Starfell: Willow Moss & the Lost Day

by Dominique Valente

  But Willow hadn’t known any of that when she’d taken him from the Jensens’ stove. She’d figured that if he really was “lost,” it couldn’t hurt to try “finding” him with her magic, using these precise words: “I summon the lost monster currently residing in the Jensens’ stove in Grinfog, the kingdom of Shelagh, Starfell.” It didn’t hurt to be precise about such things just in case there were any other Jensens in any other parts of the world who also had lost monsters to contend with.

  And Oswin had arrived into her outstretched arms with an orange plop. He was the size of a large and fluffy tabby cat, but one who glowered at her with catlike fury. In fact, if you didn’t know better, and you were really quite stupid, you might mistake Oswin for a cat. To be sure, there were the pointed ears, the fluffy fur, and the very stripy tail. He even (to his shame) had white paws, which made him look very tabby-like indeed. All cat-tastic really, except that he was green (when he wasn’t cross, which was seldom), with very sharp monstery claws and the rather persistent smell of boiled cabbage, and aside from the stealing, the ease with which kobolds got offended, and the unfortunate truth that occasionally, when they were offended enough, they exploded. Which isn’t great when they live under your bed. Oh, and the fact that he could talk—you don’t get many tabby cats that can chat.

  And once Oswin was “found,” he was determined to stay that way . . . choosing to live with Willow from then on and showing his appreciation for his new home under Willow’s bed by bringing her “presents” from the neighbors. Which wasn’t good for business. Especially if your clients found out that the person who found their lost things also seemed to be the one who took them in the first place.

  Willow cleared her throat. “Listen, Oswin, apparently Tuesday has gone missing . . . and we are going to help Moreg Vaine to find it.” Then, because she felt that perhaps it was the right thing to do, she added, “Er . . . you may want to pack a bag.”

  Oswin turned tangerine; his eyes bulged to the size of tennis balls. “Wot? We?” His catty lips silently mouthed the words “Moreg Vaine” and his fur-covered body turned from carroty orange to a rather ill-looking shade of green, like pea soup. “Wot choo go and sign us up for a rumble with a madwoman for? Vicious witch, she eats peoples! She pickles children in ginger! Makes candles with yer earwax! And she blew up me cousin Osloss when he found ’imself in ’er pantry! Don’t even think about it! I aren’t going, nohow, no way! Staying right here. . . . I’s got me a duty to stay, as the last kobold, anyhow,” he said, glowering at Willow, his claws digging into the bedcover in stubborn revolt.

  Willow sighed, then snatched him by the tail once more and shoved him into the hairy carpetbag. “Never mind all that,” she said dismissively, ignoring his hissing and muttering. She knew that kobolds blew up regularly, with or without a witch’s help, and usually survived relatively unscathed. “You’re coming; now stop your grumbling.”

  It was a little worrying, though, that rumors of Moreg Vaine terrified even the monster population.

  Oswin sat in the bag with a huff, muttering darkly while Willow turned to the task at hand. The blue horseshoe scarf.

  Would she need it? Was it necessary? Or was that really beside the point?

  It was pretty, expensive, and didn’t actually belong to her. It belonged to her middle sister, Camille, who had received it from one of her many admirers. Knowing that Camille would be furious when she saw the scarf gone gave Willow a grim satisfaction that only those with older siblings understand. So she packed it in the bag along with everything else, closed her bedroom door, and set the hairy bag down on top of the kitchen table with a thud (to Oswin’s outrage). She decided at the last minute to add a half loaf of bread, and her mug.

  Then, fighting mounting panic, she scribbled her father a note:

  Dear Dad,

  Last Tuesday has gone missing

  The witch Moreg has asked for my help

  The witch Moreg has need of my skill—yes, really

  She scribbled over her first attempt and discarded it in the wastebasket when she remembered that honesty wasn’t what they were going for. Not that he would believe her anyway. . . . Then she tried again.

  Dear Dad,

  I’ve gone to help Mum and the girls at the traveling fair, sorry.

  There is half a roast chicken in the icebox, and a loaf of bread under the tea towel.

