The door swung open revealing Brianna.
“What’s all the noise about? What’s gone?”
“The scuttle!”
Brianna shook her head. “No, it hasn’t.”
“Where is it then?” asked Bill, calming a little.
She pointed into the house. “In there, Mother Hemlock’s got it.”
“What? How did she get it?”
“I gave it to her,” said Brianna.
“What? What?”
Brianna laughed. “Now you sound like Flaxbottom! But anyway, our mission was to get the scuttle to Mother Hemlock, and we’ve done it. What’s the problem?”
“It wasn’t there when I woke up!” said Bill.
“I know,” Brianna responded, calmly, “Mother Hemlock had it. Now, come on in, have a cup of tea and something to eat. You need to calm down.”
She led him through a narrow hallway into the parlour where all conversation stopped as he entered. Mother Hemlock was there, sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, the coal scuttle on her lap. Next to her sat a tiny, ancient woman with a wrinkled face, chewing on what looked like a crustless jam sandwich.
“No pips!” she said, removing the sandwich from her toothless mouth and holding its remains up. “Young Jessie ‘emlock, makes luvverly jam sandwiches.”
“You’re up then,” Mother Hemlock said.
She had a sharp voice that, Bill suspected, could be used as a weapon. She looked pretty old, but then anyone over forty looks ancient to a 19-year-old, and there was something about her appearance that suggested she once might have been quite a fine woman. Bill was reminded of Enid from the Cock and Bull.
“You did well to bring the scuttle here safely, and quickly,” she said.
Bill smiled. “Well, I had lots of help. There was Brianna of course, I couldn’t have done it without her. And Wing Commander Flax…”
“Of course, its magic’s gone. It’s a nice copper coal scuttle but not much else besides,” interrupted Mother Hemlock.
Silence fell. Well, if the absence of all sound except the vigorous mastication of bread can be called silence.
“What?”
Mother Hemlock got up and walked over to him.
“Never mind,” she said. “Now, where’s my manners? We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Mother Hemlock, Jessie to some, Indigestible to my departed mother. You can call me madam or mother.”
Bill nodded senselessly.
“And this here is Gramma Tickle, you can call her Gramma, but you’ll have to do it plenty loud on account of her bein’ pretty hard of hearin’.”
Hemlock pointed at the old girl who was wiping her lips with a sleeve.
“Ay?” she said.
Mother Hemlock sighed and signalled to another figure, sitting in the chair opposite, hidden by its high back. “Finally, this is Miss De Veer.”
The woman stood up and turned to him. She was younger than both the ancient Gramma Tickle and the indeterminately aged Mother Hemlock. She was tall, lean and had long brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders and ran down her tight-fitting dress.
She was beautiful.
Bill had reached the point of complete paralysis. His mind, already a maelstrom of panic, fear, disappointment and confusion had been stilled by the sight of this woman. All that was left now was to stand and stare.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Bill. Call me Velicity,” she said, her voice like honey.
Mother Hemlock snapped her fingers in front of Bill’s face.
“Yes, they all acts like that when they meets ‘er. Come on boy, we’ve got plenty to talk about.”
Coming to his senses, Bill shook his head and followed her lead to a wooden dining chair drawn up next to the armchairs. Brianna brought a second seat and sat next to him. Bill hardly noticed, he was still watching Velicity.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he said, nervously.
“Perhaps,” Velicity said, angling her head so that her brunette locks tumbled across her shoulders. “I’m an artist’s poseur.”
“A what?”
Velicity smiled, her teeth so breathtakingly white that she almost blinded him.
“Oh, of course, you’re a country boy,” she said, as Bill felt his cheeks redden. “It’s like this. When an artist gets commissioned to paint a scene containing, say, a woman of perfect beauty, he can’t conjure such a vision from his imagination, he needs to have someone in front of him to work from. For some reason, many artists have chosen me to pose for them, so my face has become quite well known.”
There was a snort from the chair occupied by Mother Hemlock.
