Grisly Tales from Tumblewater

by Bruno Vincent

  ‘I’m trying to have a quiet chat with my friend!’ shrieked her mother. ‘If you can’t keep it down, you’ll have to sleep in The Box like your brother, Teddy, God rest his soul.’

  ‘God rest his poor soul,’ muttered Mrs Grobble, performing the sign of the cross.

  ‘So get to sleep and don’t disturb us, brat!’ With these affectionate words her mother retreated, closing the door with a slam, and leaving Penny in dark silence. There she lay for a few minutes before she heard the noise again: tap-tap-tap. Too quiet for her mother to hear. Tap-tap-tap. Too loud for her to sleep.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  At last, sure that her mother and the warty Mrs Grobble were talking again, she started to climb upward, careful not to make a sound.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  ‘Don’t go away,’ she whispered, as she clambered up. ‘I’m coming!’ She reached the window and there the bird still was, looking in. She twisted the lock and pushed the window open.

  ‘You came back,’ said the bird, and bowed.

  ‘Why do you want me to come outside?’ she asked.

  ‘I have something amazing to show you,’ said the bird, ‘but I can’t tell you what it is. You must follow me.’

  In a second Penny had pulled herself up and through the windowframe. She sat on the thin ledge of the steep roof, a drizzly rain falling all around her.

  ‘I’m so pleased you have come,’ said the raven. ‘I’ve been trying to attract your attention for some time.’

  ‘I thought it was a tree branch tapping against the window,’ Penny explained. ‘Tell me, can all birds speak?’

  The raven had been walking around on the spot and staring downwards in that distracted way birds have, as though trying to remember something. Now it stopped and looked up at her.

  ‘Good lord, no,’ he said. ‘I’m the only one, I think. Most other birds are really quite stupid.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Penny, thinking of the pigeons she would throw breadcrumbs to some Saturdays.

  ‘If you say so,’ said the raven. ‘Follow me.’

  The raven climbed easily up the steep slates of the roof, but Penny found it much harder. She kept slipping and nearly falling, and tried not to think about the dirt and grime she was getting on her nightdress.

  ‘My name is Penny,’ she panted, when they were a little way up. ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Of course,’ the raven said, becoming slightly impatient. ‘Keep going, we’re nearly there!’

  In a few minutes they reached the top of the roof, where there was a flat section on which one could walk. Penny stood holding her nightdress around her against the wind and wishing she’d put on a coat. The rain was very fine tonight, almost like a mist, and from this height you could see down into the streets on either side and all the little rooms where families were making their dinner, or preparing for bed.

  ‘This isn’t what I was going to show you,’ said the raven, whose voice was so well-mannered and pleasant to listen to that Penny wished she could speak so nicely.

  The raven strutted ahead to a little shack built on the top of the roof. It seemed barely wide enough for one person to stand up in, but the raven rapped his beak against the door and said, ‘Open it, Penny.’

  She pulled the door open.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked in wonderment.

  ‘It’s where I used to live,’ said the raven. ‘Back when I was – well, that’s not important.’

  The little shack extended quite far back and was packed with a multitude of interesting objects and curiosities. Furs of strange animals hung from the ceiling and along the shelves were boxes of odd and glittering stones. There were jars of liquids and powders too – some dark and dusty, some sparkling as though with a strange magic. Penny also noticed many funny-shaped instruments that looked like they might be used to do unusual things, like clip a kangaroo’s toenails, or remove a splinter from the inside of an elephant’s trunk.

  ‘How amazing!’ she said. ‘What fascinating things.’

  ‘I am flattered that you think so,’ said the bird, bowing briefly. ‘Careful what you do with that!’ he said. She had picked up a long metal rod with a bell on the end, and little green stones inlaid around the handle.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a special tool to attract lightning – its design is based on the sceptre with which the kings of East Persia used to be crowned. Sometimes it contains enough electricity to kill a full-grown buffalo, so be careful.’

