by Jen Storer
‘Oh!’ gasped Reafen. ‘Open the door, young fellow. Open it at once.’
‘I don’t know ...’ said Barney fearfully.
Reafen grunted as she tried to get off the couch.
‘Orright, orright,’ said Barney. ‘Stay there. I’ll do it ...’
He slipped aside the security chain and clicked the deadlock. He opened the door a fraction, his heart in his throat ...
‘My little lovelies!’ cried Reafen as two cats shot in through the door. ‘Oh, Vlad. Oh, Jarly.’ Reafen laughed as the cats leaped up onto her lap. ‘Do you bring me news? How was your adventure?’
The cats purred and rubbed their faces along Reafen’s chin.
‘I do love such glorious felines,’ Reafen cooed. ‘We have none in the Old Realm, you know. But we know of them and we have many in our stories and songs. See how they adore me! They look into my eyes and they know my heart is true. This is how we speak to one another.’
Barney flopped back in his chair, his hand on his heart. Cats! He’d nearly had a heart attack over a pair of mangy cats.
‘Where have you been?’ Reafen looked into their adoring faces. ‘What have you discovered? Anything of interest to poor, sad Reafen?’
The big cat, Vlad, had something in his mouth. He dropped it in Reafen’s lap. It was a gold cufflink.
‘Ha ha,’ laughed Reafen. ‘Just what I had hoped for.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Barney, frowning at the cufflink.
‘This fancy button,’ said Reafen, holding it up, ‘this sparkling, golden glitterbob belongs to Lynch.’
Barney’s eyes bulged.
‘For weeks I have kept that evil weasel from my premises with blocking enchantments. And yesterday afternoon,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I even took the liberty of placing one on the house next door ...’
Barney looked blank.
‘The children’s house,’ said Reafen.
Barney still looked puzzled.
‘I placed a blocking enchantment on the children’s house. Number eleven, Anchor Street,’ said Reafen. Goodness, did this fellow have a brain? And what were those awful drawings on his neck? They looked like prissy little bluebirds.
‘Oh. Right,’ said Barney, nodding. ‘Well done!’ he added.
‘Perhaps it was rude and pushy and presumptuous of me to do such a thing. The old magick is not always appreciated. People these days, people in this world, they prefer other magick to ward off intruders ... technology, I think they call it. Alarm bells and screeching buzzers and water whooshing from the ceilings ...’ Reafen shook her head at the very thought.
‘But what’s this got to do with the cats?’ asked Barney.
‘I told the felines to bring me a sign. “If Lynch fails tonight, bring me a sign,” I told them.’ She threw the cufflink in the air and laughed. ‘He did not get to them,’ she said. ‘Lynch did not harm them. I, Reafen, Defender of the Old Realm, am enormously pleased!’
Barney laughed. But just as quickly his smile dropped. ‘He’s still out there though, ain’t he?’ he said. ‘Still out there waitin’ for his chance. And as for that witch ...’
Reafen sighed and cuddled the cats to her face. They purred contentedly.
‘An old woman can only do so much from her sickbed,’ she said sadly.
‘Too right,’ said Barney. ‘And a fine job you’ve done too, Miss Reafen. Come on now, buck up.’
Reafen looked vaguely heartened.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Barney. And then he sneezed. He was allergic to cats.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
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Approaching Berkeley’s Shanty
Angus and the Donut Lady shared fresh apricots and ginger nut biscuits as they made their way down Anchor Street toward the beach. They did not stop by the Caravan of Delight, although both of them wondered how Reafen was doing. Was she well or had she taken a turn for the worse?
The wound on her arm is definitely noxious, thought the Donut Lady, definitely beyond the skills of decent, civilised medicine ... Although perhaps the tonic would help. The recipe was as old as the mountains and always effective.
They walked on single-mindedly, over the beach’s retaining wall and along the shoreline toward Breakwater Point. There were several joggers on the beach, a few of them regular customers at the Caravan of Delight. They eyed the Donut Lady suspiciously. What was she doing hurrying along the beach with a guitar case flung across her back and an anxious kid scoffing biscuits at her side? They were, by all standards, an odd pair. But then again, the carnival had been in town for weeks. Lately there were all sorts of odd bods and misfits hanging around, going about their business.
The unlikely pair barely spoke as they made their way across the rock pools, although both of them could see that the tide had turned. It was coming in quickly; there was little time to spare. They would have to hurry if they were to make it across the causeway to Berkeley’s Shanty before the sea rose and drowned all possibility of a clear passage. Once the water reached a certain level, there would be no access for at least another twelve hours.
Twelve hours, thought Angus. Would Martha even be there that long? And what of the Prof? Angus pictured him suspended in the veil, barely conscious.
The shore breeze was gusty and smelt vaguely of rotting crustaceans.
‘How will we get him out?’ said Angus, raising his voice as they began their climb across the boulders. The Donut Lady was remarkably agile, he noticed.
‘Who?’ she said.
‘The Prof,’ said Angus, hoisting himself up. ‘How will we get him out of the veil? Even if we manage to get Martha back, what about Dad?’
