Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  ‘I don’t believe you’ll do any sorting of the sort,’ said Balthazar.

  ‘Oh yeah, why’sth that?’

  ‘Don’t let it talk, Archie!’ said Clyde.

  ‘It’s a matter of money.’

  ‘Wot money?’

  ‘I want to make you a mutually beneficial proposition.’

  ‘A wot now?’

  Balthazar rolled his eyes; he had forgotten who he was talking to.

  ‘A deal.’

  ‘Wot kinda deal?’ said Archie.

  ‘I need to find someone – and you… you look like you could do with some new clothes.’ Archie lowered his gaze to his garments, poisoned by vanity. ‘Fresh, clean, lacking in moth holes.’ The thug lifted his foot and stared through the loose soul at his toes. ‘I can make all this a possibility.’

  ‘Don’t listen to it, Archie, ’ow many weal’fy cats do you know?’

  ‘I suspect just as many as you know can talk,’ added Balthazar.

  ‘’Oo you lookin’ for?’ said Archie.

  Balthazar smiled, he’d felt the tug on the end of the line.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you gentlemen talking about a place called… What was it now? The Narrows?’

  ‘Wot of it?’

  ‘Forgive me, I may not have heard you correctly, but did you say your employer is in the habit of sending dying children there?’

  ‘You ’eard right.’

  ‘What do you think happens to them?’

  ‘Wot kinda questhion isth that? They die, innit.’

  Again, Balthazar had forgotten how stupid people could be; and though Niclas wasn’t a genius, he would have won a Nobel prize had he been competing against these two thugs.

  ‘I think I’d like to talk to the man in charge.’

  ‘The bossth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I believe he may be of use to me, and if he turns out to be even remotely useful, I shall reward you with the location of a hidden fortune.’

  As dubious as they were, both Archie and Clyde couldn’t resist the exciting prospect of hidden fortune; though the only fortune they would get, would be the misfortune of being eaten alive. But they didn’t know that.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ added Clyde.

  ‘Please, haven’t you anything constructive to say?’ said Balthazar.

  Archie remained silent for a moment, ruminating on the situation the way a gambler ruminates on a roulette wheel. In the end, he saw nothing bad about taking the cat to see his boss: for what harm could come of it? If the cat proved honest they would all be rich, and if it didn’t then Mr K would deal with it; but either way, Mr K would see that the talking cat was indeed real – and that was reason alone to take it to him.

  ‘Alright, you want to thspeak to the bossth, you can thspeak to the bossth.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Balthazar, presenting Clyde with an imperious grin.

  There are two moons in Laburnum’s sky. Jarh, the closest, is so bright that it’s sometimes easy to mistake for a small sun. Though not as glaring as the sun, if Jarh is full on a clear night in an open park, scholars can read their books without the need for lanterns.

  The furthest moon is called Nei. Often referred to as Jarh’s shadow, it is dark and harder to notice. But Nei is not altogether black, it has a unique blue glow to its celestial body; a ghostly sapphirine light.

  The old saying, “moons collide”, comes from the early days when people were unable to understand the passing of the moons and bi-lunar eclipses. People would gather to say their goodbyes, have a last meal and sing long into the night in the belief that they wouldn’t see the morning.

  This was found to be utter nonsense after a few hundred years of the same thing happening without an actual doomsday.

  In modern times, most people in the Varcian Empire celebrate the day just as it was celebrated back then – though, without the animal sacrifices and a little less of the dancing au naturel.

  During the night of the festival, people from all over the capital pour into the Brewery Quarter and its surrounding streets to drink their weight in booze. The only doomsday that comes to them, as with the ancient people, is the doom of a horrible, head thumping hangover the morning after.

  Like Alchemy, Astrology and Astronomy are an unsavoury subject in the Realm of Logic. The Academy welcomes all empirical knowledge, but when things start to get a bit, out of this world, literally speaking, evidence becomes a little harder to find. Without evidence, grand theories quickly become little logical heresies. And we know what happens to people who believe illogical things.