  If I’m not back in a week, please visit Wheezy for me. He likes the red Leighton apples and won’t be fooled by the green gumbos.

  Love,

  Willow

  Leaving the note on the kitchen table, she tried not to think of what her father would say when he got home. Or what he would do to her when he realized that she wasn’t with her mother and sisters at the traveling fair. There was no point in thinking about it.

  Borrowed trouble. That’s what her dad called it. He always said that the god Wol provided enough daily things to worry about and there was no use borrowing tomorrow’s troubles as well. Though Willow doubted he’d appreciate her using his own logic against him.

  Green hairy bag in hand, she whispered a warning to Oswin to keep quiet or she’d hand him over to Moreg Vaine for her ginger pickling, and with slightly trembling knees she closed the cottage door.

  “Ready?” asked Moreg, who eyed the bag with some surprise, though she didn’t comment.

  Willow definitely didn’t feel ready.

  4

  The Portal Pantry

  AS WILLOW FOLLOWED the witch down the lane, leaving the cottage behind, there was a small part of her that wished one of her sisters—preferably Camille—would walk past just then. She thought how nice it would be to tell her that the most revered witch in all of Starfell needed her help.

  But of course they passed no one. They walked along the winding dirt road that led away from Grinfog and its rolling fields and orchards. It forked left toward the shadowy woods that loomed on the horizon—woods that Willow had always been encouraged to stay out of.

  “This way,” said Moreg, and Willow bit her lip nervously before she followed. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Wheezy standing forlornly in his field down in the valley with his purple wool blanket on his flanks, making his asthmatic wheezes. She supposed dismally, her knees trembling, that of course the witch would go through the dark woods rather than through the main roads that led out of Grinfog. From the slightly shaking carpetbag in her hands she could tell that Oswin was thinking the same thing.

  As she turned to follow the witch into the woods, a raven circled above their heads, making a strange, haunting cry. In the distance more ravens appeared. Willow couldn’t hide a shudder, but Moreg looked up and smiled as if they were all old friends. Catching sight of Willow’s face, the witch said, “You know, a group of ravens is often called an ‘unkindness of ravens,’ but I prefer the less well-known term, a conspiracy.”

  Willow frowned, her eyes following the birds as they circled. A conspiracy didn’t sound much better. As she stared, she saw one particular bird edge closer to Moreg; it looked different from the others, as if one of its wings was made of ink or smoke. Before Willow could comment, Moreg held up one long, slim finger, and the bird vanished with a rapid beat of its black wings. Willow swallowed, eyeing Moreg warily. Had she made the bird disappear with a simple lift of a finger?

  “Come on,” said Moreg almost nonchalantly. “We’ll stop a bit later for the night.”

  As Willow followed the witch, she thought about some of the other rumors she’d heard about Moreg over the years. Like that she kept ravens and that they carried her beneath Starfell into the Nether so that she could dance with the dead. She darted a glance at Moreg and thought about asking if any of that was true, but then, catching sight of the witch’s face, she changed her mind just as fast.

  There was so much, though, that she did want to know. Like . . . did the witch really live in the Mists of Mitlaire—the fog that drove most people insane? Did she have several magical abilities, as some had said? Or
was that just a rumor, like the one Oswin had told her about the witch pickling children in ginger . . . which she still hoped was untrue?

  They had been walking for nearly a mile through deep, dark woods, the air smelling of pine and moss and the cold and damp inching along Willow’s toes, when Moreg slowed down. “We’ll be heading to the city of Beady Hill in the morning,” she said. “It was the last known address of the forgotten teller we need, but it’s some distance away—so we’ll need a bit of help getting there.”

  Willow wondered if she meant that they needed to catch a coach. But she had hoped that just maybe her adventure with Moreg would involve a bit of broom flying . . . so she dared to ask, “Um, you . . . erm, don’t want to fly?”

  Moreg stared at her and Willow felt her cheeks burn slightly. But then the witch nodded. “I would. I had a flying carpet for a while—quite rare, you know. A three-seater, once belonging to a Tetan king, I believe, but that’s long gone now. Flew away right off the line, no doubt furious that it had been washed. Old carpets can be quite touchy. Ordinarily I don’t do brooms. I’ve never found one I really liked—it’s such a stereotype, if you ask me, witches and brooms. . . . Same with the hat. Never wear one if I can help it.”

