by Paul Magrs
Then, all of a sudden, it seems that we have arrived somewhere important.
There are no more tests, no more booby traps.
‘Inner sanctum,’ Effie hisses at me, over her shoulder.
I could have guessed that for myself, since we are in a room of polished crystal. It’s an amazing place. Almost blinding. It’s like being inside a vast jewel.
Three thrones are carved out of the same substance, and occupy a dais at the furthest side of the chamber. A slim woman in a modest, almost dowdy outfit, is sitting in the middle throne, waiting for us.
It’s the woman whose ghostly form saved our lives up in the churchyard.
As we approach I see that the other two thrones are occupied by her sisters, who are more wraithlike and harder to see.
I stumble in Effie’s wake, as we make our way towards an audience with the Bronte sisters.
Effie glances back to make sure I’m still here. When she does her face is alight with excitement. I’ve never seen her look so happy.
‘Welcome back, Effryggia,’ says Charlotte. ‘We knew you would find your way back to us. You are the best of our old girls. One of our alumni we sisters are most proud of.’
‘T-thank you,’ says Effie. ‘That’s very kind of you to say.’
‘We sisters do not say such things lightly.’
‘I know, I know, and I’m very flattered. But you must forgive me. My memory of being a pupil… an adept in your care… it has only recently come back to me. All of this had somehow faded from my mind in the intervening years…’
Sickly-looking Ann perks up, manifesting more fully as she explains, ‘This was how it was meant to be. The knowledge was meant to sink seamlessly into your mind. You would only remember our tutelage if it became necessary for you to do so.’
‘And it has become necessary now?’ asks Effie, sounding worried.
Charlotte, however, doesn’t reply, and turns her gaze onto me. Her eyes are blazingly intelligent and fierce. I almost take a step backwards, but prevent myself. I need to look courageous and undaunted. Then all three Brontes are staring at me.
‘Why did you bring this person with you?’ Charlotte demands.
‘Who, Brenda?’ says Effie. ‘Why, she’s my best friend. We never go on an adventure without the other. We’re a team!’
At this, Emily gives a ghostly little laugh and swishes forward. ‘But, dear Effie, this is the aberration. The abomination. The legendary creature not of woman born.’
I feel myself bridling at this. I clench my fists, but I know it’s hopeless. Here’s someone taunting me and being nasty again, just to get a reaction. Really, I’d have thought better of Emily Bronte.
While Effie flummoxes and flusters, having her loyalties pulled about by these phantom siblings, there is a strange interlude. The Brontes leave their crystal thrones and, all three becoming quite corporeal now, they glide towards us. Their Victorian gowns hang down to the ground and it looks very much as if they are floating along on the spotless floor. They encircle us, studying us, swishing round and round, faster and faster. It’s like the Bronte girls are on roller skates.
‘W-what are you doing?’ cries Effie. She has her hands over her ears, as if the swishing of their dresses is deafeningly loud. It isn’t, but something is disturbing Effie very profoundly now. Perhaps the girls are different to how she remembers. They seem very odd indeed to me, and not quite nice.
‘You should never have brought her!’ cries Anne, as she careens past.
‘She’s a monstrosity!’ catcalls Emily.
‘You should have known better, Effryggia! We Bronte’s trained you better than that!’ shrieks Charlotte. ‘No outsiders are welcome inside the inner sanctum!’
‘Especially not unnatural ones..!’ This is Emily, thrusting her spiteful face into mine as she swooshes by. She’s taken a personal dislike to me, it seems. I try hard not to feel too hurt.
Effie struggles to make herself heard by her long-dead mentors: ‘But Brenda is my best friend! You can’t be nasty about her!’
‘She’s trash! Dead body parts! Flotsam and jetsam! She’s not even a real human being! She’s got no soul! How could you be friends with a stitched together homunculus like this?’
Effie becomes furious, lashing out at their taunts. But I’m quite sanguine. These things are nothing I’ve not heard before.
