by Robin Jarvis
“I expect more than two musty old nuts and a bundle of hollow pledges! You call that a debt repaid? You’re naught but a hoodwinker. Hoaxxentrot should be your name!”
The witch rounded on her.
“A morsel of hard cheese and a slice of day-old mutton pie are not equal to a feat of high magick!” she snapped. “That pastry was like elm bark and what meagre specks of mutton it housed were a chewing chore of fat and gristle. Witchery is no exchange for a hard seat with no cushion and a night of griping gut-groan.”
Before Columbine could think of a fitting retort, the kitchen door flew open. The sudden draught gusted through the goose feathers, driving a ticklish blizzard against the girl’s face. She spat out the ones that had blown into her mouth and wafted the rest aside. Then she saw. Standing on the step was none other than the Jack of Clubs.
Surprise, excitement, wonder, adoration, hope and fear played equal parts in the confusion that seized her in that startling instant. Haxxentrot turned her face away and sat down quietly on the stool.
Jack looked even more handsome than before. Silhouetted against the bleak winter light, he seemed no ordinary being. Here was a hero of legend, made flesh and living.
Columbine gazed on him. How fine he was, how noble and fair, how strong. Why was he here? Princes of the Royal Houses never visited the kitchen. Perhaps he was seeking Mistress Slab on a matter of oats for his fabulous steed? Only the best would suffice for that beast. Or perhaps he wanted Ned or Beetle to help the grooms? Or perhaps…? Columbine could feel her heart thumping. No, she must not allow herself to think such fanciful things in his presence. She clasped a hand to her bosom. Surely he too could hear the mighty pounding of her heart? It was louder than the steady, rhythmic clamour of the smithy, only here she was the anvil and the Knave’s unwavering glance was the hammer. Into what shape would this dreamed-of moment be fashioned?
The Jack of Clubs said nothing. His blue eyes stared back at her. With long, purposeful strides he entered and approached. The servant girl stood as still as stone. Her own eyes grew increasingly wider until the pride of Mooncaster stood before her. The corners of his mouth lifted and the gentle smile made him even more charming and adorable. Then he pointed a toe and made the most perfect, courteous bow.
Columbine felt faint as she dipped into the answering curtsy. Here was her every desire, unfolding right in front of her at last.
“M…my Lord!” she finally managed to stutter.
He reached out and placed a fingertip against her lips. This was not a time for words. Taking her dirty hands in his, he held her close. From somewhere, maybe it was merely inside her own head, Columbine thought she heard music. Clasped in each other’s arms, the prince and the kitchen maid began a slow dance. The cool flagstones beneath her feet might have turned to clouds for all she could feel of them. Around and around they danced. His eyes locked on hers and the air almost sparked between them. She would embed this beautiful moment in her memory forever more. Her jubilant heart flew up through the ceiling, up through the beams and stones of the castle and up into the clear sky.
Still lost in the devoted stare of her prince, a movement in the corner of her eyes caused them to flick aside. There was Haxxentrot, perched on the stool, hugging herself in amusement. In the shock and joy of what was happening, Columbine had completely forgotten about the witch. And there was something else…
She looked across the kitchen, over Jack’s athletic shoulders, to where the copper pots and pans gleamed on the walls. The rippling reflections that glided over polished lids and swollen curves made her frown. Those imperfect, broken echoes of she and her gallant knave were twisted, molten likenesses that flowed from one surface to another. It was difficult to recognise the fractured, merging figures and she began to peer at them intently, to try and untangle them. Yes, there was her own revolving form, with arms held out. But Jack’s shape looked so odd, even the colour of his velvet jerkin was wrong. She could see no scarlet or gold in those copper surfaces. What was that teetering tower of four white globes that followed her wherever she twirled? Columbine could not decipher it until finally, in a lightning flash of comprehension, her mind unpuzzled what she saw.
The girl shrieked and leaped away.
