by Kaye Umansky
Miss Fly scurried for her dressing gown.
Mesmeranza turned to the children.
“Well,” she said. “Here we all are. Castle Coldiron. First impressions, anybody?”
Clover and Wilf said nothing. There was nothing to say. Besides, they were both in a state of shock. The soles of their feet still tingled from the impact of the touch down, which had been truly horrible, involving tall spires suddenly rising outside the windows followed by a massive bump as all the windows simultaneously shattered, sprinkling the floor with shards of glass.
And then, at Wand point, the children had reluctantly stepped from the cottage … and into another world. A cold, gray world of towering stone walls and curious, staring faces.
A man in a guard uniform came hurrying up, trying to pull his gloves on and salute at the same time. The plume in his helmet waved in the cold breeze.
“Place a guard on the cottage, Captain,” ordered Mesmeranza. “Nobody is to enter but me. Ah. Here comes Chunk.”
The crowds parted as a gigantic man in a stained leather tunic came lumbering up. Hanging from his straining leather belt was a large bunch of keys. In his hand was a big, studded truncheon.
Over by the kitchen door, Mrs. Chunk gave a proud smile and announced, “That’s my boy.”
“This is Master Chunk,” said Mesmeranza. “He’ll be giving you a guided tour of the dungeons. I’m sure you’ll become great friends over the next few years.”
“What about the cottage?” asked Clover. She glanced back over her shoulder.
The cottage wasn’t staring now. It just looked—tired. Old, tired, and more than ready for retirement. Almost all the thatched roof had blown away. More bits had dropped off, including the chimney. All the windows were broken. Wind-torn ivy drooped from the walls.
“What about it?”
“What will you do with it? Now you’ve got your own way and it’s finally yours?” Clover asked.
“I shall get rid of it,” said Mesmeranza, dismissively. “I shall leave it parked here for a day or two and enjoy the sweet smell of success. I’ll have my picture painted standing in the doorway holding a large sign saying, ‘MINE NOW’ I shall send the picture to Demelza with a first class stamp. And then I shall demolish it.”
“So you won’t even use it?” asked Wilf. “You went to all that trouble for something you’re just going to destroy?”
“You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t want it. I just don’t want Demelza to have it. Ah, here comes Fly. You certainly took your time.”
Miss Fly came running up clutching a little black book and wearing an old brown dressing gown that was plastered in cat hairs.
“Sorry,” she wheezed. “Cabe as quig as I could.”
“I hope you’ve put the champagne on ice. That’s Number One on the new list. Celebrate With Champagne. Number Two is Have Picture Painted And Mail It To Demelza. Although”—Mesmeranza gave a little titter—“although I’m not sure where to send it, now that she’s homeless. I’ll have to send it to the cottage shaped hole in the ground. That should get there, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Eckles was right,” said Clover, disgustedly. “You really are spiteful.”
“Take them down to the dungeons, Chunk,” ordered Mesmeranza. “Separate cells, bread and water only. We’ll see if hunger will make them less insolent.”
A huge hand descended onto Clover’s shoulder. At the same time, Wilf felt something hard and spiky dig into the base of his spine. The gigantic man said, in a rather comically high voice, “Get walking.”
There was nothing to do but get walking.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Captured in the Castle
At this point we must leave Clover and Wilf to shuffle off to their fate and return to the cottage.
It didn’t take long to lose its novelty. The dramatic manner of its arrival had initially caused great excitement. The crowd hung around for a bit, hoping that it might do something else—but it didn’t. The arrest of the two prisoners had been interesting, but they were gone now. So was Mesmeranza, who had swept away with Miss Fly scurrying at her heels. Then it began drizzling, so people had drifted off, back to their everyday lives.
A solitary sentry stood on guard in the doorway. His name was Stan, and he didn’t want to be there. It was boring. He hoped his shift would end soon. He couldn’t see the point of standing in the rain guarding an empty cottage. All right, so it had flown in. But there were no signs that it was about to fly out again, so why bother?