But there’s an eldritch madness in the air. The three sisters roller-skating round us have whipped up some kind of mini tornado and suddenly it’s all becoming a blur. I turn to see Effie screeching at the top of her voice and she’s there one moment – and gone the next.
I find myself tumbling and twirling and being borne away through the wild air. Head over heels I go into the furthest recesses of the Brontes’ secret hideout, as if they are casting me out of their sight in disgust. I am trash, they say, just bits of rubbish stitched together. And so I am being brushed aside, sent elsewhere and all of a sudden…
There is quiet. No more taunting and squawking. I am sitting slumped in a dimly lit room elsewhere. Alone. The Bronte girls have kept their precious pupil Effie with them, and I have been sent here: rejected, dumped, tossed out in the garbage.
No time for self pity. I clamber to my feet and tell myself to be strong and resourceful. I’ve got to find a way out of this impossible place.
Then there’s a voice.
A man’s voice, rather distinguished and gruff.
‘Wait, oh wait, don’t tell me. You’re going to start looking for a way out of this crazy place, yes? And you think it’ll be a doddle, right? Well, you’ve got a thing or two to learn, dearie.’
I look everywhere but, close as the voice sounds, there’s no one here.
‘Try looking closer to the floor, Brenda.’
I whirl about and find myself staring at the impossible creature talking to me like this. He’s about ten inches tall, covered in black and white fur, and somehow he knows my name.
‘Did that old turncoat Effie tell you about me, hm?’ he demands, fluffing up his black ears self-importantly. ‘Did she include me in her tale of woe? She should have, the rotten traitor. I was the one who came down here with her all that time ago. I looked after her. I made sure nothing terrible happened to her. She might have said that she came down here alone, but she was lying. When she officially enrolled in the Brontes’ witchy academy, I was here to help her.’
I can’t help interrupting, ‘But you’re…’
‘Her Panda, yes,’ he says sniffily, looking me up and down. All of a sudden I feel shabby. ‘All the best people have one, you know.’
‘But how can you talk and move about on your own…?’
‘You do ask such dreary questions, Brenda,’ he says, and starts trundling about the place, swinging his arms about listlessly, as if considering ignoring me completely.
‘And how do you know who I am?’
‘Well,’ yawns the Panda, ‘I’ve been trapped, you see, ever since your wonderful friend Effie abandoned me down here, which must be several decades by now. Anyway, the Bronte girls keep tabs on their various alumni around the world. And they let me hear odd tidbits about the woman who betrayed me all that time ago. I shouldn’t be bothered about that rotten old bag, but I still am.’
‘You’re saying Effie left you here?’
In answer he turns his small back on me. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, actually. It was very hurtful.’
I don’t have time or the inclination to tiptoe around the feelings of a stuffed toy, so I just leave him to sulk in silence. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve got to find myself a way out of here. Rescue Effie, too, if possible. For a second, as I trot off down the dingy corridor, I yearn for my bed at the ‘Villette’ Guest House. Then, of course, I remember that, even if I can break out of this secret base, there’s no going back to the guest house. Not when the
landlady is the leader of the coven.
Instead I think longingly of Whitby. It seems like so long since I was snug in my very own home. If I ever get back there I don’t think I’ll ever leave again. All this travelling about isn’t worth it in the end.
Thud thud thud. There are soft footsteps behind me. I turn and there’s Effie’s Panda hurrying after me.
‘Wait!’ he calls, in that disproportionately loud and fruity voice. ‘What are you doing? You can’t abandon me as well! Come back!’
‘I’ve got things to do,’ I tell him, glaring back just as intently as his dark button eyes.
‘But…’ he gasps, and then seems to wrestle with himself. ‘But… can’t I come with you? Can’t we join forces?’
I take stock of myself: here I am, two hundred years old, exhausted, upset and confused. Filthy and scratched to bits, wearing nothing but a nightie I was supposed to be sacrificed in, and feeling the start of an almighty tension headache coming on. And I’m quibbling with a toy panda.
‘No,’ I tell him flatly. ‘You’ll only hold me up.’
