Even Albion was shocked by this outburst. Nina-Rose clutched Arry’s hand, and the duchess and Queen Mildred looked at each other in silent concern. Queen Bluebell put down her lorgnette and rose to her feet.
“Frank,” she said, “you’re a fool. That boy Marcus is worth all the rest of us put together. He has more courage in his little finger than you have in your whole body, and if he was my son, I’d be singing his praises to the rooftops. Now I know you’re angry, and when you calm down, you’ll most likely regret what you’ve just said and change your mind, but remember this — if ever you disown young Marcus, I shall claim him as my own. Vincent’s my heir, but he’s a ninny, and his sister can’t bear the idea of being queen. Let me tell you something, Frank. If I thought Marcus would agree to be king of Wadingburn, I’d die happy. So there. Put that in your pipe and smoke it!” And the queen stalked out of the dining room, her very backbone rigid with disapproval.
This time the silence was so long that two of the maids thought the room was empty and whisked in to clear the dishes. Seeing the entire royal party sitting frozen to their seats, they hurriedly withdrew. The interruption served to break the tension, however, and the duchess did her best to save the evening. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never thought to ask if you would care for something to eat. Would you like a little lemon mousse, perhaps? Or a cup of tea?”
“I rather think we ought to go, Hortense dear,” Queen Mildred said, and she began to fuss with her bag.
“But we CAN’T!” Nina-Rose turned to her. “You wouldn’t drag darling Arry away, would you? He’s a hero! We should drink to his health!”
Albion coughed meaningfully.
“Oh, yes.” Nina-Rose waved a hand. “And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to drink to poor little Albie’s health as well. Here’s to them both!”
King Frank dithered. Should he go, or should he stay? He had been deeply offended by Bluebell’s speech, but on the other hand she had had the sensitivity to leave the room. No doubt she was even now repenting her tirade. He himself was aware that he might, just might, have gotten a little carried away in the heat of the moment. And the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood was very comfortable, and it was a long, long drive home.
He made up his mind. “Well said, Nina-Rose. Here’s to Prince Albion and Prince Arioso! And well done, Arry. I’m proud of you. Very proud, indeed.”
The royal party relaxed, although Albion continued to cast dark and meaningful looks at the duchess.
Queen Mildred heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh! Hortense!” she said. “I’d almost forgotten! We were at Dreghorn today, and Kesta has SUCH a lovely plan for Bluebell’s birthday!”
The duchess paused over the teapot. “Might that be a surprise party?”
“You knew!” Mildred beamed. “Isn’t it fun? We’re all going to come to Wadingburn, with a huge cake with eighty-one candles on it!”
“But, Mildred . . . Bluebell won’t be there.” Hortense poured out the tea and handed the cups around. Albion, looking thunderous, pushed his cup away and scowled even more fiercely at his cousin, who went suavely on, “Didn’t you know? She’s coming here for her birthday.”
The queen looked crushed. “Oh, no! But it’s Cockenzie Rood Day! She won’t be able to have her party!”
“I say, cuz,” Albion said, a sudden ray of hope illuminating his extreme gloom. “I think that’s a terrible shame! Why don’t you go to Wadingburn, after all? You said you were going to, right up until today!”
“I’m sorry, Albion. It’s all arranged.” When the duchess spoke in that particular tone of voice, Albion knew better than to argue. With a shrug, he relapsed back into sulky silence.
Nina-Rose looked at the duchess in wide-eyed astonishment. “But why can’t Queen Bluebell have her party here at Cockenzie Rood instead?” she asked. “Albie sweetie, you wouldn’t mind, would you? Don’t you have a band or something like that? They could march up and down playing ‘Happy Birthday to You.’”
“Lovely!” Queen Mildred clapped her hands. “And we can bring the cake here instead! How clever you are, Nina-Rose.”
“Isn’t she?” Arioso gazed rapturously at his beloved.
“Splendid plan.” King Frank nodded. “So that’s all sorted out. No need for you to worry anymore, Hortense.”
Hortense was in a quandary. Bluebell had not wanted any fuss; was this worse or better than the dreaded surprise party?
“It does sound like an excellent idea,” she said slowly, as she tried to think of a way to escape. “What do you think, Albion?”
