Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  I race around the edge of the crackling clearing. My eyes adjust back to the dark quicker than normal. Ahead of me, I catch glimpses of crocdog tails, flitting and twisting their way through the trees.

  I fly faster, trying to keep up, but they run as fast as I can fly—I barely keep pace. Every once in a while I spot Magnolia, bouncing beneath the grip of a crocdog’s jaws. Then I lose them.

  I stop—out of wind. I inhale a deep breath of damp Frasch Forest swamp air . . . and then I smell him. Bane. . . A wave of dizziness hits me, but I . . . I think I can scent-trail him. How, I have no idea, but the thick sweet smell of him pulls me closer and closer to the sounds of yips and growls—snarling crocdogs.

  When I catch up to them, they’re on a little knoll that must be the entrance to their den, Chianne’s morphed to human and accusing Magnolia of all sorts of vile things.

  “For your part in causing his death, and for the safety of the pack,” she says, “I condemn you to your agreed-upon fate.” And she morphs into her crocdog lichenthroat skin. I hadn’t noticed how angry she looked before in the hog grass, but she’s the meanest-looking—and her jaws open up—

  “Noooo!” I don’t have any control over what I’m doing or saying anymore, and that comes out as loud as anything I’ve ever said.

  “Dixxon,” Magnolia shouts back at me, “get out of here! Now!”

  And Bane’s not morphed, but he runs right at me, and then he morphs in mid-stride. And his teeth. . . He’s snarling and I don’t want to—“Magnolia!” I shout—but before I can stop myself, I’m running away. “No-no-no!” I yell at my feet, but they keep running until I can’t feel him behind me any longer.

  I finally get control of myself and run around to the other side of the knoll, barely in time to see Chianne pounce on Magnolia. And there’s thrashing and screaming and growling and snarling and—

  CRACK! A burst of bright white light explodes and Chianne goes flying, yelping and yipping before she smashes into a cypress tree and falls to the forest floor.

  I look for her. She has to be okay! But my best—Magnolia . . . is gone. I fall to my knees and cry, but then the entire pack howls, turns and slowly walks toward me. Even Bane is with them. And I jump up . . . and run!

  LYING LIARS

  — 9 —

  I RAN BACK through the forest. After a while, the crocdogs gave up following me, though Cat’s said it’s not in their nature to do that. Yet for whatever reason, they let me go. I have no idea why. I wanted to go back, but I just—my feet wouldn’t let me. I didn’t even know where I was running to, only that I needed to get as far away as possible from those awful—I can’t believe I was ever nice to him—

  I run smack into Baxxster, searching for me in the swamp. This week’s turned into a black witch’s boil so fast. I barely have breath to tell him, “They were gonna burn her, Baxxster. But the crocdogs took her and that shewolf. . . She bit her . . . and everything exploded into white!” I suck in air, catching my breath. “Why’s all this happening? I don’t. . . I just don’t understand.” It’s the clearest thing I can see. Everything else is clouded in misery in my mind.

  Cat scurries in and out, figure-eighting between my feet, trying to calm me. “Shhhh,” he whispers, “I want to make sure she’s not—listen to me, you won’t understand this yet—I can’t believe I waited this long—but you’re the—”

  “Why, there you two are,” Maxxine says from the shadows. “Thought I lost you both. I was about ready to boil up the bonfire, turn this entire forest into a glowing ball of light. Find out which way everyone’s running.”

  I hadn’t noticed it, but I must’ve been crying since I left the crocdog’s knoll. I look down at my feet and then back along the trail I took to get here. Little green and purple flowers are sprouting up every time one of my tears splashes onto the forest floor.

  “What’re you watering about, darlin’?” Maxxine asks. She holds up her umbrella and shines purple light on the three of us. But it’s Cat she speaks to, “Oh my, I am sorry about that. Twice in one lifetime, Baxxster. You two don’t have many lives left together, do you?”

  Now Cat’s mad. He’s trying hard not to show it, but he’s never been much good at that. “That’s not what’s important now.” He looks at me. “I’ve got to get her back to the mansion.”

  “Back to the mansion?” Maxxine says. “That’s the last place she needs to be. If I know that miserable old magic-hater, he most certainly burned that worn-out excuse for a witch’s den to the ground . . . with anyone left alive in there.”

