by Kaye Umansky
‘Hello, Pa,’ said Clover, and gave him a kiss on his stubbly chin. She caught a strong whiff of ale. Yes, he had been to The Axes.
‘Did you get the tea?’ asked Ma.
‘I did,’ said Pa, triumphantly producing a small package from his pocket. ‘Put the kettle on, Clover, and tell yer old dad what you been up to. How’s old Mother Eckles?’
‘Fine. She sent half a pie and some eggs.’
‘Did she now? Well, that’s right kind of her. I wouldn’t say no to a slice o’ pie.’
‘I’ll call the kids in,’ said Ma. ‘They’d like a bit too, I expect. Fern! Bracken! Sorrel! Herby! Come on in – there’s pie!’
There came the sound of running feet, and the girls appeared in the doorway. All three had overexcited, sticky faces with bulging cheeks.
‘Where’s Herby?’ enquired Ma.
The girls looked at each other and shrugged.
‘We was playin’ hide and seek,’ said Sorrel. ‘He went to hide.’
‘Oh my!’ sighed Ma. ‘If you’ve let him run off again . . .’ She hurried to the door and looked out. ‘Herby? Where are you?’
Silence.
‘No sign of ’im,’ said Ma. ‘See what I mean, Clover?’
‘I’ll find him,’ said Clover. ‘He’ll be behind the gooseberry bushes.’
But Herby wasn’t behind the gooseberry bushes. She searched under every bush, behind the water barrel, and even poked her nose in the privy. She looked behind the garden gate, which was propped uselessly to one side. Trees pressed thickly against the fence, which had collapsed in places.
‘Herby?’ shouted Clover into the trees. ‘Come on in now, game’s over.’
But there was no reply.
‘Any sign?’ said Ma, coming up from behind.
‘No. I suppose we’ll have to look in the woods. Don’t worry, he can’t have gone far.’
‘He might have gone to Mrs Pickles’ place,’ said Ma. ‘She lets him hold the baby chicks.’ She untied her apron, dropped it on the ground and went hurrying off.
‘More likely gone to the rope swing down by the brook,’ said Pa, coming down the path with a slice of pie in his hand. ‘He’s not allowed, but try tellin’ him that.’
‘We’ll help look,’ said Fern, running up with Sorrel and Bracken. All three of them looked excited, as if this were a game.
‘No,’ said Clover firmly. ‘You stay here in case he comes back. Pa’ll go to the rope swing and I’ll try over by the rabbit warren.’
But Herby wasn’t at Mrs Pickles’ place, or at the rope swing, or at the rabbit warren. The three of them met up back at the garden gate, feeling anxious but trying not to show it.
‘I know!’ shouted Ma. ‘He’ll be down at Farmer Crocker’s field. He likes to climb on the gate and stare at the billy goat. That’s where he is!’
They set off for Farmer Crocker’s field. But there was no little figure hanging over the five-barred gate. If the goat had recently been stared at by Herby, it certainly wasn’t letting on.
They searched in ever-increasing circles, going deeper and deeper into the woods, calling and calling. Ma sent Fern off to make enquiries at the village – but no one had seen Herby there.
Noon came and went, and still there was no sign. Pa went to The Crossed Axes and enlisted the help of his drinking pals. For once, he didn’t stop for a pint himself. By mid-afternoon, the word had spread, and more and more locals joined in the search. Nobody stopped to eat or rest. The woods rang with far-off cries.
Herby . . . Herby . . .
By sundown, the terrible truth finally sank in. Little Herby was missing.
The family met in the cottage as the sky turned red. Pa looked pale and grim. Ma was a trembling wreck. The girls looked scared and not so excited now. In fact, they were suspiciously quiet.
‘What’s up with you three?’ demanded Clover. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’
The girls looked at each other and said nothing.
‘Come on,’ said Clover. ‘Out with it.’
‘He tooked all the sweeties,’ said Sorrel, and burst into tears. Fern and Bracken joined in, and try as she would, Clover couldn’t get another word out of them.
‘You’d best be getting back, Clover,’ said Pa. ‘Sun’s going down.’
