The Puzzle Ring

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Let’s go set up the music room,’ he said. ‘Max is already there, his mum took me to pick Jinx up from the vet. Scarlett will be along any minute.’

  ‘I’ll just get my guitar,’ she said. Hannah went slowly through the dark, cold, silent house to her room and came back just as slowly, carrying her guitar. She felt a knot of nerves in her stomach, but raised her chin and reminded herself that this was her great-grandmother’s house and she had more right to be here than any of the others.

  She could hear laughter and talking as she came through the music room door. It died away with her appearance. Donovan nodded and gave his crooked smile, but Max and Scarlett stared at her in open curiosity. Hannah stared back. She wondered if her grandmother was right and one of these three was really the long-lost child of a fairy princess. It seemed impossible. They all looked too normal.

  Max was dressed in baggy khaki pants and an old army jacket, and was sitting sideways at the keyboard, kicking at the stool with his heels. Scarlett was wearing a cream suede jacket with fringed sleeves and skinny jeans pushed into knee-high boots. Her blonde hair swung loose and shiny, and she had pink lip gloss on. Immediately Hannah felt too tall, too plain and far too unfashionable.

  ‘Hi!’ Max said. ‘Sorry I didn’t help you carry your stuff the other day. My mum was cross with me.’

  ‘I can carry my own stuff, I don’t need help,’ Hannah replied stiffly.

  ‘Donovan says you think you can sing,’ Scarlett said in a decidedly unfriendly tone. ‘I’ll just have you know that I’m the singer in this band.’ She tossed her blonde hair.

  ‘We can have more than one singer,’ Donovan said. ‘Besides, she plays the guitar.’

  ‘Mmphf,’ Scarlett said, clearly not impressed.

  ‘So what can you play?’ Max said.

  Hannah wanted to impress them, so she chose a song that needed a tricky change between the G and C chords. She picked up her guitar and strummed it lightly, listening to see if it needed to be tuned.

  Scarlett snorted in disgust. ‘She doesn’t even know how to hold the stupid guitar!’

  Hannah looked at her coldly. ‘I’m left-handed, you idiot.’

  ‘You can’t play a guitar left-handed!’

  ‘Why not? Paul McCartney’s left-handed, and so was Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain.’ Hannah had had this argument a few times before.

  ‘Just let her play, Scarlett,’ Donovan said.

  Hannah began to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’. There was silence while she played and sang, then Max and Donovan clapped their hands. Scarlett kept hers on her hips, her head tilted crossly.

  ‘Not bad,’ Max said. ‘I think I’ve got the music for that somewhere.’ He found it, and began to play the tune on the keyboard, and sing. He played for laughs, drawing out the vowels, throwing back his head and wailing the sad parts, and banging up and down the keys dramatically, and not always hitting the right key.

  Donovan said his name, once, quietly, and Max grinned and began to play it straight, singing along. After a moment’s listening, Donovan began to improvise on his flugelhorn, and Hannah played along, singing too. Only Scarlett didn’t join in. She looked cross and sulky.

  ‘Come on, Scarlett,’ Max said coaxingly. ‘It’s a good song. You must know the chorus.’

  After a while Scarlett joined in too. She had a sweet voice, though it was not very strong. Hannah found it easy to dominate and drown her out, to her secret satisfaction. Scarlett sang louder. Hannah sang deeper, stronger, longer. With the two striving to outdo each other, they sang up quite a storm, and Hannah saw by the glow in Donovan’s eyes that he was glad he had asked her to come along.

  They mucked around for a while longer, trying to work out how to play songs they all knew from the radio or from their school choirs, or flicking through the piles of old sheet music on top of the piano, looking for things that were not too difficult. Scarlett was not happy at having Hannah there, and sneered at the music she chose, saying, ‘Can’t we play something written this century? This is all so boring!’

  ‘Well, bring us something new to play then,’ Donovan snapped. ‘I bet Hannah can play it, if you bring us the music.’

  Hannah concentrated on her guitar, trying to hide the little glow his words gave her. Scarlett just tossed her head, and banged the old tambourine against her hip irritably.

  All too soon the light began to dim outside, and Donovan packed away his flugelhorn. ‘I’ve got to get home. Dad said no more getting in after dark.’