  Cautiously Penny replaced it on the dusty wooden shelf. In the distance she heard the clock on the tower of St Hildred’s begin the twelve slow strokes of the midnight bell.

  ‘Twelve o’clock!’ said the raven. ‘We must hurry. See that box on the shelf? Not that box, that one!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Penny, pulling a stool close to climb up to it.

  ‘Hurry!’ said the bird impatiently. ‘Open it.’

  Penny twisted a tiny key in the front of the box and lifted its lid.

  ‘Does it contain a lamp?’ asked the raven.

  ‘It does. Oh, how wonderful, I’ve never seen such a thing!’ said Penny, holding it up. It was made of a strange silvery metal that glimmered with other colours against the light of the moon – darkish brown, purplish blue and more.

  The church clock kept striking on towards twelve, now on six, now seven . . .

  ‘HURRY!’ shouted the bird, sounding less and less polite, and more like someone who had grown up with Mrs Grobble. ‘Open the top of the lamp. Is there a little packet inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Penny, flustered by the bird’s urgency and not wanting to annoy it.

  ‘Open it – quickly! Is there a grey powder?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s slightly glittery too, like it’s got flakes of gold in it.’

  ‘Throw a handful of it over me – good! Now throw the rest up in the air, over your head!’

  The clock struck for the eleventh time.

  ‘Now strike that flint!’

  As the dust twinkled around her and in her eyes Penny saw a sharp stone in one corner of the box and a touchpaper against which to strike it. In the excitement of the raven’s insistent voice she grabbed them, held them above her head and struck a large spark as the final bell of midnight sounded.

  All at once the dust around them glowed and sparkled – the raven’s black little eyes seemed to glitter against the dancing light and its beak fell open in amazement. Then the light grew as the whole room seemed to catch fire for a second and Penny found herself dazed and on the ground, and looking up at a girl in a grubby nightdress who was covered with a light dust. The girl shook off the dust with her hands and bent down to talk to Penny. As her face came close, Penny froze. She realized it was her face leaning in. It spoke with a raspy rattle, more mean and unpleasant than any voice she had ever heard.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ it squawked. ‘That feels much better.’

  Penny tried to get up, but became scared as all she could feel was a feathery fluttering around her head. She tried to stand and found herself only a few inches high, tottering about on little stalks.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ rasped the voice. ‘I did, and it ain’t so bad. After all –’ and now Penny saw her own face come even closer, so its nose almost touched her – ‘you get to eat WORMS and MAGGOTS and FLIES, and they’re absolutely LOVELY. ’

  Penny began to flutter her wings, trying to fly. ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough. Now I’m going to go and cause some mischief,’ said the girl, and Penny watched her own body leave the shed and climb down the roof.

  In panic, she flapped her wings hard until she began to take off. She hovered in the air for a few moments, trying to get used to the sensation. Then she flew out of the shed and up into the air. She flew round and round in circles a few times to get the hang of it and then swooped down unsteadily past a number of windows until she saw her own – but there was no one in the bed. Nearing exhaustion, she kept flapping until she found th
e kitchen. Miraculously her mother was standing right near the window, washing dishes. Penny landed on the ledge and began tapping the window at once with her beak. Her mother looked up, saw her and frowned. Penny tapped again and called out, but in a second her mother had unlatched the window, reached out and grabbed Penny by the neck, strangling her voice.

  ‘Good,’ said her mother, bringing the bird in. ‘Bird pie for supper tomorrow. Penny! What are you doing there!’

  Penny twisted her head in her mother’s grasp to see the little girl, changed into a clean nightdress, standing in the doorway. She now spoke with a prim and polite little girl’s voice.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, Mother, so I thought I might help you with some chores. Can I kill that bird for you? And then pluck and skin it for the pot?’

  ‘A good idea for once, you little wretch,’ said her mother, handing over the carving knife. ‘It’s about time you helped out around here.’

  ‘Of course, Mother,’ said the girl, looking up innocently. ‘I just want to help.’

  I was still staring into the fire, slightly dazed by the thought of what had happened to poor Penny, when I realized the woman had left the room again.