“And not just your face, neither.”
Velicity’s expression froze.
“It is true that some artistic ventures have required the use of my wider countenance,” she mumbled.
“First time I’ve heard it called that!” Mother Hemlock said, leaning forward and pointing at the boy. “And d’you imagine he’s ever seen such works of art? Tell me, lad, can you read?”
Bill’s anger shook him out of his embarrassment. “Course I can!”
Mother Hemlock smiled. “Calm yourself boy, I meant no offence. Now, tell me what sort of books take your fancy?”
There was an anticipatory silence as Bill pondered this. He was tempted to pretend that he spent his limited leisure time with his nose in the latest Arasmus serial but decided, wisely, that lying would be futile.
“To be truthful,” he began. “My favourites are the Illustrated Adventures, like Duck Bodgers in the 5th Century or Brash Warden and the Emperor of Doom.”
“There’s no shame in it. D’you, by any chance, read any with characters out of history in ‘em?” asked Mother Hemlock innocently.
Bill’s cheeks flushed again. “I s’pose.”
“‘The Adventures of Queen Bowda-see-er?” the old woman said, her eyes flicking across to where Velicity sat, as if carven out of ice. “Although her adventures ought to involve finding a pair of knickers that don’t fall off whenever she’s facin’ away from the artist. And as for her chest, it’s got a life of its own. Bowda-See-er the Buxom, ain’t it?”
Bill’s mouth dropped open, and he looked over at Velicity. Without thinking, his gaze fell on the small breasts of the mortified woman.
Mother Hemlock cackled.
“Oh yes, they needs a poseur to get the face right, but when it comes to other bits, they uses their imaginations. And these artists, they’re very creative.”
“Leave him alone, mother,” Brianna said, “he’s done well to get this far, and he deserves some credit.”
This outpouring of respect from his companion was very nearly the axe that broke the donkey’s back.
Mother Hemlock nodded. “So, that’s all of us,” she said, spreading her arms to encompass the room. “Apart from the menfolk, and they don’t count in this. You know my daughter Brianna well enough by now, I’ve no doubt.”
“She’s your daughter?” Bill said, looking stupidly from one to the other.
Yes, of course she bloody well was.
Brianna went over to a large oak dresser, fished around for a while and came back with a glass of something brown. “Here, drink this.”
Bill looked at the thick, dark, liquid. “Will it help?”
“Maybe,” said Brianna. “It’ll at least feel as though it does which, I suppose, is the main point.”
Caution had become a distant memory to Bill, so he necked the liquid in one, noticing, just as he did, Brianna’s eyes widen. Fire shot down his gullet, and he had to slap his hand over this mouth to stop himself bringing the drink immediately back up.
“You’re supposed to sip it!” Brianna said, taking the glass from him, putting it back on the sideboard, then returning to sit down beside him, a worried look on her face.
Bill, on the other hand, wasn’t worried at all. The drink had settled in his stomach and filled it with a wonderful warmth that had already made its way into his mind which wa
s now floating in a sea of peace.
“Marvellous,” he heard someone say, and then he heard no more.
Chapter 15
This time, Bill woke up in a comfortable bed. The room was dark except for the glow of embers and the candle by the bed. Beneath the candlestick was a note which read 'Come downstairs, however late. Brianna.'
He felt as though he’d only slept for a few hours and his head still ached, along with another, slightly different, pain he knew to be a hangover. His body wanted to stay where he was and get a few more hours rest but his mind, full of questions and confusion, wouldn’t let him be, and so he got up.
To his embarrassment, he found that he’d been undressed down to his rather over-used underpants. His mind raced as he tried to work out who might have done it. Brianna? That gorgeous Velicity woman? No, Mother Hemlock, he’d bet his last mark on it. Folded up on a chair beside the bed sat his regular clothes. They’d been washed and dried and, pulling them on, it felt wonderful to be wearing dry clothes again.
