The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  “Fast,” Marcus said with grim determination, and Glee whinnied in agreement.

  “That’s the boy. Me, I’m off to the crones. Catch you later!” And Marlon was away before Marcus could ask him any more questions.

  It was ten minutes later that Glee cast a shoe. Marcus, boiling with frustration, had no choice but to walk the pony to the one-and-only blacksmith in Gorebreath.

  The one-and-only blacksmith was a slow and solid man, and no entreaties, offers of bribes, or royal promises could make him move any faster than he was used to moving. “You’ll have yer pony when he’s ready,” he announced. “There’s coals to fetch, and the fire to make, and the bellows to blow, and the iron to heat —”

  “I’ll fetch the coals,” Marcus said, but the smith shook his head.

  “There’s ways and ways of doing things,” he said. “And my ways is the ways I like.” He paused to rest on his shovel. “And I expect your ways is the ways that you like too. There’s many a passerby who tells me that.”

  Marcus agreed and hastily said he was going for a walk before the smith could expound any more of his rustic homespun philosophy. By the time he got back, at least the fire was blazing, but he was forced to sit by the smithy door until the sun sank and the evening drew in.

  It was almost dark by the time the blacksmith finally finished, and Marcus was aware that the first stars were already twinkling. “There you be,” the blacksmith said at last, and Marcus threw himself into the saddle.

  It’ll be really, really late by the time I get to the orphanage, he thought. Will Alf still be waiting? What if Marlon’s right, and he and Gubble have done something stupid? And with hideous visions of Gubble hung in chains while Alf squeaked helplessly nearby, Marcus set off through the streets of Gorebreath at a reckless gallop.

  Gracie was also watching the stars, through the dusty windows of Buckleup Brandersby’s office; Buckleup was striding to and fro, his face purple with anger. The note lay on the table, and Gracie was trying to look innocent. Much to her relief, Letty had been sent off to the dormitories with nothing more than a stinging slap.

  “So who’s this Marcus, then?” the orphanage keep­er asked for the tenth time.

  Gracie said nothing.

  Buckleup tried a different approach. “Trying to get out of here, are you, Gracie Gillypot?”

  “If you please,” Gracie said politely, “you told me I was Loobly Higgins, and I wasn’t to forget it.”

  “Don’t you try and be clever with me, miss!” Buckleup stared at her with bloodshot eyes. He knew it was Gracie who had written the note, but there was something about her clear-eyed gaze that was making him feel uncomfortable. Loobly had had the same effect on him; he was able to bluster and threaten, but he hesitated to use brute force. “I’ll teach you to be fresh, young lady. You’ll stay in the washhouse tonight, and every night afterward, until you’ve learned not to answer back.”

  Gracie dipped a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

  “Right!” Buckleup jangled the keys on his belt and strode toward the door, pushing Gracie in front of him. “Let’s see how you like it down there in the cold and the dark when there’s no one around to keep you company.”

  Gracie didn’t answer. It wasn’t until the huge wooden door had slammed behind her and the key had clicked in the lock that she finally took a deep breath. The washhouse was silent now, and a chilly dampness filled the air. Gracie shivered as she looked around.

  “I’m not going to cry,” she told herself. “Maybe this is all for the best; at least I’m on my own.” She studied the windows, wondering if any of the rusty bars could be loosened, but they were much too deeply embedded in the solid stone walls. She pushed at the door to the drying yard, but that was locked as well as bolted.

  So what do I do now? she asked herself. I can’t find a way out, so . . . so maybe I’d better get some sleep. Things’ll look better in the morning — at least, I hope they will. They can’t look any worse. A thought struck her, and she smiled to herself. Actually, they could be a whole lot worse — imagine if I was back living in Fracture with a horrible stepfather and being shut in a totally black cellar every night. Gracie began to feel almost cheerful. And Gubble will be looking for me.

  She yawned again and found her way to a pile of socks that were already washed and dried. Curling up among them, she did her best to think of glowing fires, and mugs of hot chocolate, and warm, cozy blankets, until she forgot about the cold stone floors and walls and drifted off to sleep.

  Alf, tapping gently on the window an hour or so later, was unable to wake her. “Just like in the stories,” he told himself with a romantic sigh. “Sleeping while she waits to be rescued.” He flitted off to encour­age Gubble, who had stopped some way down the road.