The Donut Lady clomped across the soggy sand, found a foothold in the next boulder, readjusted the guitar case and pulled herself up. ‘I have thought on this deeply,’ she said with a grunt. ‘And my answer is ... I do not know.’
Angus shook his head despairingly but continued climbing.
‘This is why we must get to Varla quickly,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘We must persuade her, bribe her, make her see reason. Either that or we must deal with her by some other means ...’
What other means? Angus wondered. He did not like the sound of that at all but chose to remain silent.
He thought about the swords, resting quietly in the old guitar case. He wondered at their strange properties. The way the large one glowed. The way it acted like a mirror. An enchanted mirror. Hanging across his body, the leather case holding the narrare felt hefty and uncomfortable. Angus ached with tiredness. But the sea breeze pummelled his face and the occasional blast of sea spray made his sluggish senses tingle.
Finally they jumped off the last of the rocks and down into the secluded cove — the cove Martha loved so much. Above them, along the cliff face, the goat track led up to Smugglers’ Hearth. Straight ahead, though not yet clearly visible, lay the scrubby island.
The morning was warming up. Thankfully the Donut Lady had brought water. They stopped for a drink then pushed on, keeping close to the sandstone cliff face, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. But these cliffs, this natural cover, would not last.
Before long, the view of the island was clearer. It was still a glimpse on the horizon but Angus felt dizzy with excitement — and dread. Martha was just over there. Martha was almost within reach. He had a sudden, sickening thought, something that had not occurred to him in his desperation to get moving, to actually get out of the house and do something.
‘Varla will see us coming,’ said Angus, stopping in his tracks. ‘Just beyond these cliffs, there’s nowhere to hide. She’ll see us wading across the causeway.’
‘Yes,’ said the Donut Lady slowly. She too came to a stop.
‘She’s expecting me, isn’t she?’ said Angus.
‘This is true,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘I have no doubt.’
‘But she’s not expecting you,’ he said.
‘No,’ said the Donut Lad
y suspiciously. ‘I do not suppose she is.’
Angus thought quickly. What chance did they have against this Varla? She had left Graini to die, she was holding his father hostage and now she had his sister in her clutches. Varla lived in a different world. And she played by different rules. Life was obviously cheap to her. It was a currency, something to be exchanged in return for knowledge, treasure and, most of all, power.
‘I have to go alone,’ he said abruptly.
‘But you cannot!’ said the Donut Lady, turning to him in dismay.
‘I’m going alone,’ said Angus and before she could reach out and haul him back, he set off. ‘I’ll distract her,’ he said quickly over his shoulder, ‘try to cajole her, try whatever I can, and in the meantime, while she’s occupied with me, you can come across unobserved. Ten minutes alone with her, that’s all I need. Besides, you can’t go barging in with that guitar case on your back. She’ll know in an instant that you’ve got weapons and then what? She’ll go straight into attack mode.’
The Donut Lady charged after him. ‘You are prepared to confront Varla unaccompanied and unarmed?’ she said incredulously.
‘Of course,’ said Angus without glancing at his companion. He feared his face would give him away, feared that she would see how scared he was. ‘It’s our only hope.’
‘It is a bad plan,’ said the Donut Lady, hitching up her hippy pants.
‘Precisely,’ said Angus. ‘But it’s the only one we’ve got.’
He slowed his pace. They were about to leave the cover of the cliffs and step out into the open. The sun was steadily climbing. Above them, gulls wheeled and squawked. The morning sun glittered on the blue sea.
The flat, wide causeway stretched out directly in front of them. The frothy water swished across the sand, surging rhythmically.
Angus bent to take off his runners. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
The Donut Lady found a large rock and sat down glumly. ‘I will remain out of sight,’ she said, resting the guitar case beside her. ‘Of that you can be certain.’
Angus hung his runners around his neck. The water that lapped across his feet was icy cold but he barely noticed.
He glanced back at the Donut Lady. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You know. For everything.’
The Donut Lady nodded.
Angus set off.
Deep in his pocket the Wishing Stones trembled.
The water ran deeper out in the middle of the causeway. It was almost knee-high and moving swiftly. Angus felt exposed and vulnerable. He wished he could somehow make himself smaller, less conspicuous. He kept the leather case with the narrare tucked behind his back and ploughed on. The causeway was also much wider once you were actually in it, once you were trying to cross it. With every step, the security of the familiar shoreline behind him dissipated. Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder. But he could see no sign of the Donut Lady. She had kept to her word.
The shack came into sharper focus. The walls and roof were made of splintered timber shingles, grey with weather and age and guano. Disused crab pots and discarded fishing nets were embedded in the scruffy sand dunes around the shack; fishing gear that had been there so long it seemed to have taken root, become part of the landscape.
Angus surveyed the shack reluctantly. He was almost scared that if he looked too closely, too blatantly, the shack itself might spring to life. What few windows there were had all been boarded up long ago. Except for the one facing the water — the one facing him. He imagined Varla’s eyes upon him now. He could almost feel her watching him, sense her peering out from behind that filthy window, her cold breath fogging the glass. Why would she have cold breath? he asked himself. Scientifically that makes no sense at all. He tried to calm himself with reason. Tried to distract himself with logic. But fear had its fingers wrapped around his heart. It was the kind of fear that could not be sidetracked.
