A Most Magical Girl

by Karen Foxlee

  Hafwen narrowed her eyes. “With the stars?” she asked.

  The way Hafwen said stars made the gooseflesh rise on Annabel’s arms.

  “But how did I take one from the sky?”

  “I didn’t see you take one, but I told you that I know where they are kept for just such a troll as you.”

  Hafwen looked terribly sad and guilty. She shook her head. “We should not look upon the sky,” she whispered. “Stay inside. Stay deep, they say. Eat the worms and marry; do not tarry. Tend your garden. Have a baby. But I go up to a place where there is grass, a field of it, and naught but the sky filled up with jewels shining.”

  “Yes, I saw it,” said Annabel. “And you shall have one if you come on an adventure with us.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” hissed Hafwen, and she closed up her face and the twinkle in her eye, turned toward the wall, and would talk to them no more.

  In another life, the life of two days ago, Annabel would have given up. She would have cried. She would have shouted, “I want to go home!” But there in that troll hole, the little torch flame flickering on the wall, she knew Hafwen was the answer to their predicament. It was a good thought and it made her feel buoyant, like a kite being tugged on a breeze. Kitty looked at her, not with a frown but encouragingly. The kite tugged even harder.

  Aunty called out as Erta and Marta stumbled back in through the doorway.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten stones and worms.”

  Erta and Marta carried a large black pot filled with river water and night vegetables.

  “And I hope you have enough water!” shouted Aunty again from her room. “There are two for the pot. Is Halfwen still watching them?”

  “She is sulking in the corner with them,” said Erta, and she pinched Annabel on the arm. “Poor miserable Hafwen,” said Marta, and then off they went to collect worms and river stones.

  Annabel knew that Hafwen was the least miserable of them all. Of Erta and Marta and Aunty and all the trolls in Trollingdom. They had had the good fortune of finding a troll with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Say you’ll help us. Come on adventures with us,” said Annabel as soon as Erta and Marta had gone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” hissed Hafwen, but she had lowered her voice so Aunty could not hear.

  “We will find the Morever Wand and then go back up to London, and we will find you a star.”

  Hafwen stared down at the dirty palms of her fat, hairy hands. Her little dark beard twitched on her chin. Annabel watched her. It seemed impossible that in that creature crouched there, smelling of rotten onion, with lank, greasy hair, there was something small and shining inside. But Annabel could sense it. Hafwen’s wonderment.

  “Sometimes,” Hafwen whispered, “when I am up upon the earth, the grasses sing. The trees—they sing, too, and their breath is all filled up with green. The night is very clean. Why is the night like that, so singing and clean that it puts a spell on you?”

  “I don’t know,” whispered Annabel. “But that night is your destiny, Hafwen. Come with us.”

  But Hafwen did not answer. She only stared at her dirty troll hands, thinking, until Erta and Marta came back. When they did return, they had everything that was required. Aunty shouted orders from her nest. The fire was lit in the corner, and the room filled up with smoke. Annabel and Kitty began to cough, but the trolls didn’t seem to notice at all. The pot was put on the fire and filled with the river stones.

  “You must put the magic skinny in first!” shouted Aunty. “She will flavor the water.”

  “You won’t be putting me in a pot,” cried Kitty.

  Erta had the Ondona and she was pointing it at Kitty, pretending to do magic. “It doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Give it to Marta!” bellowed Marta, and she grabbed the wand and pointed it at Kitty, and when it did nothing, she laughed and threw it onto the fire.

  “No!” cried Annabel as the wand disappeared in the flame. Her great-aunts’ wand! The ancient Ondona. She bent over double with the shock of it. Oh, Miss Henrietta would be very cross indeed.

  But what did it matter? They were done for. There was no point. It was the end, she thought, when Hafwen leaned a little toward her and whispered, “Tell me?”

  There was the clanging and clamor of pots in the room and a blast of heat as the flame grew.

  “Tell you what, Hafwen?” whispered Annabel.

  “Would I keep my star in a box?”

  “Yes,” whispered Annabel.

