The Witch Queen

by Jan Siegel

  “Councillor,” said Fern, resuming her place on the sofa. “We are indeed honored.” Her tone was courteous but not fulsome. She’s a natural diplomat, Gaynor thought. It must be the years in PR. “May I offer your highness some refreshment?”

  The queen gave a brief nod and Fern mixed her a concoction of vodka, sugar, and strawberry coulis, which seemed to meet with royal approval. Gaynor, remembering Skuldunder’s reaction to the wine, wondered secretly if she had any previous experience of alcohol. Having accepted the drink, Mabb seated herself in a chair opposite, leaning her switch against it. Her eyes, black from edge to edge, gleamed in the candlelight like jet beads.

  “It is well that you have come,” Fern went on. “This new witch, if she is indeed powerful, could be a threat to both werefolk and Men. In time of danger it is necessary that those of us with wisdom and knowledge should take counsel together.”

  “What wisdom does she have?” Mabb demanded, flashing a glare at Gaynor. “I have not talked to a witch in many a hundred year. I do not talk to ordinary mortals at all.”

  “She is not ordinary,” said Fern. “She may be young, but she is learned in the ancient histories, and wiser than I. She stood at my side in a time of great peril, and did not flinch.”

  Yes, I did, I flinched frequently, Gaynor said, but only to herself.

  Mabb evidently decided she would condescend to approve the extra councillor. “Loyalty to one another is a human thing,” she said. “I am told it is important to you. Goblins are loyal only to me.”

  “We may have different customs,” said Fern, “but we can still be allies. I am gratified to see your highness wears my gifts.”

  “They please me,” said the queen, scanning her gilded nails. “More gifts would be acceptable, and would confirm our alliance.”

  “Of course,” said Fern. “When our meeting is concluded, I have other gifts for you. But first, I need to know more of this witch.”

  Mabb made a strange gesture, like a parody of one Fern had learned to use in summoning. “Skuldunder!”

  The burglar materialized hesitantly.

  “Bring the exile,” ordered the queen.

  Skuldunder duly vanished, reappearing presently with another goblin in tow. He looked as brown and wrinkled as a dried apple, and there was the stamp of past terror on his face, but now he seemed in the grip of a lassitude that exceeded even fear. “He was a house-goblin,” the queen explained with a flicker of contempt, “but he was forced to flee his house. He withers from loss and shame.” She turned to her subjects. “This witch is my friend, our ally. She is not like the rest of witchkind. You must tell her about the sorceress who drove you from your house. I command you!”

  The old goblin shivered a little and blinked, but said nothing.

  “What is his name?” asked Fern.

  “Dibbuck,” said Skuldunder.

  “Dibbuck.” Fern dropped to the floor, bringing herself on a level with his vacant gaze. “I need your help. I have to learn all I can about this woman, in case I have to dispose of her. I know it’s hard for you to talk about it, especially to someone like me, but please try. It may be vital.” And, after a pause: “Is she young or old?”

  “Young,” said Dibbuck at last. His voice was not soft but faint, as if it had already begun to fade. “Young-looking. Old inside.”

  “Could you describe her?”

  But this Dibbuck did not seem able to do. Goblins, Fern realized, see humans differently, not feature for feature but more as we see animals. “Green dress,” he volunteered, and then: “White dress.” For some reason he shuddered. “Much hair.”

  This was hardly unique, Fern reflected. Most witches favored long hair. Perhaps that was why she kept her own so short.

  She groped for the right questions to ask. “Do you know when she came to the house?”

  Dibbuck was largely oblivious to dates. “The party,” he said. “Big party.” A faraway echo of remembered mischief brightened his face. “I added things to the drinks. Salt. Red pepper. There were many people in many clothes. Long clothes, short clothes. Masks.”

  “Fancy dress?” Fern said quickly.

  Dibbuck looked bewildered.

  “Never mind. So the witch was there?”

  “Didn’t see her. Too many people. But she was there after.” He added: “The hag came later, and the cat, and the gypsy.”

  Fern tried to elicit further details, with limited success. The hag appeared to be some kind of servant, the gypsy maybe a temporary worker. “Tell me about the cat.”