Up in the attic room, everything was still. Clover’s chest of drawers still lay on its side, and the bed stuck out into the room at an angle. The window hung from one hinge. All the glass was missing and only the frame remained, ensnared in the tendrils of ivy. A gust of wind blew in, bringing rain.
Then something moved. A lump under the blanket on the bed. A moving lump. A lump which slowly traveled up towards the pillow. There was a scrabbling noise and finally, a head emerged. A black, furry head, with two ears—one nibbled—and two yellow eyes.
Neville.
He wriggled out onto the pillow, dug his claws in, and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d. He sat up and began washing himself. He did his paws, his tail, and his whiskers and left the rest. It was a bit half-hearted, because Neville lived in a forest and his coat was so matted and full of random vegetation that he never really got to the root of things and the smell was always there. But he always washed first. It was the Cat Way. Wash first. Then Eat. Then Snooze, while the food went down.
There were other things he sometimes did, of course. Favorites included: Play With Something Small And Squeaky, Rather Nastily, In Corner; Rampage Around Forest Driving Off Wolves And Fighting Foxes; Return To Hero’s Welcome And Big Fuss. In between all this was a lot of Sitting And Staring At Nothing. All cats do this. No one knows why.
Washing completed, Neville thumped down off the bed and stared around.
Things seemed—different, somehow. The furniture was all wrong, and there was stuff all over the floor. Something about the window had changed. Oh, riiiiiight. It wasn’t there anymore, that was it.
Neville felt vaguely surprised.
You should know something about Neville. Despite Mrs. Eckles’s claim that he is intelligent and can understand everything you say, he isn’t and he can’t. All right, so he’s a Witch cat and has lived a lot more lives than the usual nine. But he’s still just a cat. His brain only stores so much. He has very little in the way of long term memory. Even when he does remember things, he can’t make much sense of them. So he sticks with the basics—food, sleep, warmth, and hunting. Everything else is a mystery.
Neville looked about him in mild puzzlement. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he was doing in Clover’s bed. Had something bad happened?
He dimly recalled that there had been some kind of drama the night before, sending him scurrying for cover under the blankets, fur on end and heart pounding. It must have been some fright. He had clearly been in a panic, because there were chunks out of the pillow and rips in the sheet. And then, exhausted by it all, whatever it was, he must have gone to sleep, because now it was morning.
What should he do?
Eat, that’s what. He would find mistress and remind her about breakfast.
Oh, but wait. Hadn’t mistress gone off somewhere?
Neville had a blurry recollection of a lot of kissing and her riding off in a donkey cart. Why had she gone? He didn’t know. Where had she gone? He hadn’t a clue. When had she gone? He wasn’t sure. What had happened after she had gone? He couldn’t remember.
Something was definitely wrong. Where were the usual sounds? He couldn’t hear the birds singing, or the swish of the cherry tree, or the clink of his milk bowl being set for breakfast.
Neville padded across to the window, placed his paws on the sill, and looked out. His yellow eyes widened, and his whole body went stiff.
The garden was gone. The cherry tree was gone. The chickens were gone.
The forest was gone. All around rose high walls. He was looking down at a deserted, rain-swept courtyard.
Neville dropped back to the floor and sat thinking. Well, not exactly thinking. It was more a state of vague bewilderment. Did he know this place? Had this sort of thing happened before? If so, was he always this surprised?
Of course, the answers to these questions were yes, yes, and yes. Ever since he was a kitten, Neville had lived in a flying cottage. He was old now. Over the years, there had been many occasions involving weird green light in the kitchen and a small green talking thing in the private cupboard and stars streaming past the windows. Numerous times the forest had disappeared and the world outside had changed, offering unsettling new sights, new smells, and interesting new fighting opportunities.