‘Not until we’ve found him,’ said Clover.
‘You can’t do any more. A group of us are meeting at The Axes and going out with torches.’
‘Then I’m coming too.’
‘No,’ said Pa. ‘The best thing you can do is go and tell Mrs Eckles. She might be able to help. Study the tea leaves, consult the stars – I dunno.’
‘Pa’s right,’ sniffed Ma through her tears. ‘Calls herself a witch, don’t she? She’s got powers, right? She could look in a Crystal Ball or something, couldn’t she?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Clover. ‘Maybe.’
Mrs Eckles didn’t have a Crystal Ball, of course. She didn’t approve of them. And the business with the tea leaves and stars was a load of rubbish, she admitted that herself. But she did have powers. Telling her made sense.
‘I’ll be back first thing tomorrow, at sun-up,’ promised Clover. She placed a comforting arm around Ma’s shaking shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll turn up.’
She tried to sound cheerful and positive, but the words sounded hollow.
‘Take a lantern,’ said Pa. ‘We don’t want you getting lost an’ all.’
‘All right. But I’ll be there by dusk if I hurry.’
‘Just in case,’ said Pa. He took a lantern off a hook and handed it to her.
She hugged them one by one, picked up her basket and set off once again into the woods, which were bathed in an orange glow.
And the sun dropped below the horizon.
g
Chapter Three
Send for the Huntsman!
And now we must leave Clover and travel far away from the forest to a very different place.
There is no orange glow to the sky above Castle Coldiron. The castle stands on the topmost peak in an area of towering, jagged mountains and deep, dark canyons. Some of the mountains are tipped with snow. Here, the sky is always grey. The sun is buried behind banked clouds. When night comes, the grey just darkens to black.
‘Still no sign?’ snapped Mesmeranza.
Ah. Here she is at last. Mrs Eckles’ infamous sister. She is currently sitting in a high-backed chair in her turret room. Set beside her, on a small, polished table, is a Crystal Ball. It is one of the old-fashioned ones, the size and shape of a small goldfish bowl. Right now it contains nothing but grey mist.
Mesmeranza has a pale, heavily powdered face and her black hair is swept back and up and secured with a comb. Her lips are painted the same violent shade of red as her long, sharp nails. Her gown is green satin. It matches her shoes. Her eyes are green too. The same emerald as Mrs Eckles’ eyes – but harder.
It is there that the resemblance ends. Mrs Eckles has allowed herself to grow old. Mesmeranza hasn’t. She maintains her deceptively youthful looks with the help of a Mirror Of Eternal Youth that deals magically with ageing issues. These days, the sessions are getting much longer.
‘No,’ sighed the small, grey, frazzled-looking woman who was standing next to the window, staring out. ‘No sign.’
This is Miss Fly and she is a cat lover. You can tell by the state of her shapeless cardigan, which is thickly plastered with hairs. She houses the cats in her apartment, where they sleep, eat, yowl, fight, have kittens and commandeer her bed. She is allowed (under sufferance) to keep them, in exchange for what are described as ‘light secretarial duties’. Miss Fly doesn’t like the job, but it’s not easy to find accommodation when you have over forty fluffy friends.
/> ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Mesmeranza. ‘He should have been back hours ago. Send for him again.’
‘I’ve already sent for him three times. He hasn’t arrived – I would have seen him from the window.’
‘He’s flying in on Booboo. He’ll be coming from the stables round the back. Do it.’
Miss Fly shrugged and trudged to the door. She opened it and cleared her throat.
‘Ahem. Send for the huntsman!’ squeaked Miss Fly.
Her thin quaver echoed down a long flight of stairs and along distant corridors. A second voice took up the cry, then another, then another. The calls got fainter and fainter until they faded away to silence.
‘You see?’ said Miss Fly.
‘Don’t sound so pleased, Fly,’ snapped Mesmeranza. ‘It’s in your own interests that the fool arrives, because you certainly won’t be leaving until he does. He and I have business to conduct. I may need your assistance.’
‘What business?’ enquired Miss Fly. She glanced at her watch. The cats would be wanting their supper.
