by Kaye Umansky
‘More drama,’ insisted Mesmeranza. ‘Less haddock, more shark. Try gestures.’
‘I’m trying. I’m not good at gestures. Shall I go on?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘To cut to the chase, I have your brother. He is safe and well, but life holds so many twists and turns, doesn’t it? All may not be lost – providing you cooperate.’
All this time, Mesmeranza had been sitting bolt upright, mouthing the words along with Miss Fly and adding her own gestures. Miss Fly paused to mop her nose.
‘Go on,’ snapped Mesmeranza. ‘Get to the best bit.’
‘I am, I am. Tonight, on the stroke of midnight, you will rise and go down to the kitchen. As you are doubtless aware, there is a loose flagstone directly before the hearth, under the rug. Beneath is a large book. It belonged to Grandmother and is rightfully mine, no matter what Demelza may have told you. On no account must you open it. It would be as well to wear gloves. You will bring it to the large oak tree where the path divides. I shall be waiting.
‘You will tell no one of this. Burn this letter as soon as you have read it. My instructions must be obeyed or it will be the worse for your brother.’
Miss Fly reached the end. There was a pause.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Mesmeranza.
‘I’ve told you what I think,’ sniffed Miss Fly. ‘I think it’s despicable. Kidnap, blackmail, betrayal, theft, greed, revenge – it’s got everything.’
‘I know,’ said Mesmeranza smugly. ‘All very satisfying. The perfect Plan. This time, nobody shall thwart me. I’m unthwartable.’
‘What about young Wilf? The boy who . . .’
‘I know who you mean, Fly – you don’t have to spell it out. Master Brownswoody will have nothing to do with this. I’m keeping him very busy at the moment, delivering boxes of groceries to far-flung addresses. He doesn’t have time to breathe.’
‘And that’s it?’ said Miss Fly.
‘That’s it. I get Grandmother’s Bad Spell Book and Demelza gets her just deserts. And Clover Twig finally learns the consequences of daring to cross me.’
‘You really are ruthless, aren’t you?’ said Miss Fly.
‘Why, thank you, Fly. I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, go and write it up on the headed paper in your best writing. Bring it to me for signing. Don’t forget to enclose a snippet of that disgusting rag. Knowing practical little Miss Twig, she’ll want proof.’
‘All right,’ sighed Miss Fly, gathering up her pencil and pad and getting to her feet. Her nose was blocked, her head was beginning to throb and she wanted to get away.
‘Find a first-class stamp. I want it posted first thing in the morning so that it arrives the following day. Mark it PRIVATE and URGENT.’
‘But what if your sister sees it?’
‘She won’t. The girl is always up early in the mornings, doing chores. She collects the mail. Go on, then – don’t hang about. Oh, before you do, go down to the kitchens and tell Mrs Chunk I’m ready for my supper tray.’
‘All right,’ said Miss Fly miserably. She had to go down anyway, to collect the cats’ supper bucket. Worse luck.
The kitchens were situated in the lower part of the castle. They were presided over by Mrs Chunk who, as well as being an excellent cook, happened to be the proud mother of the castle jailer. Her son was called Humperdump – a large, clunking name which suited him very nicely.
Humperdump’s territory was the dungeons, which were a level down from the kitchens, reached by a stone staircase behind a studded door situated next to the broom cupboard. This was very convenient as Humperdump was a big eater and usually ate his meals at the kitchen table, leaving Jimbo Squint, his henchman, to guard the prisoners. Right now, there were no prisoners, so both of them hung around the kitchens a lot, hoping for a hot biscuit or a slice of cake, which was never long in coming.
Miss Fly, pencil stuck behind her ear and pad in her cardigan pocket, came slapping down the steps and paused uneasily at the kitchen door. Was he in there? She hoped not.
Miss Fly dreaded bumping into Humperdump Chunk. Some time ago, much to her horror, he had bizarrely decided to fall in love with her. She certainly hadn’t encouraged his advances. She had ripped up his love notes, screamed in his face and, at one point, stamped on his foot. Thankfully, he had finally got the message, but now she had to put up with his injured sniffs and hurt glances.