Bill looked around the room and wondered if this was to be where he’d sleep during his brief visit. It was small but comfortable with a window looking out over the fields, although all he could see right now was a crescent moon and a few stars. To his surprise, the coal scuttle he’d sacrificed so much to bring here was on the mantelpiece. Worthless, apparently. Well, that was going to be his first question. He picked up the scuttle and, navigating by candle-light, found his way to the door.
The scene that greeted him once he’d found his way to the parlour was pretty much the same as the one he’d left hours ago. Mother Hemlock was sitting in the senior chair by the fire with Gramma beside her, yawning and smacking her lips after, it seemed a long nap. Brianna was sitting with a blanket around her legs and beckoned to him to sit next to her. Bill tried really hard not to stare at Velicity’s cleavage as he circled round to his position. He failed but was rewarded with a smile as he sat down.
“Feelin’ rested?” asked Mother Hemlock.
“Yes, thank you,” Bill replied. “You haven’t all been sitting here waiting for me to wake up have you?”
Mother Hemlock smiled.
“As it ‘appens, we have. Seeing as how it was our fault you was so immediately discomposed,” she continued, shooting a glance at Brianna who returned it with interest.
“So, lad, what’s all this about fiery ‘ands, then?” said Gramma, successfully turning the conversation at right angles.
Bill looked down at his palms. “Oh, Brianna mentioned that, did she.”
“Of course I mentioned it, it’s not every day that a perfectly ordinary boy develops the power to incinerate people who upset him.”
“I’m not a boy!” Bill said, with all the petulance of one.
“Of course you’re not,” said Velicity, “it took courage, wits and considerable good fortune to make the journey safely.”
Bill smiled shyly.
“Well, at least he’s still got his object,” said Mother Hemlock. “The two of you lost yours so there’s only mine left what’s unbroken.”
“We didn’t lose ours, they were deliberately destroyed. Someone knew where they’d be and what they looked like,” Velicity pouted.
Gramma shook her fist. “I caught mine. Gave the fat, smelly, bugger a good kickin’ I did. But the clock’s gone, and its magic with it.”
“Hush, now, Gramma,” said Mother Hemlock, “we need to find out a bit more about our young man before we goes into that.”
Afterwards, Bill retained only fragmentary memories of the interrogation that followed. Mother Hemlock questioned him about his father and learned what little he knew of his mother. She spent longest on his association and relationship with Nomenclature Vokes, prying into every memory he had of their time together. Most particularly, she wanted to know every last detail of the fire and his finding of the coal scuttle.
Once she’d got his version of how he’d suddenly acquired explosive hands, she seemed satisfied and settled back in her chair.
“I knew old Nomey would come to a sticky end,” she said, almost as if to herself. “always was a bit of a flash Henry.4”
Velicity stirred and Bill imagined the room filling with a sweet perfume. “It seems clear, then, from whom William received the gift.”
“Ay,” said Gramma, “‘he’d put it in the coal scuckle.”
Bill looked from one to the other. “Hold on, who put what in the coal scuckle. I mean scuttle?’”
“Vokes put his power into it,” Brianna said. “You see, elemental magic can’t be created, it can only be hosted by someone, or something, for a while before being passed on. And it can’t be given to just anyone or anything. Many magic hosts have spent their lives anxiously looking for someone capable of taking on their burden - the magic will kill those without the particular talent it’s looking for. Your scuttle is one of only four containers for magic we know of, all made from copper. Magic can’t pass directly from one person to another, it can only do so through the copper.”
“Or the Lost Staff!” piped up Gramma.
Mother Hemlock held up her hand. “But that’s been missing for decades, Gramma.”
Gramma sat up in surprise.
“It ‘as? Nobody told me!”
Brianna exchanged a look with her mother before continuing. “The magic’s host can deliberately transfer their power into the vessel, or, if they die and it’s near them, the magic will flow back to its receptacle.”
The rational part of Bill’s brain fought for a moment then, remembering that his hands had combusted more than once, it surrendered. “So, are you saying that I’ve got this gift permanently?”