Standing on one another’s shoulders, four Bogey Boys sniggered and mocked her. The illusion was broken. Here was no Jack of Clubs, just these ugly creatures of Haxxentrot. They were her stunted servants, with large, white, wobbly heads and mouths crammed with baby teeth. Their yellow eyes were ringed with ginger lashes and their noses were upturned. The one at the top had an adder coiled around his brow. The one beneath wore a necklace of living spiders. Below him was a wig of rats’ tails. The Bogey Boy at the bottom was the fattest of the four and had powdered his shiny cheeks with green pigment and blackened his thin lips with ink.
Their hideous appearance, coupled with their snaky laughter, revolted Columbine and she snatched up a ladle to smite them and knock them down.
“Jub! Crik! Hak! Rott!” Haxxentrot commanded. “Enough!”
The creatures stopped sniggering and leaped from each other’s shoulders. The witch lifted the lid of the larger basket. Leering at the girl and making insulting gestures, they hopped inside. Haxxentrot closed the lid and patted it.
“Now is pie and cheese repaid in full,” she stated flatly.
“Repaid?” Columbine objected.
“Thou hast experienced thy heart’s great dream! Thou canst not deny thou had much joy of it. I saw thy rapture.”
“It wasn’t real! It was false and ugly.”
“Love is always thus,” the hag observed with a dismissive shrug.
“It isn’t good enough!” Columbine protested. “I gave you food and warmth and all you do is trick and deceive!”
“The food was not thine to give!”
“The bruises I’ll get from Mistress Slab will pay for it and more! Malinda would not have treated me so…”
“I am not Malinda!!” the witch reminded her hotly. “The lover’s heart is a region unmapped by me! I do not deal in longings and gladful ever-afters. Seek out that wingless Fairy Godmother in her cottage, deep in Hunter’s Chase, if thou wouldst procure a philtre to turn a prince’s head, but ask it not of me! Venom and curses and ill deeds are all I know.”
She was about to lift the basket on to her back again when she paused and gave Columbine a sidelong look.
“And yet,” she murmured, “there is one gift I could grant unto thee. A present more useful than the way to a Jack’s heart.”
“What could you give me?” the girl asked sceptically.
Haxxentrot tapped the wicker lid. It creaked open and a Bogey Boy’s white face appeared beneath.
“Jub,” the witch ordered. “Fetch me the timbrel.”
The face vanished and the lid closed once more. A moment later, a small hand appeared, clasping a tambourine. Haxxentrot took it and rattled it in front of her with a flourish.
“What use is that?” Columbine asked.
“Patience provides every answer,” the witch answered tetchily. She placed the tambourine on the table then sorted through a leather pouch hanging at her waist.
“Here,” she said, removing a small velvet bag and emptying it.
Columbine uttered a cry of disgust at the thing that fell on to the instrument’s circle of taut parchment. It was a human ear, dried and blackened and scabbed with old blood.
“What horror is this?” the girl demanded.
Haxxentrot’s crabbed mouth broke into a depraved grin. “’Tis the only relic of Sir Lucius Pandemian left above ground or uneaten by wolf, gore toad, marsh snake and battle crow,” she explained. “A valiant questing knight was he. Most courageous in Mooncaster.”
“I’ve never heard tell of him.”
“Hast thou not? How easy the denizens of Mooncaster forget. How my hatred festers for them anew. ’Twas many long years past, when the Dawn Prince’s exile was still fresh in mind. The Realm was plagued by countless
terrors, dreader fiends than they who abide in the dark forests today. One such was the Lamia. She harried cattle and carried off infants in her claws, devouring them in the ivy-choked ruins of the Black Keep, nigh to mine own tower.”
Haxxentrot snorted with displeasure and her face became more twisted with rancour than usual.
“A noisesome neighbour was she,” she grumbled. “Entry to the vault, wherein she slept during the hours of day, was granted only by the tolling of a great bronze bell high above. This bell couldst not ring lest she commanded it. Three deafening clangs and the marble cover stone would slide aside. Then out she would fly – on webbed wings. Never was so deafening a clamour as that bell heard in the land. Deathknelly the peasants named it, in their usual vulgar fashion. When its fearsome voice shook the night clouds, they would flee to their homes, cowering till they heard it resound again ere dawn when all was clear.”
Columbine cleared her throat and held up her hand to interrupt. “How does that lead to this foul object?” she asked, grimacing at the severed ear.
