by Becket
Also, little copper gizmos were strapped all over her clothing, with wiring sticking out every which way. Strapped to her sleeves were pewter plates with switches. Fastened to her boots were brass boxes and buttons. Affixed to her corset were three gauges. Above one gauge were the words Body Temperature Regulator. Above another gauge were the words Boredom Driver-Outer. Above another gauge was the word Custard.
The Gossamingles had even woven themselves together under her shackles, as her ankle was still chained to the wall, which saddened Key a little, even though she was so delighted with these new clothes. They may have fit quite comfortably, but she was still a prisoner in Despair.
Key looked up for Future Key, to thank her immensely, but Future Key was nowhere to be seen. “Wait,” Key called out into the darkness of Despair, suddenly thinking of a very important question. “What happened to mom and dad’s gift? What happened to my – I mean, our birthday dress?”
An answer came back to her, sounding like an echo among leaves rustling in a breeze, and it was Future Key’s voice speaking in this strange echo, very faintly, as if she was responding from far, far away. “Don’t worry,” were her parting words to Key. “The dress is stored safely in the Crinomatic’s core processor. Besides, mom and dad’s last gift wasn’t their best.”
For the first time in their peculiar conversation, Key heartily disagreed with Future Key. Although she had no idea what a core processor was, her birthday dress was very important to her; she didn’t want to lose it now. It had been with her for so long, and she had preserved it as best as she could from fire, from dirt, from drippy Snuckle Truffles, that she truly believed her dress was indeed the best gift she ever received from her mom and dad.
Yet as was the case throughout the whole conversation, Future Key already knew what Key was thinking in her heart, and she called back now in that far off voice, “You, Key, are the best gift mom and dad gave the world.”
And then Future Key was gone for the present, leaving Key with something new to wear, and something newer to think about.
Then that moment became unfrozen and time started moving onward again. Zombie steeds started charging again and Goblins started protesting again. Trolls started tripping again and Poltergeists started scaring again. And Partly Dead Brownie Folk, carrying a box of one hundred delicious Snuckle Truffles, started celebrating again, singing to Key, “Happy Birth-night to you! Happy Birth-night to you!”
— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —
Pega the Ghost Maid
Each morning before Key fell asleep, the Gossamingles returned to the Crinomatic, and a new group poured out, covering her all over in a thick nightgown, and keeping her very warm during the day while she slept. And each evening after Key rose from sleep, the Gossamingles returned to the Crinomatic while another new group poured out, to wrap her up in a fresh new outfit.
No two outfits were ever the same, although some looked a little similar, while each was always new and exciting. Some nights the Gossamingles wove around Key and shaped into a dress with frills and lace. Some mornings they wove together into a nightgown as thick as a mattress. Some nights they wove together into an outfit of brown leather and brass. Some mornings they wove together into a nightgown as cozy as a down comforter. Key never worried about what outfit the Gossamingles wove into. They seemed to know her inside and out, so they always wove into clothing and gadgets that she thought were absolutely gorgeous!
Now, it cannot be said that there has never been a ghost who was never kind or compassionate, because I know one or two who could readily show you otherwise. Key would back me up! For, as she was still sleeping on the hard dungeon floor, and as her new clothes became completely filthy in no time, a ghost servant did indeed show her more kindness than one in a thousand Necropolis vampires ever did.
Key could not see this ghost servant because it would not break castle rules. It would not appear before her; it would not speak with her. Nevertheless, the ghost began doing little works for Key that a maid might have done, such as sprucing up the dungeon, brushing Key’s hair, wiping grime away from her cheeks and nose, and bringing her leftover blood treats from the kitchen – “because one can’t live on chocolaty blood alone,” Key thought to herself rather wryly, referring of course to those delicious Snuckle Truffles that she had almost every night. The ghost servant even brought Key a used coffin to sleep in, which was padded in plush pillows wrapped in satin. After her first day in that coffin, Key awoke feeling as though she had never had a better day’s sleep. And she was exceedingly glad and grateful for the ghost’s kindness to her.
It was in the ghost’s random acts of kindness that Key began to remember how, when Warhag had dropped her little book just out of reach, something had made that book move closer to Key’s hand. At that time, Key believed it was a ghost servant who had done this. And now she started to wonder if the ghost doing these acts of kindness now was the same ghost that did that act of kindness then. Key believed it was, and she tried to thank the ghost several times, but the ghost servant still refused to break castle rules by appearing or speaking.
“What’s your name?” Key often asked, thinking that it was rude of her to call this ghost merely “Ghost.” She hoped the ghost would at least speak her name, because that would help Key know it a little bit better – whether the ghost had been in life a man or woman, or perhaps a boy or girl. Or perhaps it was the ghost of a fairy or an elf, or the ghost of a kind ogre or a goblin. But no matter how much Key asked, the ghost would not utter a word.
Sometimes other ghosts joined in to help clean up the dungeon – since the Toags absolutely refused to do the work, or any work for that matter. So now all sorts of odds and ends started floating around Key, things like hairbrushes and hand mirrors, bowls and buttons and boots, lace and spoons and rings and spices and compasses and cameos, and more and more and more.
