by Debi Gliori
“NO!” yelled Pandora, her recent experience of being roasted in dragon-fire reminding her that she still had Mrs. McLachlan's alarm clock in her back pocket. “Oh NO!” she wailed, leaping to her feet and recovering the clock from her wet jeans. “Oh, you dumb dragon . . . what have you done?”
“Don't know,” mumbled Ffup, paddling across to the jetty, “but I have a feeling that you're about to tell me. . . .”
“Is that Mrs. McLachlan's clock?” Titus stood to look at the object in his sister's hands as Pandora fiddled with something on the back of the clock and frowned. Intrigued, Ffup dragged herself out of the water onto the jetty, her weight making it tilt dangerously to one side, causing Titus and Pandora to lose their balance and topple straight on top of the dripping dragon. Pandora's shriek turned into a bubbling splutter as the waters of Lochnagargoyle closed over her head. She surfaced seconds later, still clutching the alarm clock, with Titus clinging round her neck and underwater thrashings indicating that Ffup wasn't far behind.
“You idiot!” she yelled, treading water as she attempted to loosen Titus's grip. “Let go, Titus, you're going to drown us both. Relax—the water's not that deep. Put your hands on my shoulders and I'll tow you to shore.”
Eyes squinched shut, twelve years and eleven months into his shameful career as a non-swimming aquaphobe, Titus clutched his sister's shoulders as instructed, and within seconds found his footing on the bottom of the loch. Behind them, Ffup surfaced in a cloud of steam and waddled onto dry land, trailing seaweed in her wake.
“I'm freezing,” Titus moaned, crawling onto the beach and collapsing facedown on the pebbles with his eyes shut.
“Let's go back to the house . . . Oh no . . . I must have pushed the— Oh lord, what time is it?” Pandora peered at the clock. “Um, Titus, there's something I think you ought to know.”
“What?”
“Don't throw a hissy fit. Just take a look around and tell me if you notice anything different.”
“Pandora? What are you on about?” Titus sat up and opened his eyes. His mouth dropped open and his voice rose in pitch to a squeak. “What's going on? Where are we? Pandora, where's . . . ?” He waved a violently trembling hand across the meadow to where the familiar turrets of StregaSchloss were horribly absent.
Under strict instructions not to open her mouth, Ffup trailed disconsolately through the rhododendrons behind Titus and Pandora. Mounting a clandestine reconnaissance operation with a vast mythical beast in tow was proving to be more difficult than anticipated, but the comfort of Ffup's protective presence outweighed her unsuitability as a spy. She crawled along the ground, complaining fitfully as her knees and elbows encountered sharp sticks and stones.
“My manicure's just ruined—I mean, look at my talons, the polish is all chipped,” she whined as the group halted by the herbaceous border that used to surround the east wing of StregaSchloss. Squinting through the glossy rhododendron leaves, the dragon gave a snort of dismay.
“Who built that monstrosity?” she demanded, gazing in disgust at the glass-and-steel sprawl that stood in place of the architectural jewel that had been StregaSchloss. “And tell me this: how did they build it while we were having a wee dip in the loch? We can't have been gone more than ten minutes and look at it—it's massive.”
It was, Titus agreed. Massive, overblown, and utterly without charm. In the midday sun its glassy walls threw back dazzling shards of light, searing the eyes of the group huddled in the bushes. Parked outside on the unchanged rose-quartz drive was a dented Aston Martin, a vintage Jaguar convertible, and a utilitarian Range Rover. A young man in khaki overalls crawled out from under the Aston Martin and swore loudly.
“Look at those cars,” Titus whispered in awe. “Whoever lives in that house must be either rolling in it or have some very rich friends. . . .”
A large glass panel slid across the front of the house, and a portly figure emerged from the building.
“I bet that's the owner,” Titus remarked, watching as the figure strolled across the drive to where the man in overalls was dropping wrenches into a toolbox.
“Shhh, I can't hear what they're saying,” hissed Pandora, adding, “I wonder who he is?”
The figure under discussion bent over the side of the Aston Martin to examine something under the fender, thus exposing a vast acreage of tweed-clad bottom for inspection by the watchers in the bushes.
