by Ashly Graham
‘So when Inky, nosey as ever, asked about the travel stuff there was no stopping her. Hec’ll talk all night about Bermuda if you let her. And so it was that, to mangle Hamlet, the answer to the question, “What’s Hecate to him or he to Hecate?” is, “All, and worse than nothing.”
‘As to “William Shakespeare, Gentleman”,’—B.J. wrote the quotation marks in the air with the index and third fingers of each hand—‘the final irony was that there was no such person. “Shake-spear”! It’s easy to tell how he came up with the pseudonym, and a very transparent one it was. A self-acknowledged bad actor, he usually played the unnamed parts, like those of First, Second, or Third Soldier; the roles that require one to stand to attention, clutch one’s weapon, look stern and say nothing. Shakespeare, Spearchucker…it’s so transparent.’
Jenny was shaking. ‘What! You mean Shakespeare wasn’t his real name after all, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I am, and here’s how I know. A couple of witches who were up in London for a convention, Marcia Hook and Mildred Spyder, were in a tavern in Deptford enjoying a girls’ night out with some of the other women. The business part of the trip was over, and they were due to come down from town the following day.
‘When Marcia overheard someone at the next table boasting to a friend about the stunt he’d pulled at Dragonburgh, she was inquisitive. Of course it was Ledger-Bardwell–Shakespeare, and the person he was with was his professional rival Kit Marlowe. As the evening wore on and “William Shakespeare” got drunker, he came over to Marcia, who wasn’t at all bad-looking, introduced himself by his genuine name, pinched her bottom, and proposed that they retire to his lodgings and make the beast with two backs—Othello, Act One, Scene One—together; or three, if Mildred was up for it too.
‘It was that same night, or in the wee hours of the morning, after Shakespeare, rejected by Marcia, who was low on virtue but couldn’t abide bald men except when they were buying her drinks…I could tell you more but I don’t want to…, and observing Mildred snoring in the sawdust under the table, had staggered off to bed or to look for some action elsewhere, that Marlowe got into a swordfight with one of the other men he was carousing and gaming with, and was killed.’
Jenny blurted, ‘B.J., tell me! What was his name? Who was Shakespeare?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Although Marcia told Mildred, the next day both of them had such bad hangovers that Marcia fell off her broom over Crouch End and was killed, and the only thing Mildred could remember was that it wasn’t “Shakespeare”.’
Jenny was stricken at the loss of the priceless information, and Volumnia, in appreciation of her disappointment, yarped twice and threw up again onto the mat. Jenny shot her a filthy look, and the vulture launched herself around B.J. to where she was sitting on the crate.
Fortunately the bird was brought up short by a chain around her leg, but she only narrowly missed Jenny’s arm with the beak that B.J. wished she’d used to lacerate Shakespeare with. It looked as though it could shred a mattress. If Volumnia had made contact with the Bard’s writing hand on that occasion hundreds of years before, she would undoubtedly have made his composition of the plays from Macbeth on very difficult. Although who knew?: perhaps if the world’s finest dramatist and poet had dictated his lines to a capable amanuensis, thereby saving the First Folio compositor the headache of deciphering his scrawl, literature would have been even further enriched than it had been.
‘Sorry about that,’ said B.J. Getting up from his stool, he hauled on the implacable familiar’s chain and dragged her back behind him, where she retched drily, hunched her shoulders into their former coat-hanger position, and ruffled her feathers.
B.J. remained standing. ‘Now then,’ he said cheerfully, as Jenny continued to smoulder; ‘if I’m to finish telling you what goes on up here before Hecate’s open house, I must introduce the Ingredients, with a capital “I”. Come on, Ingredients,’ he said, going over to the cages, ‘don’t be shy, say hello to our visitor. This is Jenny, folks.’
At first there was a faint twitter, and then a squeak and a squawk, followed by an increasing chorus of barks, coughs, bleats, miaows, croaks, quacks, hisses, grunts, and squeals. From a shelf underneath the counter, B.J. produced two pairs of earplugs; handing one to Jenny he put the other on and motioned to her to do the same. It took some time for the racket to subside, but when it did B.J. removed his plugs, took Jenny’s back from her and put them away.