  My witchies. . . But I have to go back and find Magnolia. “We have to go. . .” But I don’t know what I’d go back for. There was no sign of her after Bane’s girlfriend killed her. That thought makes me angrier than I’ve ever been. I don’t know if it’s Magnolia or Bane or his “girlfriend” that I’m angrier about, but if I can’t help. . . There’s got to be something I can do. “Broom’s back there,” I say to Cat, “and O.” Now I’m cocking my head at him, and I think . . . I think he agrees with me? “They’d never leave us behind.”

  I whisk past Maxxine, determined to reach the mansion before anyone else, and Cat follows me.

  I barely hear her mutter, “You may not like what you find.”

  Maxxine’s the only one of us who’s not shocked by the scene outside the mansion. I’m beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach about her, like a slow-burning flame gathering height and hate. Come to think of it, I’m not too fond of all that purple she’s wearing, either.

  The entire front yard is littered with charred and smoldering wood and skunk. I feel awful for them. No matter how terrible they smell, no creature deserves to be blown to bits this way.

  Cat sniffs in and scrunches up his nose, but doesn’t offer a stitch of sarcasm about the smell. “They did their duty.”

  “Apparently it wasn’t enough,” Maxxine says. She waves her umbrella at the wreckage and all the wood and what’s left of the skunks swirls into a purple tornado, and then implodes in a flash of light. “There, that should improve the odor a bit.”

  I can’t help feeling there’s some unspoken exchanges between Maxxine and Cat. They’re a bit more prickly to each other than they were when she arrived. I’m beginning to feel prickly towards her too. I’m fast developing an unnerving feeling about her.

  And when I say she looks down at him, I mean that in every way. “It won’t do anything for the rickety cloaked cabin you casted to protect the entrance, however. That broom’s been broken.”

  “Mangy?” I say. We all stare up at him. There’s smoke still billowing out of his windows and a hole that’s burned through his roof. His front doors are off their hinges, and I can see in and up the staircase. “Are you. . .?” I don’t even know if “hurt” is the right word.

  A low moan is all the answer he gives . . . or can give.

  Inside, the mansion’s a mess. And I know I have to, but I’m terrified at what I’ll find in there. I don’t know if I can stand to lose any more friends today. I stare at the kitchen door. My witchies. . .

  Cat walks up next to me. He stops and stares too.

  Maxxine heads for the sitting room. I can hear the crackling and feel the heat from the fireplace in there. I glance back over my shoulder. She’s staring down into the fireplace and strangely, the flames are still raging. Only now they’re definitely purple. I think I hear her mutter something, but I’m too worried about what I’m going to find behind the kitchen door to investigate further. I’ll deal with “Auntie” later.

  When I turn back, Cat shakes his head and mutters, “Four days. . .” Maybe it’s to himself, because I barely hear it. “Broom. . .” I hear that loud and clear.

  I’m worried about my sweeping security guard too, but my birthday? I have no idea how Cat can be thinking about that? Something he was about to say in the forest scratches at the corner of my mind, but I can’t quite figure out what it is yet. . .

  I lean over and touch the kitchen d
oor. It’s hot. Thank the great white witch for that. I turn back around and look at the wide-open front doors. They’ve got me mumbling now. “This won’t do.” Something inside me knows exactly what to do.

  “Dixxon?” Cat says.

  I ignore him. It’s time he sees what Magnolia’s been teaching me on the way to and from school. I’ve had enough of feeling useless and powerless. The entire time I thought we were simply hexing around, pretending we were all-powerful white witches. Now I know, she wasn’t pretending. This time, I understand exactly what I’m saying and what I can do. “In the name of the light”—I wave my hand at the front doors and they fly up and slam back onto their hinges—“and the power of the night”—Magnolia taught me this one when the crocdogs chased my carriage home from school—“from crocdogs’ bite and human spite . . . protect this house from another fight.”

  I don’t have to look outside to know that Mangy can mend in peace and quiet now. I’ve recast the run-down cabin cloak spell that Cat put up. There’s nothing I can do about the skunks. I’ve brought one too many creatures back from the black already. But, no more evil is winding its way back inside the mansion, not this week.

