‘All right then,’ Olivia said. ‘We’ll spare you. But you don’t deserve it.’
The prince’s sword had fallen at his feet. Milo grabbed it, and swung it at the spider’s head. The insect reared on its hind legs. Milo sliced the strands on the left of Leo’s cocoon. The frayed web blew in the breeze, as the spider retreated behind a flower.
Milo cut the strands on the right. Leo fell to the ground, tangled in his bindings.
‘I’ll cut you free if you tell us what happened to the pysanka,’ Milo said.
‘It’s inside my breastplate.’
‘You said you couldn’t find it.’
‘I was confused.’
‘You were lying!’
Milo carved the cocoon from around Leo, then wrapped his hands in leaves to pull away the final sticky bits. He retrieved the pysanka and gave it to Olivia.
‘How can I ever repay you?’ Leo grovelled.
‘You can’t,’ Olivia said coldly. She hung the talisman around her neck and beneath her shirt by its little gold chain. ‘Make your way back to the castle. Tell your uncle to leave Bellumen by dawn or he’ll have me to deal with.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me.’ Olivia looked him in the eye. ‘I’m not the little girl you met this afternoon. Then I knew my title, but not who I am inside, nor what I can do or be. I’ve found out so many things since then. And one of the most important things I’ve found out is that I’ve bigger things to be afraid of than you and your uncle.’
‘Nice speech,’ Leo laughed.
‘Let’s see if you laugh now you’re on your own,’ Milo glared.
‘On my own? You’re joking.’
‘Not on your life,’ Olivia said. ‘We offered you friendship and you betrayed us.’
‘How will I survive?’ Leo quaked.
‘You have a sword,’ said Milo, throwing the weapon at his feet. ‘That’s more than we have.’
‘Besides,’ Olivia added, ‘your friend the Dream Witch will protect you.’
‘She’s not my friend.’
Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Goodbye, Leo.’ She turned to go.
‘Wait, you can’t leave,’ Leo blustered. ‘I forbid it. I’m Leo, Crown Prince of Pretonia!’
‘Well, I’m Olivia, Crown Princess of I-Don’t-Care.’
With that, she and Milo marched into the unknown.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ Leo snarled under his breath. ‘Just wait and see.’
Hair, Nail, and Grindings
Back at the castle, Leo’s uncle was having a fitful sleep. He’d taken the bedroom next to Olivia’s parents, but even its rich velvet canopies and goose down pillows had failed to ease his mind.
After sending off his nephew to capture the princess, the duke had had uneasy thoughts. Chasing down an unarmed girl and a peasant boy shouldn’t be a problem, especially when accompanied by fifty armed cavalry. But Leo was a special case: if there were a way to mess things up, the idiot would find it. Then what? Despite the duke’s bluster about heroic deaths, he knew that Leo’s father would be none too pleased if his heir came to harm.
So the duke tossed and turned, his dreams made worse by indigestion. His bum trumpet ripped the air; the gases billowed the bed sheets. With each foul blast, he heard a cannon’s roar and pictured Leo leading a charge into a sulphurous bog.
The duke leapt from his bed, still fast asleep, and tried to follow the brat. Ahead, he saw two red coals glowing in the mist: The eyes of the Dream Witch.
Come after me if you dare, the apparition cackled.
‘If I dare?’ the duke exclaimed. ‘I fear no she-devil!’
Imagining himself in full battle gear, he sleepwalked down the castle corridors, swinging his arm as if brandishing a sword. Sentries cleared a path; they knew better than to wake their master when he was in a state.
The apparition descended a rocky cliff – the castle’s spiral staircase.
The duke followed. ‘Yes, run from me, witch!’
They crossed a plain of pebbles – the cobblestoned courtyard – and entered a cave.
‘I have you now,’ the duke bellowed.
Silly man.
‘Silly. Do I look silly?’ the duke raged. ‘I’ll show you who’s silly!’ He sliced the air with his broadsword. The exertion released an explosion of rump gas so vile it nearly blew a hole in his nightshirt.
The duke blinked awake. He wasn’t in a cave; he was in the castle stables. Nor was he in battle gear heaving a sword; he was in his nightshirt, waving a candlestick.
