Only what was he going to tell his great uncle? he wondered, as he scurried across the bog—maybe how he’d found the key lying on the staircase? Then his uncle would think the string had snapped of its own accord.
“The first thing I’ll do is have a nice hot bath,” he thought.
By then he’d reached the dense gorse thicket where he knew the door must be.
But—although he’d managed to get out of the woods and across the bog without too much difficulty—Melvin quickly lost all sense of direction once he entered the gorse.
He ran this way and that for hours, searching high and low for the door, but without any success whatsoever. Then, from some distance away, he heard the sound of running water and realized he was very thirsty.
A few minutes later he came out by the edge of a deep, slow moving river, the banks on either side of it completely overgrown with gorse and hawthorns. There was a bend in the river and here—under the low branches of some sort of bush—was a deep pool and it was from this Melvin started to drink.
Even as he did so, a giant silver form came looping up out of the depths, its great blunt head breaking the water a few feet from where he was crouched.
“Greetings!” the fish said in a deep, gurgly voice.
Melvin was very taken aback. “Hi. Were you enchanted by the witch as well? Is that how you can speak?”
“It is not,” the fish said, studying him gravely. “I have the power of speech because I am the Salmon of Knowledge and know all things.”
“Yeah? I’m trying to find this doorway. Maybe you can tell me where it is—”
“You are curious how I came to be so called,” the salmon went on, exactly as if Melvin had said nothing at all. “Observe the berries hanging over this pool. One berry will make a man more learned than all his fellows and I have eaten many hundreds of them. I am more learned than the most learned druid, possibly more learned than Saint Patrick himself.”
Melvin gazed longingly up at the clusters of red berries hanging here and there from the bush. “So those are, like, magic berries?”
“Exactly so.”
“I used to be human, only this witch turned me into a rat. Could those berries change me back?”
“They could not. They could make you a rat of exceptional erudition.”
“Great,” Melvin thought. Aloud he said—“Listen, about this doorway—”
“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“I’m Melvin.”
“You were not always as you are now?” The salmon’s long body swayed from side to side. “You were human? Once upon a time?”
“Yeah. A witch—”
“It is the nature of any witch to practice witchcraft, a branch of magic in turn noted for its generally adverse affects. But I am being presumptuous. No doubt you can provide a more thorough explanation for her behavior, having had the ill-luck to become her victim.”
Melvin was wondering if he was ever going to get to home. The salmon was probably the one creature who could help him, and so he said—“I guess she didn’t want me running away.”
The salmon vanished underwater, circling around and around for a moment or two before surfacing again. “Ah! But you confounded her.”
“Sorry?”
“Well, you did escape, did you not?”
“Yeah. I guess. Look—”
“You must excuse me. I have very few visitors and although the berries have provided much food for thought, they have told me nothing about the workings of the human heart. This is all by way of saying I will be happy to tell you what you desire to know once you have told me what I need to know.”
Melvin sighed.
“Okay.”
So he sat back on his haunches and began.
He ended up telling the salmon everything: about how the witch had promised to teach him magic, only then she’d double-crossed him, how he’d escaped and now was trying to find the doorway which had got him here in the first place, and all the while the salmon swam slowly about, vanishing underwater every so often, only to bob up again and ask him yet another question.
“I may know the whereabouts of this door,” it admitted, once he was finished. “But what of your brother and your sisters?”
“Oh, they’ll be fine,” Melvin said irritably. But suddenly he wasn’t so sure. He’d been so busy trying to escape and find his way back home he hadn’t really thought about how Donald and Beverly and Penny might be getting on.
“I can give you directions,” the salmon continued, as if it were reading his thoughts. “But perhaps you need decide where you need directions to? The doorway you are currently seeking will lead back to your own world. A place where the witch’s magic has no power. You may have some explaining to do, having left your brother and your sisters behind, but you will be an only child—just as you always hoped. Or you can set off for Patrick’s Seat and warn your brothers and sisters this witch means them no good. The choice is yours.”
It had never occurred to Melvin he might never see Donald or Beverly or Penny again, and even though this was what he’d once wanted with all his heart, he suddenly he found himself imagining what it would be like: going back home and growing up without Penny always being the center of attention or without Donald and Beverly bossing him around.
That’s when he realized he might actually miss them.
And with this realization came the realization all three were in terrible danger. It was probably already too late. The witch must have caught up with them long before they’d reached Patrick’s Seat. In which case, she’d have turned them all into animals, and was probably bringing them back to her lair even while he sat here.
And Saint Patrick—if he really could help—would never even know what had happened.
Unless somebody told him—and only one person could do that.
Him.
“So how do I get to Patrick’s Seat?” he asked glumly.
“A most commendable decision on your part!” the salmon said happily. “Patrick’s Seat lies in that direction.”
So saying, the salmon flicked its great tail to indicate which way Melvin should go.
“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” Melvin said, scuttling off once more.