“’Twas Sir Lucius who pursued the Lamia back to the forest one rain-lashed night,” Haxxentrot said. “His spear pierced her side and she did drop the latest child victim from her claws. Bellowing in pain and fury, she swooped upon the knight, seizing his horse by the head and bearing both beast and he aloft. Over field and treetop she carried them and all the while he hewed and grappled with her, fending off her blows and fangs till his shield shattered. And so he raised his sword for one final thrust, but she cast his mount from her grasp and horse and rider fell from the sky. At the very entrance to the Black Keep they came crashing. The steed burst on the forest floor, but he fared a little better. Though one eye was torn from his head and his body was slashed by twig and talon, still he lived. He saw the Lamia come screeching down to rend his limbs and feed on his noble flesh, but luck had not yet deserted Sir Lucius. In that very instant, as his death seemed writ and certain, the sun pushed above the eastern hills. The Lamia screamed and rushed to the safe darkness of her lair. The mighty bell clanged direct over the brave knight’s head and his ears bled. Marble grated back in place and the vault was closed. Then Sir Lucius knew what must be done.”
The witch paused and regarded the blackened lump of skin with almost tender eyes.
“Wounded, ripped and broken, driven half mad by the bone-jarring sound, he climbed the ruined keep – up to the lofty pillars where the monstrous bell did hang. Without its voice, the tomb could ne’er open again so he reached into Deathknelly’s mouth and removed its tongue. Yet the thing was so grievous heavy and he so beaten, he could not bear the weight and so he toppled.”
Haxxentrot took up the ear and held it close as she inspected and stroked it.
“I found him there, late that day, crushed ’neath the bronze bell tongue. Already the forest creatures had been at him. They are such busy, eager workers. This I took in token of a brave man, the best in this putrid Kingdom. He had rid me of a rival scourge and for that I was grateful. The Lamia has ne’er been heard of since. The sealed vault became her tomb.”
Her voice faltered and she stared at the gruesome souvenir intently.
Columbine shuddered. “And you think I would want that as a gift?” she muttered incredulously. “Are you as mad as you are ugly?”
The witch did not answer, but put the hideous thing to her withered lips and kissed it. Then, before Columbine could prevent her, the crone lunged forward, pressed the ear against the girl’s shoulder and rolled it in the Jockey’s still glistening blood. She called out strange words, picked up the tambourine and slammed the two together.
At once the hearths erupted. Torrents of green and purple fire exploded into the kitchen. The flames whooshed and roared about Haxxentrot and Columbine and fiery stars went zinging about the room, ricocheting off pots and plates. One struck a large glazed jug and it shattered into dust. Another shot into the salt sack and the precious grains came streaming out. The air screamed. The witch spun around shrieking an incantation. Columbine yelled for her life. The coppers shivered on their hooks. Tables juddered across the floor as the flagstones trembled beneath them and the big basket quaked as the Bogey Boys rocked with wild laughter within.
Then, abruptly, it was over. The fireplaces crackled cheerfully once more and the kitchen was as normal as ever.
Shaken and afraid, Columbine stumbled away from the witch.
“Begone, foul hag!” she cried. “Leave now, before I call the Punchinello Guards.”
Haxxentrot gave a throaty cackle. “I am done here, my pretty pie-giver,” she said. “Here is the magickal gift thou didst demand of Haxxentrot.”
She held out her aged hands and presented the tambourine. Columbine stared down at it.
“It cannot be!” the girl exclaimed.
“And yet thine own eyes say it is so,” the witch replied. “They tell no lies this time.”
In the centre of the drumhead, where moments ago there had been only blank parchment, there was now a human ear. The two were fused together, with no visible seam. The ear was no longer black and shrivelled, but the same hue as the stretched skin to which it had been joined.
“What have you done?” Columbine breathed. “And why?”
“Sir Lucius Pandemian was the last to hear Deathknelly’s strident voice,” Haxxentrot told her. “Just as the final image is retained in the eyes after death, so the din of the great bell was locked inside his ears.”