  “It was a goblin cat,” interrupted the queen. “A sallowfang. He was afraid of it.”

  “What’s a goblin cat?”

  “They were the cats of the king of the Underworld,” Mabb explained, with the complacency of a child who has access to privileged information. “They have no fur, and their skin is black or white, sometimes striped or piebald. They are bigger than normal cats, and very cunning.” She concluded, with a narrowing of the eyes: “They used to hunt goblins.”

  “A sphinx cat,” suggested Gaynor. “I’ve never seen one, but I know they’re hairless.”

  “These sound as if they’re magical, or part magical,” said Fern. “Could be a relative.”

  “This one chased him,” said Mabb, indicating Dibbuck. “He was lucky to escape. A sallowfang can smell a spider in a rainstorm.”

  “What about the household ghosts?” said Fern. “Skuldunder said something about an exorcism.”

  “She made the circle,” Dibbuck said, “in the spellchamber. I saw them all streaming in—they couldn’t resist—Sir William—the kitchen imp—little memories like insects, buzzing. I pinned myself to the floor with a splinter, so I couldn’t go. They were trapped in the circle, spinning around and around. Then she . . .” His voice ran down like a clockwork toy into silence.

  “She opened the abyss,” Mabb finished for him. “I thought my servant told you.”

  “You mean—Limbo?” hazarded Gaynor.

  “Limbo is a place of sleep and dreams,” Mabb responded impatiently. “It is a part of this world. The abyss is between worlds. It is—emptiness. They say those who are cast into it may be swallowed up forever. When mortals die they pass the Gate. We go to Limbo, until this world is remade. But no one may return from the abyss until all worlds are changed. I thought even humans would know that.”

  “We have our own lore,” said Fern. “It must take a great deal of power to open a gap between worlds . . .”

  “And for what?” Mabb sounded savage with indignation. “A few ragged phantoms—an imp or two—a handful of degenerates. So much power—for so little. She is mad, this witch. Mad and dangerous. She might do anything.”

  For all her eccentric appearance and freakish temperament, thought Fern, the goblin queen showed a vein of common sense. “Can you recall her name?” she asked Dibbuck, but he shook his head. “The name of the house, then?”

  “Wrokeby.” His face twisted in sudden pain.

  “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Dibbuck looked confused. “The prisoner,” he said eventually. “In the attic.”

  “What kind of prisoner? Was it a girl?”

  “No . . . Couldn’t see. Something—huge, hideous . . . A monster.”

  Not Dana Walgrim, Fern concluded. “What else?”

  Dibbuck mumbled inaudibly, gazing into corners, seeking inspiration or merely a germ of hope. “She had a tree,” he said. “In the cellar.”

  “A tree in the cellar?” Fern was baffled. “How could a tree grow in the dark?”

  “Seeds grow in the dark,” said Mabb. “Plant magic is very old; maybe the witchkind do not use it now. You take a seed, a fortune seed or a love seed, and as it germinates so your fortune waxes or your lover’s affection increases. They used to be popular: mortals are always obsessed with wealth or love. If the seed does not sprout, then you have no fortune, no love.”

  “Not a seed,” said Dibbuck. “It was a tree, a young tr
ee. It was uprooted, but it was alive. I smelled the forest; I saw the leaves move. She wrapped it in silk, and fed it, and sang to it.”

  “Does this ritual mean anything to you?” Fern asked Mabb, inadvertently forgetting to give her her royal title.

  But Mabb, too, had forgotten her dignity. Possibly the vodka had affected her. “I have never heard of such a thing,” she said. “A woman who wraps a tree in swaddling clothes and lullabies it to sleep sounds to me more foolish than magical. Perhaps, if she is besotted with these fancies, she may not be dangerous after all. When I wanted to play at motherhood, I would steal a babe from a rabbit’s burrow, or a woodman’s cradle, not pluck a bunch of dead twigs. Of course,” she added with an eye on Fern, “that was long ago. I have outgrown such folly. Besides, human babies scream all the time. It becomes tiresome.”

  “So I’m told,” said Fern. “I need to think about all this. Your highness, may I have some means of calling on you and your servants again, should it be necessary? This witch may indeed be mad or foolish, but I fear otherwise. I must make a spell of farsight, and then I may know what further questions to ask your subject.”