  Willow supposed that when she thought “witch,” a picture of a broomstick did float into her mind. Although, admittedly, the few witches she had met only owned brooms that did nothing more remarkable than sweep, but she had hoped that Moreg Vaine would be the exception. After all, she was Moreg Vaine.

  “I’ve always wanted to try a flying broom,” admitted Willow, who’d long wished for one of her own, and couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. If ever there was a time for a flying broom, surely saving the world was it.

  Moreg looked at her, shrugged, and said, “Well, I suppose time is of the essence, and we are going past Radditch in any case. . . .”

  Willow blinked. Radditch . . . something tugged at the corner of her mind. Weren’t the people there known for something? Something to do with making things fly? A faint curl of hope expanded in her chest. Was the witch saying what she thought?

  “So, despite my misgivings, I think we’ll have to get some brooms, yes.” Moreg didn’t look all that happy about it, though. “First thing in the morning.”

  Willow let out a small whoop of glee and did a little jig, which made Oswin huff inside the carpetbag. She schooled herself fast when Moreg blinked at her in surprise.

  “Um,” said Willow, clearing her throat self-consciously, “oh, okay, if you really think that’s best.”

  Dusk was setting as, sometime later, Willow and Moreg entered a fragrant wood. They walked on until they came across a small clearing covered in purple clover, where Moreg told her they’d be stopping for the night. “We’ll make an early start to Radditch tomorrow.”

  Despite the promise of acquiring flying broomsticks, Willow was grateful to rest for the night. Her feet were sore, and she was tired and hungry. She set her carpetbag down, then did a double take when she saw what Moreg was doing. Seemingly from out of nowhere, the witch had whipped out a large cast-iron pot, which she placed over an odd violet-hued flame that was suspended in midair. “I hope you like nettle stew—it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “H-how did you do that?” exclaimed Willow.

  Moreg waved a palm distractedly while testing the stew with a wooden spoon and muttering, “Needs salt, definitely.” She patted the front of her cloak, reached inside, and withdrew a small ceramic dish from which she took a pinch of salt and sprinkled it into the pot. Then, seeing Willow’s bewildered stare, she said quite nonchalantly, “Oh, this? Been cooking all day.”

  Willow blinked. What?

  Moreg, however, looked unfazed. “Oh, how rude of me, would you like a seat?” she asked, proceeding to pull out a folded blue chair from within her cloak. She sprang it open and offered it to Willow, who took it rather bemusedly. She watched as Moreg took more things from within the cloak’s folds—including a small green table, and two knives, forks, plates, and purple glasses. Moreg patted her cloak, rolled her eyes heavenward, and sighed deeply. “I must have left the good wine in my other cellar—looks like we’ll be roughing it. Just the rynflower cider for us. I suppose we’ll survive,” she said, pulling out a small jug with a doubtful expression.

  Willow stared. Her other cellar? How on Starfell did the witch manage to keep all of that in one cloak? And manage to walk? The obvious answer was, of course, magic. But that was a broad answer, and magic, as far as Willow knew, didn’t work the way people believed it should. Not anymore, not since it was nearly ripped away a thousand years before during the war started by the Brothers of Wol, a religious order who tried to rid Starfell of magic because they believed—and, alas, still did to this day—that people born with magical abilities were unnatural, and that their bodies were possessed by evil. The battle resulted in what was known as the Long War. The old witches and wizards gathered together their best spells to fight them, but they were stolen, and the Brothers of Wol killed thousands of witches and wizards, destroyed enchanted forests, and burned all the spell scrolls they could to try to rid the world of magic.

  But they had failed. They didn’t know the truth. Magic never dies—it simply waits until we are ready for it. When centuries had passed, it trickled back, ever so slowly, into Starfell.

  But this magic wasn’t like the magic from before. It had changed. Perhaps it had learned. Maybe it worried that if it gave too much, it would be ripped away again. When it did at last come slowly slinking back, it did so cautiously, only gifting a few with tiny slivers of itself.