‘Apologies again,’ he said; ‘we don’t entertain strangers either awares or unawares, as the Epistle says, up here...with the unfortunate exception of you-know-who...and they’re excited.’
B.J. bent down and tapped the mesh at the front of the first cage. ‘All our produce is Organic, of course. In here we have Curly Swinekill, a boar pig. Come on over, Jenny.’ As she did so, Curly came forward for his moment in the spotlight, twirled on his rear right trotter, lay down on the straw, and fell asleep. B.J. regarded him fondly. ‘In the back is his wife Mia, who is suckling nine piglets. Piglet, or farrow, is a stock ingredient of most spell recipes.
‘Next we have Gally the goat.’ There was a scuffling sound, and Gally butted the front of his enclosure and stood chewing his beard. ‘Don’t get too close to him or you’ll be in tatters. Taste-wise he’s a man of the cloth.’
Jenny went on to make the acquaintance of Brian Noctule and Radar Bill, a large pair of bats who hung from the ceiling, and Nora the rat. There was a mouse called Piemuffin who had a twin brother, Weesleekit. Horace Hedgepig uncurled for her, and a brinded cat in a wired-over pen looked inscrutable as she prowled up and down.
‘The brinded would be unconfined,’ said B.J., ‘were it not for her habit of treating my leg as a scratching post. I took her name away as punishment after a particularly energetic attack, from which I wear the scars. It’s that sort of behaviour that rendered her ineligible to be a familiar.’
The little owl Howlet nibbled Jenny’s hair, and Berenice the pipistrelle flitted so close as to tickle her nose with a wing. B.J. said, ‘We have a variety of bats and they’re allowed freedom of the room. Berenice is a Pipistrellus pipistrellus, and Brian and Bill are respectively a noctule, Nyctalus noctula, and a greater horseshoe, Rhinolophos ferrumequinon.’
Jenny said, ‘I sort of understand about the cat, but I thought that bats and owls were familiars rather than Ingredients.’
‘There’s no hard and fast rule, and considerable kudos to be gained from volunteering to be an Ingredient.’
Jenny wanted to ask B.J. why any creature would volunteer for such mortal duty. Not only that, but how he could bring himself to process those he lived in such proximity with, and seemed to regard as pets, into ingredients for spells, as one might reach for a bay leaf, rosemary, or marjoram to add to a stew. As a lover of all living things, the idea upset her; but because she had a feeling that the Ingredients could understand what was being said about them, she posed a less controversial question.
‘Other than the bats, do you let them out for exercise? They’re very confined in here.’
‘Oh yes,’ said B.J., ‘every night when I close up. From the tanks, obviously, only the amphibious ones; though who knows what Ferdinand the flying fish gets up to when I’m not here. Most of the Ingredients are nocturnal, of course, which is convenient because otherwise I’d never get any work done. If Coolblood the baboon is more bad-tempered than usual—he sulks a lot, so we’ll let him be in his cage over there at the back—I leave him in, because he bullies the others.
‘Most of them rub along with each other pretty well, and fights rarely break out, only the occasional spat. As Ingredients they share a common condition, which makes for a certain camaraderie, and in here the lion lies down with the lamb...at least it did when we had a lion at the same time as the dear departed Larry the lamb. Lion heart is a cure for shyness, but one only needs a pinch of it, and I’ve got enough dried to keep me going for years yet. Which is a good thing, because the beasts are smelly, and
though it didn’t roar very often you can imagine the noise in such a small place. Earplugs were no protection.’
They moved on. In the herpetological section, Jenny watched as Fenny the grass snake did figures of eight; Nigel the natterjack toad popped his head out of a box filled with mud and wet leaves; and Liz the lizard removed her tail with a flourish and reattached it. Thomas the turtle waved a flipper; and Fork, an adder, tied himself into a granny knot from which B.J. had to untie him. By way of admonishing Fork not to do it again, B.J. told him about Alexander the Great, who, when challenged to undo the ingenious knot tied by Gordius, king of Phrygia, which he boasted could not be undone, cut it with his sword.
