Pure Dead Magic

by Debi Gliori

  Marie Bain brightened slightly and lifted the lid on seven leathery haddocks. “Ees smocked hiccup, the Signora’s favoreet,” she said, prodding the pallid fish, as if to check that she had, indeed, succeeded in murdering them.

  At the kitchen door, Signora Strega-Borgia looked at her son, put her finger to her lips, and drew him back into the corridor. “Shhh. Don’t say a word. Just find Pandora and Damp, and tell them it’s suppertime.”

  “But I hate haddock and sprouts,” moaned Titus.

  “Bring your sisters and I’ll see you in the dining room in ten minutes.”

  “I shan’t eat it,” warned Titus as his mother rolled up her sleeves and strode into the kitchen.

  Marie Bain placed the last plateful in front of Damp. Damp took one look at what was in front of her and opened her mouth to howl.

  “How lovely, Marie,” said Signora Strega-Borgia. She unfurled her napkin and tied it under Damp’s chin. “My favorite, smocked hiccup.…”

  “And ees also bottled sprats,” added the cook, helpfully identifying the pile of swamp greens attacking the hiccup.

  “I’m sure we shall all dine like kings,” lied Signora Strega-Borgia. “Thank you, Marie. Please don’t wait up for us, we’ll clear our own dishes tonight.”

  Marie Bain, wreathed in smiles, departed for the kitchen, leaving Mrs. McLachlan and the family to the privacy of the dining room.

  “I’d rather starve than eat this,” said Pandora, glaring at her plate.

  “I did try, dear,” said Mrs. McLachlan, “but Marie Bain is so sensitive to any criticism.…”

  “Tell me about it,” agreed Titus. “If we leave anything on our plates, she’ll go into a sulk for days.”

  “I have a surprise for you all,” announced Signora Strega-Borgia, producing a slim metal rod from beneath the table. “I learned some new spells at the Institute this week—nothing too adventurous, just Level Two Shrinking, Advanced Enlarging, and a smattering of Transformation.”

  “You first, Titus,” she said, sliding his plate toward herself. Her wand described several circles around the plate, at first, slow and deliberate, and then as she gained confidence, faster and faster, until the tip of the wand became a blur of light. The unwanted plateful began to fade, as if all its color was being drained away, until it looked like a black-and-white line drawing of a plate with blobs of food on it. The candles in the middle of the table flickered as Signora Strega-Borgia used her wand as an eraser, and bit by bit, rubbed out the inedible dinner.

  “Wow!” gasped Pandora, looking meaningfully at her brother. “I wish I could do that.”

  “Mum, that’s really cool, but …,” said Titus.

  “Ow!” yelled Signora Strega-Borgia, dropping the wand onto the tablecloth. “The beastly thing keeps on overheating.” She plucked the wand from the smoldering tablecloth and plunged it into a nearby wine bottle, where it bubbled and spat for a moment before subsiding with a small eruption of steam. “Pretty neat, huh?” she said in triumph. “Who’s next?”

  “Mum.” Titus clutched his stomach. “I’m starving.”

  “Ah,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, decanting the wand from the wine bottle. “I’m not very adept at the next bit—we did do a spot of fizzy-water-into-claret and princes-into-frogs stuff—let’s see if I can remember …”

  Mrs. McLachlan and the family watched in amazement as Signora Strega-Borgia used her wand to draw lines of light on the tablecloth. The lines began to describe the shape of a large pudding bowl full of something. Damp’s eyes grew wide. Signora Strega-Borgia’s wand was behaving like a paintbrush, filling color in between the lines.

  “Very nice, dear,” said Mrs. McLachlan approvingly. “Lemon meringue pie and mint ice cream, by the look of it?”

  A puff of smoke came from the end of the wand, and with a small wheeze, it flopped, dangling from its owner’s hand like a dead eel. “Blast this thing,” muttered Signora Strega-Borgia, trying to make the wand stand up straight. The wand curled up like a pretzel and gave out a dying rattle.

  Meanwhile, Titus dug his spoon into his ice cream and scooped a huge spoonful into his mouth. “Blaaark,” he spat. “Brussels sprout ice cream!”

  Damp’s bottom lip popped out and began to quiver.

  Titus approached the pie with extreme caution, dissecting a minute sliver and gingerly placing it on his tongue.