  ‘Mum too. She doesn’t like me walking past the fairy hill in the dark.’ Scarlett pulled on her suede jacket. She glanced slyly at Hannah. ‘It’s haunted, you know.’

  ‘I know. By the witch who was burnt to death there. At night you can hear her dog howling and, sometimes, the sound of her screaming.’

  Scarlett stared at Hannah with round eyes. Hannah smiled. ‘Have a good walk home.’

  Scarlett Spry, Super Spy

  The next few days were fine, and Roz hired an old rattletrap from Allan so she and Hannah could go and see some of Scotland. Since no one mentioned the curse, or Hannah’s father, Roz seemed to relax a little and her small frown eased away. When they came in from the cold, Linnet always had the kettle boiling and they would sit with Lady Wintersloe in her warm, firelit drawing room and drink tea and talk over their day in such a cozy and comfortable way that Roz lost some of her stiff politeness and began to smile and chatter in a way Hannah had never seen before.

  The following Friday, it was pouring with rain.

  ‘Not really the weather for driving,’ Roz said, standing at the window and looking out at a world of grey.

  ‘We could have a quiet day at home. Catch up on some reading,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Or on some maths worksheets,’ Roz retorted. She had insisted Hannah must keep up with her schooling, and had brought a pile of worksheets for her to do, which Hannah had nimbly managed to avoid till now.

  ‘All right,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll help Belle with the crossword first, okay?’

  Lady Wintersloe was bent over the newspaper, her glasses perched on her nose. ‘Boggle? That could fit. But no, that can’t be right. Roz, what’s another word for puzzle? Beginning with “B”.’

  ‘I don’t know, Hannah’s our wordsmith, not me. Bewilder?’

  ‘Too many letters.’

  ‘So it can’t be bamboozle. What about baffle?’ Hannah suggested.

  ‘Baffle! Of course. Clever girl. Thank you.’ Lady Wintersloe scribbled down the word with her gold pen, while Hannah tried to remember where she had seen that word recently. Suddenly she remembered. It appeared in her father’s book, in the very first entry: Pestis must be infractus, but the baffled moon is lost in the mists of time.

  It suddenly occurred to her that her father must be talking about the puzzle ring. ‘Baffle’ meant, of course, ‘puzzle’; and both ‘ring’ and ‘moon’ were round. It all began to make a strange sort of sense.

  ‘Belle, what does “pestis” mean?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘What, darling? “Pestis”? Oh, it means to curse, I think, in Latin. Like a pestilence.’

  ‘So what does “infractus” mean?’

  ‘My word. I have no idea. There’s an infraction of the rules. That sounds like it might be related. But I couldn’t tell you what it means, exactly. I didn’t ever learn Latin, not like your father who thought it might be useful for his medical degree.’

  Breaking the rules, Hannah thought. Breaking the curse.

  When Roz and Lady Wintersloe were both absorbed in the newspaper, Hannah very quietly got up from her maths worksheet and crept from the room. Jinx had been curled by the fire, but got up to follow Hannah. She quickly shut the door on the bogey-cat’s nose, shutting her into the room, then, feeling very pleased with herself, ran to the little tower room, unlocking the door with the key she always carried in her cardigan pocket.

  Hannah sat and opened the first page of the notebook, staring at the first line: Pestis mus
t be infractus, but the baffled moon is lost in the mists of time.

  If she translated it, it read: The curse must be broken, but the puzzle ring is lost in the mists of time.

  She sat back, smiling to herself. She had been right. The odd, disconnected sentences were not the ramblings of a madman, but a careful and deliberate attempt by her father to conceal his efforts to break the Curse of Wintersloe Castle.

  Hannah began to go systematically through the cryptic verses, translating what she knew, or guessing at their meanings. But so little of it seemed to make sense. Gate is guarded, stone eyes are watching, he wrote, and on the next page: Why does the black witch watch us, why does she care? She rules the hollow hills, she sits the green chair. Does she fear the child of true blood, the lost heir? But why and who and when and where?

