gold coin! Why, it was proof that someone had entered the woods before him.