by Debi Gliori
At this, all Hell broke loose, but throughout the screams, sobs, and general hysteria, Latch lay unmoving, his brown eyes as empty of intelligence as if they were made of glass. Baci knelt beside him, gently stroking his outflung hand, ignoring the histrionics of the taxi driver who, after consigning all inhabitants of StregaSchloss to perdition, fled out of the front door as if pursued by demons. As Luciano pointed out afterward, the one bright spot in what had proved to be one of the worst days of his life was the fact that he'd escaped having to pay two hundred and fifty pounds to a highway robber. But this saving brought scant comfort when set against the sight of Latch being wheeled into a waiting ambulance and taken away in the pouring rain.
Signora Strega-Borgia headed upstairs carrying Damp. After discovering that the fridge was indeed empty, Titus had also gone to bed, but with little hope of sleep due to the noises coming from his stomach as it demanded, in turn, breakfast, elevenses, and now lunch. Titus lay in darkness, curtains drawn, the familiarity of his surroundings failing to soothe him into sleep; for no matter what configuration of pillows, duvet, and limbs he adopted, he was unable to shake the image of rain falling into Latch's open eyes. Watching the ambulance driving slowly away from StregaSchloss, Titus had been horrified to find his own eyes growing damp, a situation he couldn't blame on the dismal weather since he'd been inside the shelter of the front door at the time. Beside him, Pandora looked every bit as stricken as Titus felt, and as the ambulance disappeared into the rain, she turned and fled upstairs.
Shortly afterward the police had arrived and the door to the kitchen had been firmly closed, remaining thus for the hours measured out by Titus's bedside clock as it ticked past morning coffee, then lunchtime, and began its approach to the hour when its owner might expect afternoon tea. Showing no respect whatsoever for Latch, Titus's stomach launched into a loud and peevish complaint.
Feet of Clay
eturning to Strega-Schloss after her annual holiday, though by less conventional means than those adopted by the Strega-Borgias, was Mrs. Flora McLachlan, nanny to Titus, Pandora, and Damp, maker of possibly the best chocolate brownies in culinary history, and no mean slouch at advanced witchcraft. The nanny swooped low over the peaks of Mhoire Ochone, dipping in and out of the mist and scattering sheep as they foraged on the lower slopes. Pheasants clattered from the long grass, their frantic wings beating a tattoo of alarm at the soundless arrival of a flying human in their midst.
Meanwhile, up ahead, the vast silhouette of StregaSchloss dwarfed the shapes of the home-coming beasts, their backs bent under the weight of their dirty laundry, which after a fortnight's camping was overwhelming both in quantity and offensiveness.
With a deep sigh, Mrs. McLachlan brought her flying rug down in a clump of birch trees, anchored it by touching the earth with her hand, and stepped off onto what had appeared to be a mossy hummock, but was in reality a peat bog of spectacular stickiness.
“My poor shoes,” the nanny groaned, squelching onto firmer ground and glaring reproachfully at her magical rug. As she rolled up the rug and stuffed it into her handbag, she decided that sometimes it would be far simpler just to take the bus. However, she reminded herself, reaching out to retrieve her muddy shoes from the clutch of the bog, sometimes life was far from simple. She'd had to land her flying rug in the bog rather than on the drive in front of StregaSchloss because she preferred not to advertise the fact that she was a true witch, owning and operating a flying rug being proof positive of her exalted status within the hierarchy of sorceresses. Why, Baci Strega-Borgia would turn a deep shade of green if she discovered that her employee was such an advanced adept, especially since Baci had failed her most recent examination at the Institute of Advanced Witchcraft. Not only failed, but skirted perilously close to being expelled after an incident in the Amphibian Laboratory….
Moreover, Baci hadn't exactly been too forthcoming with this information, pretending to her husband and children that she'd passed her exam with flying colors…. Mrs. McLachlan snorted, recalling her discovery of the dismal exam results jammed down the leg of a suit of armor in the great hall, a hiding place that Baci had used for any items of mail that she deemed too sensitive for the family's inspection. From under a cluster of unpaid bills from various dress shops, Mrs. McLachlan had extracted a small crumpled sheet from the institute that bore witness to Baci's lack of magical wisdom. What was it she'd failed again? Mrs. McLachlan dimly recalled her employer only scoring twelve percent for Transformation (Baci's wand control verged on the disastrous) and twenty-seven out of one hundred for Hunch, Prescience, and Sibylline Awareness—although the latter result could be explained by her obsession with the baby that she was currently growing in decidedly non-magical fashion. Mrs. McLachlan's expression softened; she dearly loved Baci, despite her employer's obvious failings, but the nanny's loyalty was tempered by a profound desire for Baci to replace witchcraft with a less dangerous hobby like waterskiing or paragliding….