‘He has something for me. Something I require for my latest Plan.’
‘Plan?’ Miss Fly’s voice held an element of dread. ‘You have a new Plan?’
‘I most certainly do. I’ve been working on it for some time now.’
‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with stealing flying cottages, by any chance?’
‘No. How many times must I tell you, Fly? I’ve lost interest in the wretched cottage. And I didn’t steal it. I prefer the word reclaim.’
‘Whatever you call it, your sister got it back,’ Miss Fly reminded her.
‘Yes, and she’s welcome to it – it’s a dump.’
‘So what is it, then? This new Plan?’
‘Why should I tell you? You’ll only pour cold water on it, as usual. You don’t have to know all the details of every Plan I come up with. I’m quite capable of creative planning without your involvement.’
‘You usually involve me,’ pointed out Miss Fly. ‘You make me take notes and do all the running around.’
‘Yes, and all the while I have to listen to your constant carping. Right now I don’t need your doomy forebodings. The Plan is all worked out and ready to go.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me what it is.’
‘All right,’ sighed Mesmeranza. ‘If you must know, there is something I need to get my hands on. Something that belonged to Grandmother that’s rightfully mine.’
‘Really?’ Miss Fly sounded surprised. ‘I thought you said you inherited everything. The castle, the servants, all those dangerous old magical items up in the loft . . .’
‘I did, and quite right too. But there’s one thing missing. The Bad Spell Book.’
‘Bad Spell Book?’ said Miss Fly. ‘What Bad Spell Book? You’ve never mentioned it before.’
‘Well, I don’t tell you everything, do I? I remember it from when Demelza and I were children. Grandmother wrote down all her nastiest, most powerful spells in a book. We weren’t allowed near it. She kept it in her private laboratory. We could hear it creeping about, rustling its pages at night. But it’s not there now. In fact, it’s nowhere in the castle. Believe me, I’ve looked.’
‘Perhaps she destroyed it,’ said Miss Fly. ‘Or lost it. Maybe she took it with her to the Twilight Home.’
‘Wrong!’ Mesmeranza gave a triumphant smirk. ‘I know exactly where it is. It’s in the cottage. Hidden under a loose flagstone by the hearth.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘Very easily. I paid Grandmother a little visit. Took her a bunch of grapes and a small cactus.’
‘I thought you parted on bad terms. After the business with the cottage.’
‘We did. I can’t say she was pleased to see me. Told me what I could do with my thoughtful gifts and ordered me to leave and never darken her door again, which I was only too glad to do. They keep those places horribly overheated. But not before she spilled the beans and told me where the Book is.’
‘What – she just came right out with it?’
‘Oh yes. You see, I had the foresight to doctor the grapes with Instant Truth Serum. I used her own recipe, actually. Tasteless, odourless, completely undetectable. She showed us how to make it once, back when we were children and she was training us up. I think she’s forgotten. I soaked the cactus in it too, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Well, I must say I’m surprised,’ said Miss Fly. ‘I thought she was the suspicious type. That’s what you told me. You said it was impossible to put one over on her.’
‘Yes, well, I picked my moment. I waited until the tea trolley appeared and she started bellowing for tea and biscuits along with the rest of the residents. I simply popped a grape in her mouth and wafted the cactus under her nose, and she went all glassy-eyed and told me everything. I found her Wand too, hidden in her knitting bag. They don’t allow dangerous weapons in the Twilight Home, so I took it. Then I left, before the trolley arrived.’
‘All right,’ said Miss Fly, ‘all right, so you’ve found out this horrid book is in the cottage. What will you do? Visit your sister and ask her nicely?’
‘Are you mad?’ sneered Mesmeranza. ‘Demelza and I don’t do nice.’
‘Well, perhaps you should. It’s silly, keeping up a vendetta at your age.’
‘I beg your pardon? Did you just mention my age?’
‘Sorry,’ said Miss Fly hastily, aware that she had stepped into dangerous waters.
‘You go too far!’
‘Sorry. But I’m just saying. It might save time. Your sister’s more into – you know, healing herbs and woodland lore. What would she want with a book of bad spells? That’s more your sort of thing.’