Key could often hear ghost servants singing in voices that were as soft and low as a warm, gentle wind. The ghosts always sang the same song – a song that Key came to call, “The Song of the Castle Servants,” which went something like this:
We have no idea what we’ll clean
When we clean this castle up.
We might sweep up the Doomsley Spleen
Or the Perilous Blood Crucker Cup.
We might scour all night.
We might shine every boot.
We might have a great fright
Before the Great Grim Newt.
We might polish the brass.
We might mop away mud.
We might float very fast
From the Ravenous Flower Bud.
We might scrub the tubs.
We might beat the great rug.
We might hide behind shrubs
Before the Hideous Crumbly Pug.
We might wax the floors.
We might wash the walls.
We might peek around doors
For the Monstrous Murblemaul.
We might buff the big cars.
We might launder the cloaks.
We might get lost at The Odd Bazaar
And meet the cruel Meansly Chokes
We’re ghosts, not fools.
If there’s danger, we’ll flee.
We’re servants and tools.
Wouldn’t you agree?
One night, Key’s Crinomatic fashioned for her a lovely pair of thick black boots, a black sleeveless shirt, brown and black striped pants, and fingerless evening gloves with matching brown and black stripes. The Gossamingles then wove themselves into goggles with multiple lenses that could easily spy the sneaky approach of any Toag or Grimbuggle Bedbug.
The ghost servant who had been showing Key so much kindness was now weaving beautiful braids in Key’s hair. After that, the ghost brought Key a goblet brimming with strawberry blood nectar. Key thought it was absolutely delicious and she drank every drop.
“Thank you,” Key said, gulping down the delightful drink. But right at that moment, saying “Thank you” was not e
nough for Key, for she was overcome by an urge to say more, to express her complete gratitude for the ghost. So she tried yet again to coax the ghost to at least say her name. “A conversation with the ghost would be grand,” Key said to herself, hoping for more, yet happy to settle for at least a name, as with the sharing of a name, friendship usually follows thereafter. So Key cleared her throat and spoke in a controlled voice. “I know castle rules forbid you to speak with me. And I know you can’t tell me who you are. But I have been calling you ‘Ghost’ for a long time now, and I would very much like to call you by your name.”
The ghost servant, having observed that Key had finished her strawberry blood nectar, had picked up the goblet to bring it back to the kitchen; but when the ghost heard Key’s very good-natured request, something magical must have happened inside its transparent heart – something as magical as courage – because the goblet paused, floating in midair, as if in indecision about a very difficult choice.
“Do you have a name?” Key asked the ghost.
The goblet remained floating in the air. The ghost did not speak.
“I think you’re a female ghost,” Key suggested.
The goblet nodded.
“You must be a maid.”
The goblet nodded again.
“How long have you been here?”
The ghost’s invisible fingers flicked the goblet and its bowl sounded like a little bell, chiming twice.
“Does that mean you’ve been here for two years?” Key asked.
The goblet swirled through the air.
Key supposed that this was an indication for her to count higher. “Twenty years?” she now ventured to guess.
The goblet swirled faster and wider, indicating to Key that she should count higher still.
“Two hundred years?” Key now guessed, half in disbelief.
The goblet chimed again. “Correct!” it seemed to say.
Key was astonished. “You’ve lived in this place for two hundred years. Goodness! That is a long time to be invisible.”
The goblet nodded, a little sorrowfully it seemed.
“That’s a long time not to talk with anyone,” Key said.
The goblet nodded again, a little slower this time, and a little sadder it seemed, too.
“I’d like to try guessing your name,” Key said. “Chime the goblet once if I am close. Don’t chime at all if I’m not close.”
The goblet chimed once for Key, as if to say, “All right, I’m in.”
“All right,” Key said, “let’s begin.”
Key thought for a moment, tapping her finger over her mouth, running through her head all the names she could think of, all those she knew when she was mortal, all those she knew as an immortal, which mostly came from Wanda Wickery’s little book. And so after a long tense moment, she at last guessed, “I believe your name is Lunet. She was the first ghost buried in the Old Catacombs.” After she said this, Key guessed that the ghost servant perhaps knew that already.
So she was not too surprised when the goblet remained silent, not even a hint of a chime. She also knew (from a recent visit from Skulk who had surprised her with blood tea and cookies) that Lunet the First Ghost had not escaped her coffin. Even so, Key could not help but be hopeful that the reports were untrue, that Lunet had escaped and had been with her ever since. That was Key’s wild imagination acting even wilder than before. But she didn’t mind, and neither did the ghost.
“All right, I’ll guess again,” Key stated, regaining a little more excitement for the possibility of correctly guessing the ghost’s name. She chewed her lower lip as she thought and thought and thought, until her thinker felt thought out. Finally, she recalled a name from her little book, in the chapter titled, Pundicle – A Sport for Poor Sports. Although Key’s little book explained to her that Pundicle was a sport similar to chess, but for the Dead, she could not figure out how to play, or what the rules were, because they never seemed like the same rules for each Pundicle match. But one ghost happened to win the Necropolis Pundicle Tournament seven and two-thirds times. The name of that Pundicle champion had seemed quite lovely to Key when she first read it, so she thought it a good idea to suggest the name now, which she did with gusto. “I think your name is Ravëna.”