  It’s extremely hard to be an academic searching for newfound knowledge in an environment that prides THE CURRICULUM above all.

  Laars Copernicus, a philosopher of the Empire, once wrote a paper about how Jarh was spinning away from Ebb (the world) at a faster rate than Nei. He theorised that because of this, the moons would, in fact, one day, several millions of years into the future, collide. There was little empirical evidence to support his claim, but he stubbornly went around showing the paper to anyone who would read it.

  Soon after, Mr Copernicus disappeared, and all trace of his life’s work vanished.

  Probably in a fireplace somewhere.

  The moons above were approaching each other. Their glowing light began to dance in a swirl of blue aurora. The crows, ravens and pigeons of the city took flight in all directions. Below in the streets, people were rushing out to see the annual phenomenon. Most had made it to the Brewery Quarter. It was packed, rammed full of people each with a drink in hand. The Lunar Festival was in full swing and the city was in full celebration – and that meant well and truly getting smashed.

  But nowhere was more sombre, quieter and felt further away from the festivities than the tight, eerie streets of the Narrows. It was through these that Niclas, Cassandra and the Witchhunter were marched; through the twisting alleys of lifeless, empty buildings.

  The children didn’t worry about where the dead man was leading them, they were far more concerned with the decomposing dogs, and the man’s juicy organs. The Witchhunter followed obediently. He didn’t know if he could take on the dead man and his dead dogs, but he knew he was being taken exactly where he wanted to be.

  They came to a door and stopped. It was an oddly inviting door. It was well kept, lacquered with a fresh coat of dark blue paint.

  The dead man drew from his pocket a key, unlocked and pushed the door open. He ushered his three captives inside. Cassandra didn’t want to, but the growling dogs insisted.

  The room beyond the door was near empty, with only a small table to fill the space. Crooked bookshelves leant slanted against each wall, like dominos that hadn’t quite committed to the fall.

  There were few books on their shelves. Instead, tiny glass vials of a clear, blue liquid sat upright in wooden racks. There was only a drop’s worth in each vial but it glowed a bright, ghostly blue, which glistened on the floating dust particles and vacant spider webs.

  Niclas was drawn towards them.

  Up close the liquid didn’t look like a liquid at all. It was moving, as if evaporating and condensing all at once; and as he looked even closer, he saw something which very much looked like the shape of the cosmos within the gaseous liquid. Or, as he would later describe it: the centre of a spiralled marble.

  His curiosity was short lived. The dead man yanked his chain and grunted towards an open wooden stairs at the back of the room.

  It was a good job Niclas was an idiot, because the stairs, and the lingering darkness above, was a terrifying thing to face. Only an idiot could have walked up it so nonchalantly.

  Each step creaked like the discordant keys of a haunted piano. At the top of the noisy steps, on the next floor, an eerie blackness loomed over the boy. And in it, an abominable smell. A miasma of the same kin as the dead man, but here at the source it was almost suffocating. It was the sweet, sickly smell of death.

  ‘What c
oughcough is that smell?’ said Cassandra, fanning air over her face and doing her best to cover her mouth and nose. She knew the poorer districts of Laburnum were notorious for their stench, but this was something different altogether.

  Candles were dotted around the upper room. There were tall skinny ones, fat chunky ones, some that had never been lit, some that had melted down to the bases of their holders. Only one was burning, the others were cold. Niclas noticed they all had one thing in common, that they were made from black wax.

  When they were done taking note of the number of candles, they focused on the wonky wooden construction, that emerged through the dim, sparse light. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. Had they spent more time in the Guard’s Tower, or learning about torturous tools, they might have recognised it. It was a pillory – a set of stocks – a wooden frame meant to shackle a man.

  The dead man moved towards it, lifted its top and grunted for the Witchhunter to come closer. There was no point in resisting, so the Witchhunter rested each of his wrists on the grooves and lowered his neck. The top was slammed down and fastened with locks and a rusty old key that hung at the living corpse’s belt.