Aware that she was beginning to sink into the bog, Mrs. McLachlan took several steps backward, squeezed her feet into her ruined shoes, and set off across the moss toward StregaSchloss, each squelching footstep reminding her that, for all her magical powers, she still had feet of clay.
Barging into the kitchen in search of food, the beasts were initially oblivious to the presence of two members of the local constabulary, who sat drinking cups of Luciano's rocket-fueled espresso and wondering if he kept any biscuits in the house.
“We're back,” Ffup said, somewhat redundantly, since dragons of her size rarely needed to announce their arrival in anywhere smaller than the Kremlin.
“And you wouldn't believe how hungry we all are, aren't we, Nestor, my poppet?” Ffup continued, blithely unaware of the terror that this statement engendered in the hearts of the visitors. Ffup reached behind her wings and unstrapped her backpack, placing it on the kitchen table between the trembling police constables. “Poor Nestor,” she murmured, “I'm sure you could just murder a bacon sandwich right now…. In fact, you're so ravenous you could probably eat an entire piggly-wiggly, couldn't you, poppet?”
One of the constables fell backward off his chair, a keening wail coming from his open mouth, and the other launched himself into Luciano's lap with a loud scream as Ffup dragged her infant out of the backpack.
“Huh—hull—hullp,” the policeman gasped, his weight propelling Luciano's chair backward, causing both men to crash onto the kitchen floor, directly beneath the looming bulk of Knot, the yeti, whose matted fur, after two weeks of camping, was teeming with fleas, lice, and slittered ramen noodles in equal measure. To crank up the terror factor by several notches, Tock came ambling into the kitchen, his claws clicking on the flagstones as he made for the fridge, his crocodile grin wide in anticipation. Flinging open the fridge door, he groaned.
“There's nothing to eat,” he complained, turning his attention to the pantry and ignoring the gibbering policemen, who, judging by the identical stains on their trousers, had lost bladder control at the sight of yet another ravening beast.
Heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor, followed by a series of deafening metallic clatters and crashes. Pushing the damp policeman to one side, Luciano leapt to his feet, yelling, “What on earth was that ?”
A small figure appeared in the kitchen doorway, clutching a battered handbag in one hand and a pair of mud-caked court shoes in the other. Smoothing a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes, Mrs. Flora Morag Fionn Mhairi ben McLachlanMorangie-Fiddach scanned the kitchen, her gaze gliding serenely across the stained policemen, the grinning crocodile, and the matted yeti, until it stopped at Ffup and Nestor.
“Och, for heaven's sake, lassie,” the nanny scolded. “The poor wee mite. Come to nanny, pet, and let's see if we can do something with that diaper.”
Wriggling out of his mother's arms, Nestor flapped across the table and launched himself into Mrs. McLachlan's pillowy chest with an ecstatic squeak. Turning to the ramen-noodlebesmirched Knot, Mrs. McLachl
an shook her head and emitted a series of tuts, murmuring, “I'll never get the tugs out of your fur…. Just look at the state of you. Did you forget to pack your comb? And whatever have you been eating? Worms?”
The crashing sounds from outside increased, interspersed with beastly howls and curses, as if some creature were engaging in battle with a massive horde of aggressive dinner gongs. Mrs. McLachlan frowned as Tock sidled out of the pantry, a jar of pickled eggs clasped in each forepaw.
“I don't think so, dear. Put those back where you found them and go help your fellow beast with the laundry,” the nanny commanded.
“Awww. Please? Can't I have just one egg?” Tock pleaded, the words dying on his lips as he met the glacial chill of the nanny's gaze. “Um, yes. Er, no,” the crocodile mumbled, replacing the jars in the pantry and edging into the hall. “Right away. Your wish is my command. Laundry duties, here I come…. ”
Ignoring the policemen, who were attempting to salvage what little remained of their dignity as they picked themselves off the floor, Mrs. McLachlan addressed the source of the din coming from the hall. “When you've finally disentangled yourself from that suit of armor, Sab, dear,” she said patiently, pausing as more clatters and clanks threatened to overwhelm her instructions, “come into the kitchen and wash your claws before afternoon tea.”