The rest of his journey was a blur. Melvin spent hours scurrying through gorse and grass and heather, being careful to keep going in the direction the salmon had indicated, no matter what, until finally, hours later, he was making his way up a steep winding path, then across green turf—a very bright green it was too, in the sunshine—darting this way and that to avoid angry feet and sticks and only coming to a stop when the saint’s giant toes were inches from his nose and the saint himself was looming over him, a silhouette as big as a mountain against the blue spring sky.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saint Patrick stepped back—it was as if the mountain had just moved—then lowered his crosier, so slowly the frightened little rat who was Melvin barely felt its light touch on his back.
Until then Melvin had only been able to see things close to him in any detail—the saint’s giant toes, each stiff blade of grass. Now it all rushed back into focus even as it shrank, until suddenly he was Melvin again, standing in front of Saint Patrick and Donald and Penny and Beverly.
“Oh Melvin!” Penny ran forward and hugged him, then stood back and laughed when she saw how dirty she’d got by doing so.
“Queen Ula,” Melvin stammered. “It’s all my fault. She knows you’re here. She’s coming—”
“Yeah. We figured as much,” Donald admitted. “I guess you changed your mind about her—and about us too, huh?”
Melvin wanted to say something, but there was a lump in his throat so big, at first all he could do was nod.
The two brothers hugged.
“Glad to have you back, kiddo,” Donald mumbled.
“Me, too,” admitted Beverly, hugging Melvin as well.
“Even if I’m a total jerk most of the time?”
“Yeah, of course,�
�� Beverly said, wiping her eyes.
“How come?”
“Because—because four really is better than three, because we wouldn’t be a real family without you. Don’t be such a dingbat.”
Then Saint Patrick cocked his great bearded head to one side, held up one hand and they all shut up.
Giant cloud shadows chased one another across the grass. Birds sang. But some other sound broke the spring stillness and there was no mistaking what it was: the rattle of chariot wheels.
“Guys, I’m so sorry,” Melvin said.
“And that’s more than enough,” Saint Patrick said kindly. Already he was striding towards the great arched entranceway. The top part of it had collapsed long, long ago, but it was still an impressive sight. And if you stood outside it you could see over the surrounding country for miles.
A chariot was bumping and jolting across the uneven countryside, the furry little man’s whip glinting as he cracked it above the horses’ heads while sitting behind him, wild-eyed and furious, was Queen Ula.
The chariot came to a halt directly below. The witch stood up to address Saint Patrick.
“You eejit!” she sneered, her lips flashing a bright cherry-red in the sunlight. “You think those three children will be my undoing? They have a brother! And right now that brother is my prisoner!”
“Are you sure?” Saint Patrick asked, standing back so the witch could see Melvin.
All the blood drained from Queen Ula’s face. It must have been a nasty shock, seeing the boy she’d turned into a rat only a few hours previously, not only where she’d least reason to expect him, but restored to his usual form again, if very dirty and crest-fallen.
She scowled. “Well, well! No wonder you look so pleased with yourself!”
“Now, Ula. I didn’t come here to gloat.”
Queen Ula studied Saint Patrick with her fierce, witch eyes. “Of course you did.”
“Why do you have to carry on like this? You and I both know you’re not as wicked as you let on.”
The witch threw back her head and laughed. “How would you know, when you don’t even know what I am and what brought me here?”
“I know you came here looking for revenge and I know you stayed your hand.”
Queen Ula stopped laughing and stared up at the saint, her eyes suddenly huge and luminous. “What?”
“You were supposed to summon your brothers once you’d taken care of the Fianna. Only you never did. Why was that?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t like following orders.”
“Or maybe you’re not as bloodthirsty as you like to think. Maybe you’re a reasonable woman. So why don’t we put our differences aside? I only want things back the way they were. All I’m asking is that you don’t start interfering again.”
“That’s it?”
Saint Patrick sighed. “More or less. But why don’t you come up here and we can talk about it?”
The witch studied him for one long minute, eyes narrowed. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come down here? And leave your crosier behind?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise.”
“Because you don’t trust me? After you telling me you thought I was a reasonable woman?”
And now it was Saint Patrick’s turn to laugh. “Hold on a minute. That’s not what I said at all.”
“So what did you say?”
“That I think you could be a reasonable woman.”
Queen Ula shrugged. “Fair enough—but if you don’t trust me, then why should I trust you?”
The saint’s broad face creased in a frown. He heaved a deep breath. Other than this, he stood very still. It was obvious he was thinking hard. Minutes ticked by until finally the witch’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Well?”
Saint Patrick sighed, then held out his crosier for the old man to take. “Here.”
But the old man just shook his head. “Don’t do it, your honor! She’ll use her staff on you, mark my words!”
“Michael’s right,” said his wife, plucking anxiously at the hem of Saint Patrick’s robes. “She’s not to be trusted. Not her! And that yoke draws on whatever darkness is inside you and brings it to the surface and it’s men who fare worst of all! Even a fine upstanding man such as your good self!”