But Neville remembered none of them. Each time was as though it had never happened before. Because he was just a cat, he was never prepared and always confused. Life was a mystery and that was that. In the meantime, he would go and check the food bowl.
Neville rose to his feet and was just about to pad across to the trap door when he was distracted. This happens a lot with cats. They set out with a definite purpose, then get sidelined into doing something completely different.
All kinds of tempting things lay strewn across the floor: a comb, bits of broken glass, a pincushion. Neville was overtaken by a skittish urge to play with something. Not his boring old downstairs toys. Something new. A whole new world of playful opportunity lay before him. He would investigate.
He sniffed at the comb. He eyed the pin cushion. He considered the glass. All of them looked a bit sharp, a bit awkward, a bit pointy. Then something caught his eye. Something in the dark regions under the bed. The perfect size, the perfect shape. Something that was just dying to be batted about.
It was a tiny little glass bottle.
Neville liked the look of the little bottle. He just knew what would happen if he dabbed at it with his paw. It would roll. Oh, what fun! It would roll and roll, that little bottle, and he would follow it and dab at it again. Maybe flip it in the air. Stalk it. Whack it about a bit.
He went into a hunting crouch, rear end wriggling. He’d get that bottle! He’d leap on it unawares, he would, and send it flying!
Slowly, inch by inch, keeping low, he crept forward, towards the bed.
He pounced!
His front paw swiped at the little bottle and it rolled, just like he knew it would. Neville ran after it, caught up with it, and scooped it into the air. It banged on the underside of the bed, then went rolling across the floor. Neville charged after it and caught it under his paw.
Oh. Wait a minute. This wasn’t good.
Neville lifted his paw and inspected it. It was all wet. The tiny stopper had come off and the bottle was leaking. Perhaps it wasn’t so good to play with after all.
He raised the damp paw to his nose. It had a funny smell. He gave an experimental lick. It didn’t taste exactly good, but Neville was a cat and had stepped in much worse things.
He licked again. And again.
And then …
And then …
REVELATION!
“Excuse me?” shouted Wilf. He banged on the bars of his cell. The sound echoed along the stone corridor. “Hey! A bit of service here!”
“What?” snapped Humperdump Chunk. He was sitting in the guard room across the way, laboriously filling out a form with a stubby pencil.
“Will the food be arriving soon? We’re hungry.”
“Jimbo’s gettin’ it. I’m fillin’ out the paperwork.”
“What are you writing?” asked Clover. “Is it about us?”
She was in the cell next door to Wilf’s. Both of them stood at the bars, staring out. There was a thick stone wall between them, so they couldn’t see each other, but at least they could talk. That was something.
“Yup. I gotta write down the date. And the time o’ your arrival. An’ yer full names.”
“Ah, but you don’t know what they are, do you?”
“No.” Humperdump scratched behind his ear. “What are they?”
“Hortensia Splodgepudding,” said Clover, promptly.
“King Bobby Gobby the Third,” said Wilf.
They both sniggered a bit. It was a refreshing sound in this damp, shadowy, horrible place.
“Think that’s funny, do you?” said Humperdump. “Think that’s a big laugh? You won’t be laughin’ soon.”
He kicked the guardroom door with his heavily booted foot and it crashed shut, hiding him from view.
“Clover?” whispered Wilf.
“What?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. The jailer’s not very smart, that’s something. Maybe we can trick him. Put sleeping potion in his food or something.”
“Great idea. Let’s send out for some.”
“You don’t have a nail file in your pocket, by any chance? Or something sharp?”
“What, so you can saw through the bars?”
“No. So I can pick out some of these splinters.”
“Oh,” said Clover. “No, sorry.”
“Hey! You don’t happen to have the Changeme Serum handy, by any chance?”
“No. I put it in the chest. It probably got smashed, along with everything else.”
“That’s a shame. We could have done something with that. You could have taken it this time and gone on a rampage and kicked the door down. What are you doing in there? I can hear you rustling about.”