Only once did Mrs. McLachlan's impervious armor of serenity desert her. The news of Latch's sudden collapse seemed to affect her far more than Luciano had anticipated. Indeed, at one point he thought the nanny was about to pass out, so pale did she become. Then, visibly pulling herself together under the beady-eyed scrutiny of the policemen, Mrs. McLachlan began to do a passable imitation of some obscure ten-armed Aztec deity: simultaneously changing Nestor's diaper; rustling up a trayful of scones; laying the table with blue-and-white china, homemade jam, bone-handled butter knives, and linen napkins; before finally, with Nestor on one hip, swooping into the kitchen garden to pick a bunch of tightly furled pink rosebuds, which she dropped into a vase in the middle of the table with a small flourish.
“Afternoon tea,” she announced. “Shall I pour?”
Order, in the shape of Mrs. McLachlan, had returned to StregaSchloss.
Ring Fever
ight fell on Lochnagargoyle, turning its waters a dark, glassy green. Beneath the surface swam creatures whose names conjured up visions of the deep: brittle stars, moon jellies, and the alien shapes of lobsters, their shadowy blue shells and slow-mo locomotion making them the favored diet of the vast Sleeper, who regarded the loch as larder, living quarters, and laundry rolled into one. Recently groomed, he lay in the shallows, chewing thoughtfully on a wild mint bush to freshen his breath and thus avoid being named “fishface” by his fiancée when she came to kiss him good night. Overhead, bats flittered across the water, cutting swaths through the clouds of gnats that plagued the lochside every year from May till October. The presence of the gnats was tolerated by the local population purely for the insects' tourist-dampening qualities; for without gnats, Lochnagargoyle's shores would have become a Mecca of bingo parlors, amusement arcades, and tartan tat tourist shops, its waters crisscrossed by Jet Skis and powerboats, leaving a tidal flotsam of diesel scum, Styrofoam cups, and floating beer cans. Without the aggravation of gnats, Lochnagargoyle would have been ruined—its peace shattered, its wildlife trampled, and its celebrity resident hounded to death by paparazzi.
Watching the bizarre courtship ritual between this celebrity resident and Ffup, one could be forgiven for wondering what could have possibly attracted them to each other in the first place. For a start, the physical differences between Ffup and her beloved Sleeper—the fact that they weren't even of the same species—might have given them both pause for thought. Ffup, a purebred dragon, was only a quarter the size of her monstrous aquatic swain, who, in turn, being a wingless loch-dweller, had little in common with a fire-breathing aeronaut. Furthermore, the Sleeper regarded courtship and its rituals as too soppy for words, but his fiancée had her heart set on a white wedding with bridesmaids, flowers, froth, and a three-tiered cake.
Eavesdropping on this ill-matched pair's prenuptial conversation from the safety of a moored rowboat, Tarantella, tarantula extraordinaire, found it almost impossible to keep her lipsticked mouthparts shut. In her experience of courtship, she had literally devoured all her lovers, finding little use for them other than as a food source after they had fertilized her eggs. Far simpler that way, she mused, regarding her recent clutch of eggs with deep maternal pride. They would never know their father, she thought happily, patting her abdomen at the memory. Their father was… well, he wasn't much of a conversationalist, but he certainly had been de licious.
On the other side of the jetty from Tarantella, Ffup sat dangling her tail in the cool waters of the loch, watching as her infant son, Nestor, said good night to his father.
“Na na na, JAGGY!” Nestor wailed, pushing his father's bristly face out of range. “FISHY—wahhh …”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, haven't you even bothered to shave today?” Ffup groaned.
“Och no. Weel…,” the Sleeper admitted reluctantly.
“And you've got bits of lobster jammed between your teeth,” Ffup continued, reaching out to pluck her infant away from such dental corruption.
“Wid youse quit that?” the Sleeper demanded. “Aw that nagging. Jis leave me alane, wumman.”
Ffup ignored this, settling Nestor across her vast lap and wrapping her wings around him for warmth. “Right. I've brought my list.”