Albion was pale, sweaty, and speechless. His dreams of a royal parade had been shattered by his cousin’s announcement that Bluebell was to spend her birthday at Cockenzie Rood; now it seemed that hideous insult was going to be added to appalling injury. A marching band but not for him? A marching band, playing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Bluebell? What about his glorious uniform? His twenty wonderful scarlet cloaks? He staggered to his feet, holding his head. “I don’t know why you even bother to ask me things like that,” he said shrilly. “Nobody EVER listens to me or to what I want! It’s not fair! I’m going to bed!” And he left as fast as his still-uncertain legs could carry him.
“Oh, dear,” Hortense said. “I’d better go and see if he’s all right. Please excuse me for a moment. He’s had a horrid day, poor boy.”
“No thanks to a certain young person of our acquaintance.” King Frank gave his wife a meaningful nod. “Naming no names, of course.”
The duchess gave him a quick glance but decided there was nothing more to be said for the moment. Hopefully a good night’s sleep would see a change of heart. With a sigh, she rang a bell to order bedrooms to be prepared for her unexpected guests. Then, as the king and queen began to discuss birthday plans with Nina-Rose and Arioso, she slipped away to see to Albion. After that, she promised herself, she would take her very good friend Bluebell a cup of tea and have a sensible conversation.
The hours of the night ticked by. Trunkly was dreaming of her eggsies; from time to time, she stirred and smiled in her sleep. Meggymould and Greatover slept without moving, the enormous mounds of their bodies already suggesting the mountains they would eventually become. Fiddleduster Squint was moving steadily toward them, the cold light of revenge gleaming in his sunken eyes. From time to time, Marlon fluttered over his head, unseen in the misty darkness, before returning to where Gracie and Marcus were plodding wearily onward. Marcus had tried to persuade Gracie to ride Hinny, but she had insisted that they take turns; now, in an attempt to give the pony something approaching a rest, they were half running, half walking on either side of her, each holding a stirrup to prevent them from stumbling into sleep.
“What time do you think it is?” Gracie whispered.
Marcus stifled a yawn. “I’m not sure. Quite a long time after midnight, I’d say. Maybe three or four in the morning?”
“It feels as if we’ve been walking forever,” Gracie said. “It can’t be too long before the sun comes up.” She squinted into the distance. Was it her imagination, or was the sky already a little lighter than it had been?
There was the faint whir of wings, and Marlon appeared. “Keep going, kiddos. Believe it or not, you’re catching up. You’re doing good.”
“How much farther is it?” Marcus wanted to know.
“Maybe a coupla hours.” Marlon thought it unnecessary to add that this was an optimistic guess. He, too, was tired, and he was unwilling to waste his strength flying far ahead to check on the exact location of the giants. It would be very obvious where they were as soon as it was light, and all Marlon’s instincts were telling him that dawn was not far away. “Keep going. Like I say, you’re doing good. Your uncle Marlon’s proud of you!”
Had Marlon been able to see his nephew, he would have been proud of him too. The little bat was flying on the longest journey he had ever made, and his wings were aching. “Mustn’t stop,” he told himself. “Mustn’t stop!” As the hours passed, he grew wearier and wea
rier, but apart from the briefest of rests after crossing the river Gore, he did not stop. At last, just as the sky was beginning to pale in the east, he flew over the trees of the Less Enchanted Forest. “Nearly there,” he gasped, “nearly there!” And with one last heroic effort, he turned a victory roll before diving down the tallest chimney of the House of the Ancient Crones. With a whoop of self-congratulation, he zoomed out of the fireplace, startling Edna so much she dropped the shuttle of filigree silver thread. With a cry of “Emergency! Emergency!” Alf collapsed in a tiny crumpled heap on the floor.
“Goodness me!” The Ancient One hastily picked up her shuttle, then bent to attend to the limp form of Alf. For once she was alone in room seventeen, and it was dangerous to leave the web of power for longer than a few minutes. Holding Alf tenderly, she hurried to the door. “Elsie!” she called. “Elsie! Could you come here?”
Elsie, wrapped in her bathrobe and looking cross and crumpled, appeared in a matter of seconds. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Alf.” The Ancient One stroked the bat’s small furry back. “He’s exhausted. He said there was an emergency and then fainted . . . could you take over the loom while I find some Restoration Liquor?”