  “I will have the royal burglar pass by here othernights,” Mabb decreed magnanimously. “If you wish to speak with him, pin a mistletoe sprig to your door.”

  “It’s out of season,” Fern pointed out.

  “Well.” Mabb shrugged. “Any leaves will do.” She waited a minute, beginning to tap her foot. “You mentioned gifts . . .”

  Fern went into her bedroom for a hasty trawl through her makeup drawer and jewel box.

  “Can you make a spell of farsight?” Gaynor asked when they were alone.

  “I could light the spellfire,” Fern said, “if I had any crystals. That might tell me something. Do you want a G and T?”

  “Actually,” said Gaynor, “just tea would be good. I’ll make it.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Fern headed for the kitchen.

  “Are you—are you going to tell Will about this?”

  “Probably.” There was a pause filled with the noise of gurgling water, and the click of a switch on the kettle. “Why?”

  Gaynor stiffened her sinews, screwing her courage, such as it was, to the sticking point. “I just think you should. Because he’s your brother. Because three heads are better than two. Because we’re a team.”

  “Are we?”

  “You said so.”

  “I think that was your idea.” Fern came to the kitchen doorway, propping herself against the frame. “Last time you both nearly got killed. That’s not going to happen again. I can protect myself, but I can’t always protect you, so you must—you must promise—do exactly what I say, and stay out of trouble. I don’t like the sound of this witch. I didn’t fully understand what Skuldunder meant when he said she opened the abyss, but I do now. You must promise me—”

  “No,” said Gaynor baldly. “I mean, I could say it, but it wouldn’t be true, and anyway, you haven’t the right. I may not be Gifted like you, but that doesn’t mean you can control me or exclude me. Or Will. I got involved last time because you were in denial, and now I’m involved for good. You can’t change that.” She spoke in a hurry, determined to get the words out before Fern could interrupt or she lost her nerve.

  After a minute the set look that was becoming habitual to Fern relaxed. “Sorry,” she said unexpectedly. “I’ve been a control freak from childhood. Years of managing Dad. Just . . . be careful this time. No rushing off into the dragon’s den. Please.”

  “No fear,” said Gaynor with an uncertain smile.

  Fern returned to the kettle, reemerging presently with two mugs of tea, both overfull. As she set them down the contents of the left one splashed over the rim. “Damn,” she said. “Not again.” She sucked at the injury, then lowered her hand, extending it until it was directly under the lamplight. “Gaynor . . .” The scald mark faded even as she watched, leaving her skin unblemished. There was no other burn to be seen.

  “What did you do?” Gaynor demanded. “Is it more magic?”

  “Maybe,” said Fern, “but not mine.” There was a long moment while recollection and doubt turned over in her mind. “This happened before . . . when I set fire to Morgus. My hand was burned. Kal made me dip it in the river . . .”

  “The river healed you, didn’t it?” Gaynor said. “It was the Styx. Remember Achilles. Supposing . . . you’re invulnerable? I mean, your hand . . . Have you hurt it at all since then?”

  “I don’t know. A scratch or two. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You might not have noticed,” Gaynor said.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Fern. She thrust her hand into the nearest candle flame. Gaynor saw her face whiten and her lips clench and cried out in protest. Fern withdrew it, trembling: her palm was red and already puckering into blisters. But as they watched the blisters sank, the angry ridges smoothed, the red dimmed to pink and vanished altogether. They stared at each other, incredulous and amazed. Then Fern got up and fetched a fruit knife from the kitchen. “It works for burns,” she said. “Let’s try something different.” She jabbed the blade into her finger. The cut opened, filling with blood—and closed, flesh binding with flesh, leaving no scar.

  “Please don’t try breaking any bones,” Gaynor begged. “I’ve never been into self-abuse, even if it’s someone else.”

  “I don’t think I could,” said Fern. “It may heal straight after, but I feel pain first.”

  They were still discussing the implications of their discovery when a glance at the clock showed a startled Gaynor that it was past three. “Stay over,” Fern suggested. “You left your washcloth behind anyway, and I think the Body Shop night cream must be yours.”