  “Hurry up,” Alf called, but Gubble held up a hand.

  “Horse,” he said. “Horse coming fast!”

  Gubble was right. Seconds later Glee came galloping toward them.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Marcus said as he slid from his panting pony. “Is she OK?”

  Alf waved a wing at Gubble. “Only just got here ourselves,” he said. “That troll takes his time. And she’s asleep.” He looked hopefully at Marcus. “You could wake her with a kiss.”

  Marcus looked horrified. “I’d frighten her to death,” he said. “Besides . . .” he pointed to the looming bulk of the orphanage, hideous even when painted silver by the moon. “We’re supposed to be getting her out, not getting us in.”

  “She won’t wake up,” Alf told him. “I knocked on the window, but she didn’t hear me.”

  “I could chuck something at it and break the glass,” Marcus suggested, then shook his head. “Silly suggestion. Too noisy. Sorry. Guess I’m tired.”

  Gubble suddenly sat down. “Gubble sleep,” he announced, and closed his eyes.

  “Oh, no!” Marcus said, but Alf flew an excited circle.

  “I know! You could both sleep,” he squeaked. “I’m like Uncle Marlon. I’m good at night. You sleep, and I’ll keep watch!”

  Marcus yawned. “If you’re sure . . . but wake us the minute Gracie wakes up.”

  Alf puffed himself up proudly. “Sure thing!” he said, and he flew to take up his position outside the washhouse window.

  A minute later, he too was fast asleep.

  The witches of Wadingburn were huddled together in a corner of the Wadingburn Palace dairy. In front of them were three old cheese parings, one moldy crust and a bacon rind that had definitely seen better days. Bodalisk had presented the meal to Evangeline with a flourish, and she had done her best to be grateful, but it was difficult.

  Truda Hangnail took one look at the meager offerings and snapped her fingers. She started to grow upward and outward, and Brother Bodalisk, sitting on the cold stone floor beside Evangeline, squeaked in horrified astonishment. Truda ignored him and began to help herself from the dishes of cream and freshly churned butter and plates of rich yellow cheese that were laid out in rows on the dairy shelves.

  “This is the stuff for queens,” she said with relish.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Ms. Scurrilous objected, “that hardly seems fair. Could you pass us a little cheese?”

  “I do mind,” Truda snarled, and pointed a bony finger.

  Ms. Scurrilous said no more. Her ears were itching unbearably.

  “This time tomorrow, the princesses will be arriving,” Truda gloated as she continued eating, “along with the queens and kings and all . . . and won’t they be in for a surprise!” She helped herself to more cream. “And once I’m given that crown, the Deep Magic’ll flow . . . flow and flow . . . and grow and grow.” She snapped her fingers a second time, and a flurry of purple sparks shot up into the air. A second later they were tiny purple wasps buzzing around and around the dairy.

  Malice, who had been sulking ever since he was shrunk, opened one wicked eye to watch as Mrs. Prag and Mrs. Vibble scurried under a stool.

  “See?” Truda cackled in
triumph. “Be very, very careful, my little witchy friends. And now I’m off to sleep, and a future queen doesn’t sleep on the cold stone floors of a dairy.” She cracked her knuckles and peered out the dairy window. “There’s a hayloft above the stables. That’ll do for now. Where’s my granddaughter?”

  “Here, Grandma!” Mrs. Cringe stepped forward eagerly.

  “You come with me. I’ll need messages run in the morning. As for the rest of you — don’t you go getting any fancy ideas!” And, pulling her black hood over her head, Truda slid out into the darkness, her tiny granddaughter scuttling behind her.

  “What about us?” Ms. Scurrilous called from the doorway, but there was no answer.

  “Got a cozy little nest under the churn,” Brother Bodalisk offered.

  The witches trailed after him, only to find that a cozy little nest for one was a bit too cozy when shared between four. There was a good deal of muttering and shoving before they settled down.

  “Shall I sing you a lullaby?” Bodalisk asked.

  “No,” snapped Mrs. Prag.

  “No, thank you,” said Evangeline, more kindly.

