The Witch, the Saint & the Shoemaker

by Aonghus Fallon

  “Come back for them?” she retorted. “Him? You must be codding!”

  After the two had left and the rattle of the chariot crossing the bridge and going off through the wood had faded away entirely, Melvin squatted down in the middle of the cage and examined himself all over.

  His fur was glossy black, and when he got his first good look at his tail—the same tail the charioteer had used to pick him up—there could be no doubt whatsoever about what the witch had turned him into.

  Long and fat and pink and covered with just the faintest, downy hair, it was unmistakably the tail of a rat.

  Donald, Penny and Beverly were all very sorry to leave the old couple’s cottage, even though it had stopped raining. At least the old woman—Nora—had found some shawls for Penny and Beverly: tatty and moth-eaten and smelly they might have been, but they were warm and would probably keep out the worst of the weather.

  And so everybody set off, with the old man leading them.

  And just as well, too. It was so dark they could barely see the track anymore. Once or twice they nearly lost sight of the old man, only to glimpse his silhouette a second later.

  When they were too tired to go any further, the old man lit a tiny fire—he’d brought a few sods of peat along with him, in a bag—and they all huddled around it. There was nowhere to shelter. They were in the middle of a stretch of reedy country with not a hawthorn in sight.

  “You think the witch will catch up with us?” Donald asked the old man.

  The old man shook his head. “I do not. ‘Twould have taken your brother a good few hours to reach her house. Do you have any idea what possessed him to join her in the first place?”

  Nobody said anything for a moment.

  “I guess I gave him a pretty hard time,” Donald thought. ‘If only he’d done as he was told!’

  Beverly remembered all the times Melvin had only ever thought of himself, but then she remembered how he’d said she could choose which room she wanted to sleep in. “If he was so selfish, how come he did that?”

  Penny who’d never really disliked Melvin, and only wanted what was best for everybody, just felt sorry for him.

  “I guess he had reasons,” Donald said glumly at last. “He’s really screwed things up, hasn’t he?”

  “I actually feel sorry for him, in a funny kind of way,” Beverly said, rubbing her shoulders. “This witch, or whatever she is—she obviously made a big impression on him. My guess is she’ll double-cross him first chance she gets—and what’s he going to do then?”

  “She might even use him to make us leave. I mean, if she wants to stop the prophecy coming true,” Penny pointed out.

  “You mean, use him as a hostage?” Donald said, dismay showing clearly on his good-looking face. “Gee. You reckon?”

  “More than likely,” the old man agreed. He’d lit his pipe by now and was puffing away on it as he stared into the flames.

  “She’s as wicked as she’s beautiful,” agreed his wife. “And if half the stories about her are true, her beauty is only skin-deep anyway.”

  “How do you mean?” Penny asked.

  “Well,” said the old man, still puffing away on his pipe. “Did you ever hear tell of the fomorians?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “A race of sea-giants. They live in their underwater city just off the coast of Tir-na-Nog. Every few hundred years they come up out of the deep and try to make Tir-na-Nog their own. Fianna and the lads always drive them back into the sea. ‘Tis commonly believed Queen Ula is none other than a fomorian who’s taken on human shape so she can have revenge on the Fianna for all the injuries they inflicted on her family in the past. The fomorians know all about the dark arts, see.”

  Everybody felt the same cold chill in his or her stomach. The fact the witch might be some sort of sea monster in disguise, and her beauty a sham and a lie, only proved treachery and deceit were second nature to her. Which meant Melvin was in way over his head.

  Penny had been especially upset by what the old man had told them. She couldn’t help imagining all the terrible things the witch might do to Melvin. So she found it nearly impossible to sleep at first, something not helped by how the wind tugged and pulled and gnawed at her. Only she was so tired….

  She had a really strange dream: she dreamt the moon came out, shining down onto that stretch of open country, shining so brightly she could see the ground nearby tremble and shake, then a crack of yellow light appear as two hidden doors burst apart.

  She was lying so close to this opening, she was terrified she might fall into it—because she was looking down from some great height, down at the green, sunlit world far below and great white clouds were nestling up against the curving ceiling which was the roof of this mysterious underworld. It wasn’t dark and rainy down there. It was bathed in golden sunshine, although she could see no sun; there were forests and lakes and swards of deepest green.

  A great procession was twining up through the air from this mysterious subterranean kingdom, up towards the opening: a procession of imps and goblins and beautiful maidens and laughing princes, none of them any bigger than her hand. The lords and ladies were splendidly arrayed and riding on horses which matched them in size exactly.

  They poured up out of the opening in a seemingly endless stream, all the denizens of fairyland and as they did so, Penny saw they were bringing some of the light of their world with them. Or at least, their colors didn’t fade as they emerged into the cold, chilly night.

  The fairy host gathered in a great circle around her and the others, then one figure rode forward on a tiny white steed—a figure with a pointed brown beard and laughing blue eyes and a golden crown on his head.

  Suddenly Penny could feel herself scramble to her feet. Around her she could see the others do the same.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, children,” the fairy king said gravely—for such he was. “As a sign of the high esteem in which youse are held and in the hopes they might be of some use to you in your battle against the witch—who’s been making our lives a misery for far too long—I’d like to present yez with three gifts.”