‘Good evening,’ the Dream Witch purred. Her eyes glowed from a nearby stall.
The duke retreated a step. A great flap of wings descended from the rafters. Owl claws clipped his forehead. The duke turned to run, but something thrust itself out of the dark and wrapped around his neck: It was the witch’s nose.
The duke tried to break free, but her trunk tightened; it pulled him towards her and dropped him, limp, at her feet. The heat of the witch’s eyes burned his cheeks. He trembled with fear.
‘Why, you’re shaking,’ the Dream Witch teased. ‘But surely you can’t be cold. You’re hairy as a sheep.’ She flicked the air with her tongue. ‘Ah, the taste of fear. You’re not so very different from your nephew, are you?’
‘What have you done with him?’
‘Who says I even have him?’
‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, come to think of it.’ The Dream Witch winked. ‘He’s a waste of air. Your Pretonian heir. Even breaking an egg is too much for him. Still, I need payment for the trouble of keeping him alive.’
‘What can I give that you can’t conjure?’
‘The means to make a living image of the king and queen. Spirits can be conjured to play the role of servants. But poppet parents require greater craft: It’s a rare child that cannot tell its own.’
‘What must I do?’
‘Bring me a hair from the queen’s head, and a fingernail from the king.’
The duke frowned. ‘Why not enter the castle and take them yourself?’
‘I may be a sorceress, but I’m not a thief,’ the Dream Witch said. ‘I take only what people give me: their deepest hopes and fears; their promises; oh, yes, and their children, who trade their futures for my treasure. From these, I weave my spells, my dreams and nightmares.’ She paused. ‘A hair from the queen’s head, and a fingernail from the king. Have we a deal?’
*
Within minutes, the spice jars rattled as the door to the Dream Witch’s cavern creaked open.
‘I’m home,’ the witch sang merrily. ‘Can you guess what I want?’
The terrified children buried their heads between their knees and pressed their backs against their glass cells.
‘Oh, come on, guess,’ the witch twinkled. ‘No need to be shy.’
One little boy was overcome by the shakes. His bottle toppled over.
‘Why, hello there.’ The Dream Witch unspooled her nose from around her waist and plucked up the jar. ‘I smell a boy with salty tears and dirty fingernails.’ She curled the jar in front of her face. ‘So tell me, precious, what do I want?’
The moppet shrank back. ‘Grindings?’
‘Clever boy. And why do I want them?’
‘To make a spell?’
‘Excellent child. A lad like you is far too bright to sit on a shelf with dunderheads. You must come to my study: today’s spell needs special spice.’
‘I’m not special at all! Really!’ the boy begged.
‘No need to be modest,’ the Dream Witch cackled, and whisked him down the long coal stairs to her study of horrors. The lad shuddered at the sight of the living portrait of the witch at the end of the cavern; the nightmarish murals lining the side walls; and the oak-stump desk the size of a village square with its bonfire candle, sheaf of bats’-wing parchments, and inkwell smelling of death.
The Dream Witch put the boy’s bottle to one side. Then she smoothed out her handkerchief
with her long, yellow fingernails, while her monstrous trunk rooted about in her pocket.
The nose retrieved its prize – a velvet pouch delivered by the duke from the bedroom of Olivia’s parents – and shook it out over the handkerchief. A hair from the queen’s head floated down onto the left side of the cloth; the bloodied nail from the king’s left thumb fell to its right.
‘And now for some special spice,’ the Dream Witch said. ‘The spice of life.’ She picked up the glass jar.
‘Why me?’ the boy cried.
‘I have to use someone, don’t I? The king and queen promised me a gift and they didn’t keep their promise. I need a spell to put things right.’
‘But I’m not the one who cheated you!’
‘Maybe not. But innocents always pay the price.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, my child. All it takes is growing up.’ She gripped the grinding handle.
‘No!’ the boy screamed
‘Hush,’ the Dream Witch cooed. ‘This won’t hurt much. Well, not for long, anyway.’
The boy wailed uncontrollably.