His mum wasn’t so friendly these days either. Whenever Miss Fly made her daily trip down to the kitchens to collect fish heads for the cats, the bucket was handed over in strained silence. And her breakfast toast was always burnt, she noticed.
Miss Fly opened the door and sidled in. To her relief, there was no sign of Humperdump. Mrs Chunk was standing next to the big stove, stirring something in a pot while the kitchen maids clattered around doing kitcheny things. Jimbo Squint leaned against a wall, eating a large slice of pie.
Mrs Chunk noticed Miss Fly skulking and pointed in stony silence to the bucket in the corner. Miss Fly tiptoed over and picked it up.
‘Thank you,’ she said humbly. Mrs Chunk stirred and said nothing.
‘’Evenin’, Miss Fly,’ said Jimbo Squint with a leer.
‘Good evening, Squint,’ said Miss Fly shortly. She wasn’t keen on Jimbo either. She was just about to scuttle away when she remembered. ‘Oh – Mrs Chunk – Her Ladyship would like her tray now, if you please.’
Mrs Chunk tightened her lips and gave the briefest of nods. No more was forthcoming, so Miss Fly retreated and began the long climb back up to her apartment. She was looking forward to getting the cats fed, then sitting in her hairy armchair. She needed to do some serious thinking.
g
Chapter Six
Two Unexpected Meetings
I can’t believe we’ve lost him, thought Clover, as she hurried along the track leading to Mrs Eckles’ cottage. How could we lose him? How?
It had been the most awful day of her life – and it still wasn’t over. It was like a bad dream. Hour after hour, tramping through the woods, fighting down panic, calling and calling – and all for nothing. Herby was lost.
And now it was dark. The last glimmers of orange light were gone. Even if there had been a moon, which there wasn’t, it wouldn’t have penetrated down here, below the trees. The faint light of her lantern made little impression on the surrounding night. If anything, it made the shadows even deeper. It was lucky the track was so familiar, as she could hardly see her feet. Even so, she automatically kept peering into the bushes, hoping to see a familiar little shape. Once, she had tried calling his name – but only once. Her voice sounded too lonely out here in the dark.
A short way behind her, there came the crack of a twig followed by the sound of a sharp intake of breath as something – or somebody – collided with a tree. Clover stopped in her tracks and whirled round, heart leaping with hope.
‘Ow!’ exclaimed a familiar voice. ‘Darn it!’
Oh.
‘Wilf?’ called Clover. ‘Where are you?’
‘Clover? Is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me. I’m over here. Can’t you see the lantern?’
There came the sound of footsteps and Wilf came limping into the small pool of light, rubbing his head.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought you’d have been back hours ago.’
‘I would have been,’ said Clover. ‘But something awful has happened. You see . . .’
And she told him everything.
‘Oh my,’ said Wilf, when she finally reached the end. ‘So Herby’s lost. That’s not good.’
‘I know. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any signs?’
‘’Fraid not. Of course, I wasn’t looking. I thought I heard people shouting a while back, but I didn’t
know what it was about. Ouch!’
‘What?’ said Clover.
‘Blisters. Feels like I’ve walked halfway round the world today. Three deliveries, and all of them were out. Mrs Pluck gave me an earful too. I really hate this job. Grampy’ll have a right moan, with me getting back so late. Ow! My feet really hurt.’
‘Stuff your boots with moss,’ sighed Clover. ‘And do up the laces. They’re all trailing about. Hurry up. I’ve got to see Mrs Eckles.’
‘All right,’ said Wilf, collapsing on to a handy nearby stump. ‘Hold up the lantern so I can see what I’m doing.’ He bent forward to deal with his laces, then said slowly, ‘Hello. What’s this?’
There, lying on the ground amongst the moss and twigs, was a small scrap of red rag.
They both stared at it. Slowly, Clover stooped and picked it up.
‘It’s a piece of his rag,’ she said. ‘He’s been here. Oh, Wilf, he was here!’
‘He was,’ said a grim voice from behind, making them both jump. ‘But he ain’t here now.’