  A different door opened and a little I old woman came in. She sat in the same chair, and picked up the same garment of clothing the younger woman had been stitching.

  ‘It’s you they’re looking for, you know,’ the old woman said. ‘Not those other boys.’

  ‘I didn’t do what they think I did,’ I said, wildly trying to work out what she knew, and how she knew it.

  ‘Of course not,’ said the woman, looking down carefully as she threaded a stitch, ‘but that hardly makes a difference. You will have to be extra careful, more careful than you have been.’

  I nodded, and looked up from my cup to see she was gone. The shirt lay on the chair, the needle halfway through the hole of a button.

  ‘You want to rescue her, don’t you?’ a voice said. ‘The girl in the window.’ I jumped, and spilt some of my drink on the blanket.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I said.

  ‘I’m here, in the corner,’ said the voice. I stood and walked slowly towards it. Behind a few layers of hangings there was a thicker rug. Wide and luxuriously decorated in an intricate design unlike anything I’d seen before, beads of coloured glass and silver pieces winked from its fur. It stretched across the corner of the room. I reached out and pulled it back. Behind it was darkness.

  ‘Don’t be worried,’ said the voice. ‘Come in.’ I inched forward and let the rug fall down behind me. I could dimly see the outline of a shape on a chair in front of me.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘You want to rescue her,’ she repeated. It was a female voice, an old one. Not frail but hardened and strong. There was something distant about it too, so that even close up it sounded as though it came from the bottom of a well.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked again.

  She waited a long time to answer and because I couldn’t see it I became transfixed by what her face must look like, and fearful of it. ‘You could call me Gora,’ she said at last.

  ‘Gora,’ I repeated, feeling the strangeness of the word in my mouth. ‘How can I rescue her?’ I asked. ‘Caspian Prye owns everything and everyone; it’s impossible.’

  ‘There are ways of getting round things. I can help you.’

  ‘Why would you want to?’ I asked, my curiosity made all the sharper by the darkness, and her invisibility.

  There was a creaking noise as she leaned forward, closer to me. ‘That is my business,’ she said. ‘You think you know what I am, don’t you? Maybe you’re right. See this –’ and her finger touched my forehead. The room vanished, and I saw an image of myself crouching by a grave in the deserted corner of a churchyard. A bush had grown high above it, so it was nearly hidden, and shaded from the bright sunshine.

  No one knew about this place but me. The scene was so vivid I couldn’t breathe. A surge of strong sadness went through my body as the invisible figure removed her finger and the vision retreated. I was back in this dark enclosure.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ I whispered.

  ‘I didn’t, until I touched you. That was just to show you I can see things,’ Gora said. ‘Some things,’ she corrected herself. ‘Where I come from, we have many words for what I am. Many of them are good words. But in this country you say only “witch”. Do you see a broomstick in this room? No. That is an ignorant superstition told by stupid people. There are witches of everything, you understand. Good witches and bad witches, and some who are in between. Witches of fire and animals and words, and anything you care to mention.’

  She went silent for a second, thinking. ‘What is your connection to the girl? It intrigues me.’

  ‘That is my business,’ I said.

  She laughed quietly and in the darkness I felt as though she could see me, and was sizing me up, as Jaspers had, but with an icier and more penetrating gaze. ‘There is something you must get if you want to free her,’ she said at last. ‘This is what I have to tell you. That man, Prye, has stolen this thing, although he doesn’t know how to use it. You have to take it from him, and you can’t do that without help from me. So – now drink up that brew I gave you,’ she said, ‘and don’t speak for a few seconds.’

  What choice did I have but to trust her? (For a moment I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her right. The brew that she had given me?) I closed my eyes and forced the drink down. It was lukewarm now, and the dregs tasted totally different from the first few sips – vile, an ashy mud. As I drank, Gora muttered something in a language I couldn’t understand, and as she came to the end she said the same phrase three times and placed her hand on the top of my head.