She waggled the tambourine experimentally and looked very pleased with herself. “To thee and me, ’tis but a harmless jingle,” she said. “But shake this timbrel when the Jockey comes a-leching and the thunderous voice of Deathknelly shalt awake and resound in his head, for it is bonded to him by blood. One shake will send him reeling and yowling from thy presence. Another will cause his own ears to gush as freely as the fountains in the Queen of Hearts’ garden. One more and his oafish head will crack like a hen’s egg and the yoke of his brains shalt bubble forth. So, child, is this not a most marvellous recompense for pie and cheese? What say thou? Art thou not most adequately repaid for thy kindness to Granny Oakwright?”
Columbine received the instrument in amazement. She was too stunned to know what to say.
Haxxentrot nodded with pride and rubbed her bony hands together.
“You have saved me,” the girl cried at last. “He will never get close enough to touch me again!”
She was so delighted she capered around, smacking the tambourine against her hips and over her head.
“Be certain to keep the timbrel with thee always,” the witch cautioned. “Do not let it stray out of arm’s reach or thou shalt suffer the consequences.”
Columbine swore she would carry it with her wherever she went.
“Let me help you on with your pack,” the girl offered.
Haxxentrot refused. “No more kindnesses!” she said. “Or I shalt be obliged to thee for another gift, ye greedy girl. Dost thou truly…”
Her voice trailed off. She was staring into the far corner, where the salt had leaked freely over the floor.
“Mistress Slab will be in such a rage!” Columbine cried when she saw the mess. “Its value is great! I must sweep it into another sack and hope she…”
The witch grabbed at her arm. “Hold, child!” she snapped. “Canst thou not see? What marks are those?”
Then Columbine noticed the shapes sunken into the spilt salt.
“They are footprints,” she murmured in astonishment.
“Just so,” Haxxentrot said. “Yet neither of us hath ventured thither this whole while.”
The girl turned a frightened face to her. “Then what made them?” she asked.
“’Twould seem the mouse I heard was no mouse. There is an eavesdropper here. A trespasser who veils himself from our eyes.”
“But who in Mooncaster can do such a thing? Is this some new torment of the Bad Shepherd? Is he here now? Are we to be butchered and slain?”
“That is what I shalt
discover!” the witch declared. “Jub! Crik! Rott! Hak! Jump out! Hunt down the unseen spy!”
The lid of the basket flew up and the four Bogey Boys leaped out.
“Arm thyselves with knife and skewer!” the witch commanded. “Sniff out the shadow-wrapped sneak. Bring it down! Kill it!”
The Bogey Boys gave frenzied yells and dashed about the kitchen, snatching up weapons. Then they began questing the air and, one by one, their yellow eyes turned towards the pantry door.
“The skulker is cornered!” Haxxentrot shouted. “Hack it into invisible collops!”
The four creatures shrieked shrilly and raced towards the pantry, brandishing their cleavers, pokers, slotted spoons and knives.
A chair suddenly lifted into the air and was hurled at the attacking Bogey Boys. They yowled and dived out of the way. Then pewter dishes came sailing from the shelves and went spinning at them. One struck Jub on the forehead. He screeched and somersaulted backwards, losing his rat-tail wig. There was the sound of footsteps, running towards the kitchen door. Crik, Hak and Rott whirled around and went charging after. The door yanked itself open and the footsteps went echoing out into the courtyard.
The Bogey Boys flung their weapons after them in frustration. Jub sat up and uttered a string of curses as he jammed the wig back on to his shiny white head. Haxxentrot rubbed her warty chin.
“Well, now,” she said, sucking her gums. “Mooncaster hath a new terror to dread. One to make the Holy Enchanter’s head ache most grievously. Yea, and the rest of us also – it hath entered the Kingdom at last.”
“What manner of fearsome monster is it?” Columbine murmured in dismay.
The witch narrowed her eyes and answered gravely, “Ye shalt find out soon enough, aye – soon enough…”
Kate Kryzewski heaved a sharp, gulping breath, as if surfacing from deep water. She stared about her in shock. The vibrancy and colour was gone. The sunlight was pale and weak and her pupils dilated to compensate. How flat and grey this world was. Already she ached to return to Mooncaster.