‘Mrs Eckles!’ gasped Clover, as the familiar figure emerged from the shadows. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Comin’ to find you. You’re late. Thought I told you to be back by sundown.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘All right, all right, I know you got a good reason. I know Herby’s gone missin’.’
‘I suppose you saw that in the stars,’ said Wilf. ‘Using your mystic powers.’
‘Nope, yer grampy told me. He came bangin’ on my door. Knew it was somethin’ serious for him to come a-callin’. Asked if I’d heard. Said if I saw you to tell you he’s gone out lookin’ with a search party from The Axes. No point – they won’t find ’im. He’s a long way from the woods by now. A long way. If you get my meanin’.’
She turned her green eyes on Clover.
‘Oh,’ said Clover. Her heart turned a somersault. ‘You don’t mean . . .’
‘I do. He’s taken the Perilous Path.’
‘But you don’t know that!’ cried Clover. ‘He might be hiding or asleep or . . .’
‘I saw him,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘The Path was there, not more than ten minutes ago. But it ain’t there now. Been and gone. It was already fadin’ when I arrived. Saw the glow, went as quick as I could, but just missed it. I could see it had been pullin’ out all the stops, though. Makin’ itself look pretty. Fairy lights on the bridge, starshine on the water.’
‘But you saw Herby?’
‘Halfway across. Sack with a red pocket, right? And that new red hat you knitted. Fadin’ away. Then gone.’
Clover looked down and bit her lip.
‘If it’s any consolation, there was no sign of Old Barry,’ added Mrs Eckles.
At this point, Wilf considered butting in, but saw Clover’s face and kept quiet.
‘So now you know,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘Question is, ’ow to get ’im back.’
‘You can do it, can’t you?’ asked Clover, suddenly hopeful. ‘Get him back?’
‘What, just twiddle me fingers and wait for ’im to fall from the sky?’ Mrs Eckles shook her head. ‘It don’t work like that. The Path’s got ’im now. It don’t take kindly to interference.’
‘But he’s only a baby!’
‘I know. Easy pickin’s.’
Clover swallowed hard. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘Hey,’ mumbled Wilf kindly. ‘It’s all right. You can cry if you like. Can’t she, Mrs Eckles?’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘She can,’ said Mrs Eckles briskly, ‘if she wants to waste time. Come on, now, Clover, shape up. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re goin’ after him. Hate to say it, but it’s the only way. You up for it?’
‘Of course I’m going after him,’ said Clover. To her relief, her voice was steady.
‘We, you mean,’ said Wilf. ‘We’re all going, aren’t we, Mrs Eckles? We’ll catch him up in no time.’ There was a little silence. He looked from one to the other. ‘What?’
‘I’ll do what I can to help,’ said Mrs Eckles, ‘but I can’t come with you. Witches don’t walk the Perilous Path. It changes us. Brings out the nasty side.’
‘Oh. Right,’ said Wilf. He didn’t want to see Mrs Eckles’ nasty side. Even her nice side wasn’t that great. ‘It’s all down to you and me then, Clover.’
‘Just me,’ said Clover. ‘He’s my brother.’
‘Try going without me,’ said Wilf stoutly.
‘Of course he’s goin’,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘You’ll need all the back-up you can get. A hero would be better, of course, but Wilf’ll have to do.’
‘You see?’ said Wilf. ‘You’re stuck with me. Anyway, I want to find Herby as much as you do.’ He turned to Mrs Eckles. ‘So tell me about this Path. What sort of perils are we talking about?’
‘Can’t tell you,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘Folks don’t often come back to tell – and those that do don’t say much. Just remember that peril comes in all forms, some of ’em quite surprisin’. They ain’t all obvious, like Old Barry.’
‘Who’s Old Barry?’
‘The Troll,’ explained Clover impatiently. ‘I told you about him.’
‘Don’t be put off,’ went on Mrs Eckles. ‘Remember, he can’t leave the bridge, so he’s limited. Once you’ve answered the questions, he has to let you pass. Although just to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t turn yer back on ’im.’