The Dream Witch wrapped her nose around her temples. ‘It’s been a long day, my pet, and I have a splitting headache. Any more crankiness and I shall grind and grind until there’s nothing left to grind but your eyebrows.’
The boy cowered in silence, as the sorceress turned the handle three times. Slivers of skin and a drizzle of red fell on the queen’s hair. The witch put down the bottle and snapped her fingers. A musty spell book flew from the top of a stack and opened itself above her outstretched hand.
‘Ah, here we are,’ the witch said, turning a page with the flare of a nostril. ‘Somnambulo mortitious vivant.’
The candle flared and suddenly the tip of the hair from the queen’s head rose up from the handkerchief. The witch sang a song in languages long forgotten, commanding the hair like a snake charmer. It coiled and rose and coiled again, the slivers of skin rising around it. The hair became two, then three, multiplying to infinity, as it grew into sinews and muscles and limbs. The skin enveloped the hair-flesh until they moved as one, undulating like dancers in a tango.
The Dream Witch glanced at her spell book. ‘Visatato tremulo regianet.’
Invisible fingers kneaded the tissues like dough. In no time, they were sculpted into the image of Olivia’s mother: the eyes a deep blue; the hair a soft brown; the smile aglow. The Dream Witch waved her hand; the thing was instantly clothed in the queen’s favourite skirt and bodice, a red brocade embroidered with gold thread, and adorned with a perfect imitation of her finest jewels. A whistle of air through the witch’s teeth and it began to breathe.
‘Good evening, Queen Sophie,’ the Dream Witch said.
The spell-queen blinked. ‘Good evening, Milady.’
‘Are you set to do my bidding?’
‘Your wish is my command.’
‘Wait but a minute,’ the Dream Witch smiled, ‘and I shall conjure you a spell-king.’ The sorceress lifted the grinder over the king’s nail. ‘Just a teensy bit more,’ she told the boy.
‘It isn’t fair,’ he whimpered.
‘Life isn’t fair,’ the Dream Witch shrugged. ‘And that, my pet, is the scariest nightmare of all.’
Happy Ending?
‘Let’s hope we never see Leo again,’ Milo said as he and Olivia made their way out of the garden. ‘I’ll keep an eye out in case he follows us.’
Olivia nodded quietly. Her mind was far away – on those mornings when the sun would peek through the cracks of her turret shutters and she’d wake to see Ephemia staring solemnly at her from the next pillow. Or the times when she was little, playing court with her dolls and the nutcracker, Count Ostroff; she was queen and Ephemia was her lady-in-waiting wearing a doll’s apron as a robe. It was a magical time, and now –
‘Are you all right?’ Milo asked.
Olivia shook her head. ‘Ephemia. She’ll never . . . we’ll never . . .’ Her eyes swam; she took a deep breath. ‘I’ll be all right. Once this is over I can grieve.’
She looked over her shoulder one last time, to see the garden where she’d lost her oldest friend. ‘Milo.’
He turned as well. ‘What?’
The garden behind them was now of normal size; the tallest tulip would hardly touch their knees and the lilac bushes were trimmed the height of their waists.
‘I recognise this garden,’ Olivia said. ‘The bushes, the flowers, they’re all arranged as in my castle courtyard. Good heavens, do you see the ivy growing on the walls behind it. It’s all the same except that Gardener would never have allowed those dandelions.’
‘What dandelions?’ Milo asked.
Indeed, the dandelions were gone, as were all the weeds. Milo and Olivia looked in wonder at the immaculate beds of colour.
‘So there you are,’ a familiar voice called out behind them. ‘You had us so worried.’
‘Mother?’
‘Who else?’ the spell-queen laughed. She ran to the princess, held her tight, and wept tears of joy. ‘Your father and I never thought we’d see you again. I still can’t believe it, though it’s been a whole day since you’ve been back. Milo, dear boy, once again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. What you endured to bring our girl home safe to us – the village children, too – and to spare this kingdom the evil of the Dream Witch now and forever – it’s beyond all gratitude.’
Olivia and Milo looked at each other in shock.
‘Is this a dream?’ Olivia asked.
‘The most wonderful dream in the world,’ the spell-queen beamed. ‘Our dream come true.’ She gave her another hug.