  “Well?” asked Pandora, enjoying the delightful spectacle of her brother gagging into his napkin. “Do tell?”

  Titus grabbed his water glass and rinsed his mouth thoroughly. “Haddock and potato meringue pie,” he groaned.

  Mrs. McLachlan rose to her feet, piled up the unwanted plates, and scraped the leftovers into an ornamental potpourri bowl.

  “How are you going to hide that lot from Marie Bain?” asked Pandora.

  Mrs. McLachlan poked her head round the door to the hall and called, “Kno-ot … Ffu-u-up … Sab … Din-dins!”

  The approaching thunder of yeti pad, dragon claw, and griffin toe was punctuated by a crash and a crescendo of shrieks from Marie Bain.

  “Coast’s clear,” announced Mrs. McLachlan, heading out the door with the bowl of leftovers. “Anyone for fries?”

  The Night Outside …

  Signora Strega-Borgia was walking the pets before bedtime. Tock waddled happily alongside his beloved mistress, Ffup and Sab flew overhead, and Knot lagged behind, occasionally rolling in dirt and sniffing in puddles.

  Signora Strega-Borgia swung their leashes and inhaled the night air. “Just a bit farther,” she said, “and then we must go home to our beds.… Sab and Ffup, you haven’t gone yet, have you?”

  Two spectacular crashes in the bushes, followed by a spreading smell, informed her that the griffin and the dragon had performed obediently.

  “Good boys,” she said encouragingly. “But, oh dear, those dinner leftovers didn’t agree with you, did they?”

  Knot belched loudly from behind a flowering shrub. Its white flowers wilted slightly, and Tock stopped in his tracks, covered his nose with his claws, and honked piteously.

  In the distance, an owl hooted. Knot listened intently and began to drool. “Not now, Knot. You’ve been fed,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, stopping by the edge of the duck pond to shake a stone free of her shoe.

  Tock sighed. It had been a few weeks since he’d sunk his teeth into a decent nanny, and although it was too dark to see the ducks, he could smell them. He opened his jaws with a creak and dipped an experimental claw into the water.… Signora Strega-Borgia sneezed explosively. At once, five startled ducks took flight and a lovelorn toad fell backward off his lily pad and sank into the darkness of the pond. Tock closed his jaws with a disappointed honk.

  “Blast it,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, sneezing again. Tock gazed at his mistress in alarm as she rooted around in her pockets, hunting for something to wipe her nose with.

  “Aaaachoo! Not again. Oh, where are my tissues? Aaaachoo! Oh dear … Knot? Knot, come here, pet.”

  The yeti obediently shuffled closer until he stood beside Signora Strega-Borgia. She took one of his matted and hairy arms, brought it up to her face, and delicately wiped her nose with it.

  “Better. Thanks, Knot, but stay close till we’re home, I might need you again. Aaachoo!” Sneezing fitfully, Signora Strega-Borgia headed for home. The StregaSchloss lay before her, tucked snugly into a fold of land that tapered off into the sea loch. Faraway lights glimmered across the water. The distant puttering of a lobster boat putting out to sea and the leathery flap of Sab and Ffup wheeling around overhead were the only sounds disturbing the silence. StregaSchloss looked like a ship at sea.

  Unfortunately, a captainless ship, thought Signora Strega-Borgia, blinking rapidly to forestall the inevitable tears that came when her thoughts turned to her missing husband. Captainless, but not adrift, she reminded herself. Sailing with Mrs. McLachlan firmly at the helm. For the umpteenth time, Signora Strega-Borgia gave silent thanks for the good fortune that had b
rought dear, sensible Nanny McLachlan to StregaSchloss.

  Her home beckoned, its dark mass dotted here and there with lights shining from windows, magically afloat in a night garden.

  “Aaachoo!” sneezed Signora Strega-Borgia, breaking the spell.

  Wordlessly, Knot extended an arm.

  … And the Night Within

  I’m only doing this because I’m desperate, thought Pandora, tiptoeing into her mother’s bedroom. The room was in darkness, but she could just about make out the shape of Signora Strega-Borgia’s briefcase on top of her bed. I wouldn’t do this normally, you understand, continued Pandora, undoing the buckles and pressing open the latch. Raising the lid, she opened the briefcase and gazed inside.