‘Right,’ said Wilf. ‘Don’t turn your back on Old Barry. Right. What questions?’
‘Clover knows.’
‘I do,’ said Clover. ‘You can leave that bit to me.’
‘Don’t eat nothin’ on the Path,’ went on Mrs Eckles. ‘Don’t pick berries, especially red ones. Be wary of drinkin’ the water. Avoid goin’ inside anywhere, like strange buildings or caves. Things ain’t always what they seem, so don’t get taken in. Oh – here. Coupla things.’
She rummaged in her pocket. Wilf gave Clover a nudge. Up to now, Mrs Eckles’ advice had been a dreary list of don’ts. The sort of thing that grown-ups always said to little kids the first time they went out alone. He was hoping for a magic potion or a protective device or something exciting and useful.
What Mrs Eckles produced was none of those.
‘Oh,’ said Clover, surprised. ‘My mirror. I don’t think I’ll have time for my hair.’
She reached out and took it. Her own small, cracked hand mirror, that she had shared with the girls until going to live with Mrs Eckles. She had pinched it for herself, knowing that they would only break it. It seemed a silly thing to bring.
‘Ah, but reflective surfaces come in handy when you’re receivin’,’ said Mrs Eckles.
‘Receiving? Receiving what?’
‘Me, of course. Who d’you think? I’ll be staying in touch, won’t I? I can’t be there in the flesh, but I can give you the benefit of me wisdom. I’ll borrow Ida Dismal’s fancy new Crystal Ball. Can’t be that hard to get me head round. I won’t guarantee a great reception, mind. The Path won’t like bein’ spied on. But the mirror should help. Stick it in yer basket. If it starts to hum, that’s me. Answer quickly, ’cos I might be cut off.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Wilf hopefully.
‘Like what?’
‘Well – you know. A bottle of Changeme Serum? Or some Invisibility pills? Or – um – a Magic Sword?’
‘Ah, you don’t need any o’ that.’ Mrs Eckles flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Magic just complicates things. You’d slice yer feet off with a Magic Sword – I know you.’
‘I’d be careful. I just meant for an emergency?’
‘Nope.’ Mrs Eckles shook her head. ‘The Path won’t like it. Just keep a clear head and make good decisions. And if you want a bit more advice, don’t was
te time fightin’ if there’s an option to run. Remember what you’re there for. In and out, quick as you can.’
‘So how do we get back? Once we’ve found Herby?’ asked Clover.
‘I’ll ’ave to think about that. Leave it with me and I’ll let you know when the time comes.’
‘But what if we get into real trouble?’ insisted Wilf. ‘What if there are – I dunno – fire-breathing dragons or bug-eyed monsters? A weapon’d come in handy, wouldn’t it? ’
‘You can’t beat a good stout stick,’ said Mrs Eckles. ‘There’s one right there, look, by your foot.’
‘I always end up with just a stick,’ complained Wilf. ‘I ended up with just a stick the last time something like this happened.’
‘Stop complaining and pick it up,’ said Clover.
Wilf picked it up. He waved it about a bit. Just the right size and length. It felt good in his hand. He would stick with a stick. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready. Now what?’
‘Now you start walkin’,’ said Mrs Eckles.
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere you like. It don’t matter which direction you take, the Path’ll find you. It knows you’re looking.’
‘It does?’ Clover glanced around into the surrounding trees and suppressed a little shiver.
‘Oh yes. It’ll seek you out. Anyway, I’m off ’ome to collect the broomstick. Then I’ll go to Ida’s to borrow the Ball. You’ll be hearin’ from me soon as I can. All this newfangled technology, it ain’t me. But never say I ain’t up to a challenge. Oh – one last thing.’
She took a small wrapped package from her pocket, dropped it in Wilf’s hand, then abruptly turned on her heel and walked off.
‘What’s in it?’ shouted Wilf, as her footsteps receded.
‘Cheese sandwiches,’ came the reply. It already came from a long way off. ‘Don’t eat ’em all at once!’
‘She’s right,’ said Clover firmly. ‘I’ll take those.’ She took the package and popped it into her basket.