‘WHAAAT?’ she groaned.
The dogs only barked in reply. Something was troubling them. Something near. Something yet to be seen by anyone without a canine’s appetite for smell.
The witch sniffed the air and followed the direction of the barking. It was aimed at the stairs leading down.
‘Visitors? At this time? Gregory, see to it – and quickly – quickly. The moons close. Time is wasting. I can feel it.’
Greg, failing to silence his dogs, set off down the stairs to take a look outside.
The moons above sat firmly over one another.
A ring of blue celestial light shone from the cosmos onto Ebb.
Laburnum bathed in the astral rays.
The pigeons had gone into hiding, but the crows were out, flapping through the sky above like a plague of locust.
The witch waited for Greg’s return, restlessly tapping her fingernails against the needle.
When she had grown tired of the barking dogs and her silent captives, she stuck the blade in the stocks, threw her arms into the air and traipsed down the stairs.
‘Enough is enough, Gregory,’ she said. ‘Who the blummin’ ’eck wants to call on a young girl at a time like this anyway – I say – chivalry is dead.’ Her voice dwindled away until it was nothing more than a muffled blur passing through the rotten floorboards.
The children tried to listen to the scene below in hope of figuring out what was going on.
Then the Witchhunter caught Niclas’ eye, and imparted that this would be their final chance.
The witch strode to her front door, accosting her butler, and was about to pull him in from the street when who should barge past but that cruel and disreputable man known as Mr K.
Overwhelmed by a scuffle of sentences trying to escape her mouth at the same instant, she stuttered out an incomprehensible garble.
‘Your doorman ’ere tells me you’re too busy to take me call, but I tells him it’s urgent and cannot wait.’
‘Mr K, what an unpleasant surprise,’ said the witch, ‘have you lost your way?’
‘I ain’t lost me way, not at all, I’m right where I wants to be. I gots summin ’ere which I fink you’ll find interestin’.’
Mr K, sensing he was about to be tossed back into the street by an exasperated corpse, shook a brown juniper sack in the witch’s face.
‘Mr K, this unannounced intrusion is remarkably rude. It’s definitely not part of our arrangement. I dare say you know what night it is: a night I’ll not get for another passing!’
‘You’ve still got time to do wot takes minutes. I know ’ow it works.’
‘Mr K, do not think that we are friends and that I will excuse such beastly behaviour. I could have your mortality stripped from you, and set the dogs to feast on your entrails, and send for the crows to pick out your eyes for all eternity. I shall make you suffer a thou–’
Mr K was not warded off by the witch’s threats. He slammed the door and pushed his way into the room where he emptied the contents of his sack onto the table.
Greg tried to make an expression, he didn’t have the muscles for it.
The witch raised an eyebrow.
She presumed the only possession Mr K could possibly have which would excuse him of his eagerness, would be a newborn child. For newborns were rare in the slums, they often died moments after birth and Mr K knew that she desired them greatly; especially during the crossing of the moons. However, what rolled out of his sack, along with a sprinkling of juniper berries, was something she would never have anticipated.
‘A cat, Mr K?’
‘This ain’t no cat – least no ordinary cat. I ain’t ever ’eard a cat speak, ’av’ you?’
‘Speak?’
‘It talks.’
Mr K, the witch and Greg studied Balthazar expectantly.
‘Go on – speak,’ said Mr K, pushing the cat over.
Meow
‘Mr K, I think the fumes from your gin stores have finally burned away your mind,’ said the witch.
‘It talks! I swears it!’
The witch sighed. ‘I don’t know, Mr K,’ she said, ‘but this looks like an ordinary cat to me, and contrary to popular belief, us witches aren’t too fond of ’em. In fact, I swear I have allergies with ’em.’
‘But… it can… it can talk,’ insisted Mr K, angrily grabbing the cat’s tail and squeezing the cartilage until it crunched.
Balthazar let out a screech and slashed the thug’s hand, drawing blood.