  On first glance, the contents were disappointing. Ordinary, even. One half-eaten chicken sandwich plus crumpled cookie wrapper, one pocket calculator, a small cell phone, a packet of assorted wands (with seven left in the pack), and one two-ring binder. What, no toads? thought Pandora. No vials and potions? Not even a Collapsa Cauldron or some dehydrated Eye of Newt? She picked out the packet of disposable wands and put three in her pajama pocket. In the darkness, she failed to notice the small print on one wand that proclaimed it to be a Contrawand—reverses spells, undoes charms, and nixes hexes, and in even smaller print: The manufacturers recommend six (6) uses only before safe disposal as hazardous magical waste.

  Intrigued by the two-ring binder, Pandora found it to be full of page upon page of her mother’s handwriting. Hmm, thought Pandora, this looks promising.… She meditatively ate the remainder of the chicken sandwich, reading by the dim light from the open doorway, and after a couple of pages, found what she was looking for. It read:

  Downstairs, the front door opened and Pandora heard her mother’s voice calling the pets to order. A honk and a splash from the moat signified Tock’s bedtime and the sound of footsteps and rattling chains meant that Signora Strega-Borgia was leading Sab, Ffup, and Knot back to the dungeon. That gave Pandora about two minutes to leave the bedroom exactly as she had found it.

  Stuffing everything back into the briefcase, she carefully removed three relevant pages of spells from the two-ring binder, wedged them under her pajama top, and replaced the binder in the briefcase. She had just enough time to press the latch closed, buckle the straps, and hurl the briefcase back on the bed before she heard her mother sneezing her way back up from the dungeon.

  Pandora slipped away along the corridor and up one flight of steps to her own bedroom. Judging by the lack of light from under Titus’s door, he had fallen asleep, happy in the knowledge that his sister was one day closer to her swim with Tock. “Just you wait, Titus,” she muttered, pulling the quilt over her head and turning on her flashlight. “First I’ll get to grips with these wands, and then … you’re toast.” She removed the sheets of spells from under her pajama top and began to commit them to memory.

  The Schloss slept, the heavy air full of dreams, the gentle lapping of waves on the shore forming a tidal rhythm to doze by. Deep in her polar night, Strega-Nonna dreamt of igloos and ice. Her freezer bed hummed and clicked, powered by a thin cable that snaked between the sleeper and the wall socket. The cable trailed across several yards of floor, dipping for half its length into a yellow puddle. This puddle consisted of fluids that had oozed out from Pandora’s neglected pile of fish sticks, profiteroles, and ice cream. At first it was a rather nasty combination of fish drip, chocolate and cream leak, and banana, mint-chocolate-chip, and strawberry ooze. That had been fourteen hours ago.

  In the gentle warmth of the cellar, the puddle now could be safely described as a biological hazard. Bacteria formed, grew, reached adulthood, had babies, and became grandparents. Teeming millions fed on the puddle, came back for second helpings, belched microscopically, and, due to the richness of the feast, passed large quantities of noxious gases. The puddle bubbled and heaved like a small swamp. The puddle stank. To Multitudina, who had missed bacon rind breakfast, the puddle was the nearest thing to heaven that she’d ever smelled.

  Oh YES, she thought, running at it at full tilt. Oh YES, oh YES, she continued, rolling up her top lip to expose her long yellow teeth. Mmmhmmm, sweet fishy rancidness, mmhmm, sour cheesy putrefaction, mmHMMM, taste that decay, mmHmMM? Rubbery chewiness? … BANG! Uh-oh … FLASSSSH.

  Those fireworks were quite unnecessary, thought Multitudina, rubbing her burnt nose and assessing herself for whisker loss. Good food doesn’t need that kind of embellishment. Squeaking with outrage, she bolted out of the cellar and scuttled upstairs to her refuge under Titus’s bed.

  The freezer, in the silent way of such things, began to adapt to life as a large box. The thaw had begun.

  Magic for Beginners

  Morning dawned, wet and gray at StregaSchloss. Rain pitted the surface of the moat like a bad case of acne, and Tock sulked under a water lily thicket. Puddles formed, gutters ran, and windows misted up inside. The dungeons tended to seep and drip in bad weather, and out of pity, Mrs. McLachlan had allowed Sab, Ffup, and Knot into the kitchen to dry off. By the range, Marie Bain was stirring a pot of volcanic porridge, her yellow feet incongruously clad in fluffy pink slippers adorned with little bunnies. Mouth pursed and eyes grimly slitted, she was trying to ignore Knot, who gazed fixedly at the cook’s feet and hoped against hope that she was wearing his breakfast.