  As soon as the Witchhunter was locked in, the two dogs tamely entered their cages at opposite sides of the room. The dead man unshackled Niclas from the chafing collar and manoeuvred him into one.

  Castor welcomed him with a hospitable growl.

  The bars were pulled across.

  ‘I am not getting in there. You can do what you like, but I am not–’ Cassandra objected, but the dead man, not being at all considerate, yanked her towards him by the chain, clipped it loose, and, clutching the back of her neck, shoved her into the cage with Pollux.

  ‘Where’s your handler?’ said the Witchhunter.

  The dead man pretended not to hear. Or perhaps he didn’t hear? Both his ears were rotten, just holes in the side of his decaying head.

  Then the witch came to play.

  Music began to sound from above and the floorboards creaked. It wasn’t the music of an instrument, it was the music of a humming woman. Her song was melodic and innocuous, the kind of innocent tune that sounds just like pure evil.

  Two withered shoes danced down another set of creaky wooden steps at the back of the room. A moth-eaten dress followed. Above it, a bird's nest of unnaturally pink, frizzy hair. The nonchalance of the song matched the woman’s mood: cheerful and distracted.

  They had all expected an old woman. A hag. A crone. A long, twisted nose, a pair of purple prune lips, razor sharp teeth, monstrous red eyes, hands with fingernails the length of knives. They had thought she’d be taller, bulkier, or perhaps a hunchback grotesquely deformed. She wasn’t the slightest bit of any of those things. She was scrawny, hollow cheeked, but she was beautifully human, full of colour and life. Her hair was pink and her smiling lips lipstick red. It was only her song that was warped and odd. And the way she moved. The way she danced right up to Niclas’ cage and gave it a theatrical sniff.

  She ain’t bad lookin’, he thought. Her features were all in order, her complexion flawless, her eyes bright and ripe with colour and her figure, young and buxom. There was definitely something about the way she looked, something that almost didn’t look real.

  She spun away, twirling over to the other cage to examine Cassandra, and did so with another eccentric sniff.

  After she’d smelt both the children, she skipped to the centre of the room to stroke the Witchhunter’s face.

  Niclas and Cassandra met eyes. Neither dared speak.

  ‘You’re handsome,’ said the witch. ‘I wasn’t expecting handsome. I don’t know if I can do handsome. I wanted ugly, fat, bald – something natural. I mean, you’re no prince. You could do with a shave – maybe a trim – and these clothes are so out of fashion. You could… no – nevermind. Or maybe if I… no – that won’t work. Here to kill me? Don’t answer that – I know – The Whisperer told me you’d come. I’ve been waiting – looking forward to you – and you’ve brought me two little gifts – how kind.’

  She cackled. It was a rotten laugh, loud and sharp with an air of falseness to it, as if the person laughing had forgotten how to do so.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, noticing the Princess’ startled face. ‘How rude of me. There should be introductions of course. Well go on – what’s your name then girl?’

  ‘I’m the Princess, don’t you recognise–’

  ‘Funny name that,’ pondered the witch, ‘sorry, go on.’

  ‘Don’t…’ Cassandra continued with added caution, ‘don’t you recognise me?’

  The witch squinted at her, searching and searching, and looked as though she was about to get it, then said: ‘No!’

  ‘I’m royalty – the whole city is looking for me right now, it’s only a matter of time before they send guards here and then you’ll be in all types of trouble. You should probably let us go: if you do so now, I promise I won’t speak a word of this.’

  The witch stared at her, aloof. ‘Trouble?’ Her infectious smile returned. ‘I like trouble. Toil and bubble; how goes it? You’re cute. I like you. I like your fleshy tongue even more.’ This was perhaps one of the oddest compliments Cassandra had ever received. The witch, keeping her eyes on the girl’s mouth, spoke over her shoulder to the dead man: ‘Greg, do we need another tongue?’

  ‘Mine works just fine, mistress,’ he rasped.

  She turned back and sighed. ‘Guess we don’t need another tongue. Shame. I like yours. I might just take it anyway – got some pliers round here somewhere – can always use a spare. Do it again. Go on, say something, Princess.’

