by Becket
The witch had just returned from a long trip in a floating mansion that had sailed to the North Pole. She had fought with Grimuzzel the Great Polar Bear, but now appeared to be without a scratch as she came down the dungeon stairs, brightly smiling, and balancing in her hands a large birth-night cake for Key.
Miss Broomble had “borrowed the cake,” she claimed, from the castle kitchen, as another vampire was also celebrating a birth-night party, although Key could not recall who. The cake was covered in six hundred twenty seven candles, which, as they were all lit, bore a striking resemblance to the Perpetually Burning Forest.
Key laughed delightedly, clapping her hands. Being surprised like this by Miss Broomble made her feel very loved – and feeling loved was as good a feeling as it was strange, for Key had not felt this way for far too long a time – which was a second delightful surprise.
Miss Broomble’s Crinomatic had fashioned for her a stunning outfit, and she looked exceptionally beautiful wearing elbow-length gloves, a long dark green coat over a black blouse, dark blue vest, violet pants, high black boots, and her usual top hat with goggles around the rim. One of her arms was almost entirely armored in copper plates, sprockets, and pewter cogwheels. One of her legs was similarly covered in matching armor and gizmos. She was also wearing a metal eye patch that had several layers of magnifying lenses. Holstered to her side was a pistol outfitted with green plasma canisters and a scope, which Miss Broomble called an “Electro Cannon.” And as always, strapped to her forearm was that spyglass – which Key decided she would have to ask Miss Broomble about one of these nights.
“Every time you visit,” Key said to her, “you’re dressed in the most remarkable gadgets. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Miss Broomble smiled knowingly. “Most haven’t been invented yet,” was her reply.
Key’s Crinomatic had fashioned a lovely outfit for her. With blue ribbons in her hair, she wore a matching blue striped overskirt over a black and white dinner dress, along with gloves, and a plum-colored velvet jacket. It was almost as if the Crinomatic knew Miss Broomble would surprise Key with a birth-night party.
The witch set the birth-night cake before Key and said with the eagerness of a witch half her age, “The kitchen ghosts worked hard to balance all these candles. Now make a wish and blow them out.”
The six hundred twenty seven birth-night candles looked intimidating, and Key’s nervousness only increased when she overheard Pega whisper in Miss Broomble’s ear, “If the Mistress can blow out all those candles, that will be quite a wish.”
Miss Broomble nodded in the direction of the ghost, but turned to Key to say, “Of all the Mystical Creatures I’ve ever encountered in my many adventures, you truly have the power to make your wish come true.”
The witch’s words were like magic that usually washed over Key to bring relief from fear and doubt and worry. And they did so now, as Key closed her eyes and let her silly worry be washed away by the soothing comfort of good friends. Now feeling confident enough to make her wish, Key inhaled deeply, preparing to blow out her candles – but right before she did, Miss Broomble placed her hand on Key’s hand.
Key paused, and turned to look at Miss Broomble with curiosity, her mouth still open.
Miss Broomble was staring into Key’s eyes with a very serious expression. “Wishing on this birth-night cake is not like wishing on stars or dandelion seeds,” she told her. “Your wish will be granted in one of three ways: It will be granted now; or it will be granted later; or it won’t be granted at all because something much better is in store for you.”
Key’s nervousness came back in a rush as she returned her attention to the frightful task of making wishes and blowing out candles. She closed her mouth and thought for a moment. Then she admitted in a quiet voice, “I hope my wish will be granted now.”
“So does everyone who makes a wish,” Miss Broomble replied, “but the granting of the wish is not in their hands. Once you make your wish, you must decide whether you will surrender to hope or to hopelessness, especially when it seems your wish might not be granted.”
Key blew out all six hundred twenty seven candles in one breath. Miss Broomble and the Brownie on her shoulder clapped and cheered. Even Pega’s ghostly hands could be heard clapping, albeit quietly, for fear of being heard. Key smiled with delight and she wondered how her wish would come true. She wholeheartedly believed it would because she also believed that belief itself is a powerful magic.