  Titus sat opposite the beasts, sneezing occasionally and steadily working his way through the healthy part of breakfast in the hope of reaching the unhealthy part before his jaws collapsed from exhaustion.

  “More muesli, dear?”

  “Nnnng,” he replied, chewing heroically.

  When Mrs. McLachlan turned her back on him to assess the status of her baking raspberry muffins, Titus slid his muesli bowl over to Ffup.

  The dragon glared at him. “Forget it, pal,” he hissed, pushing it back to Titus with a disdainful talon. “After last night’s offering, I’m never going to eat your leftovers again.”

  Titus raised a hopeful eyebrow at Sab. The griffin’s eyeballs immediately turned to stone. Titus sighed. Knot was oblivious to everything but Marie Bain’s feet, encased as they were in such delicious pink fluffiness.… With another deep sigh, Titus began his fortieth spoonful of muesli.

  Upstairs, Pandora was examining the plunder from her mother’s briefcase.

  “With this kind of spell, I could shrink you as small as a bug,” muttered Pandora, conducting an imaginary conversation with her absent brother. “And squash you so flat that your insides would come out with a splat.…”

  One and three-quarter Disposawands later, Pandora was getting the hang of magic. At first light, she’d crept out of bed, re-read the relevant instructions in the papers from the ring binder, and selected her first victim. Dangling from its hanger, adorned with layers of frills, lace, and petticoats, was her most hated dress. Cause of many wardrobe wars, the dress had perversely survived each and every one of Pandora’s attempts to destroy it. “But this time …,” she gloated, circling it with one of her purloined wands, “this time …”

  The lace on the collar lifted and stirred in the breeze caused by Pandora’s passes with the wand. With a tiny metal clatter, it fell, complete with tiny metal hanger, onto the floor at her feet. Diminishing afterimages faded in its wake—identical dresses for eight-, seven-, six-, five-, four-, three-, two-, Damp-year-olds, babies, and newborns, each one smaller than the next, each one fading slowly away until, with a gasp, Pandora picked up the smallest version from the floor. “When I find Multitudina’s babies, this will be just perfect for one of them,” she said, holding the tiny thing in the palm of her hand.

  Several hours later, Pandora’s room had undergone a radical transformation. From the curtain poles hung two pocket-handkerchief-sized curtains. A miniature library of books the size of postage stamps huddled forlornly at the end of a large bookcase, lost in the vast space that now surrounded them. Pandora’s wardrobe had become her new jewelry box and the bedroom floor was dotted with thumbnail
-sized teddies and dolls. There had been a few casualties along the way—where she was going to sleep might present a problem since her bed was now the size of a matchbox, and CDs the size of pinheads were frankly useless, but Pandora was feeling triumphant.

  “Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” she said. “Now for something trickier.” She flung herself onto her bed, forgetting that it had been an early casualty of the learning process. There was a tiny crunch from beneath her leg. “First thing I’ll try is matchsticks into mattresses,” she muttered, picking out the splinters.

  A Little Family History

  Luciano Strega-Borgia breakfasted alone. He sat flanked by coffeepots, little dishes of apricot jam, platters of prosciutto, and enough croissants to feed a small army. However, the fact remained that his left ankle was chained to the table, and next to his plate was a document requiring his signature. Gazing out at the cypresses mirrored in the lake, he wondered if he’d ever see his wife and family again. His appetite deserted him as he remembered the morning he’d stormed out of StregaSchloss, all those weeks ago.…

  It had started with bickering at breakfast.

  He’d come downstairs to the kitchen where his family was eating breakfast. The table was already awash with milk. Damp was grizzling and Titus and Pandora were looking particularly glum. At the head of the table, his wife of many years, the beautiful Signora Strega-Borgia, sat with her head buried in the local paper. At the range, wearing a particularly black scowl, Marie Bain stood murdering a panful of scrambled eggs.

  On seeing her father, Damp threw her hands in the air, sending her cereal bowl skidding off the table and across the floor. She bounced up and down in her clip-on baby seat, causing everything on the table to bounce up and down in tandem. Coffee and orange juice slopped out of cups and glasses. Cereal boxes toppled over and spilled their contents.