‘You’ll talk cat – I swear you’ll talk – If you don’t talk – I’m gunna break every bone in your body startin’ wiv your tail.’ The infuriated villain drew from his side a frightening club, and pinned the cat to the table.
‘Mr K! I’ve seen some things in my life, but this is… mad. Exceptionally mad. And it’s wasting my precious time.’
But Mr K would not be defeated, and, putting Balthazar’s silence to the test, brought the club down on the tip of his tail.
The weighty truncheon slammed with such vehemence that it splintered the table’s legs and cracked its top.
The witch blinked surprised.
The thug panted viciously through his mouth.
And Balthazar spoke: revealing to all not only that he could speak, but that his vocabulary was extensive, and, when need be, damn right disgraceful.
The witch staggered back from the table – at first shocked – then amused – then delighted. She laughed.
‘I told ya, didn’t I?’ continued Mr K.
‘Well I never… A talking cat – how does it work?’ she prodded Balthazar to check he was real.
‘Now you see why I come ’ere – it’s witchcraft this, ain’t it?’
‘Oh, Mr K, it must be – it must be – but not any kind I know of. This is most unreal. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
The two gaped and prodded; Balthazar winced, and shot fleeting glances at his mutilated tail.
‘Are you pleased?’ asked Mr K.
‘Oh, pleased, Mr K, pleased? I’m exhilarated. Do you have a name, kitty cat?’
Crippled from pain, there was no coherence to Balthazar’s thoughts, his head spun.
‘Don’t be rude! Answer her!’ said the savage.
Balthazar looked daggers at Mr K; eyes that, even being as brutal as he was, inspired a small amount of uncertainty within the thug’s mind.
‘Don’t look at me!’ he said, making ready the club for another devastating blow.
The witch seized his wrist.
‘Now, now, Mr K, you don’t give someone a gift only to pulverise it in front of them.’
‘Gift?’ inquired the thug, wrenching his arm free, ‘who said any fing ’bout a gift. I’m ’ere for business.’
‘Business?’
‘Business.’
‘And what kind of business would that be, Mr K?’
Mr K dropped the club to his side and took a short stroll around the perimeter of the room, his eyes gazing up at the dusty shelves and the vials of gaseous liquid.
‘One or two of these ought be fair,’ said the thug.
‘One or two of what?’ asked the witch, for the idea that Mr K would want one of her precious vials was so far at the back of her mind that she failed to regard it as a serious possibility. A possibility that became a reality, as the thug’s stubby, coarse fingers picked a vial for closer study.
‘Oh, Mr K, why would you want that? It’s useless to you.’
The thug glowered.
‘It’s not happening, Mr K, you can take your foul mouthed animal and go back from whence you came.’
‘Look ’ow many you have, you can’t spare two?’
‘Put it back you brainless oaf, before you break it!’
Mr K took a small amount of pleasure watching the witch reach out as he tossed the vial from one hand to the other.
‘Mis-ter K!’
‘Wot? I brought you summin special, I want summin special in return; and I reckons this is the most sp
ecial fing you got.’
‘Too special, Mr K, it’s not a fair trade,’ said the witch.
‘I fink it is. I fink it’s the fairest trade there is.’
‘It really isn’t,’ said Balthazar, entering the conversation. ‘What use am I to her? She already seems to have someone to talk to, and he’s probably a little less opinionated than I.’ Greg grunted. ‘I suppose I could help keep the vermin out of the house, but then, it appears she’s done a good job of that herself. No, I’m afraid I’m useless to her. But that? That offers her so much more. Power. Youth. Immortality.’
Mr K would have lunged for the cat, ripping off the first limb his clutching hands could grab, but the witch, intrigued, raised her finger and brought the two hundred and forty pound beast to a halt.
‘What did you say?’ she asked.
‘I do hate repeating myself,’ replied the cat.
‘Do you know what that is?’ asked the witch, pointing in the direction of the vial grasped tightly in Mr K’s hand.
‘Of course I know what it is. But what does that matter? It’s not worth the trade, we both know that, so you can show Mr K the door and he can take his knowledgeable animal back from whence he came.’