“Nnaww. Ochh heck,” the Sleeper moaned under his breath.
“Whooo, and let me tell you, this is the mother of all lists. It's, like, really long. Going to take me hours to read it all to you.” Ffup smiled blissfully, producing an irregularly rewound roll of toilet paper on which was written a vast “To Do” list. “Number one,” she began, “the ring. We need an engagement ring. Well, I need an engagement ring and you need to buy it. Number two…number two… ah—are you listening?”
“I'm all ears,” the Sleeper lied, closing his eyes and letting his vast coiled body slump sideways into the loch.
“Why do I have the distinct impression that this wedding isn't important to you?” Ffup murmured, unrolling another length of toilet paper and peering at what was written on it. A deep bubbling snort came from the Sleeper, followed by a despairing tchhhh from the rowboat as Tarantella limped along the mooring rope and hoisted herself onto the jetty within earshot of Ffup.
“Listen up, airhead,” the tarantula hissed. “Read my lips. There are more important matters at stake than your forthcoming nuptials. As the world goes to Hell in a handbasket, don't you think it's a tad irresponsible to be idly debating whether toasters make appropriate wedding gifts for dragon brides?”
Ffup spun around, alarmed at being spoken to by a disembodied voice. Unable to see Tarantella, who she assumed wouldn't be seen dead anywhere near water, the dragon peered into the darkness, clutching Nestor close to her body.
“Whoaaa… spooky,” she whispered, her scaly hide breaking out in the dragon equivalent of gooseflesh, a state of affairs that caused Nestor to wake up and emit a dismayed squeak.
“Did you hear that?” Ffup gasped. Another bubbling snore came from the aptly named Sleeper, his relaxed body sliding deeper into the loch, oblivious to his fiancée's distress. Utterly unnerved, Ffup leapt to her feet, the roll of toilet paper unspooling from her grip and bouncing into the water.
“Please. No!” she squeaked. “Don't hurt me. I'm just an innocent bystander. Whatever I've done, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry…. ”
Tarantella groaned. This was all so unnecessary. The idiot dragon had launched into full-on hysteric mode and, judging by the little puffs of steam coming from her nostrils, was about to blow any… second…now.
“Aughhhhh! HELP! Save MEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Ffup shrieked. Yup, thought Tarantella. Time to pack up the children and leave town.
With a colossal whooomph, Ffup hurled twin bolts
of flame from both nostrils, an action that instantly turned an area in the middle of the jetty into a blackened pyre and parboiled an innocent lobster that had the misfortune to be swimming nearby. Clutching Nestor to her chest, the dragon shot inelegantly into the night sky, her wings flapping frantically as she attempted to put as much distance between herself and the Voice as possible. Large cigar-shaped bundles fell from her vent, some pockmarking the surface of the loch, others thudding onto the jetty and releasing the pungent odor of dragon dung.
“Give me strength,” Tarantella muttered, slitting her eyes at the retreating silhouette of Ffup as the panic-stricken beast flailed homeward, her flight path marked by the fecal equivalent of Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs. Disgusted, the tarantula turned away and looked out over the loch. Its tidal lapping sounds were punctuated by an occasional hiss, as little flakes of smoldering jetty fell into the dark waters below. Of the Sleeper there was no sign, save for a few bubbles marking where he'd slid from view to better pursue his bachelor slumbers.
“Thanks for listening,” Tarantella grumbled as she began the long journey back to the home comforts of StregaSchloss. Tarantella now walked with the aid of a stick ever since an attempt on her life had resulted in the amputation of one of her legs. To her disgust, ahead of her lay four hours of effortful limping instead of her hoped-for twenty seconds of air travel courtesy of Ffup.
“Really 'preciate the lift,” she added bitterly. “Knew I could count on your assistance in a crisis. Not.”
The tarantula's tiny figure limped across the seaweedy pebbles of the foreshore, still muttering to herself and occasionally pausing to rant at the night sky. “If you could have just pinned back your ears for one minute,” she bawled, after wallowing through a particularly malodorous puddle of dragon poo, “you might have heard what I've been trying to tell you. Who knows, you might even have taken the time to view the evidence…. And believe me, if you thought I was so scary that you had to keech your breeks, when you find out what's really happening, we'll all have to run for cover, 'cause you'll bury Scotland in keech.”