Still, the goblet was silent. Still, no chime.
“Still not close,” Key said. She liked this game, even if she wasn’t winning, and even if it was taking forever – forever seemed to be the one thing Key had plenty of these nights.
Yet right before Key was about to make a third guess, a Grimbuggle Bedbug happened to be passing by (it was Mr. Humbug) and he offered a typically unpleasant suggestion that made Key cringe and shake her head in dismay. “I think you should just go ahead and call her Eldry Dimplebottom,” Mr. Humbug gurgled out in his hideous voice.
The goblet shook wildly through the air, as if to shout: “NO!” But then the goblet lowered to the ground and rested. Beside it the ghost’s invisible finger wrote four letters in the dirt. P-E-G-A.
“Pega?” Key read aloud.
She looked up at the invisible air. “Your name is Pega?” she said to the ghost.
The goblet rose up and the ghost’s invisible fingers began flicking it so vigorously that Key might have easily assumed Pega had twenty fingers. The goblet began floating all around the dungeon, happily spinning and swirling and twirling.
Key laughed and clapped her hands. “Pega is a wonderful name!” she exclaimed as her laughter echoed throughout the dungeon.
But just then, catching both Pega and Key completely by surprise, a voice suddenly spoke from the stairs leading up to the castle. “What are you laughing about?”
Key and the floating goblet whirled around together to see that there was now, standing on the stone stairwell that led up to the castle, watching them both, was a beautiful witch.
— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —
Miss Broomble the Witch
The witch on the stairwell appeared to be quite a young woman, tall with brown skin, long curly black hair, and a wide mouth with a bright smile. Her eyes seemed to shimmer several different colors in the darkness.
Key knew she was a witch? Of course she did – except she couldn’t say how. The more Key looked at this witch, the more she had a sneaking suspicion that she had seen this witch before. But where? When?
Pega the ghost held the goblet perfectly still in the air, not budging an inch. Key wondered if the ghost maid was nervous, perhaps, because she herself certainly felt quite worried. What did this witch want? Would she chain up Key’s hands the way Raithe and Crudgel had chained her ankle?
The witch approached Key and then sat down beside her on the stone floor. The aroma coming from her was the loveliest scent of midnight jasmine. She was wearing a beautiful violet dress, high-heel dress boots, and a large top hat with black goggles around the rim. She was also covered hat-to-boot in strange devices. She had a long spyglass down her forearm while on the other arm were copper plates covered in cogwheels. She wore a chest plate upon which was a tangle of wires, copper pipes, and canisters filled with golden ink. Sometimes the chest plate gushed out spurts of steam, which made the witch resemble something like a machine.
For a long tense moment Key did not speak, not quite knowing what to say, and not quite sure she could trust this witch, whoever she was. Had the witch come to visit? Had she come to cast a spell on Key? Or was she in trouble? Had she been thrown into the dungeon, too? “Or am I in more trouble because I laughed,” Key asked herself. Was laughter forbidden, too? “Undoubtedly,” she told herself.
The witch then took up the chain shackled to Key’s ankle and she spoke to Key in a voice like the melody of a beautiful song. “How long have you been down here?”
“A long time,” Key said in a small voice, taking the chain from the witch and dropping it sadly on the ground.
The witch ran her fingers along Key’s clothes. “It’s amazing,” she remarked, “how a prisoner in the Dungeon of Despair could acqui
re such nice, clean clothes.”
Key’s eyes widened with fear. Was this witch going to take away her Crinomatic? No more fresh clothes? No more clean nightgowns?
The witch smiled at Key reassuringly, seeming to sense Key’s worry. And so with slow movements, the witch reached into a pocket of her dress, fished around in it for a moment, and then took out her own Crinomatic.
Key stared in wonder at this second device. Did Future Key give this witch a Crinomatic, too?
The witch’s looked just like Key’s, except that hers was blood red steel and covered all over in scratches and dings, which made it look much older than Key’s.
The witch opened her Crinomatic and she spoke into it. “The 1885 Night Owl.”
Suddenly a bright light shone from the device, briefly blinding Key, though not hurting her eyes. And when the light diminished a second later, funneling back inside the Crinomatic right before the witch closed its lid, Key now saw that the witch was wearing an entirely new outfit – a red bolero jacket over a blue corset, a short black skirt with long black stockings, and tall dark brown riding boots. Even the witch’s gadgets and gizmos had changed as well – all except the spyglass strapped to her arm. Key wondered if it had some special purpose.
The witch winked at Key. “See? You’re not so alone after all.”
Key stared at this witch, completely astounded, and not quite knowing what to say.
The witch’s smile broadened. “You don’t have to show me your Crinomatic, but I am curious to know how you got it.”
Key could not explain how she knew this witch, but somehow she had seen her face and heard her voice before. Perhaps it was this strangely familiar presence of the witch that made Key feel confident enough to trust her. And so going against a base instinct to play dead, or at least play dumb, Key timidly took out her Crinomatic from her dress and showed it to the witch.