Saint Patrick chuckled and hugged the old folk to him. “Listen to me, the pair of yez! I’ve spent a long, long time basking in the light—a light like no other, a light that drove the darkness out of every nook and cranny of my soul. Do you think her staff will work on me now?”
So saying he handed the old man his crosier and began to make his way down the rocky path to the unkempt meadow below.
“The poor eejit!” the old lady wept.
“But he’s a saint,” Beverly whispered.
“Aye, maybe, but not a very clever one!” the old man muttered.
“What do you mean?” Melvin asked.
“Just this,” the old man replied. “That fellah doesn’t know his own strengths. A man with no wickedness in his heart isn’t a saint. He’s barely a man. Every one of us is a mixture of good and bad. A saint is a fellah who’s learnt how to master his bad side. Sure you can no more get rid of the bad part of yourself than you could change the color of your hair.”
For a moment the witch had looked completely astonished—she’d clearly never expected Saint Patrick to call her bluff—but by the time he was standing before her, her face was as imperious as ever.
“All right, so,” she snapped. “State your terms.”
The saint shrugged. “Your staff, Ula. You’ll have to hand it over. You know this as well as I do.”
“What? And have the Fianna chasing me the length and breadth of the country? You must be codding!”
“I’m offering you my personal guarantee that won’t happen. You’ll be let live your life in peace and quiet.”
Melvin had been so sure the witch would reject Saint Patrick’s offer out of hand. Only now she was frowning thoughtfully. Was she actually going to agree to his bargain? Had Saint Patrick been right all along—how maybe she really wasn’t as wicked as everyone thought?
The two of them stood facing each other for what seemed like ages. Finally Saint Patrick said—“Come on, Ula. You know it’s for the best. This carry-on of yours has got to stop. The sooner, the better.”
The strangest expression crossed the witch’s face. She pouted, just like a spoilt little girl might do, her eyes very bright as she stared up at the saint, while her cheeks went bright pink. “Is that so?”
Dumb move, Melvin thought. And then—She really might have said yes, too.
He was remembering how the witch didn’t like people telling her what to do.
Now Queen Ula was leaning over and whispering something to her charioteer. He nodded and flicked the reins and the two horses cantered in a circle around the saint.
Saint Patrick shook his head and sighed. “What are you at?”
Round and round the horses went, a little bit faster each time, the witch’s scowl growing ever fiercer, until the children could see flecks of foam appearing at the corners of each horse’s mouth and their black flanks were shiny with sweat.
Only when the charioteer had brought the horses to a halt, did Saint Patrick finally turn to confront the witch.
“What was all that about?” he demanded.
But Melvin had already guessed what the witch meant to do. Because Saint Patrick was facing them now, while the queen had her back to them. “She’s going to change him into something horrible,” he thought, “and she wants us all to see his expression when she does.”
Sure enough, she was already pointing her staff at Saint Patrick.
“Nobody tells Queen Ula what to do!” she shrieked. “Nobody!”
The second the witch pointed her staff at Saint Patrick, he staggered back as if somebody had hit him, his miter falling off his head as he did so, a look of astonishment and dismay flooding his broad face.
And then thi
ck black bristles were poking out through his robes, growing out through his robes. In fact they seemed to be almost feeding off those bright vestments because those clothes started to lose their color almost right away, even as the hairs grew over them, obliterating them, while Saint Patrick’s beard darkened and spread until it covered his entire face.
Within seconds the saint was covered from head to foot in coarse black hair.
Not only that. His body was changing shape; his back growing higher, his arms longer. Two great black horns like a billy goat’s sprouted from his head, where a miter had been only seconds before.
Weirdest of all, his eyes grew and grew, bulging out of their sockets, until Beverly was afraid they might actually burst, like rotten fruit, going from green to yellow to a lustrous gold as they did so. Their pupils vanished entirely.
“Just like cataracts,” Melvin thought. “Gold-colored cataracts.”
And now this hideous creature—which looked like nothing more than some great horned ape—rested its knuckles on the ground and threw back its head and howled at the dark clouds already gathering above; a howl filled with dismay and despair—before turning away and loping across the meadow as fast as it could.
They watched it appear and disappear then reappear again as it lollopped across that wild, hilly country. It was moving at a tremendous speed. There were some mountains on the horizon, little more than a blue outline and very far away, and it was towards these the beast which had once been Saint Patrick was traveling.
The witch leapt out of her chariot, and looked up at them triumphantly. “So what are you going to do now?” she scoffed. “Now your big protector is gone? The lot of yez?”
Nobody said anything. The only sound was Penny crying. Queen Ula’s smile grew wider still. “As for youse—” she hissed.
She swept up the path faster than any of them would have thought possible, almost as if her feet had little wings growing out of them, glancing up at them with the same hungry smile every now and then as she did so.
The Witch, the Saint & the Shoemaker Page 6