  “Okeydokey.” The rat waved and slipped away to see what was going on in the palace. It was late enough for most of the Large Ones to be in their rooms, and the cavernous kitchen was almost empty. Just one small kitchen maid was left struggling with the last of a heap of frying pans.

  Bodalisk eyed the obvious preparations for the next day’s party with interest; there would be good pickings afterward. There was an enormous birthday cake covered all over with blue and silver icing on one table and a host of other smaller cakes on another. He was considering the chances of making off with a mouthful of fruitcake when a small voice said, “Ratty? Be you hungry?”

  Brother Bodalisk froze. How could she have seen him under the dresser?

  “Here you be, ratty, currants . . . currants for my dearly ratty. Be you better now?”

  There was a faint answering squeak but no sign of any currants appearing on the floor, and Bodalisk relaxed. There must be another rat. He peered out cautiously and saw that the skinny girl was gazing earnestly into the pocket of her oversize apron.

  “Weird,” he decided. “Still . . . if she likes rats . . .” He took a step forward.

  “Hello, more ratty,” Loobly said. “Don’t be frighted.”

  Bodalisk hesitated. There was nothing threatening about this girl; indeed, he felt as if he had walked into a patch of warm sunlight. He shook himself, and the lingering echo of Truda’s purple Evil drifted from his mind, leaving him feeling wonderfully clearheaded. “Hi,” he said, and bowed. “Brother Bodalisk. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Loobly,” said Loobly. “And is pleased to be meeting too.” She lifted a cover from a silver platter and took out a slice of fresh pink ham. “Here you be. Nicely for ratties.”

  “Wow!” Bodalisk said, and tucked it under his arm. “Thanks! Thanks very much!”

  “No eating?” Loobly asked in surprise.

  Bodalisk shook his head. “Got a lady friend,” he explained. “I . . . I’d like to share it with her.” He looked up at Loobly coyly. “Name of Evangeline Droop. Pretty name, ain’t it?”

  “Levangeline?” Loobly was wide-eyed. “But . . . is Auntie!” She shivered and crouched down by Bodalisk. “Listen, ratty. Listen to Loobly. Auntie Levangeline was magicked into littleness by badness. Bad badness . . . Loobly saw. Watch for badness, ratty. Is purple. Purple badness make things big and little and bad.” She shivered again and glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Where Auntie Levangeline now? Is with scary witchy woman?”

  Bodalisk, for the first time ever, was speechless. His eyes bulged as he stared at Loobly and took in what she was saying. It all made terrible sense: the purple mist that had cast a spell over the rats in the cellar, the way Truda had suddenly grown. . . . He swallowed. How had he not realized what was happening? He had known it was Deep Magic — hadn’t he told Evangeline and tried to protect her? But somehow it hadn’t seemed to matter very much — somehow he had gone along with Truda. Slowly Bodalisk realized that he too had been under Truda’s spell, and a sense of righteous indignation made his whiskers tremble. He sat up straight and folded his arms. “As it happens,” he said, “Evangeline’s in the dairy, and the witch is in the hayloft — but don’t you go out there. Could cause no end of trouble.”

  Loobly went very pale. “Must run away,” she said. “You run, ratty. Is terrible badness coming. . . .”

  “Hang on.” Bodalisk regretfully put down the piece of ham. “I’m off. Going to find out what’s going on, I am. Can’t have my babe messed around with by that old trout. She’s got a plan for tomorrow night; going to be queen, she reckons. You stay here.” And Bodalisk, still bristling with indignation, slid under the kitchen door and disappeared in the direction of the hayloft.

  Loobly looked up at the night sky. “Where be Mr. Marlon?” she asked. “Where be Alf? Where be crones? Oh, Loobly . . . bad Loobly. Should have gone to crones like Auntie Levangeline was asking.” She sighed, and a tear trickled down her face and dripped off her chin. “And where be my dearly Doily? Where be lovely Sprout?”

  It was well past midnight in the House of the Ancient Crones, and the Ancient One was studying the web of power over Elsie’s shoulder. The purple stain was intensifying and was in danger of spreading across the full width of the material.

  “And if that happens,” the Ancient One said, “all of the Five Kingdoms will be threatened.” She sighed and readjusted the cat on her head. “I’ll see how it looks in the morning.”