  Inside the kitchen, my worst fears appear. It’s a mess. Saucer and Smug are shattered, along with all of their brothers and sisters. Pot is dented in the corner and I have no idea where Kettle is. The only thing that’s not broken or bowled over is my bubbling cauldron. I lean into it and take a tiny whiff. I shake my head, fighting off the dizziness. Lucky Lucy on that.

  As outspoken as she is, Oven is shivering and silent. Baxxster and I tiptoe between the broken pieces and stop in front of her. “And Broom?” I ask her. The kitchen’s the last place I saw him before Maxxine crafted us to the forest. I’m hoping Cat wasn’t right about—

  Oven’s door shudders a little and opens up slowly. “Oh, missy D,” she says, “they gumboed up your broom . . . somethin’ fierce. He . . . he was splintered clean through with one a them Christ-crazy’s little arrows. . . Come a runnin’ through here all screaming and on fire. Headed to the pantry, last I seen him.” Her door shudders again. “I’m sorry, but I . . . I was so scared and that evil man was in here lookin’ to cook anything what wasn’t dead and burned up already.”

  I touch Oven’s door gently. “You did fine, O. Nothing to be sorry for. You’re not the one burning them now, are you?” I look at Baxxster. “The pantry then.” Neither of us really wants to go to the other end of the kitchen and find out for sure, but there’s no way around it.

  The pantry’s normally one of my favorite places. I keep all my specks and spices hidden behind a loose board near the top of the back wall, my little hidey-hole, and Stool and I are the only ones who know about it. I’ve spelled him to secrecy.

  Sometimes I just sneak in and take inventory with him, just for fun. But even he doesn’t know about my ’locks.

  Magnolia showed me how and where to find them, but told me never to speak of them, even to Cat. She said I’d know what to do with them and how to use them . . . when the time was right. Now, more than ever, I want to boil up every last one and mix them with the Nightlock. It’s so dangerous that I keep it in a different hiding hole. Probably how Broom found it? I should’ve stored it with the rest of them, but Magnolia warned me about mixing them all together.

  As Cat and I step slowly over the aftermath in the kitchen, I go through them all in my head:

  Hemlock, for mending threads. Shamlock, lucky Lucy, that one. Swamplock and Boglock are nearly the same thing, but one only makes the smell and the other actually grows moss. Surrounded by swamp, it’s important to know the difference.

  Brimlock’s the best fire starter there is. Ashlock’s for putting them out. The way Broom builds boomers, I keep plenty of that around. I hope he’s. . . Heartlock, Magnolia would never give me any of it, but now I understand that’s not its most common name. Passion potion. . . I’m beginning to understand what that one truly does to your heart.

  Gravelock will put a mortal six feet down underground, and when they wake up, they’ll wish they were dead. Headlock. . . Well, that’s just too hideous to explain. Ghostlock explains itself pretty well, and Moonlock’s for stopping a lichen from turning.

  Froglock’s the only way to silence the Prien Lake croakers. Firelock’s for. . . That’s what she was doing—talking into the fire! And the last one—Waterlock. Magnolia said there’s no way to kill a black witch quicker.

  Of course, you have to have a great white witch’s tear to mix with any of them; otherwise, they might as well be tea.

  Cat and I both step over the schoolgirl’s body. Her scary stare says it all, but I’ll not be bringing her back from the black. Not after what she helped do to my mansion. . . And I’m starting to realize that it’s not really the way I thought. I’m not part of this mansion’s magical and mystical memories, they’re all . . . a part of me. And that makes this entire mess that much more miserable to bear.

  “Dixxon, do you want me to open the—”

  “No,” I say to Cat. Neither of us are ready to see our friend, but I creak open the pantry door anyway.

  “Chérie?” Broom says. He rubs his handle. Then he shakes his bristles and looks at Cat. “Right then, sir. I’m on the job. What. . .? Owww!” He rubs his handle and swishes all his bristles again.

  Cat and I just stare. Surprisingly, to me anyway, I find my tongue first. “I—we expected you to be—”

  “Dead?” Broom says. “I think not.” He stands up and there’s no sign of a crossbolt through him or burned bristles . . . at all.

  Maybe Oven was mistaken in the mess of the rest of the murdering that went on in the kitchen?

  “No burning little brats from town gonna bonfire old Broom,” he says. “Bet that for breakfast.”

  Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Cat just rushes over to him and nudges against all of Broom’s bristles. I’ve never seen him act this way toward anyone, and my eyes are seeing it, but I can hardly believe. . .