“He's got a major lard problem, whoever he is—look at the size of his—”
“Of his what?” prompted Pandora, as her brother fell silent and his eyes grew wide.
“Tell me it's not,” Titus whimpered, his head sinking into his hands as he realized who he was looking at. Another figure appeared at the open glass panel—a woman, who shrieked in tones all too audible for comfort:
“Titus! For heaven's sake—you're going to be late for your appointment. Get a move on—you can take the Range Rover instead.”
“Titus?” squeaked Pandora. “Is that man—is that . . . is that you? Grown up? Eurrrrch. What a chub, what a porky.” Unable to stop herself, she added, “I always did say you had the appetite of an elephant—now you've got the dimensions of one, too.”
“Let me see that clock.” Titus glared at his sister as she produced Mrs. McLachlan's alarm clock for his inspection.
“Water must have got into it—that's not the right time.”
“Titus, I told you: it doesn't tell the time, it tells you the year, dumbo. It's 2022—it's the future—do keep up.”
“I want to go back,” Titus said. “I don't want to see what happens next. I know what happens. That fat slob is going to die in nine years' time, and frankly, having seen what he's like, that's not a moment too soon. I can't take much more of this. I don't want to grow up if it means being like . . . like him. Please, Pan, let's go back. Now.”
Something in his voice convinced Pandora that he'd really had enough. With a sigh, she pulled out the reset knob and turned it counterclockwise till the display read 20:02 once more. “Time travel made easy, huh?” she said, pressing the knob.
Nothing happened. There was no spinning sensation, no crashing out of control into the herbaceous border in front of StregaSchloss. Pandora checked the time. She pulled the knob back out, then pressed it back in again, and still nothing happened. Out on the drive, the obese Titus waddled toward the Range Rover and squeezed into the driver's seat. The loud woman disappeared into the glass building, and the man in overalls opened the hood of the Aston Martin and hunted for something in his toolbox.
“What's wrong?” Titus looked over Pandora's shoulder as she twiddled with the reset knob.
“I don't know. Maybe it's not working after its dip in Lochnagargoyle—”
“I can dry it off,” Ffup suggested, giving a couple of snorts of flame by way of example.
“NO!” Titus and Pandora shrieked in stereo.
“You guys are way too picky,” Ffup complained. “Could we quit futzing around and just get out of here? I need to get back home now. Nestor's due for a feed—overdue, in fact—and he'll scream the place down if I don't get back pronto and do the needful.”
Pandora looked up from tinkering with the clock and scowled. “Ffup, I can't get us back to StregaSchloss right now. Thanks to you bouncing us into the loch, the clock isn't working, and until I fix it, we're stuck here.”
“AUGHHHHHH!” wailed the dragon, displaying a maternal streak hitherto absent from her behavior. “My poor baby. He'll starve without his mummy, he'll fade away to noth—”
“Stop being such a drama queen,” said Titus. “Hush up, for heaven's sake. Mrs. McLachlan will feed your precious infant.”
“Oh no, she won't,” muttered Ffup, wrapping her front legs tightly round her ribs. “Not unless she happens to be a dragon.”
Titus glared at Ffup. “What are you on about? Mrs. McLachlan feeds Nestor every day.”
“Not with dragon's milk, she doesn't,” Ffup insisted. “He's not properly weaned yet. Sure he'
ll eat porridge and Miserablios, fruit and other mush, but he needs his mum to give him the Real Thing. I mean, look at me. . . .” The dragon threw her front legs outward in a dramatic gesture designed to draw attention to the fact that Nestor's lunch was not only ready and waiting, but present in such abundance that it was dribbling down Ffup's chest.
“Stop, please,” Titus begged, snapping his eyes shut and trying not to gag. “Spare me the details. . . . Trust me, there are some things that I simply don't need to know.”
“Look, here are the batteries.” Pandora removed four flat little cells from the underside of the clock and examined them. “I don't think they got wet when we fell in the loch. The clock's waterproof and there's a sort of silicone seal round the battery compartment. What a relief . . . I guess they must just be dead after all.”
Titus sank his head into his hands with a small wail.
“What's the matter now?”
“Think about it, Pan. If the batteries are dead, how do you propose to replace them? We can't just amble down to Auchenlochtermuchty and buy a new set. We don't know if the village still exists, and even if it does, what if you can't buy those batteries anymore? Maybe batteries are obsolete in 2022. Maybe money is obsolete—maybe . . .”