‘I won’t! I can run quite quickly! Or you can carry me. And I know all the secret passages in this benighted dump. Seriously, I’ve been down here since the War! I know my way about..!’
I sigh. ‘All right.’
Before the words are even out, the panda has taken a running jump, flown through the air, and landed in my arms. He looks up at me adoringly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I’m a huge fan of yours, you know. I’ve eavesdropped on all the Bronte girls’ conversations about you, and so I have heard all about your adventures with Effie. They sound so exciting and wonderful! I’ve longed to join forces with you! And now here I am!’
Perhaps I’ve simply gone doo-lally. At some point this night it all became too much for my fuddled senses and my sanity snapped clean across, just like the sacrificial table we were strapped to.
Panda stares up at me adoringly, like a babe in arms. ‘What are you waiting for, dearie? We’ve got to escape from this place! I’ll tell you the way to the exit I found. I know it’s there, but I was never strong enough to break out, of course. But you’re strong, Brenda! You can smash a way out for us!’
I shake my head grimly. ‘That’s all very well, Panda. But first we have to find Effie and break her out too.’
He tuts and shakes his head sadly. ‘Too late, I’m afraid, my dear. She’s alone with her witchy mentors right now. She is back in their thrall again. And they will be telling her what they want her to do. Because that’s what’s behind all this, you see. I’m sure it’s true. There’ll be something they want Effie to do for them. And there’s nothing we can do about that.’
‘But we can’t just leave her down here!’
‘We’ll see her outside. When they let her out again. You’ll see. They wouldn’t harm her, you know. They’ll simply… talk to her, and then set her free. She’s precious to them, Brenda. Just as she is to me, the old bat. But come on now. We’re not precious to anyone, are we? We cast-off creatures have to look after ourselves. Come along, Brenda. Come now. I’ll show you the way…’
§
Well, the small talking Panda is true to his word. We slither and scrape through narrowing tunnels. We push aside overgrown vines and tree roots. It occurs to me, ghoulishly, that this underground den is like being inside the veins and arteries of some living being; some gargantuan organism lying prone under the graveyard.
Luckily, Panda is less given to fanciful imaginings and he stays resolute and practical in his search for the way out.
‘Will they just let us leave, do you think?’ I ask, as he ushers me down yet another gloomy gallery of mildewy stone.
‘I should think so,’ he says. ‘We unfortunates hold no interest for the likes of them. I shouldn’t think they’ll give a split-second’s thought to what becomes of us. They certainly don’t want us messing up their lovely underground sanctuary.’
Still, I can’t help wondering about this. Do I believe this queer little being? Can I even trust him? But he was Effie’s toy, wasn’t he, all those years ago? He came with her all the way from Whitby when she was evacuated. He must be trustworthy, I feel. Although I do admit to feeling a bit odd about the way he can reason and argue and run down corridors with me. When Effie described her child-self talking to him I had kind of assumed it had all been inside her head. But that just goes to show: you should never make assumptions about people. Especially not magical people.
Now there is a whiff of fresh air. A slight breeze issuing from somewhere. I drink it in like nectar, realizing just how stuffy and dank it is down here.
‘Almost there, dear,’ Panda tells me, probing ahead. ‘Can you see that? That’s daylight.’
It’s a glorious opalescence, growing stronger as we push onwards through the hairy roots and the twiggy limbs. I trip once or twice and we have to clamber but all of a sudden I can hear birdsong.
There are several boulders up ahead, with a line of light around them. Panda points at them and says, ‘This was as close as I could ever get to being outside again. No way I could shift that lot. But you could, Brenda, couldn’t you?’
I stare at the rocky barricade that stands between us and freedom outside and I start to doubt my own strength. I’m worn out now and my ancient body is screaming for at least twenty hours’ deep sleep. But I know that I can’t let us both down now. We simply have to get out of this awful place. I limber up quickly and brace myself and put my weight behind the bulkiest obstacle.
‘Wonderful, Brenda!’ Panda calls. ‘I knew you’d have a go! You can do it, girl! Come on, lovey! Set us free!’