As if spellbound, the witch couldn’t shake her eyes. The cat had succeeded in piquing her interest, and whilst she stared at him, Mr K stared at her.
‘I’ll be on my way then, is it?’ he said.
‘No, Mr K, wait. This creature marvels me – but I will not hand over a single vial of essence for it. What I am prepared to do, however, is let you take from here one of the prizes I’ve got upstairs.’
This was not what Mr K wanted to hear, but he was curious to know what kind of prizes she had.
‘Gregory.’
‘Yes, mistress?’
‘The girl.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
Now to lend our attentions to the scene occurring above.
With the witch and her undead minion below, Niclas had managed to unlock his collar and had moved upon the stocks with the rusty keys. The dogs were not oblivious to this. They barked and growled and pushed their sickening bodies against the bars. Such a din should have brought everyone racing back up the stairs, had it not appeared to them as a continuation of the earlier racket.
‘Come on,’ said Cassandra.
‘The lock’s stiff, it ain’t me fault.’
The key didn’t turn easily – it had to be jiggled, bashed and pulled out by a hair’s width before any movement could be had. By the time the boy had unlocked the first bolt it was too late. For the stairs were creaking, and the walking corpse was coming.
Greg arrived at the top of the stairs and stood to examine the three prisoners. The Princess cowering in her cage, the Witchhunter with his head down slumped in the stocks, and Niclas, lying still with the collar back around his neck.
Niclas could feel the sweat running down the corner of his brow. Had he left something unturned? Had the monster heard their voices or the fiddling with the lock? It was only when Greg’s dead eyes settled on Cassandra, that Niclas sighed relief. A relief that wasn’t altogether the relief he had thought it to be, because the corpse marched over to her, opened the bars and grabbed hold of her ankle.
She kicked away his rotten hand and retreated towards the vicious dog – it welcomed her with a snap of its putrid jaws, and then again came the rotten hand, only this time with the dog hungry for blood, Cassandra was helpless to avoid the bony fingers.
She was dragged from the cage.
‘Get off me! Get off me, I say!’
Pollux couldn’t control himself, he bolted for the entrance, clanging into the closing bars. Consumed by bloodlust, he went for his master’s hand.
Greg, insulted, riled up and punched the dog on the nose.
‘That’ll do,’ he rasped.
Pollux backed away, and growled vengefully.
‘Don’t lose your manners, ’sonly a mouser.’
Mouser? thought Niclas.
‘Ah, here she is,’ said the witch, delighted.
Cassandra was wriggling in Greg’s arms, repulsed by his stench and sticky texture.
When he put her down, she glared back at him, then across at the witch, then across at Mr K. She gave the thug a wary stare and backed up into Greg’s fierce grip.
She was frightened so much by the three of them, that she hadn’t spotted the black cat on the table. Not until it moved to look over its damaged tail.
Balthazar held her stare, slowly shaking his head from side to side.
She said nothing.
‘I don’t want ’er,’ said Mr K.
‘Oh, but Mr K, she’s very special this one. Very special,’ said the witch, rushing over and stroking the girl’s hair.
‘’Ow so?’ asked the thug.
‘This little madam is your future Queen.’
‘Nah she ain’t.’
‘Yes she is, Mr K.’
Mr K snarled. ‘You may fink me a fool, but I ain’t. It’s a vial o’ this stuff or nuffin’ at all.’
The Princess’ eyed the vial in Mr K’s hand.
‘Got any coin, Mr K?’ asked the witch.
‘Coin?’
‘You know. Shiny. Round.’
‘Course I know. Wot’s coin got to do wiv’ it?’
Cassandra couldn’t stop her eyes wandering back to Balthazar. What was he doing here? How had he got off that boat? What was he planning?
‘If you look upon your coins you will see the face of her mother – the spitting image no doubt of this young Princess,’ said the witch.
Mr K hesitated stubbornly. He foraged a coin from his pocket. He held it up in front of the girl’s face and focused his eyes between both.