‘What are you talking about? How did we get here? What’s going on?’
The spell-queen’s face filled with concern. She held Olivia by the shoulders. ‘Wait. You still don’t remember? Either of you.’
‘No,’ Olivia shook her head.
‘Still?’ Milo said.
‘It must be the shock.’ The spell-queen touched their foreheads. ‘Why, your fevers haven’t gone down, poor dears. You need to be back in your beds. I’ll fetch the doctor. I was right to be worried when the servants said you’d left your bedrooms.’
Olivia felt dizzy. The spell-queen eased her to the ground. For the first time, Olivia realised she was wearing her silk nightgown and slippers. Milo found himself in a linen nightshirt and a velvet robe.
‘What happened?’ Olivia asked. ‘Where are the duke, Leo, and the Pretonians?’
‘Gone,’ her spell-mother said. ‘Yesterday, at dawn, the Dream Witch’s forest burst into flames. The two of you ran from the fire, leading all the lost children to safety. The Dream Witch flew high on her cleaver, blazing like an inferno. Flames shot from her nose. She let loose a cry of rage and exploded, turning the sky to night.’
‘Can it be?’ Olivia asked, barely daring to believe.
‘At once, the duke and his soldiers fled in terror back to Pretonia,’ the spell-queen nodded. ‘The two of you told such stories: about a dead girl turning into a monster under the marsh ice, about giant insects and flesh-eating moles, and about dear old Ephemia being a mouse all these years and then being snatched by the witch’s owl.’
‘Yes, it’s all true, it all happened,’ Olivia said. ‘But after that—’
‘After that you remembered nothing,’ the spell-queen said. ‘You couldn’t say how you rescued the children, indeed had no memory of it happening. You said you felt like you’d wakened from a nightmare. Then the two of you passed out from exhaustion and terror, burning up with fever. You’ve slept a day and a night and here you are.’
‘So it seems,’ Milo said. He pinched himself. ‘Then we’re alive. We’ve left the dream world.’
‘It feels so strange,’ Olivia said. ‘Like waking from a dream that felt real.’
‘It was real, while you were in it,’ the spell-queen said. ‘But now you’re safe and sound.’
Servants began to spill into the courtyard.
‘They’re here. All’s well,’ they called back to others inside.
‘Olivia,’ the spell-queen said, ‘we’ve set up a bed for you in our room. We’ll be right there if you ever cry out in your sleep. It’s for our sake, too. We’ve had such dreams of you being lost to us forever. Being able to open our eyes and see you – I can’t tell you how much that means.’
Olivia had a twinge of worry. ‘But if I’m in your room, what about my pysanka, keeping it safe? Will we all be barred up as I was before?’
The spell-queen smoothed a hair from Olivia’s forehead. ‘No, my love. The Dream Witch is gone. The Great Dread is over. You can live like a normal child again.’
‘And what about me? When can I see Mama and Papa?’ Milo asked.
‘As soon as you’d like. You collapsed before you could tell us where you lived.’
‘In a burnt-out home at the foot of a hill between the marsh and the cornfield by the forest. You’ll spot my father; he has a wooden foot.’
The spell-queen turned to a footman. ‘Fetch them here in our finest coach.’ She turned back to Milo. ‘For your services to our girl and to our kingdom, your family will henceforth live at court.’
Milo leapt for joy. ‘That was my dream when I took the witch’s gold coins. Now here it is! It’s happened!’
‘Don’t exert yourself,’ the spell-queen warned. ‘You still haven’t properly recovered, and need your rest. We’ll put you in Olivia’s old turret room until your family’s suite is ready. As you know, it has the best view of the countryside.’
Olivia and Milo looked to each other in happy confusion, as smiling servants wrapped them in blankets, and put them on golden litters to be carried to their quarters.
‘Mother, can this really be?’ Olivia asked, eyes welling with joy.
‘It can,’ the spell-queen said. She kissed her forehead. ‘Welcome home.’
The Secret in the Armoire
So this is what it’s like to be important, Milo thought, as he was carried up the staircase. It was certainly more fun than being dragged down to the dungeon by armed guards.
Curse of the Dream Witch Page 10