  ‘Do you fear me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Wise boy. People who betray me do not fare well. Take this creature – what do they call it – the Slurgoggen.’

  You know about the Creature? The Slumgullion? It does exist?’

  She laughed delightedly, her voice transformed into a high, clear sound like a young girl’s. ‘Let’s say if he existed, this scaly creature as big as a shark, with a man’s intelligence and supernatural strength – if he existed, he would not frighten me. Magic over muscles, you see, boy?’ She tapped my wrist with her forefinger as though she had been wagging it to teach me a lesson. ‘Magic over muscles.’

  I felt the dregs of the mixture taking effect inside me. I felt warmer, almost as though I glowed, and experienced a strange feeling of power. I looked at my fingertips and thought they gleamed with a blue light.

  ‘My grandmother was a witch of light and darkness,’ Gora went on. Her voice had retreated back to the bottom of its well. ‘My mother was a witch of memory; she could make you remember wonderful and terrible things. I am a witch of doorways. What I have given you is the gift to walk through any door. Draw your hand across the door, from one side to the other, and it will vanish for you and you alone.’

  In the darkness I touched my fingers to my lips and then made fists and squeezed my fingers into my palms. They felt just the same. Could this be happening to me? ‘What is it that I need to steal from Caspian?’ I asked.

  ‘A silver box. I don’t know what’s inside it. Prye wishes to win this girl’s heart, and he knows the contents of this box are the key to it, but he doesn’t understand how. He had his men steal it only a few days ago, and there it is still, beneath the Chief of Police’s pillow, where he sleeps at the Black Lamb Tavern. Go now, quickly.’

  I pushed my way back through the drapes and hanging rugs and standing by the door I saw again the friendly younger woman from before, the one who had welcomed me in.

  ‘You’re Gora too, aren’t you? You are both of the women I’ve seen? I mean, both of them are you?’

  She smiled again, and winked. ‘Go quickly. This door won’t lead back to where you were before,’ she said, smiling. ‘The tavern is outside. The policeman is asleep now. You shoul
d have no problem. Go!’

  She opened the door and pushed me out into the night, and closed it again sharply. When I turned round I was standing in the doorway of a butcher’s shop that was closed for the night.

  On my own now in the cold silence of the street, and holding my hands outwards almost as though I was afraid of them, I decided I had to test whether I was under the spell of a weird hallucination or whether this was true. I stepped back and touched one side of the butcher’s doorway. Then I reached over and touched the other. Nothing happened. I tried again, touching one side and carefully drawing my hand, exactly as she’d said, in a straight line across to the other. I pressed the door – it was as solid as ever.

  ‘Damn it!’ I said, and impatiently slapped the doorframe. In a swooshing movement, the entire door came off its hinges and slid away in front of me. I pushed my hand hard against the other side of the frame, and the door disappeared clean into it. I stared into the open butcher’s shop for a few disbelieving seconds, and then without a sound the door slid back across in front of me, and fixed itself in its frame again.

  I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching me, then I looked at the door again. I swiped it open, and stepped inside. I counted to five before it closed behind me. I stared around the shop in disbelief, and started to laugh. It was impossible! And why, why, hadn’t I picked apie shop?Ora sweet shop! What good was raw bacon to me now?

  Staring out of the window, my eyes focused on the huge tavern on the other side of the street where I had been dropped off yesterday. I stopped smiling. This was going to be the most dangerous, stupid, frightening thing I’d ever done. If I was caught, I’d be dead. I knew that. But I had to do it, so this was no time for nerves. Instead, I concentrated fiercely on not putting a foot wrong.

  The Black Lamb was a gargantuan building, brooding at the edge of the hill by the crossroads. It seemed to have many doors to different bars, saloons and taprooms. I watched for a few minutes, trying to work out which would be the best way to get in, then dashed across the road to a smallish side door. This looked like a servants’ entrance and could possibly give me access to the rooms. I swiped my hand across it – it disappeared – and blinked for a second, still amazed that it miraculously followed my command, before stepping inside.