  He stops fast enough and clears his throat. “Ahem. Humf, well . . . yes”—he stiffens and frowns and then sniffs—“we thought that you’d gone and gotten yourself. . . What on Bile Island are you doing in the pantry?”

  Broom rubs his head again. “I was. . . I’m not exactly sure, sir.” He sniffs in. “Got to tend me fires, though. Smells like they burning over a bit. Flues might be sticking again. No worry. Fix that right up for ya.”

  I reach out and touch his handle. He doesn’t seem to remember. “Broom,” I say, “the mansion’s been attack—”

  Cat’s less gentle. “Oh, come now, you nattering knothole. That crazy priest has burned the place down around you. You’re telling me you don’t remember. . .?”

  Broom sniffs way in this time. “Bloody hell. . .” is all he says.

  — 10 —

  ON BILE ISLAND, the purple flames under the council’s cauldron snapped and crackled like an undead whipping at horses. Roxxanne spoke directly into the flames while the other five listened intently, “And how is our little bright light after it?”

  The flames filled with the projection of Maxxine’s face. She alternated speaking and looking over her shoulder behind her. “She’s brightening up to the idea of it. Casted up a protection cloak around the mansion just this afternoon. A speck better than her security Cat’s was, I can canja you that much. Won’t be long until she wands her way to the rest.”

  Roxxanne scoffed. She wouldn’t let that happen. “You listen to me, sister, your task was simple,” she said. “Keep her away from that Christ-crawler’s crackling fire, and keep her crafting companions under control.”

  The image of Maxxine’s face waved in the flames. “Our friend’s taken care of most of that issue. There’ll certainly be no more meddling from those weak-willed witchies in the kitchen.” She looked behind her and chuckled a little. Then she turned back to the flames and said, “They’re crunching their way through what’s left of th
ose crafting Cajun Creoles as we speak. Looking for her broom, I suspect. He’ll be a bit more of a mountain than the molehill I expected. He’s . . . suspicious at the least. I may not have the luxury of letting him live through it. You may want to dust off a . . . replacement.”

  “I’ve . . . ‘handled’ him,” Roxxanne replied. Then she cackled out loud.

  Zoé Beau Pre rolled her eyes. Bile-filled black witch or not. . . “If you two are through playing with each others’ brooms, might I ask if we have any serious business to bleed. I have an—”

  “We know all about your ‘appointments’,” Suzette said. The little pink pixie had grown tired of all the warring and the worrying. She looked right at Roxxanne and then at Maxxine’s image in the fire. “Why’s your sister doing a job that we sent Huxxley to do, again? And what exactly, Roxxanne, is your sister planning to do, anyway? The rest of us seem to be as in the black about that as the lake around this island.”

  Everyone at the fire knew the reason, but Suzette was the only one of the other five of them who could get away with accusing the vile witch to her face.

  It was no secret that when Huxxley Howard III didn’t return from the Frasch Forest, back from the task he’d been entrusted with, the dithering debutant had most likely been wanded by a much more cunning warrior than he was. And the most likely culprit was now reporting back to them through the fire under the cauldron.

  Roxxanne was as annoyed with the charade as the little pixie was. She pointed at Zoé. “Your succubus friend’s humping Huxxley failed to reach the mansion in time. And since her inept security sorcerers couldn’t keep the little whelp under control for just a few more days—keep her wand in her mansion where it belonged—she’s gone and broken the law. Unlucky Lucy for her.

  “Only three days left until she could’ve commanded it all. But she’s white-wanded that. I would’ve welcomed it, I would.” Roxxanne pointed her long finger around the fire at each one of them. “I grow weary of your whining and wailing: ‘Why are we saving this one, Roxxanne?’ ‘Why are we burning that one, Roxxanne?’ It’s pathetic. Pissing pixies is what I have, all pounding your fists for justice and judgment. None of you willing to deal it out. Well, deal it out we will, my little pixies! And since none of you are up to the task, I’ve sent my lovely sister to do it for you. At least she still believes in the rules of the new world. Rules, I remind you, that have saved each of your miserable magic skins . . . several times over. So, you want a say in this? Then you shall have it, and you’ll live with the consequences, you will. Same as I do every day. Put it to the truth!”