  Then Erta and Marta were upon them, shoving them this way and that. Annabel saw Kitty being dragged toward the pot, terror on her little pale face. She saw Hafwen, too, with her arm upon Kitty, pulling her and prodding her, and she was certain that the troll had only been tricking her, that she’d never meant to help them, when she heard the hiss of water on flame and made out Hafwen’s shape beside the pot, before steam engulfed the room.

  “Hafwen?” cried Marta, and there was a terrible screech and then the thud of Marta hitting the ground.

  “Hafwen?” cried Erta, and a similar thud followed.

  Annabel felt hands upon her then, rough hands, untying her rope. She felt for Kitty and found her and never was so relieved to hold such a wild person’s hand.

  “Now, humanling children from London Above,” came Hafwen’s voice, very close to her ear. “We must not tarry. We must run.”

  Annabel grabbed her broomstick from beside the door, and it pulsed in her hand as they bumped and knocked and tripped their way out of the troll hole. The cave shook and dirt rained as Aunty heaved herself up out of her nest to chase them.

  Mr. Angel stood on the doorstep of a Bloomsbury mansion and listened to the movements inside. The faded witches, in their ancient, tattered dresses, called to each other softly from room to room. They whispered to each other in the great dusty house, the furniture covered over, their broomsticks in wardrobes, their days of great and wonderful magic quite behind them. The shadowlings pressed their dark faces to each and every window.

  “He has arrived, Matilda.”

  “He is at the door, Esmeralda.”

  “He waits, Lady Pansofia.”

  “We will do as the wizards say. Our only hope is the most magical girl.”

  Lady Pansofia took the Delilah and opened the door. Mr. Angel bowed most courteously. He pointed the Black Wand at them and smiled.

  Not long after, the Kentish Town Wizards, stooped and bent, once filled with wild magic, gave him the Kyle. Mr. Angel took it and nodded to them politely, then let his shadowlings sniff at them so that they knew great fear.

  Mr. Huxley in Hampstead, with gorse prickles still matted in his fur and his paws still wet with dew, growled and snarled but dropped his wand. Mr. Angel picked up the Little Bear and laughed at its lightness and all the sunny afternoons that would be no more.

  His last visit was to Mr. Hamble in Stepney. Mr. Hamble lifted the Old Silver from his mantelpiece and laid it down before the younger wizard. Mr. Angel sighed.

  He had been very patient.

  Everyone had done his bidding.

  He had tolerated their terrified faces, their little tremors of hope that the girl would save them, which they tried so hard to hide.

  He had tolerated them all, but now he could not resist it, he simply could not. He raised his Black Wand and turned Mr. Hamble to dust.

  “A young lady should always, where possible, secure the use of a first-class cabin when traveling overnight on a steam boat.”

  —Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)

  Hafwen was fast despite her size. She shouted back over her shoulder: “Follow me.” “Down here.” “Up here.” “Turn here.” “Through here.” She ran through a wide tunnel, her torchlight racing on the walls before them. Annabel was surprised at the joy in her troll friend’s voice. Hafwen was enjoying herself.

  Aunty thundered behind them. She filled the tunnel. “Hafwen, stop!” she cried. “Hafwen no farther goes.”

  Her foot
steps rattled the earth beneath their feet.

  “Aunty will tell the king!” shouted Aunty.

  Aunty was also fast despite her size. As she built up speed, her size added to her momentum. She was a huge wrecking ball hurtling after them through the tunnel. They could smell her behind them, all rotten vegetables and bad breath. They reached a place where the tunnel narrowed, and they threw themselves onto their hands and knees to crawl.

  “Hafwen, run no more,” Aunty screeched, plunging after them. She crawled wildly, with her tongue out and her eyes open wide. She crawled so fast that by the time they were in a place where they could stand again she was almost upon them. She reached out one great hairy hand and grabbed Kitty by the ankle and yanked her backward through the air.

  “Let me go!” Kitty shouted. “You greasy oaf!”

  Kitty looked like a matchstick in Aunty’s grip.

  “Let her go!” cried Annabel. She would have rushed toward Aunty and been caught herself had Hafwen not held her back.

  “Let Aunty have the skinny,” said Hafwen. “We keep running.”