  Next came long pages of notes about Einstein, and space curvature, and time dilation, and wormholes, and warp drives, and black holes, and cosmic strings, none of which Hannah understood, and then another page of verse:

  Sing a song of spells, there’s reason in rhyme,

  like ringing the bells, to unlock the gate in time.

  Sing a song of spells, three times is the charm,

  like ringing the bells, to help keep you from harm.

  It was like a riddle, but Hannah could not work out the answer. By late afternoon, her head was aching and she was feeling frustrated and angry.

  She wished she was not cursed. Taking out the hag-stone, she slowly rubbed it with her thumb, and wished she could just be a normal girl, hanging out with her friends, talking about the things normal girls talked about—whatever they were. Then Hannah sighed, stretched her arms above her head and, putting the hag-stone back in her cardigan pocket, went moodily down to the kitchen. She sat on the edge of the table, swinging her legs. Linnet was chopping onions so fast her knife was practically a blur, while various soups and sauces bubbled on the stove top. The kitchen smelt of baking.

  ‘Why don’t you go down to Scarlett’s place?’ Linnet suggested. ‘She’ll be home from school by now, and a girl your age needs girlfriends.’

  ‘Scarlett doesn’t like me,’ Hannah said, feeling only faint surprise that Linnet should know what she had been thinking without needing to be told.

  ‘Scarlett doesn’t know you yet, does she? It’s clearing up, so it’ll be a nice walk for you. I’ve made you some marmalade cake to take. It’s her favourite.’

  Carrying the warm cake tin, Hannah walked slowly down to Fairknowe, enjoying the late afternoon gleam of the loch. She paused as she passed the Fäerie Knowe and looked in the window, then on impulse, pushed open the door and went inside. Miss Underhill was serving a mother with a little girl dressed in a white tutu over a long-sleeved T-shirt and striped stockings, a thick cardigan tied over the top. Hannah browsed among the shelves, examining the crystals, looking at the books. Many of them she recognised from her father’s tower room.

  ‘We are always fairy happy to help,’ Miss Underhill said as she passed over a plastic bag with gold, sparkly fairies on it. The mother and daughter went out and Miss Underhill looked across the counter at Hannah. The overhead light glinted on her big glasses so Hannah could not see her eyes.

  ‘You need my help.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes. I . . .’ Hannah’s voice faltered. She did not know what to ask.

  ‘There are some things you should know.’ Miss Underhill spoke quickly. ‘You must be very careful. The Fair Folk are not pretty little things that give wishes and flutter their tiny wings. They’re strange and dangerous. Their world is very different from ours, and they do not care much for mortals. You need to know that they do not like cold iron. It does not matter what form it comes in. A sword or a knife, a pair of scissors, a needle or nail, a fishhook, yes, even a key. Keep it in your pocket at all times.’

  Hannah tried not to let her surprise show on her face. It was as if Miss Underhill knew she carried on old iron key in her pocket.

  ‘If you should be taken against your will to the fairy realm, a nail or pin stuck in the door will stop them from closing it again, so you can escape. Do not eat or drink while you are there. Do not think to stay to watch the dancing or the feasting, for time moves at a different pace in the Otherworld and you may find yourself there for a hundred years when you thought it only half an hour.’

  Hannah nodded. She had read that before.

  ‘Halloween is coming. That will be the most dangerous time. You must protect yourself. Rowan is one of the best protections against evil. You have a rowan tree planted outside your kitchen door. It has bright red berries that last all winter. Cut yourself some twigs from it and tie them together, either in the shape of a cross or a star, whichever you prefer. Hang them above every door and window in your bedroom.’

  Hannah thought about the star made of silvery twigs that was nailed above the lintels of the two tower rooms. She wondered if her father had made them.

  Miss Underhill took a deep breath. She had been talking so quickly, so urgently, her cheeks had grown flushed. ‘The best thing, though, the very best protection is a hag-stone. This is a stone that has had a hole worn naturally through it by running water.’

  She leant forward, staring at Hannah intently. ‘Have you seen any stone like that, Hannah? I’d . . . I’d very much like to see it if you have.’

  Hannah shook her head, making a little grimace with her mouth. She had to clench her hands by her side to stop them sneaking into her pocket and closing around the hag-stone.