  The king nodded, and four or five fairies staggered out from amongst the others. They were carrying a shiny gold cauldron on their tiny shoulders. “You need never go hungry as long as you have this cauldron. Just put it on the fire and whatever you pour into it will instantly turn into the finest broth.”

  Next the fairies brought out a magnificent cloak, a dozen different colors rippling and shimmering across its glossy fabric. “Anyone who wears this cloak need never feel the cold,” the fairy king went on. “It will always cover them, and if more than one has need of it on a cold night, then it will grow accordingly.”

  The cloak was neatly folded and laid down next to the cauldron.

  It took a dozen fairies to carry the last gift: a long spear with a golden head, its handle elaborately carved from some dark wood. “Perhaps this is the greatest gift of the three,” the fairy king smiled. “For this spear will always find its mark. The best of luck to yez!”

  His people all cheered and clapped. Then the fairy king turned his tiny horse about and led his people back down through the mysterious portal, down into the sunbathed world below.

  Penny opened her eyes. It was early morning—another, gray dank morning—and she and the others were lying on a stretch of windswept grass.

  “What a weird dream!” Donald exclaimed, sitting up next to her. “Hang on a sec—”

  Three objects were lying just a few yards from where they’d been sleeping: a small, battered bronze cauldron, a spear all made out of the same dark, hard, polished material—both tip and handle—and what turned out to be a very old, stained cloak.

  “All the same, there’s more to them yokes than meets the eye!” the old man said, after they’d told him about their dream and showed him the things given to them by the fairies. “That spear was carved out of the bone of some fomorian, for one thing. You can te
ll just by looking at it. And that means it’s stronger and sharper than any steel.”

  “I wonder if the cauldron works?” Beverly remarked.

  The old man got the fire going again while Donald went to fill the cauldron with water from the nearest stream.

  The instant Donald put the cauldron down on top of the fire, they all knew the fairy king had been telling the truth, for the most delicious smell was suddenly wafting up out of it.

  Broth turned out to be a sort of stew. It was a bit watery but still delicious, especially if you haven’t eaten in ages, and as they had no bowls or spoons, they each took turns drinking from the cauldron itself, which was just small enough to hold in your hands.

  “Right,” the old man said once they were finished. He stood up and starting to stamp out the fire. “Best be on our way—if we don’t want the witch catching us!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The old man need not have worried. The witch hadn’t got very far at all, the night before. The land of Tir-na-Nog was too treacherous for horses after dark. And the tracks threading their way to and fro across it were few and far between and none of them came anywhere close to Patrick’s Seat, or the ones that did weren’t wide enough for a chariot to travel on.

  So while Queen Ula was still many miles away, the children had already spotted a rocky outcrop rising in the middle of that rolling, hilly country, with gray granite spires and the skeleton of some great hall looming above the high stone walls at its summit. It looked like it had once been a very important place, long ago, before it fell to rack and ruin.

  And if they were in any doubt this must be their destination, there was a gap in the ceiling of dark cloud directly above it and golden sunshine was pouring down through this hole, down onto those ruins and even as Penny looked she saw something glint like gold for a minute, down near the front of the hall.

  “Patrick’s Seat,” the old man said. “And himself has already arrived, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “How do you know?” asked Donald, even though he’d already guessed the answer, just like the others had.

  “Because he brings the sunshine with him wherever he goes. How else?”

  They set off, all feeling a lot more optimistic, so soon they were making their way along the narrow winding path leading up through the great crags to the top of Patrick’s Seat, with warm afternoon sunshine falling onto their faces (even though the surrounding countryside was still as gray and gloomy as ever) until finally they were making their way across flat green turf to where Saint Patrick was standing.

  He was much, much bigger than any ordinary man, seven or eight feet tall, and nearly as broad as he was high. He wore robes of green silk and a miter on his head made from the same material, both embroidered in golden threads—an elaborate pattern of interweaving shamrocks—and he held a great brass crosier in one giant fist. Most of his face was hidden by his enormous, curly red beard, but there was a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  To his right a young man in a white tunic and cloak was strumming slowly on a little harp. On his left a big, heavily muscled and rather scary-looking individual wearing just a pair of blue-and-white checked breeks was slouched on a wall. He had a bushy red moustache, fierce blue eyes and his reddish hair stuck up from his head in spikes. Despite the many rings on his thick fingers, his hands were black and sooty and they were resting on a great hammer.

  “A smith, I guess,” Donald thought to himself. “And that other guy must be some sort of minstrel.”

  Clustered around Saint Patrick were half a dozen women in long, beautifully embroidered dresses, their hair in braids. They looked both surprised and pleased to see the children. “If the witch is keeping the Fianna prisoner in her house, then I guess those must be their wives,” thought Beverly.

  “Welcome, Donald, a bhuachaill,” said Saint Patrick. “Welcome, Beverly and Penny. Welcome Michael and Nora. Where’s the other fellow?”

  Before any of them could ask how Saint Patrick had known their names or about Melvin, the old man replied—“He’s joined forces with Queen Ula, your honor.”