‘Exactly! With that book, there’s nothing I can’t do. Make it rain snakes for seven years. Turn the footmen into purple lizards. Cause a plague of giant flying cockroaches. An invasion of hostile hedgehogs. A pimple epidemic. Whatever takes my fancy.’
‘Well, I don’t see your sister being interested. She might be happy to give it to you.’
‘What an innocent you are, Fly. Do you really think Demelza would hand it over, just like that? Beautifully gift-wrapped, perhaps? There is a reason the Book is in the cottage. Grandmother wanted to keep it safe from me. Some dreary old nonsense about the balance of good and evil.’
‘Oh, right. So that’s that, then,’ said Miss Fly.
‘No, Fly. That is not that. Obviously I intend to seize it back.’
‘But the cottage is wired up with Protection Spells. You can’t cross the threshold, can you? You can’t trick your way in again. They’re wise to you now, after what happened back in the spring.’
‘I’m aware of that, Fly. That’s why I have a new Plan. What’s that you’re eating?’
‘It’s an allergy pill,’ explained Miss Fly, holding up a small pot. ‘A new sort from the chemist. I have to take them regularly.’
‘And are they working?’
‘Well, yes. My nose isn’t as stuffed up as usual.’
‘If you got rid of the wretched mogs you wouldn’t need pills.’
‘Maybe,’ said Miss Fly, adding nobly, ‘but think of the sacrifice. Where would I be without Oliver and Tabitha and Tiddles and Morris and . . . ?’
‘Enough cat names! It’s the Bad Spell Book that concerns me now. Once I have that, I shall take great pleasure in getting revenge on both Demelza and little Miss Twig. Two for the price of one. A bargain.’
‘So that’s really what all this is about? Getting revenge? You don’t think it’s time to let it drop?’
‘I said I’d get revenge. Those were my last words to them. I’ll be back! I said.’
‘That could mean anything,’ pointed out Miss Fly. ‘You could have gone back for a cu
p of tea, or to collect for charity, or …’
‘I’m Getting Revenge!’ spat Mesmeranza, banging the chair arm with her fist. ‘I’m getting it, and that’s that. Clover Twig made me look a fool. Showing me up in front of Grandmother – it’s unforgivable. She’s every bit as much to blame as Demelza and she will pay. As soon as I get that Book.’
‘And how do you intend to do that?’ enquired Miss Fly. ‘What’s the huntsman got to do with it?’
‘Ah. Now, here’s the thing. I have ordered him to kidnap Clover Twig’s little brother. Once he’s in my clutches, I shall send her a letter advising her that if she wants to see him again, she will secretly remove the Book from its hiding place, bring it out of the cottage and deliver it into my hands. I shall then seize her, bring her back here to Coldiron, and throw her in the dungeon where she belongs. I won’t tell her that last bit, of course. That’ll come as a complete surprise.’
‘But – that’s wicked!’ gasped Miss Fly. ‘Using innocent little children to further your own ends!’
‘Fly,’ said Mesmeranza, exasperated, ‘how many times must I tell you? Young Miss Twig may be a child, but she’s a very irritating one who needs to be taught a lesson. And that lesson is . . .’ She leaned forward, eyes flashing. ‘Never. Cross. Me.’
‘But using the little brother as bait. It isn’t right!’
‘He’s the means to an end. Stop being so sentimental . . . Ah! At last.’
There came the sound of approaching footsteps echoing down a corridor, accompanied by heavy panting. The footsteps halted, followed by a hesitant knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ called Mesmeranza.
The door opened and in squelched the huntsman, hot and bothered and dripping with sweat.
The huntsman’s name was Hybrow Hunter. Hunter because that was the family name and Hybrow because his mother had hopeful plans for him. Sadly, Hybrow had shown no talent for art, music, poetry, law, medicine or architecture and ended up as a huntsman with a silly name, as his brothers, Blud and Gory, never failed to remind him.
Right now, however, Hybrow’s name was the last thing on his mind. His green hat kept slithering to one side, such was the flow of nervous perspiration, and his tights clung to his thighs in a very unpleasant manner.