“Maybe you're missing the point. Here, stop worrying and take these.” Pandora passed Titus two batteries, keeping two for herself. “Stick them in your armpits, like I'm doing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just do it. Put them in your pits and hold them in place by clamping your arms flat against your sides like this. . . .”
Utterly mystified, Titus obeyed, shuddering as the cold metal touched his skin. “Ugh. Freezing,” he moaned, puzzled at the appearance of a smile that crept across Pandora's mouth.
“Precisely. They're cold. Mrs. McLachlan taught me ages ago that if you warm up a dead battery, you can sometimes squeeze a wee bit more power out of it before tossing it in the bin. Let's give them ten minutes and try again.”
In the absence of anything better to do, they leant against the gnarled rhododendron trunks opposite the silent glass house and eavesdropped on the muttering coming from under the hood of the Aston Martin.
“What a mess,” the man in overalls grumbled, standing up and gently lowering the hood. “People like that don't deserve to own such a bonnie motor. . . .” He wiped his hands on an oily rag that dangled from his overalls and then dug around in his breast pocket to produce a cell phone. After a longish pause he spoke. “Yup, Ted here . . . Aye, I've given it a full service, done ma best to repair the steering rack, but the client's really dinged it . . . Aye, aw bent out of shape. Must've been flooring it—there's wheens of metal filings in the engine ile . . . Yeah, it's a shame. . . . Aye, a real waste . . .”
“Whooo, Titus. Tsk tsk tsk. Who's been a bad boy, then?” Pandora wagged her index finger reprovingly at her brother.
“Don't, just don't. I'm so ashamed of myself. Do you have any idea what those cars cost? Thousands . . . hundreds of thousands. What a dork I'm going to be—”
“Shhh—listen. He's having a real go at you.”
“More money than sense, wur Mister Borgia.” The mechanic looked disgustedly in the direction of the glass house. “Oh, aye, he's rolling in it. Doesnae blink when you tell him what a whole new engine's going to cost. Sma' change to the likes of him. And fat? I tell you, it's a wonder the car can take his weight. Still, even wi' all that money, and yon big hoose and drop-dead-gorgeous wifie, he's not a happy bunny. Take it from me, pal, it's just like they say, money can't buy you happiness. . . .”
Pandora dug Titus sharply in the ribs and wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully. He ignored her, keeping his attention fixed on the man in overalls.
“How do I know? Because I keep ma ear to the ground, is how. I hear things, me. He hasnae spoken to his sisters for years. He chucked his parents oot the family home, demolished it, and replaced it wi' this architect-designed fish tank. . . . Why? What I heard was that it was something to do wi' having no attic that spiders could breed in or some such nonsense. . . . What does he dae a' day? He eats—a' the time. He's stuffing his face, the wifie hates him, and he's aff to see a shrink three times a week since his last suicide attempt. . . . Nahhh. I wouldnae change places wi' him for a' the money in the world. . . .”
“Titus,” Pandora whispered, “give me the batteries. I think you'll overcook them—your face looks like it's on fire.”
Beet-red with shame at the discovery of what a moral midget he was going to become, Titus dug the two tiny cells out of his armpits and passed them over.
Ffup leant her massive head on Pandora's shoulder and moaned. “How long now? I'm awash in Nestor's milk. . . .”
Snapping the batteries into place, Pandora closed the compartment, checked the display, and, praying that it would work, pressed the knob.
Titus screamed, Ffup roared, and suddenly their nostrils were assailed by a truly evil smell.
“DO YOU MIND?” yelled a familiar voice. “Don't jump out on me like that! Is there nowhere in Argyll that a griffin can take a dump without turning it into a spectator sport?”
Squatting in the rhododendrons next to them was Sab. Pandora noticed that the griffin had a roll of toilet paper clutched in one claw and the sports section of the local paper in the other. Sab's expression veered between outrage and embarrassment as Ffup walked over to harangue him.
“The house is rather overendowed with bathrooms, you know.” The dragon looked as smug as was possible, given that her chest appeared to be leaking like a colander. “You don't have to do a poo in the bushes when you could take your pick from the bogs inside.”