‘You can’t deny that it’s her, the Princess, my trade to you,’ said the witch.
‘Wot’s she doin’ ’ere?’
‘Do you want her or not, Mr K?’ The witch was beginning to get impatient.
Cassandra shuddered as the cruel man approached her, sniffing her neck and running his fingers through her hair. Despite not bathing since the night of her abduction, she smelt… well she didn’t exactly smell of lilies, but it was pleasant – proof to the thug that she was indeed royalty.
‘You could do whatever you wanted with her. Work her, ransom her, sell her. I’m sure there are those in the city who would pay a great deal for such a treasure as she – people that may even be able to overturn your unsavoury record, Mr K.’
‘Why don’t you want ’er? If she’s a princess ain’t she special to you?’
‘No, apparently not – I’ve consulted he who whispers and she’s spoiled goods I’m afraid.’
‘Spoiled?’
‘Yes, not much more to her thread than a fly’s perhaps.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Who knows these things but the Whisperer? I am but a listener.’
Mr K contemplated both the girl and the vial in his hand. He studied the witch, the corpse and the cat. He was known for his lack of trust and for his obstinacy, but something in the witch’s voice and words told him to take the girl and leave the vial.
He placed the soul essence back on the shelf and grabbed Cassandra by the wrist.
Greg held on as the thug tugged at her arm.
Cassandra screeched.
‘Let go, Gregory, she belongs to Mr K now.’
The corpse released the girl and Mr K jerked her closer.
Then the witch said, ‘I’m glad we were able to settle our little problem.’
Just then the dogs upstairs broke into the meanest barking fit yet. But they were further ignored. Except perhaps by Greg, who recognised something different about the noise.
Mr K grunted.
‘Are you not happy?’ asked the witch.
The dogs were howling like wolves and the witch had to raise her voice to be heard over them. ‘Gregory, shut those hounds up, before I rip out their vocals. They don’t need them after all,’ she said, smiling amicably at h
er guest.
‘Yes, mistress.’ Greg went up.
An ugly awareness fell upon the Princess as Mr K pulled her towards him. She tried to break free but in one mighty swoop the thug swung her up onto his shoulder.
‘Wait… Stop… Put me down! Stop it! You can’t do this! Help me… Help me! Baltha–’
‘If I may,’ said Balthazar, speaking over the girl’s cries, ‘a suggestion. You might consider gagging her – she might scream a lot on her way out. You wouldn’t want to attract any attention now would you, running around with a princess over your shoulder?’
Mr K grunted at the cat, retrieved the sack from the floor and stuffed it into the girl’s gob.
‘Bal…’ she stifled.
‘Night,’ said Mr K.
‘Good evening, Mr K,’ said the witch.
With these goodbyes, Mr K went out into the street, the door slamming behind him.
The witch gave a loud sigh, turned to Balthazar and said: ‘I’m glad that’s over. He is most unpleasant that man.’
Then, like a punctured leather football, Greg’s severed head came bouncing down the stairs…
…and rolled across the floor…
…and came to a stop right by the witch’s foot.
‘Gregoreeeeeeey!’ she wailed.
She hoiked up her tattered dress and rushed up the steps.
Balthazar examined the twitching facial expressions on the corpse’s face.
Then he sniffed at the air.
Something was burning.
The witch arrived on the floor above to a blurry phantasmagoria. She saw her headless minion grappling blindly with the boy. There was fire too. The curtains were thick with it, knocked over candles burning beneath them. The dogs were going savage. The stocks were thrown open, a set of keys dangling in the lock. And there, in the midst of it all, was the Witchhunter, his short sword in one hand, and her ceremonial needle in the other.
He was about to charge her and would have probably caught her by complete surprise, if Niclas hadn’t have let out a high pitched squeal. The headless corpse had hold of him against the wall, and was feeling his face, working its thumbs into his eye sockets, pushing hard against his gummy eyeballs.
Widdershins Page 30