Elsie looked doubtful. “Are you sure? Isn’t it rather strong for such a very little one?” But she stepped over to the loom. Edna thanked her with a nod and made her way to a cupboard in the corner. Opening the door, she took out a small silvery bottle and shook a couple of drops into Alf’s mouth.
For a moment there was no response, but then he sneezed, sat up, and looked around, his eyes shining brightly. “Oh! Hello, Mrs. Edna! Did you see me come down the chimney? I’ve been flying for miles ’n’ miles ’n’ miles ’n’ MILES, and I did it! I came all the way from the hills and I got here — OH!” A distracted expression twisted his small face into a look of intense worry. “Am I too late? Have I been asleep? I shouldn’t have been asleep — it’s an emergency! Miss Gracie and Mr. Prince — they’re rushing to catch a skeleton who wants to squash the kingdoms like a GRAPE!”
“Edna!” Elsie’s tone was urgent. “Look at this . . . there are black spots all over the web.”
The Ancient One went to see. “That’ll be evil threatening the kingdoms but from the outside. Hmm. It’s very close to the giants.”
“That’s the skeleton!” Alf was now fully recovered. With a flip of his wings, he was up on the top of the loom. “He’s going to squish —”
“Alf!” Edna gave him an exasperated smile. “Could you explain just a little more? WHAT is this skeleton planning?”
Alf tucked his wings around him and began to tell his story. As he went on, the Ancient One looked more and more serious. “That’s an awful lot for one Trueheart to deal with,” she said. “I’ve heard of Fiddleduster Squint. He’s evil. Deeply evil. And now Albion’s upset him. Oh, dear.”
Elsie nodded wisely. “The perils of rejecting an artist. Scorn them, and they release the inner tiger.”
Edna ignored her. “We need to help . . . let me think.”
Alf waved a wing. “I can fly back, Mrs. Edna! No problem!”
“I’m afraid it would take too long,” the Ancient One said gently. “Even for such a speedy flyer as you. No —”
A tap on the window made all three of them look up in surprise. Edna held her candle higher, then chuckled. “Well, I never. That could be the answer — but is it reliable enough?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Elsie peered into the night. “I can’t see anything!”
“It’s the path,” Edna told her. “It was knocking at the window.”
Elsie gave a loud and disapproving sniff. “Huh! It was the path that caused this trouble in the first place! If it had taken Prince Marcus to Gorebreath, as it was told to, none of this would have happened.”
“You can’t blame the path for Fiddleduster Squint,” the Ancient One pointed out. “And maybe it would like to make up for its mistakes . . . and it might be our only hope of getting help to Gracie in time.”
“Help?” Alf squeaked. “Are you going to save her, Mrs. Edna?”
The Ancient One shook her head. “I can’t, Alf. I can’t leave the web of power. One day, hopefully, someone will come and take my place, but for now I have to watch, watch and weave.” She bent down and with a sharp tug pulled a long gleaming thread from the spool of filigree. “But you can save her . . . you and Elsie.”
“ME?” Elsie clutched at her chest. “But I haven’t left the house for over seventy years!”
“I’ll look after you, Mrs. Elsie,” Alf reassured her. “And shall I look after the silvery string?”
Edna handed the thread to Elsie, who staggered, then recovered herself with an effort. “It’s much too powerful for you, Alf, dear. Only a Trueheart, or”— she gave Elsie a quick nod —“someone whose heart is truly cleansed can carry its weight. Now, there’s no more time for chitchat. Be off with you! And, Alf — you must tell the path where to go.”
Elsie knotted her bathrobe belt more tightly, hung her wig on the end of the loom, and stood up straight. “I’m ready,” she said.
Edna seated herself in front of the loom and picked up the silver shuttle. “Hurry back, dear.”
“Of course,” Elsie told her. “And I’ll bring our girl with me. And her prince. After all, his pony’s here waiting for him.”
Alf had flittered to the door. “Come on, Mrs. Elsie!” he encouraged, and as Elsie stepped into the corridor, the floor tipped, sliding her down to the far end and the wide-open back door. As Elsie tumbled out into the cold night air, the house lurched, as if bidding her good-bye and good luck. With a squeal, she fell onto the waiting path, Alf close behind her.