Many other Mystical Creatures came for a taste of the cake. Ghost servants came floating in carrying plates. Partly Dead Brownie Folk came from their Snuckle Truffle factory carrying forks. Skulk the undertaker came. Grimbuggle Bedbugs came wearing sunglasses because the soft glow of the flowers was too bright for them. Also, a gaggle of Toags came, turning their purple turkey-like heads back and forth, looking for their cake slice as if it should have already been cut for them. Even Warhag the cat came to the party, making a rare appearance, and in doing so, making everyone a little nervous as she prowled up to the cake for a wary sniff, as though it were prey.
Everyone gathered around Key with hungry mouths, and Key was glad that none hungered for a taste of her.
Ghost servants spread a blanket over the maroon colored grass and the whole party gathered on it. The Ghosts handed around the plates and the Brownies handed around the forks. Key sliced the cake and served one slice to everyone, all except Warhag, who received two.
The Partly Dead Brownie Folk had collected special blood for the cake’s three layers. One layer had come from the Candlestick Quarter of the Necropolis, namely from the blood of the Nightmarish Gnomes, which tasted like strawberry jam. Another layer had come from the blood of Black Annis in the Skullduggery District, which tasted like pepper and pudding. Finally, the third layer had come from the blood of the Mummy King in the Terror Tombs, which sometimes tasted like cake batter, other times tasted creamy like chocolate frosting, but mostly it tasted like fish sticks, which was greedily devoured by Warhag.
Key turned to Miss Broomble. “Whose cake is this?” she asked with a mouthful of the third layer, which she tried to enjoy as the Brownies were watching her with hopeful expressions.
Miss Broomble chewed and swallowed before replying with, “Do you remember the night you were turned into a vampire?”
How could Key forget? It was the night she lost her mom and dad, the night she came to the Necropolis and was thrown into the castle dungeon.
Miss Broomble dabbed cake crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “On the night you came to the castle, Old Queen Crinkle was also celebrating a birth-night party.”
Slipping the rest of her cake to Warhag, Key now recollected how Mr. Fuddlebee had brought her to the Old Queen’s court, and how upset the Queen had been when her birth-night party was interrupted. “The Queen was turning four hundred twenty seven years old,” Key remarked, now recalling that night with perfect clarity, as if it had happened only the night before.
“Tonight,” Miss Broomble said, “Old Queen Crinkle turns six hundred twenty seven.”
Key’s eyes now widened with alarm as she turned to study the cake. It had exactly six hundred twenty seven candles. “Did you take the Queen’s cake?”she asked in amazement.
Miss Broomble smirked. “Think of it as a reminder,” she said.
Pega’s voice now spoke, whispering very close to the witch’s ear. “What’s it a reminder of, Ma’am?”
Miss Broomble replied by addressing everyone in the dungeon, even Warhag who was curled up beside a terrified-looking Bedbug. “It is a reminder,” the witch said, “that in one hundred fifty years Old Queen Crinkle will be seven hundred seventy seven. On that night, Mr. Fuddlebee will return to the Necropolis. On that night, he will have with him the Hand of DIOS. On that night, Old Queen Crinkle will be mortal again.”
Key liked this idea very much, even though one hundred fifty years seemed like a long way away. The fact that Old Queen Crinkle would become mortal again
also meant that she would no longer be Queen, and that was like seeing light at the far end of a very long, very dark tunnel. Key began to fancy that the next queen might release her from the dungeon – “unless,” Key considered with sudden concern, “unless the next Queen is Raithe” – a thought which made Key shudder. Yet as always, she tried to hope for the best, hoping that another queen after Old Queen Crinkle would give her freedom from Despair. But Key, who had not had much practice lately in the art of hoping, struggled to believe that her suffering would end.
And so the night wore on.
When Key’s birth-night cake had been eaten, and when another round of “Happy Birth-night” had been sung, the time finally came for Key’s presents.
The Partly Dead Brownie Folk gave Key a box of Snuckle Truffles with a whole new variety of blood flavors. The blood of one bonbon came from Touchstone the Titan Tarantula. The blood of another came from Balthasar the Black Cat of Caldron Alley. The blood of another came from Willoughby the Weird Warlord of Warwick.