  Gaynor was already in bed when Fern appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the light beyond. Gaynor could not see her face clearly, but she was somehow aware that it had changed. “If the river healed my hand,” Fern said, “supposing—supposing it healed Morgus?”

  “She was dead,” Gaynor insisted. “You said she was dead.”

  “She was alive when she crawled to the river and threw herself in. I never saw the body. I should have thought of it before. She knew the power of the river: that’s why she did it. And if it worked—if it healed her—then she must be invulnerable now, mustn’t she? Completely invulnerable. Invincible.”

  “We don’t know,” said Gaynor unhappily.

  “No, we don’t,” Fern agreed. “It’s late, we’re tired, this may be only a brainstorm. In the morning everything will look different . . .”

  “I hope so,” Gaynor said.

  In the morning it was a gray, ordinary sort of day, the kind of day on which it is difficult to believe in witches and dark sorcery and impossible to believe in summer. But Fern had seen many such days and she was not to be deceived, even in the heart of London: she could sense the evil moving under the skin of the city. She left Gaynor with assurances that she would tell her everything and went to work, trying to focus on the forthcoming magazine launch, and failing. Lucas rang just before lunch, saying could she come to the clinic that evening. The assumption that her time was his annoyed her, but instinct told her she was being petty so she agreed.

  “She’s in love,” opined a colleague, watching her through a glass partition. “She has all the symptoms: abstraction, absent-mindedness, personal calls from unknown men . . .”

  “She doesn’t have a glow of happiness,” said a PA.

  “Happiness? What’s that got to do with love? You poor innocent girl . . .”

  Fern, oblivious to the speculation she aroused, retouched her makeup before leaving the office and took a taxi to the Queen Square clinic. Lucas was waiting for her in reception. She registered privately that he was definitely attractive, or might be if he smiled. He did not smile. He said hello, thanked her for coming, and suggested: “Call me Luc,” when she greeted him formally. L-U-C, he explained, like the French. Poser, she decided. They went up in an elev
ator, passed an office where a male nurse nodded a greeting, and walked the length of a corridor to a private room with an impeccable display of flowers and the customary array of life support systems. There was a view over the square, a white glimpse of sky atop the buildings. The obligatory water jug was untouched, the bed linen drawn up smoothly under the sleeper’s arms. Fern found herself thinking: This is how my family felt, when it was me. This is what they saw. She had seen herself in dream or vision, when her spirit was far away, and it seemed to her this girl’s face was the same, pale and empty, a wax mask framed in the dark shadows of her hair. She was sure now, if she had ever doubted, that Dana Walgrim’s soul had been stolen, torn from its fleshly home and sent who knew where. But there was one difference that struck her disagreeably. Fern knew she had been watched over, protected—by onetime wizard and present tramp Ragginbone, by her father, her brother, her friend; by the local vicar and his wife. Her vacant body had been constantly guarded and cared for. Yet Dana seemed to have only her brother and the nurses. The flowers had been professionally arranged. There was nothing personal in the room, nothing disordered. No one had sat on the bed or moved the chairs all day. “Where are the rest of your family?” Fern asked. “Surely there should be people here—relatives, friends?”

  “She didn’t have any real friends,” Luc said, not noticing the insidious past tense. “My father comes now and then. His helplessness distresses him.”

  “Yes,” said Fern ambiguously. “It is distressing.”

  “Her best friend went to Australia about a year ago.”

  “Call her,” said Fern. “Fly her over here. You can afford it.” A statement, not a question. “It’s important for her to know that she’s loved, that people want her back.”

  “Do you think she can see—?”

  “Maybe.” She remembered the Atlantean veil that Gaynor had knotted round her shoulders, a scarf of protection. Dana could have no such thing, but there were other possibilities. “Does she still have a special toy from when she was a child—a favorite teddy or something?”

  “I never thought of that.” Luc frowned. “Stupid of me. There was a teddy bear that used to belong to my grandmother; it was called William—never Bill, always William, I don’t know why. One of its ears fell off and the au pair sewed it on again the wrong way around. I suspect it’s an antique, probably worth a fortune in today’s market. Dana might still have it. I’ll go over to her flat later.”