A slow-worm called Stingless didn’t respond when introduced. ‘He’s always tired,’ said his keeper; ‘for what reason I can’t imagine, he never does anything. This is Puttock, a joli laid and lovable toad.’ Bending down, B.J. peered into his cage. ‘H’m, he must be lurking at the back. Toads are retiring creatures, unlike frogs, for an example of which we have only to go next door to visit William Webtoe. William, shake a leg, there’s a good chap.’ An electric green frog leaped up with a croak and did a jig, took a bow, and sat down with a smirk; whereupon B.J. rewarded him with a worm, which Webtoe sucked in like a piece of spaghetti.
Jenny then met a dogfish with a saturnine grin, Sharkey Saltsea, who lived in a bow-fronted tropical tank. It was beautifully lit and decorated with colourful plants; the stern of a Spanish galleon stuck out of the white sand at the bottom, and a couple of treasure chests spilled doubloons. Little neon tetra fish swam around the wreck, and there was a glimpse of a tentacle through a porthole.
‘We come now to the Esoterica,’ said B.J., halting in front of a row of glass bowls. ‘Esoterica are the Ingredients most prized by every “secret, black, and midnight hag”, a form of address that I’d advise you not to “How now, you...!” the witches you see tonight with. There was one witch, name withheld, who reported me to the Guild’s Professional Conduct Ombudswoman for greeting her in such a fashion, when she came to us for some of Hec’s Dramatically Different Nourishing Face-Cream. Pond’s Regener-Activ wasn’t equal to the task, she said; and I replied that, no it wasn’t, was it, and it was obvious why.
‘All witches believe they’re better looking than they are, and not only because when they put on makeup, they use ten-year rejuvenation mirrors. Since most of their activity takes place at night and under artificial lighting, and they’re usually fast asleep by dawn, they rarely get to see themselves in the cold grey light of morning.’
B.J. gestured toward one of the bowls. ‘There we have Bruce Thumbpilot, a hand.’ Thumbpilot arose from a bed of gravel, gave a thumbs up sign, and snapped his fingers together, twice like the quack of a duck’s beak, at Jenny to say hello. ‘Next is Dogtongue, who is self-explanatory.’ Dogtongue licked the glass and panted. ‘This is Fang, a wolf’s tooth; and those are Terence Turknose and Andreas Lip-Tartar, the facial twins. Here’s Wort, a liver, who is Act Four, Scene One and nothing to do with Blaspheming Jews or powdered polecat. Wort likes a tipple every evening at six o’clock: lager in summer and whisky in winter, “to keep out the weather” he says; as if the stove going full blast wasn’t enough.’
‘Is the pail of water in case of fire?’
‘No, it’s Bucket, the sweat from a murderer’s brow. I have to be careful not to kick Bucket over, I can’t tell you how long it took to collect. There’s been a dearth of murderers round here over the last hundred years, they’ve all gone south; bring back the good old days, say I. Now that one is an oddity; see if you can identify it.’
Hanging from a hook on the wall was a hank of hair, very long and tousled and greasy. ‘Goodness, I’ve no idea,’ said Jenny, ‘it doesn’t look human. Could it be the scalp of the wild man of Borneo, perhaps? Oh. Or, er, someone’s wig?’
‘I’ll give you a clue,’ said B.J. He reached into a plastic bag, took out a lump of bloody meat, and held it closely in front of the object. Nothing happened for a moment; and then the hair parted and the meat disappeared. B.J. wiped his hands on a cloth.
‘Aha!’ said Jenny. ‘Since we’re amongst the Esoterica, I’d say it was a rump-fed ronyon.’
‘Well done,’ said B.J. ‘A word of caution, don’t try what I just did. The ronyon’s very fast on its follicles and has a painful snatch.’
Jenny shuddered. ‘I won’t.’
The doctor nodded at a ring on the wall, at a safe distance from the rump-fed ronyon, from which was drooping what looked like a burst balloon on a stick. ‘We end with Fallflat the Fool, or jester, about whom there’s nothing to say, except that his quips are even worse than Hecate’s. He told one just before you arrived, but it’s too painful to pass on. That’s the jester’s signature pig’s bladder for striking people with.’
‘I can tell the joke didn’t strike you as funny,’ said Jenny; ‘he’s deflated.’