The Grimbuggle Bedbugs, Bosh and Mr. Humbug, gave Key two pouches. The first pouch was filled with the invisible dust that makes people itch at night. The second pouch was filled with the crust that forms on eyelids while people slumber. “The finest there is,” Bosh said rather proudly, to which Key could only manage a simple reply of, “Thank you.”
Next, Warhag padded uncomfortably close. In the cat’s mouth was a Mostly Dead Dormouse, which she dropped at Key’s feet. The Dormouse blinked helplessly at Key with large frightened eyes. Wrapped around its neck was a white label. On the label were words scratched out in black ink: One Free Pass From Being Mercilessly Slaughtered. It was the kindest gift Warhag had ever given anyone. She must have really liked Key.
Pega had made a pair of ghost slippers for Key and she gave them to her without a word, but Key could hear the ghost muttering nervously to herself, “Oh dear, oh dear, I hope they fit.” And to her great relief, the ghostly slippers fit Key perfectly, even though they glowed with an eerie green light, left glowing green footprints all over the dungeon, and felt as cold as ice on Key’s feet. Key was nonetheless immensely grateful to the ghost maid for her kindness and thoughtfulness.
Last of all, Miss Broomble handed Key a shoebox. Key was utterly astonished upon opening the box and discovering that, as she looked, fast asleep on a red velvet cushion, there was a small brown puppy.
Key rubbed her eyes to believe that this was nighttime and that she was awake. She blinked and realized that this was not the day; this was not another dream of some unreal happiness. No, this was real. Before her was indeed a puppy.
Warmth bloomed inside her chest, and tears filled her eyes, not the tears she wept before, not tears of loneliness and hopelessness, but tears of pure joy, tears that felt too good to wipe away, as Miss Broomble explained how this was no ordinary puppy. He was like Key. “He will not grow old,” she said. “Winifred the Witch-Wolf of Wichita bit the puppy by accident, making him immortal also.”
Key had read about Winifred in her little book. Winifred was the first Mystical Creature to have almost successfully become two Mystical Creatures at once, yet the two halves were constantly bickering and arguing and fighting. Key now listened attentively while Miss Broomble explained how, recently, the two halves of Winifred had their worst fight yet. Her Witch Half had wanted to read The Cauldron Crow while her Wolf Half had wanted to watch The Adventures of Snuffles Furryfeet. They got into a terrible fight over this, which resulted in several splintered chairs, countless smashed windows, a few dented fire hydrants, forty-two broken tombstones, and one immortal puppy.
“Now the puppy needs a new home,” Miss Broomble said to Key. “Can you think of anyone who could use a good friend in the dark?”
Key lifted the immortal puppy off the velvet pillow.
He had short brown fur, with a mask of black fur wrapping around his snout and eyes, while the fur on his ears and tail was a mix of black and brown. Key buried her nose in the folds of his soft fur. He smelled like the meadows of her mom’s sheep. He smelled like the fields of her dad’s wheat.
The immortal puppy whimpered. Sleepily, he blinked open his black eyes.
Key tried to speak, but her voice was choked with gratitude. The puppy was the best gift she ever remembered receiving. She’d never had such good friends before as Miss Broomble, Pega, the Brownies, and even Warhag.
“Thank you,” she finally managed to say, looking around the dungeon at everyone present. “Thank you for everything.”
Miss Broomble smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Pega clapped vigorously. The sound echoed throughout the dungeon. Invisible tears of gladness streamed down the ghost’s invisible cheeks.
The immortal puppy now woke up. He sniffed Key’s face and he licked her nose. Then he barked with a voice so loud and powerful that Warhag the cat stared at him anxiously.
Key decided she would call her immortal puppy “Tudwal” – a name she had read in her little book. The name Tudwal meant Ruler of the Country, and had belonged to a powerful werewolf who had renowned skills at pillaging, plundering, and bowling.
Miss Broomble approved. “Good name,” she said with a smile.