  Something made Donald say—“That was my fault, sir. I was always picking on him.”

  “Please sir,” said Penny, “Can you help us get him back?”

  Saint Patrick heaved a deep sigh and shook his head sadly. “I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d only be interfering. Your brother joined forces with the witch of his own free will—”

  Then one of the women screamed. A very small, filthy creature had appeared out of nowhere and was scurrying across the turf.

  “Oh, a rat!” Beverly exclaimed. “How disgusting! Somebody kill the nasty thing!”

  The smith rushed forward to do her bidding, his hammer raised, but Saint Patrick waved him back. The rat had stopped at the saint’s feet, its tiny sides heaving—it had clearly run very far and very fast—and was staring up at Saint Patrick with a curiously beseeching look in its bright black eyes.

  What could it possibly mean?

  Clearly it meant something good, if only to judge by Saint Patrick’s delighted expression.

  “Welcome, little one,” he said softly.

  Melvin had just undergone the most terrible few hours of his life.

  He’d barely started to gnaw through the strip of bark binding his cage door shut when he heard a hoarse, rasping voice speak up to him from below. “The witch is right. Even if you get out of your cage, you won’t leave this hall alive.”

  Peering down through those wooden bars, he could just make out a great black boar, sitting on its haunches against the far wall. It was looking up at him, its tiny yellow eyes filled with contempt.

  Melvin realized being changed into an animal also meant he could understand the speech of the other animals as well.

  “Goll is right,” somebody else said softly in the shadows below and behind him—a fox, Melvin thought: he could just make out its brush and the glint of its green eyes in the gloom, although he wasn’t totally sure, it was so dark in the hall—“You’ll not get out of here in one piece. Not as long as himself has the run of the place. And if he doesn’t make an end of you, we will.”

  “Aye,” the boar said grimly. “You’ve betrayed your own kin. And by betraying them, betrayed us all.”

  A chorus of grunts, squeals and growls met this statement. Melvin was left in no doubt about how every other animal in the hall agreed with what the boar had just said.

  He kept gnawing away regardless. He didn’t care if all the other animals hated him. His cage hung from a beam running the length of the hall. All he had to do was scurry along it until he’d reached the doors at the other end.

  But this was a lot trickier than he expected. Once he’d got out of his cage, the beam was slippery with moisture, like everything else in the hall, and Melvin still hadn’t got used to his new body. He was barely halfway along it before he went tumbling down through the air.

  Down, down, down he went. That fall would have probably broken his neck if he’d still been a boy, but Melvin landed on all four paws in the center of the hall and just out of reach of the animals tethered along either side of him—but how they strained and growled and snarled and snapped at him! Melvin found himself running as fast as he could towards the waiting doors while big black shapes loomed to his right and left, always looking as if they were about to catch him but never quite managing it. Then some other sound made the animals suddenly fall silent. Melvin froze, ears flat against his back, listening intently.

  What had it been?

  And then he heard it: the unmistakable slithering sound of a large, reptilian body sliding across the floor and in his direction.

  You’ll not get out of here in one piece. Not as long as himself has the run of the place.

  Melvin didn’t bother looking round. The sound was coming from behind him and he didn’t need to check to know it was way too close for comfort!

  He ran as fast as his four legs could carry him.
But just as he was within a foot of the doors he felt a sharp pain.

  Somebody—something—had caught him by the tail.

  Melvin wriggled for all he was worth. A second later he was free again: free to wriggle under the doors and outside.

  A hiss of fury behind him.

  A great white moon had risen in the sky overhead, making the marsh glitter and gleam. Melvin had never been so glad to see the moon in all his life, but his tail hurt like crazy and when he twisted around he saw the end of it had been neatly nipped off.

  There was no time to lick it better. Instead Melvin scurried across the bridge. Or rather, he hopped from one length of wood to the next as they were too unevenly spaced for a creature his size to cross easily. That really spooked him: Melvin could see marsh water through these gaps and that water looked a long way down. As a boy he’d never learnt how to swim, so he wasn’t sure if he could as a rat.

  Then, somehow or other, he lost his grip and went tumbling, head over tail, all over again, but this time down into the marsh’s rank, smelly waters.

  A second later he was paddling for his life, his nose barely clearing the water, not helped by the plant life growing just below the water and the scum growing across its surface.

  It was a very bedraggled, smelly rat who scrabbled gingerly up onto dry land some time later.

  Melvin’s journey through the wood had been pretty uneventful by comparison, except for once, when he heard an owl hoot overhead and realized it must have spotted him. He cowered for the long time in the shadow of one tree before moving on.

  He was very glad he’d left the key under a rock now. Also, how the rock had been small—a larger rock would have been impossible for him to move.

  “And the one good thing about being a rat,” he thought, “is I’m just the right size to fit into the hallway and open the door.”

  And hadn’t Queen Ula said something about how her enchantment only worked here? She’d been talking to her charioteer, so he wasn’t sure, but Melvin was willing to bet the second he came back out onto the landing in his uncle’s house, he’d be himself again. A very, dirty bedraggled version of himself, but himself.