‘I’d heard it dozens of times, we all have, because Fallflat the Fool has a very small repertoire, and it’s difficult to muster even a polite snicker any more. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the chorus of groans from below. But Fallflat’s got a thick skin, he has to have, and don’t be deceived by his appearance. He’s already trying to remember another hoary chestnut, and when he does he’ll fill up with air.’
‘B.J., can everyone here understand each other, including you?’
‘More or less, by way of different sounds and signals. Some are better communicators than others, and have greater vocabulary. Their grammar sucks. Stingless the slow-worm makes no effort because he’s not interested in anything that goes on around him, and has nothing to say. My ability to get through to Sharkey is limited, because Shark is a complicated language that I’ve never had time to master. Dogfish are small sharks, you may know. But we manage fairly well all things considered, cover a wide range of subjects in our discussions, and even get into heated debates.
‘Well, Jenny, that completes the Cook’s tour of all the Ingredients we have in stock at present, so let’s sit down again.’ As they did, B.J. added, ‘I say “at present”: except for the staples that we always have on hand, the collection varies from week to week, depending on what spells have been commissioned that call for fresh ingredients. Regular deliveries are Mondays and Thursdays, and special orders can come in at any time. I can’t keep everything I need up here, only the ones I have to keep an eye on, and the shelves and cupboards and drawers downstairs are full to bursting with dried and pickled goods.’
Jenny couldn’t refrain from voicing her concern any longer. ‘So you actually do...dispose of them…these, the ones in here.’
‘Of course,’ said B.J.; ‘they’re ingredients, what else are they good for? I’ve no particular affinity for flying fish, or baboons, and a bucket of murderer’s sweat isn’t my first choice of companion. The rump-fed ronyon is a perennial: its mop regrows as often as I need to trim it. That’s a good thing, because Hecate says she hasn’t seen a ronyon in the wild for nigh on a thousand years, and it was just the one and practically bald. This chap fortunately has an excellent head of hair. Wort the liver also has tenure, in that it renews itself as long as it doesn’t drink too much.’
‘It wasn’t so much the Esoterica I was thinking of, B.J., as the rest...they seem more like friends or colleagues than Ingredients. Being together all day in a turret, you can’t help but form an attachment. You give them names.’
B.J. made an expression of acknowledgement. ‘One does develop a certain fondness; but business is business, upkeep is expensive, space is limited, and they all know full well what they’re here for. The tradition goes back a very long way, and they’re proud of it. They get treated well for the duration of their stays, because if they’re not kept in prime condition—everything we use has to be certified Grade A by the Guild’s inspectors, who are here every week—it compromises the effectiveness of the spells Hecate makes with them. Though usually if something goes wrong it’s the customer who’s at fault in her spe
ll-casting, you can’t convince the witch of that; if she thinks she got less than the desired result, she complains to the Guild.
‘Fortunately the onus of proof against us is on the witch.
‘The Esoterica, I’m glad to say, don’t require sustenance, except for the rump-fed ronyon, who eats better than I do.’ B.J. glanced at the waste-paper basket that contained the remains of his fish and chips. ‘Although Dogtongue maintains he still has meal-memory, so I give him a peppermint to lick once in a while. All the Ingredients have their own dietary quirks of food and drink, and have to be fed at different times and intervals. They’re a finicky lot, and make no end of a stink, literally, if everything isn’t just so. Some food has to be served raw, and some cooked for the right time at an exact temperature.
‘That’s not the end of it. In addition to the exercise they get at night, and the conversation I provide to keep their minds active, Ingredients can’t be too hot or too cold, and there are medicines to administer when they’re sick. Metabolisms, biorhythms, everything has to be regulated if results are to be guaranteed. The pens, cages, hutches, tanks, and bowls don’t clean themselves, worse luck, and I swear that ten times more comes out of a bat than goes in, often over me. As for the ordure that Volumnia, who scarfs down all the trimmings and offal, produces...’
Dead on cue, as if to confirm the impossibility of her ever being considered as an Ingredient, the vulture did what she was best at, front and rear.
Leaning forward and whispering, Jenny said, ‘Do you put them to sleep first?’