  “No!” shouted Annabel. “She’s my friend.”

  Kitty looked at Annabel. She tried to speak, but she was being squeezed too hard.

  “Aunty will snap her in half!” screeched Aunty.

  “Kitty, can you throw one of your lights?” shouted Annabel. She had an idea. Her broomstick trembled in her hand, as though it understood.

  Kitty was turning purple, her eyes bulging, but Annabel heard her begin to hum.

  “Aunty, she’s too skinny,” said Annabel to distract the great troll. “You take me instead.”

  “Better a skinny humanling than no humanling,” said Aunty, but her grip lessened as she pondered the swap.

  A strangled hum was enough. Kitty coughed out a misshapen heart light, weakly gleaming, as Aunty’s grip tightened again. The little light orb flew through the air between them, and Annabel ran toward it, her broomstick raised like a bat. Aunty screeched and squeezed Kitty so hard that she turned from purple to blue.

  Annabel had played shuttlecock with Isabelle Rutherford at her family’s country house in Shropshire. Surely, hitting a light orb was no different. She ran one, two, three steps forward and lifted the twig end of her broomstick. She whacked the heart light as hard as she could, aiming for Aunty’s face. She aimed and whacked and the thing traveled at an alarming speed toward Kitty’s captor. It slammed into the huge troll’s surprised face. It exploded in a shower of light.

  Kitty was released as Aunty hollered and held her hands up to her eyes.

  “Aunty can’t see!” she cried.

  Annabel rushed forward and dragged the slumped Kitty away from her reach.

  “Aunty be blinded!” yelled Aunty as Kitty began to cough.

  The little shards of light sped back into Kitty’s mouth.

  “Can you run?” asked Annabel, helping her friend to her feet.

  “I think so,” said Kitty.

  “Hurry,” said Hafwen. “Bring your friend the skinny after all.”

  They raced through several tunnels until the sound of Aunty’s shouting faded. Finally they came to an empty spacious cavern where the walls dripped. Hafwen held her torch high.

  “Here is one way up,” she said, panting heavily but most pleased with herself. She bared her grayish teeth in a great troll smile and pointed at the rocky cavern ceiling.

  “She’s mad,” whispered Kitty.

  “Above be a big house with bells,” said Hafwen. “First you must go through the rooms filled with the dead humanlings, stacked up one on top of the other, and from them we take our wedding dresses.”

  It does seem true that trolls are always getting married, thought Annabel. The thought of them stealing dresses from the catacombs gave her a fresh wave of shivers.

  “But there be other places,” said Hafwen. “I can take you to the grass.”

  She was facing them now, her big dirty face smiling and expectant.

  “But we don’t need to go up,” said Annabel very gently.

  “But…stars…be up,” said Hafwen.

  “Yes, but first we must follow the map and find the Morever Wand,” said Annabel.

  “But…up be stars,” said Hafwen, incredulous.

  “We aren’t going up!” shouted Kitty sternly. “We are going to find the Morever Wand.”

  Her voice echoed up and down the dripping walls of the cavern.

  Hafwen closed her eyes. She drew a breath and held it. By the light of her torch she grew a violent stormy color.

  “Hafwen want star!” she screeched, blasting them with her breath and ruffling their hair.

  “Hush, hush, hush,” said Annabel. “I have promised you a star and you shall have it, but we cannot go up until we have found the wand. You must help us on our way.”

  “Leave her,” said Kitty. “She’s served her purpose.”

  “Stop it, Kitty!” cried Annabel. “We would be in a pot if it weren’t for her.”

  Hafwen’s eyes darted between them. She held her breath again.

  “Breathe, Hafwen,” said Annabel. “Soon you will have your star. I promise you.”

  Hafwen deflated. “So…I must take you where your map does say?”

  “Yes,” said Annabel. “Lead us through Trollingdom like the brave little troll you are.”

  She held out her arm and they gathered around her to find which path they would follow next. Hafwen gave Kitty the torch and peered at Annabel’s arm. She placed a big hairy finger in the center of a circular cavern.

  “Here where we be,” she said. Her hulking shape cast a shadow.

  “Get out of the light, you filthy oaf,” said Kitty.