“Here we go!” Alf squeaked. “Giddyup, Path! Alf and Mrs. Elsie to the rescue!”
The first rays of the sun were scratching at the sky as Fiddleduster Squint and his shadow reached the giants. All three were still sleeping; the ground trembled as Greatover snored, and the nearby birch trees swayed to and fro in the wind of Meggymould’s breathing. Even Fiddleduster was taken aback by their size now that he was beside the giants, but his desire for revenge overcame any hesitation.
“Come,” he whispered to his shadow. “Let us begin!”
“What shall I do, Master?” the shadow asked.
Fiddleduster cracked his knuckles as a ghoulish grin spread over his face. “You must creep into an ear, Shadow. And once there you must whisper, whisper of running. Running to the Five Kingdoms, running and running, and never thinking to stop—” He paused as Trunkly stirred, rubbed her eyes, and turned over.
“EGGSIES,” she murmured. “LUVVY EGGSIES . . .” And then she was asleep again.
Fiddleduster’s eyes lit up. “Eggs? She wants eggs? Go swiftly, Shadow. Whisper of eggs by the hundreds, by the thousands . . . eggs that must be seized without delay, or they will vanish! Vanish, leaving her hungry.”
The shadow nodded and slithered its way up Trunkly’s solid and dirt-encrusted neck. She grunted but did not wake. Sliding into the curve of her ear, Shadow began to whisper, and with a loud roar of “EGGSIES!” Trunkly rolled over and staggered to her feet. Lurching first one way and then the other, she stared wildly around, her eyes wide open but as yet unfocused. Meggymould and Greatover sat up and looked at her in surprise; Fiddleduster Squint slipped behind the birch trees. There he gathered his thoughts into one clear stream of instruction to his shadow. “Do not stop! Drive her into madness! Send her running . . . The others will follow!”
Marlon, flying into the early light, saw Trunkly’s massive figure rise up against the paling clouds as if a mountain had burst out of the earth. He froze mid-wingbeat. “Holy moly!” he whispered, then zoomed down to where Marcus and Gracie were making as much speed as their exhaustion would allow. Even from their much lower perspective, Trunkly’s head and shoulders towered over the horizon, and Marcus gasped.
Gracie put her hand over her mouth. “WOW!” she said. “WOW!”
&n
bsp; “And that’s only the little ’un,” Marlon said grimly. “Come on, kiddos. Shake a leg.”
Trunkly was now shambling in circles, clutching at her head. She could hear a buzzing in her ear, but the shadow’s voice was too high-pitched for her to understand much of what he was saying. All she knew was that it was acutely uncomfortable and, in some way that she would never have been able to define, deeply evil.
“WHAT IS MATTER?” Meggymould asked anxiously. “WHAT TRUNKLY DOING?”
Fiddleduster was beginning to realize there was no point in subtlety. He shut his eyes and beamed the simplest of thoughts. “Louder! Tell her, RUN! NOW!”
The shadow did as he was told, and Trunkly screamed. Greatover and Meggymould caught at her hands and tried to soothe her, but she twisted away and began to run, shaking the ground at every step. The ever-peaceful Hinny reared, trembling with fear, and Marcus and Gracie clutched at each other to stay upright.
Far, far away in the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood, every guest woke with a start as bedside teacups clattered in their saucers, pictures slid sideways, and windows rattled. Edna, in the House of the Ancient Crones, hung on to her loom as the floor pitched and swayed beneath her feet. Birds were shaken out of sleep, and animals ran distractedly that way and this, not knowing what to do.
Fiddleduster Squint was thrown back between the trees and lost any sense of connection with his shadow, but it made no difference. Trunkly had only one thought, and that was to get away from the horrible, evil thing hissing in her ear.
“She’s running mad,” Marlon reported as Gracie and Marcus recovered and began to hurry onward as best they could.
“Which way is she going?” Gracie panted.
“Every which way. Zigzagging — No! She’s off!”
Marlon was right. Trunkly was now thundering in the direction of the Five Kingdoms. Worse still, Greatover and Meggymould had finally heaved themselves upright and were lumbering after her.
The Music of Zombies Page 14