He thought back to their time in the Vanishing Lady’s tent, that chilling, freaky, bewitched tent. There had been something reptilian about Varla, something that lacked all warmth. As he waded nearer to the island, he wondered what form she might have taken by now. ‘She has been weakened by her entry into the human world,’ the Donut Lady had said. ‘It was never her intention to come here in the flesh. But her greed made her impatient and foolish.’
Angus remembered staring in horror as Varla had burst through the floating mirror and into the carnival tent. She had definitely not intended to transform, to shape-shift. It was as much a shock to her as it had been to them. He’d seen the disbelief on her face. The rage and disgust as she lurched and writhed and those razor-sharp talons burst forth from her hands.
Did she have control over her form now? Or was this her weakness, her Achilles heel? His mind raced with possibilities.
As he left the causeway and walked up onto the tiny island, he forgot his tiredness. He could smell the salty wind swishing through the spinifex, hear gannets chittering overhead and nearby the soft peeping of a lonely storm-petrel as it hovered just above the water. He even glimpsed the white flash of its underwing.
All his senses sprang to life and were heightened. He slunk across the dirty beach, littered with washed-up kelp and dead jellyfish. At the rear of the shack, he quickly pulled on his runners and angled gingerly through an immense tangle of silver-green snowbushes and rampant blue devil — the ugly bracts had spikes as long and sharp as sewing needles.
There was no step at the back door, just a wooden crate. Breathing very fast, he stepped up silently and stood by the door.
On the other side, he could hear Martha.
She was singing.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
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Monkey business
Back on the mainland, Lynch oozed out from behind a cluster of rocks and brushed himself off. He had been following the boy since dawn. Lynch had watched Angus head out across the causeway, looking grim and determined, the beautiful, priceless narrare slung across his pathetic body. How disgusting to see something so sacred in the hands of a delinquent. But the delinquent, the boy, would lead Lynch to Varla. Varla! His darling, his dear one, his paramour. Lynch could almost sing at the thought.
Of course, he had planned to kill the boy and reclaim the narrare last night. He had fought valiantly to get into that house. But the way was barred. He’d even sent Regal, his monkey, up onto the roof. But the house had resisted the monkey too. This was old magick, finely honed, and it made Lynch wild with jealousy. Surely, when he finally brought the prize to Varla and she saw how devoted he was, she would teach him more, share even more of the ancient secrets. More of the magick. Perhaps even a taste of the Wild Magick. Together they could rule! His fingers, clammy with anticipation, clenched his walking cane.
The monkey sat on Lynch’s shoulder now, staring out after Angus, extending its head and baring its teeth without a sound. Its eyes shone with dread and its small hands, slashed and punctured with cat bites, trembled. Anyone with a shred of compassion could see that the monkey’s fighting days were over.
Lynch glanced back over his shoulder. That wretched food vendor, that ghastly Russian he had always despised, was nowhere to be seen. He had watched her bid the boy farewell and slip away. He was surprised the woman had deserted him at this late stage but she was cunning. Perhaps she knew the battle was lost. She had to know she was no match for Varla. Lynch smirked. No-one, in this world or any other, was a match for his beautiful Varla.
Lynch took off his shoes and socks and placed them neatly on the shore, well out of reach of the water. Then he rolled up his trousers and raised his walking cane.
‘Sit calmly now, Regal,’ he muttered to the monkey. ‘Keep your wits about you. Do exactly as I say.’
The little monkey shivered.
From her hiding place in the sea grass, the Donut Lady waited until Lynch waded into the shallows.
Then she raised her sword and crept up the beach behind him.
The terrified monkey saw her coming. It watched her for a moment and blinked passively. Then it turned its back and ignored her. The monkey felt a strong affection for people like the Donut Lady.
And it despised its master.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
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The beast
At the sound of Martha’s voice, joy and terror surged through Angus in equal measure. This was not what he had expected. Nothing could have prepared him for this.
He grabbed for the rusty door latch. The door swung open before he had barely touched it. Angus braced himself and walked inside.
The shack was stifling — hot and stuffy and murky. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He looked about quickly.
The small room was empty, save for an old iron bed frame and the remains of countless parties. Beneath his feet, the bare boards creaked wearily, threatening to cave in at any moment. Many of them already had.
He stepped lightly, drawn to the sound of Martha’s voice — she must be in the next room. She was singing some kind of lullaby in a haunting falsetto. It should have been soothing and ethereal. But it wasn’t. It was sinister. Angus felt his pulse hammering as he crept down a narrow hallway toward the sound.
A few paces ahead there was a door. It was slightly ajar.
‘Martha?’ he said as he pushed the door open. The singing stopped.
On the other side of the room, Martha sat on the floor with her back to him.
‘Martha!’ Angus flung himself across the room. ‘You’re okay!’ He threw his arms around his little sister and pulled her close.
‘Hello,’ she said in a detached voice.
Angus pulled back. He stared into his sister’s face. It really was true; she was alive!
Martha stared back at him. Her expression was vacant. In her hands she held a small willow flute and a couple of turban shells.