  “You would have been better in a pot,” said Hafwen.

  “Both of you, stop!” cried Annabel.

  Hafwen did not like Kitty. Kitty did not like Hafwen. They were actually quite similar, Annabel decided. Kitty coughed and glared at Hafwen. Hafwen narrowed her twinkling eyes.

  “This be the up cavern I know,” said Hafwen. “But to go farther…”

  She twisted Annabel’s arm roughly because trolls do nothing gently. She twisted it so she could see the fleshy part above the elbow. A maze of tunnels led to the vast open space that took up most of the inside of Annabel’s upper arm. The rough oblong shape was filled with waves that Annabel had seen but refused to touch. Just looking at the place made her feel dizzy. It was deep. It was fathomless, that place.

  She looked at the upside-down words. The Lake of Tears.

  “No trolls pass here,” said Hafwen, pointing to those words. “Only dead trolls on their funeral boats, fed to…”

  She stopped.

  “Only dead trolls on their funeral boats,” repeated Kitty, “fed to…?”

  Kitty passed the flame back to Hafwen. She traced her finger across the Lake of Tears. There was a shore, and beyond it a single path that snaked its way up onto Annabel’s shoulder. Annabel couldn’t see where it led after that. The others followed the single path with their eyes. She saw them gaze at her chin, her cheek, her forehead. Their eyes settled back on her cheekbone. They looked away.

  “There be a terrible thing,” said Hafwen, “after the Lake of Tears.”

  “And is this the terrible thing?” said Kitty, pointing to Annabel’s cheek.

  “Things what trolls don’t mention,” said Hafwen, and she refused to look where Kitty pointed.

  “All will be well, Hafwen,” said Annabel gently. She was quite good at calming down cranky trolls, she had discovered. A talent that Miss Finch at her Academy for Young Ladies could never have imagined. “We are only trying to understand what is ahead of us. What things?”

  Kitty looked back at Annabel’s cheek again.

  “Can someone please tell me what is on my cheek?” asked Annabel, quite politely, she thought, under the circumstances.

  “It is the West-Born Wyrm,” said Hafwen.

  “The West-Born Wyrm?” repeated Kitty.

 
“Yes, the West-Born Wyrm,” whispered Hafwen. “It eats up everything. Dead trolls best. We feed it our dead ’uns to keep it away. Sometimes it goes up and eats some humanlings.”

  “A worm?” said Annabel. “It must be a very big one to eat people.”

  Kitty looked at Annabel as though she were the stupidest person she’d ever met. “A mad troll and pretty girl with not much brains,” she said. “We’ll never get out of here. A wyrm, Annabel Grey, is a dragon.”

  She continued the path with her finger, from Annabel’s cheek into the center of her forehead.

  “And it appears that the only way to the Morever Wand is through the dragon’s lair,” she said.

  Annabel didn’t like to think of dragons. She tried not to as they trudged up and down troll passageways. She thought instead of her mother, who had been magical but never showed it, when all the time she could have been teaching Annabel. That made her think of why. And how. And what terrible thing could have happened in Mr. Angel’s house that her mother had turned her back on magic for good. That in turn made her think of her father, the Great Geraldo Grey, which made her feel the breathless, falling type of sadness, which was almost as bad, she decided, as thinking of dragons that breathed fire and were monstrously big.

  Sometimes they heard troll voices in the distance and Hafwen led them quickly in another direction. Annabel hoped she was leading them in the right direction. She hoped there was a way out of the maze of tunnels. She thought of what she had seen in the water of the stream. She knew they had to move quickly.

  Be brave. Be good.

  “I’m hungry,” said Kitty.

  Hafwen stopped and pulled a worm from the earth wall and held it out to her.

  “Leave off, you dirty lump,” said Kitty.

  “What was that light that came out your wormhole and blinded Aunty?” asked Hafwen.

  “It’s Kitty’s heart light,” said Annabel.

  “I don’t like it,” said Hafwen. “It unnatural.”

  She put the worm in her own mouth and sucked loudly.

  She led them up and down tunnels, in and out of caverns. Sometimes she stopped and scratched her troll head and started again.