  Miss Underhill looked disappointed. She moved away, her hands mechanically tidying the counter. ‘Well, they are very rare. I had heard there was one in your family, passed down through the generations. I did hope the tale was true. A real hag-stone! Never mind. Was there anything else I can help you with?’

  The colour in her cheeks had faded, and her voice sounded quite normal again.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ As Hannah spoke, she realised these were the first words she had uttered since she had come into the shop. It was all very strange. She did not know whether to trust Miss Underhill. She was so intense it was unnerving. As Hannah left, she was conscious of Miss Underhill’s eyes boring into her back.

  The village store was busy, with women gossiping in a queue to buy bread and milk and the newspaper. A man Hannah had never seen before was behind the counter. He was a big, broad man with a red face, straw-coloured eyebrows and a shining bald head. He saw Hannah hesitating at the back of the queue, the tin of marmalade cake in her hands, and nodded at her. ‘Come to see Scarlett, hey? Go on up.’

  He indicated the half-open door behind him with a jerk of his head. All too aware of the many curious eyes, Hannah sidled through the queue and went up the steps to the apartment above.

  In a small, crowded, noisy living room, strewn with toys and paper and crayons, three small, plump, sticky-faced boys were jumping up and down and shrieking as they watched some cartoon on television. They had mops of dark curly hair and hazel eyes like their mother, who was frowning over an account book at the table.

  Mrs Shaw smiled as Hannah came through the door. ‘Why, it’s Hannah, isn’t it? You’ve come to see Scarlett? How nice! She’s in her room. Just down the hall. You can’t miss it.’

  Hannah gave Mrs Shaw the marmalade cake and went hesitantly down the hall. It was easy to guess which one was Scarlett’s room. It had her name on it in teddy-bear letters, with a poster of a gorgeous, moody-looking singer in ripped denim and chains sticky-taped above it. Hannah knocked.

  ‘What?’ Scarlett yelled.

  ‘It’s me. Hannah.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a moment’s silence before Scarlett opened the door. The two girls looked at each other. Hannah thought how different Scarlett was from the rest of her family, with her blonde hair and blue eyes and slender figure. She was a lot older than her brothers, who must all have been under the age of six. She was wearing a school uniform, which made her seem much less grown-up and somehow more approac
hable than usual.

  It was in Hannah’s mind that she should say something to Scarlett about the last time they met. Something like sorry. Hannah was never very good at apologising, though, and besides, it was Scarlett who had tried to scare her with her story about the castle being haunted.

  So instead she said, ‘Your dad told me to come up and say hi.’

  Scarlett pushed out her bottom lip, then shrugged. ‘You want to hang out? I’m not doing anything much.’

  ‘Okay.’ Hannah came into the room, looking about her with interest. It was incredibly messy, with clothes and shoes and magazines all over the floor. Every wall was covered with posters of pop stars. The small bookshelf above the desk was crowded with trophies. Hannah went over to examine them.

  ‘You do judo?’

  ‘Karate,’ Scarlett replied. She flopped down on the bed again and began flicking through a magazine. ‘And gymnastics.’

  ‘You must be pretty good.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You must practise a lot.’ Hannah looked around for somewhere to sit, feeling as awkward as a giraffe in this tiny room.

  ‘I try to. It’s hard, though. There’s not much room here and the boys always have their stuff all over the place. Hey, don’t touch that!’

  It was too late. Hannah had bumped her hip against the chair, and a pile of paper cascaded over the floor. ‘Sorry!’ she cried, and went down on her knees to gather the papers together again. Scarlett bounced up crossly and came to help her.

  The papers were covered with drawings. They all featured a girl with huge eyes and a blonde ponytail, doing karate leaps and chops against a succession of monsters and villains.

  ‘Wow! These are fantastic! Did you do them?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Scarlett shuffled the pages together, her cheeks turning red.

  ‘Are you making a comic book?’ Hannah looked through the pages. ‘What are you going to call it?’

  Scarlett shrugged. ‘I dunno. Can’t think of a name for her.’

  ‘Scarlett’s a good name for a spy,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s a shame your last name isn’t spry. Then it would rhyme. Scarlett Spry, Super Spy,’ Hannah said.