  Cassandra, for the first time ever, was left utterly speechless. She stared across the room at Niclas.

  ‘Why are you looking at him? Does he have a lease on the tongue? If so I’m sure he’d be open to negotiation.’ The witch appeared at Niclas’ cage so quickly that it made him jump back against the bars.

  The dog didn’t move, it was used to her capricious nature.

  ‘And you are?’ she said.

  ‘Name’s Niclas, miss.’

  ‘Niclas. What a lovely name. How old are you Niclas?’

  ‘Dunno, miss, I reckons five and ten years. Got told that once.’

  ‘Five and ten years you say – I like ’em younger – usually… but there are two of you – a special gift indeed. Tell me, Niclas, do you know what night it is tonight?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Please, call me Susie – it’s not my name, but I’d like that.’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’

  ‘Sorry, Susie,’ said the witch.

  ‘Sorry, Susie.’

  ‘Hmm, actually it doesn’t sound so nice now you’ve said it…’ The witch stared around the room as if trying to recall something. Then she snapped back to the bars. ‘You probably haven’t noticed that I get easily distracted.’

  ‘No, miss… Susie… not really.’

  ‘Tonight! Tonight is special. A special, special night! Tonight’s the night the moons collide. Very important. Very special. Very good. Very – significant. To celebrate this spectacular event, we’re going to have a tea party. Do you like tea parties? You know – with games, and dancing, and cake – a party isn’t a party without cake. Do you like cake?’ A stiff silence filled the room whilst Niclas determined whether the question was rhetorical or not.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘I fink so, miss Susie…’

  ‘Think so? You don’t know so? How so? Why so? Surely you’ve had cake before so?’ said the witch.

  ‘Uhh… not that I knows about, miss Susie…’

  ‘Oh! You poor, poor, poor, little insignificant speck of life,’ said the witch, reaching into his cage and stroking him as though he were one of the dogs. ‘I’ll bake up something nice, just you see. No soggy bottoms here.’

  The witch was noticeably neurotic, and she was only getting worse. She began opening cupboards and drawers and knocking bits and pieces off shelves, spouting the odd, ‘nop
e,’ and ‘not here,’ as she did so. Her eyes seemed to dart about the room as if unconnected to her thoughts. She scratched her head frequently, sometimes pulling out whole clumps of hair, and Cassandra reasoned that the crimson nail polish was probably not nail polish at all but blood.

  ‘Oh where is it! Where is it! ARGH!’ Suddenly she didn’t seem so ditsy. She was angry. Enraged. She reached for the nearest jar – full of badly preserved eyeballs – held it close to her chest for a tranquil moment, then rattled it up and down vigorously before smashing it into the wall.

  She stood, post tantrum, looking down and breathing deeply through her teeth. Greg knew just what to do. He picked up a broom and swept the rolling eyes, broken glass and amniotic fluid into a pile. The children didn’t blink.

  ‘I guess cake’s off the menu!’ She perked up. ‘Ah well – maybe another time – of course there won’t be another time because you’re all going to die. Now, how about some dancing.’

  At once, she began twirling anticlockwise around the Witchhunter, singing to herself and laughing mercurially.

  Cassandra had never actually seen a mad person. This was certainly one. The epitome of madness.

  The witch danced for a good few minutes, grabbing Greg by the hand and spinning herself around. ‘Oh, you’re still a gen’l’man,’ she said, wiping a spurious tear from her eye.

  Then she came to a sudden standstill.

  ‘Bored,’ she said. ‘Bored of dancing. Some tea party this is turning out to be. No cake. No tea. No one to dance with… Ok then – on to games,’ she said. ‘Do you know what our first game is going to be, Niclas?’

  Niclas shook his head, he couldn’t remember being more scared in all his life. Not by the rotting man nor by the fleshless dog in his cage. There was simply no way of knowing what she was going to do next, and that petrified him.

  ‘We’re going to play piñata. Do you know how to play piñata?’