It takes a lot of grunting and groaning and lots of other, very unladylike noises, but I manage to get the rocks to budge a bit. Rubble and soil start to trickle as the barricade shifts for the first time in decades. Panda whoops and bellows his encouragement and I strain with every fibre of my ample being. Thank goodness I was built so strong. An abomination, an aberration. A soulless creature made of shreds and patches. I may be any of those things, and a whole lot else besides, but at least I can look after myself as well. Faced by an angry mob, a locked door or a wall of solid rock, I can still batter my way out to freedom.
Just as I do now.
‘Hurray for Brenda!’ the Panda yells, as the rocks give way and bright, wholesome, blinding sunlight comes flooding into the tunnel. It all makes a tremendous noise, but I don’t care if it alerts those sisters. They can go and hang for all I care. I stand there, breathing in the fresh, dewy air of the morning and reveling in the outraged birdsong.
Panda races past me, jumping and clambering over the rubble and hopping into the valley beyond. It all seems very fresh and green out there.
‘We’re out on the Moors!’ he calls, turning back to watch me follow. ‘We made it, Brenda! We made it out!’ And now he’s dashing about through the swaying grass like he hasn’t been able to stretch his legs properly for seventy years or more.
Seventy years? Surely that makes Effie… about eighty years old or more? I hadn’t done the sums until now. Well, well. She’s bearing up well for a woman about fifteen years older than I thought her.
It’s magic behind it all, isn’t it? The witchy magic of her aunts and those Bronte sisters. No wonder Effie is ageing so gracefully.
‘Oh, isn’t it marvelous, Brenda? Look at that sun! Look at it! I’d forgotten how huge and hot it is! I’d forgotten what it was like up here. I could eat the air, it’s so clean and gorgeous!’
I can see that Panda is getting over-stimulated. He’s dashing about and there’s bound to be tears if he gets himself too worked up. Already I can tell he’s a rather highly-strung young bear. I tell him, ‘Come along, chum. We need to get some breakfast and think about what we ought to do next.’
Dazedly he follows me, and together we try to get our bearings. We clamber uphill to the high
est point on the Moors we can find. Ah, there it is. The little town of Haworth, only about a mile away. Chimneys are smoking already, and the town is coming to life. Panda sighs when he sees it. Real life, real people. No longer trapped under the earth with ghosts. It must mean such a lot to him, to see life above ground again.
‘You’ll take me back to Whitby, won’t you, Brenda?’ he says, sounding more hopeful than I’ve heard him yet. ‘That’s where I’m from. It’s where I first came to consciousness, you know. I was given to Effie when she was very young indeed, and she treasured me, you know. She talked and talked to me, day and night. Effie and I were inseparable…’
Panda blathers on happily as we come down from the Moors, and I’m only half listening to his reminiscences, if I’m honest. All I can think about is having a little lie down and a cup of hot, sugary tea. And perhaps a soft boiled egg. I like soft boiled eggs a great deal.
Except… this town we’re heading towards is a town full of enemies, isn’t it? Surely all of its inhabitants were in the churchyard last night. They were dancing about, all togged up, and getting ready to sacrifice us to the Bronte sisters.
Maybe it’s not such a good idea, heading back into that place.
But I think I know what I’m doing. I think we can trust old Jack. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I don’t think he would have been best pleased to see us put to death last night. I’m sure he’s happy that we weren’t slashed to ribbons by Mrs Harris’ sacrificial knife, and our bloods drained out on the graves.
I just hope we’re not seen, Panda and I, as we steal into the top end of town. It’s still very early, and the place is only just coming to life. We see a postman in the distance, labouring up the cobbled hill, but few others. Just in case we have to scarper, I gather Panda into my arms and, catching sight of myself reflected in the fishmonger’s window, realise I look like a frantic inmate who’s escaped from somewhere awful.
At last we’re at Jack’s house. Through the gate and hurrying up the front path. In daylight you can see he’s got a lovely front garden, which he must put a lot of work into. I clatter hard at the door knocker, and Panda pushes the doorbell with both paws. There’s a lot of barking from Delilah indoors.