  There was a tap at the window, and she looked up to see Marlon grinning at her.

  “Marlon!” she said as she opened the window and let him in. “At last! Have you seen Gracie?”

  “No worries,” Marlon said, settling himself com­fortably upside down on the curtain rod. “She’s being rescued by the prince and the troll.”

  “Rescued?” Elsie stopped weaving for a moment. “Oh, Marlon! Did the Deep Magic get her?”

  Marlon shook his head. “She was popped into an orphanage, but I’ve sorted it out. Left Alf in charge.” He paused to smile proudly. “The lad done good. This time tomorrow, Gracie’ll be back here, safe and sound.”

  Room seventeen gave a convulsive shudder, and Marlon looked alarmed. “What’s that?”

  “The House is upset,” the Ancient One told him. “Marlon, have you seen any sign of Deep Magic?”

  The bat nodded. “I got Gracie well away,” he boasted. “Some dame was up on Wadingburn Hill last night; purple mist ’n’ all sorts. Threatening to take over as Queen of Wadingburn. Nasty piece of work. I came here to file a report; she’s got the witchy women running all over the place. Not that they’ll be any trouble. They’re rat-size. Flash of blue light, and a few minutes later, down they went. But she’s serious stuff.”

  He stopped. Both Edna and Elsie were staring at him. “Blue light?” they said together.

  “Sure thing.” Marlon was emphatic. “Blue all over.”

  “And Gracie was nowhere near,” the Ancient One said thoughtfully.

  Marlon shifted on the rod. “There was a kid hiding. Runaway orphan. The dame was after her, and the fat guy from the orphanage. Funny kid.” The bat modestly studied a claw. “Rescued her, too. Damsel in distress, see?”

  Elsie clapped her hands. “You’re a hero!”

  “Marlon,” the Ancient One asked, her one blue eye shining, “could this girl be a Trueheart?”

  “What?” Marlon considered for a moment. “Yup. Guess so.” He went on thinking. “There was trouble with the dogs; ran into a purple kinda spell. The kid was up above in the tree, and as soon as the witch tried something — bang! Blue light everywhere, and they were up and at ’em again.”

  Elsie nodded. “Definitely a Trueheart. No doubt about it.”

  “Marlon,” Edna said slowly, “I think there could be a way to defeat this witch . . . but I’ll need your help.”

  The
bat puffed out his furry chest. “No prob.”

  “I must ask you to be a hero for a second time.” Edna gave the web a quick glance. “I want you to bring this girl and Gracie together. Two Truehearts together make a powerful combination and can alter the path of Deep Magic so it does little or no harm.”

  “Cool,” Marlon said cheerfully. Room seventeen gave an immediate ripple, and he slid from one end of the rod to the other, flapping his wings indignantly. “Hey! What’s with the shaking?”

  “It’s a Trueheart House. It’s trying to send you on your way,” Elsie told him. “It’s a good sign, really. It means it thinks you can help.”

  The bat was still ruffled. “If you say so. And yup. I can get the kids together. But . . .” he paused. “That dame’s dangerous . . .”

  “And you’re worried about Gracie,” the Ancient One completed his thought. “I can’t promise she’ll be safe. Where Deep Magic’s concerned, nothing and nowhere is safe. Not even here. But I know Gracie would want to do all she could to help.”

  “Check. Me too.” Marlon stood at attention, but the effect was lost as he tried to hide a yawn and wobbled.

  “You’re tired.” Elsie nodded at him sympathetically. “We won’t expect you to fly all the way back, will we, Edna?”

  There was no time for an answer. Room seventeen gave another violent shake, and Marlon found himself tossed through the open window. A gust of wind caught him and sent him high in the air, only to drop him on the path that was snaking around and around the outside of the House.

  “Oi!” Marlon said, but already the path was off, carrying him with it at a breathless speed. Up the hill it raced, past bushes and bogs and in and out of trees, until the bat was so dizzy he was forced to shut his eyes. On and on they went, scooting through the Less Enchanted Forest and zooming through the Pretty Normal Forest until the path finally slithered down along the road that led to Wadingburn village. With a twist and a roll, it dropped its passenger in a heap with the sticks and pebbles and leaves it had gathered on its way, rippled a farewell, and vanished as speedily as it had come.