Trying to muster any dignity while hovering above a pile of one's own steaming ordure is almost impossible, so Sab opted for full-on belligerence.
“D'you not think I tried that? D'you think I'm a wild animal or something? A beast that goes for a casual cack in the shrubbery? I tried the downstairs washroom; Marie Bain's got the runs and she's annexed it. I tried the guest bog; one of the guests is using the cludgie as a giant china cauldron. I went to our mistress's suite, but she's got her head down the pan, giving it big heaves; the nursery bog's got a diaper stuck in it; the family bathroom's engaged because Tock snuck in for a bubble bath; the second-floor shower room's got a mountain of tighty-whities and thongs dripping from the rail; and Latch's bathroom's being used as a frog repository—”
“STOP!” Pandora begged, covering her ears and running for the house.
“No, I won't stop. I insist on defending my griffinal right to excrete in the bushes. As I was saying—”
Branches cracked overhead and a shadow fell across them. Looking up, Titus saw Knot's head appear over the canopy of green leaves. The yeti's furry face rumpled in an approximation of a smile when he caught sight of Ffup.
“You'd better go feed your wee babby,” he said. “It's wailing its head off. . . . What's that smell?”
Breathing through her mouth, Ffup rushed off to placate Nestor. Knot sniffed several times, in a crescendo of in-snorts, each louder than the one before.
“Mmmm . . . ,” he said appreciatively.
“No—don't. Don't say it. Bleaaargh.” Titus turned pale.
“Yummm. What's for lunch? Smells delicious, whatever it is.”
Titus bolted out of the bushes and ran for the house, one hand over his mouth, the other over his stomach.
“Mmmm-hmmm?” Knot stopped in mid-snort and looked puzzled. “Something I said?”
A Little Dish of Revenge
Absorbed in their studies, the group of student witches assembled in the meadow had been utterly unaware of the dramas taking place in the nearby shrubbery. In turn, they had been rehearsing the spells that they required to pass the practical part of their forthcoming end-of-term exams. Each student had chosen one standard grade enchantment from the second-year curriculum and, aided by the others, was attempting to put the magic into practice. The prospect of looming exams had focused their efforts
considerably; there was no idle chitchat, no sarcastic commentary, and no amusing trick hexes to raise a laugh. The group was unusually subdued and diligent, frowning in concentration as Hecate Brinstone struggled with the visually stunning but fiendishly complex Floreat Aetherum.
Two witches were missing from the group: Signora Strega-Borgia, under Mrs. McLachlan's instructions, had gone back to bed; and Fiamma d'Infer was helping herself to the contents of a gin bottle that she'd hidden in the greenhouse for emergencies. Slugging down a stiff measure of neat alcohol, Fiamma peered through a mossy pane of glass at the eleven distant figures in the meadow.
“Stupid fools,” she muttered, taking another large swallow from the bottle. “Idiots, with their pathetic little conjuring tricks . . .” Out of sheer spite, she snapped her fingers in front of her mouth and, in an alarming simulacrum of a flamethrower, caused fire to blaze out from deep in her throat. Seeking something to destroy, she applied herself to the ancient grapevine that grew along the back wall of the greenhouse. If plants could have given voice to their feelings, the vine would have shrieked in agony. Minutes later, satisfied that no grapes would grow at StregaSchloss for many years, she strolled out of the greenhouse and crossed the flagstones to where the formal lawn rolled down to the meadow. The air was heavy with the scent of blossom, and bees buzzed drowsily in the herbaceous borders. Fiamma noted with disgust that Hecate was managing rather well with the Floreat Aetherum, much to the admiration and encouragement of her classmates.
Suspended in the air above the young witch's head were thousands of tiny flower buds, their petals tightly curled as they hung magically in the still air. Hecate paused in her careful incantations and looked up, shading her eyes against the sunlight. A tentative smile hovered round her mouth and, heartened by her success thus far, she continued, “In nomine floris—aperte!”
Fiamma couldn't resist. Unobserved on the edge of the meadow, she muttered a counterspell under her breath, a hex designed to scramble Hecate's words and turn them into the magical equivalent of alphabet soup. Like witchcraft's version of a computer virus, its effect was catastrophic.