“That’s right,” said Mother Hemlock. “Or, at least, until you find someone you can transfer the gift to without killin’ ‘em.”
Bill thought for a moment. “Where did you get your magic from?”
Mother Hemlock chuckled. “And why d’you imagine I have magic?”
“Well, the look on Farmer Aloysius's face when we mentioned your name was a bit of a clue,” he said.
“Ha! That old fool: any hedge conjurer’d be able to pull the wool over his eyes. But, as it happens, you’re right. In fact, here in this room we has the four known hosts of magic. We’ve been called ‘elementals’ in times when magic had its proper respect. These days, we’re more commonly called witches or hags which we ain’t because witches are them what gets caught and chucked in rivers, whereas we are feared. What do I always say about respect, daughter?”
Brianna huffed. “If people ain’t respectful, fear’s a good substitute so scare the shits out of them.”
“Each of us has a talent that springs from one of the four elements,” continued Mother Hemlock. “Gramma Tickle, here, has the power of Earth so she is a mistress of living things that grow. If you ever see a tree walking, that’ll be her. Miss De Veer has the gift of Air which means she can trap wind and release it.”
There was a sigh from the chair where Velicity sat.
“What is your talent, Mother Hemlock?” asked Bill.
Velicity spoke before the older woman could reply. “You mean, apart from lethal sarcasm? Mother Hemlock has the talent of water which, along with her gift for stirring things up, makes her the person to go to if your bath needs more bubbles on it.”
Bill could have sworn the candles in the little room dimmed a little and that the space around Mother Hemlock’s chair darkened as she fumed.
“Ah, stop your marthering,” barked Gramma without visibly moving. “We all ‘ave our gift and our burden. You, lad, ‘ave the gift of fire.”
“Obviously,” said Brianna.
With a speed Bill could hardly imagine her possessing, Gramma swiped Brianna over the back of her head. “Cheeky apeth.”
“Yes, you have the gift of fire,” said Mother Hemlock then, spotting the smile broaden on Bill’s face, she added: “But these talents come at a steep price, we’ve all here paid it, though the cost has been different for each o
f us. It ain’t always obvious at first but, sure as sure, you’ve paid the price.”
“What price did you pay?” asked Bill.
There were multiple sharp intakes of breath from the other chairs before Mother Hemlock responded.
“I’ll forgive you your discourtesy cos you weren’t to know. The cost is private and, maybe, one day I’ll tell you but it’s enough to know that many who received the gift thought it more a curse than a blessing on account of what they had to give up.”
She and Brianna exchanged a glance before she fell silent.
“I’m sorry,” Bill said, “I can’t imagine what price I paid as I had hardly anything to begin with. But how do I learn to use it? At the moment, my hands go off every time I get scared, and I want to know how to control them so I’m not a danger to people.”
Mother Hemlock smiled. “That’s the right attitude, lad. We’ll teach you, but there’s a bigger problem. Who is seeking out and destroying the vessels? And we also needs to take steps to protect the only two that remain, yours and mine. No-one’s had the balls to try to steal from me yet, but it’s coming, you can be certain of that.”
She got up from her chair.
“For now, though, we should all rest. Master Hemlock is guarding tonight, and he can be trusted to keep a good safe watch while we sleep. Gramma, your bed has been made up on the toofit,” she said, pointing at a bundle of blankets on a small couch in the corner of the room. “Velicity, one of the lads has given up his room, oddly enough.”
Gramma hauled herself up and hobbled over to the couch. In moments, she’d wrapped herself in the blankets and was snoring like a bull. Velicity smiled, bade them all goodnight and allowed herself to be led off by a drooling farmhand who’d appeared at the door.
“You knows where you’re sleeping,” said Mother Hemlock to Bill as they followed Velicity out.
“Where are you going?” asked Bill, spotting Brianna heading for the front door.
“Out to the barn,” she said, without turning around. “You’re sleeping in my room.” The door slammed behind her, leaving Bill to traipse guiltily up to bed.
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