In the nights that followed, Tudwal was at first a little timid about the dungeon. The immortal puppy stayed close to Key, following her everywhere, always looking up at her, to see what she was doing. He would sleep in her coffin during the day, lying curled up on her chest. And he would stay up all night, barking and yipping and playing, like any good puppy, yet never changing, always staying the same puppy size with the same puppy playfulness.
Key dungeon-trained him, she played fetch with him, and she even taught him some tricks. Tudwal’s favorite games were jumping ten feet in the air, barking loud enough to shatter stone, and crawling on the ceiling.
But Tudwal was not a werewolf, as the word were- in werewolf means man, and Tudwal was not a man, but a puppy. Winifred the Witch Wolf had made him a puppy-wolf, an immortal who would stay the same puppy size for the rest of his life. Yet while most werewolves changed from person to wolf under a full moon, Tudwal the immortal puppy-wolf was different because Winifred was half werewolf. So Tudwal would only change from puppy to wolf during the half-moon.
His change was very impressive. He did not merely change into a wolf. He changed from a puppy into a twelve-foot tall wolf-monster, walking on thick hind legs, with shoulders as wide as his height, foot-long fangs, and paws with claws larger than Key’s head.
The only thing that did not change was his puppy playfulness. Tudwal the Wolf loved to play fetch. He loved to play Hide and Seek. He loved it when he and Key chased each other across the dungeon ceiling.
The only creatures who showed no respect for Tudwal the Wolf were the Toags – as Toags respect nothing. And Tudwal the Wolf soon became their worst victim. Every half-moon, the Toags took a break from not cleaning the dungeon to clamber all over this twelve-foot tall wolf-monster, to mercilessly tickle him with their purple turkey wattles.
— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —
Explosions in the Dungeon
Key and Tudwal lived together in the dungeon for the next one hundred fifty years. To Key, Despair seemed less lonely now that she and Tudwal did everything together. Pega was always with them too, never talking to Key, but always cleaning up behind them, especially Tudwal, whom she was constantly reprimanding for being “too puppyish!” she’d exclaim.
When he turned ten years old, Pega would say, “You’re older than most dogs, so stop being such a puppy!” And when he turned one hundred ten years old, even if he had transformed into a wolf, Pega would still say, “You’re the oldest puppy that’s ever lived and died and become a half wolf. When are you going to stop being so puppyish?” He never did; Tudwal was, after all, an immortal puppy.
One night, Key gathered glowing berries and glowing petals from the glowing plants, and she crushed them into glowing inks, making glowing colors like red and blue and yellow. Then she c
leared away vines from one dungeon wall and she drew on it with the inks she had made. Some pictures were of her mom and dad; some pictures were of Miss Broomble, Pega, and Tudwal; and one dark picture was of Margrave Snick. Key asked Pega to draw on the dungeon walls also, but Pega feared being in trouble with Old Queen Crinkle a little less than she feared making a mess. However, after Key begged and pleaded with her to attempt at least one drawing, Pega finally relented, and drew a picture of herself, so that her Mistress might know what her maidservant looked like. And so, with her invisible ghostly fingers reluctantly dipping into the glowing inks, Pega drew the image of a round woman in servant’s clothes. Unfortunately, not long after this, Tudwal, thinking this was all a game, walked through the red glowing ink, then walked up the walls and across Pega’s drawing, right before scurrying across the ceiling and leaving glowing red paw prints everywhere. Key had never heard Pega scream so furiously.
In time, Key’s two hundred fifty-ninth birth-night came and went. So did her two hundred ninety-ninth, along with her three hundred nineteenth, her three hundred twenty-ninth, her three hundred thirty-ninth, and her three hundred forty-ninth birth-night. And in all that time, Key grew older, but she never grew up.
Finally Key turned three hundred fifty nine years old as a vampire, and as an immortal who could not escape living at the bottom of Despair. Yet this was the birth-night she had been hoping for. This was the night Old Queen Crinkle would turn seven hundred seventy seven. This was the night Mr. Fuddlebee would return. This was the night that the Hand of DIOS would take away the Queen’s vampire power and make her mortal again. This was the night Key might be released from prison. This was the night she might be free from Despair.