  These days people who had a magical ability usually didn’t have more than one, yet they still called themselves witches and wizards. But they were not like the old witches and wizards from before, known now as the old magicians of Starfell, who didn’t just have a singular magical ability—they had many. Magic in the world was different then too; it ran freely through the land, through the streams and rivers, mountains and glades. And some of the most powerful magicians back then harnessed this magic through powerful spells. But that world was long gone. Just like those old powerful spells that the magicians had gathered together to fight the Brothers of Wol, which had passed into legend as the Lost Spells of Starfell. Today few witches and wizards could perform even the simplest spells, and as far as Willow knew no one with a magical ability could do what Moreg seemed to be doing now, which was to use magic like it was available on tap.

  “How do you keep all of that with you?” Willow asked.

  Moreg, who had just taken a fluffy purple cushion out of her cloak, looked up and shrugged. “Oh . . . I don’t. I believe in traveling light, really.”

  Willow’s mouth fell open. “B-but how do you have all this stuff then?” she exclaimed, looking from the table to the stewing pot and folding chairs in disbelief.

  Moreg cocked her head to the side. “I don’t, not really—it’s a portal cloak. I had it made in Lael, so now I have access to my store cupboard, cellar, and kitchen at home—very useful, I can tell you.”

  “A portal cloak?”

  Moreg dished up the thick hearty stew, handed Willow a heavy stoneware plate, and sat down opposite her on her own folding chair, plumping the purple cushion, which she put behind her back. “Lousy lumbago,” she muttered. Then, seeing that Willow was still waiting for an answer to her question, she said, “You know what a portal is?”

  Willow thought. “It’s like a door to somewhere else?”

  “Exactly, except it doesn’t need to be a door, it can even be a—”

  “A cloak,” breathed Willow in wonder.

  Moreg smiled. “Quite.”

  “Wow.”

  “It has its uses. Not all of us have your skill—anything you need summoned like that.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s truly something.”

  Willow shrugged. “Only if it’s lost, though. It’s a bit annoying. I can’t summon my own toothbrush unless I’ve lost it first . . . and l
eaving things at home doesn’t count as lost.”

  She ran her tongue over her teeth and sighed. She had, in fact, forgotten her toothbrush.

  Moreg tapped her nose conspiratorially, then winked. “But you work around that . . . don’t you?”

  Willow’s mouth fell open in surprise. How did she know? Could she really read minds, like some people thought?

  Willow did “lose” things that might be useful later. You couldn’t be too deliberate or else the magic wouldn’t work, but if, for example, you placed a spare bit of change in a pocket that you “forgot” had a hole in it, well, it could save you running home for your wallet on market day. (Incidentally this had caused Prudence Foghorn to appear momentarily impressed the other day, before she asked after Willow’s more remarkable sister Camille.) Sometimes it helped you to plan ahead when you wanted to “accidentally” lose a rather lumpy old quilt that had been made from several of your granny’s hairy dresses. You’d have to forget on washday, just, for example, while you were hanging it up to dry, that there was a gale-force wind forecast. But who knew when you might need to summon the warmth of an additional quilt?

  Moreg laughed, but she looked no less scary. “It’s what I’d do myself . . . that’s the secret to being a good witch. Always be a step ahead if you can. Practical makes perfect.”

  Willow frowned. “I thought it was practice?”

  Moreg scoffed. “That’s just for people who like to waste time. Who needs to practice something when they can be prepared the first time around?” she said, tapping her cloak.

  That seemed true enough.

  A small, rather grumpy voice from within Willow’s hairy bag mumbled, “An’ oo ’elps her to lose fings so she can find ’em? Jes’ like a witch to take all the credit. Din’t she say jes’ the other day that she wished she could lose her fishing net . . . sayin’ that it would be a bit more featrical when the time came for her to find people’s lost thingamababies if she could summons it and ketch it? So din’t I frow it into Lost Man’s Lake, where fings disappear never ter be seen again? . . . Not that she cares. Oh no! Stick me in a bag made of ’air, only the last kobold and all . . . not like I wanted any of the stew, nohow.”