“Tidying up the straw.”
Wilf relaxed a bit. She was tidying. That was a good sign. A great pity about the serum, though. A rampage might have come in useful.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Neville Goes for a Walk
Something wonderful had happened to Neville. The moment he had licked the Changeme Serum from his paw, there had a been a big lightning flash of illumination. It was like a thousand pieces of randomly scattered jigsaw puzzle all rising up and fitting themselves together, making a perfect picture. In short, he had become smart.
His brain was now a keen-edged sword. It cut away all the silly cat-based nonsense and went right to the heart of things. For once, in all his nine lives, he had a proper grasp of what was going on.
He knew the answers to all the questions that had been bothering him. Where was he? In Castle Cold-iron. How had he gotten there? The cottage had been stolen. Who by? Mesmeranza, Mistress’s horrible sister, who used to dangle him over wells. Why? Because she was like that. Oh this incredible, joined-up thinking! It was like being born again.
Of course, on a practical level, things weren’t looking good. It was clearly up to him to sort things out. The children were gone, for a start. Probably taken prisoner. He would have to investigate the dungeons. Find a way of rescuing them. Maybe some sort of cunning diversion; he’d have to think about that.
Neville considered his plan of action. He needed to find the children, outwit the Witch, and make sure the cottage got back to the forest, hopefully before Mistress arrived home, found it gone, and got all worried. Fiendishly complicated—but not to a cat with a shiny new brain!
First, he would figure out the lay of the land. He would have to make his way into the castle. That should be easy. He knew the place like the back of his paw because he used to live there. Once in, he would slink around, spy, and—listen.
Now, there was a thought! He would finally be able to make sense of human speech, which up to now had always been a sort of background drone. Blah-blahblah-blah-Neville-blah-blah-blah-dinner-blah-blah. That’s what it had sounded like. But not any more. He would be able to understand human conversations! Even join in, give the cat’s point of view! How great would that be!
Neville decided to experiment. He would try saying something. He would try saying his own name.
“Nnnnnnnnn …” tried Neville.“Nnnnnnmmmmmm eeeeoaaaaw.”
Not promising. He would atte
mpt something else. He would try saying milk.
“Mmmmmm …” tried Neville. “Mmmmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeoaaaaw.”
Nope. No good. Everything turned into meow. His throat and mouth just weren’t the right shape to produce actual words.
But, hey! So what? He still had the brain, didn’t he? He could still listen. He was now that unique thing—a cat who really could understand everything you said.
So. He would go downstairs, slip quietly out of a window, cunningly make his way into the castle, and do whatever needed to be done. But first, he would make a quick little detour to the stables. There was somebody there he very much wanted to see.
Booboo the flying horse stood in his stable munching a mouthful of hay. His special Vanishing Saddle was off, so he was currently very definitely there.
Up until now, we have only heard about Booboo. He flies. Sometimes he is invisible. He can find his own way home. He has an evil disposition. That’s about it, really.
Let’s have a proper look at him. He is big, jet black, and muscular. He has all the normal horse things—long face, rolling eyes, twitchy ears, swishy tail, and four legs. But being a flying horse, he also boasts two large, feathery wings. They grow out of his shoulders, and when extended, take up a lot of room. He only uses them when airborne, so on the ground, they’re just a nuisance. Most of the time, he keeps them folded away.
Booboo’s evil disposition makes him a hard horse to ride. Full gallop followed by emergency stop, that’s his style. As an added bonus, he also offers a full range of horrible horse habits: bucking, rearing, kicking, shying, biting, and walking too close to walls.
He has other weird little ways. He doesn’t like the color purple and refuses to fly over plum trees or fields of lavender. He dislikes loud noises, scarecrows, and cats. He is petrified of small, scuttling things—particularly mice. Booboo’s biggest nightmare would be a cat up a plum tree with a mouse in its jaws and a scarecrow standing by playing a trumpet. So far this has never happened.