by B G Denvil
With a long habit of obedience, Rosie clambered onto the vast soft mattress, snuggled down into the amazing comfort and closed her eyes. Within three seconds, she was asleep.
It was much later when she started to dream. Whistle was sitting on a cloud.
“Why don’t you want me for a father, child? Most unappreciative.”
“Number one, I hardly know you, and you hardly know me. Number two, you’re a ninety-three or something and I’m a fifty—”
“Let me interrupt you here and now,” Whistle said, crossing his shirt striped legs, “you are not a fifty. You might be a two hundred and forty-six for all you know.”
“That doesn’t exist.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the vision. “So already you know better, eh? Says she’s a lowly fifty, but then insists she knows better than me.”
“Come on then, wise wizard. What is this murder and mystery all about, and what has it got to do with me anyway?” The dream-state Rosie was also sitting on a cloud, pink, which was remarkably soft and both warm and dry. “I know you aren’t my father, but if Alice isn’t my mother, I’d be quite pleased. It would be hard to get used to, but I really don’t like her.”
“No,” nodded the apparition. “I made a bad choice.”
“To be the mother of your child?”
“Not really. Much more complicated,” Whistle said. “Go and read some of my papers.”
“They’ve been stolen, torn up, burned and lost,” said Rosie with slight confusion.
“So get the damned things back,” said Whistle with a bit of a shout. “You’ve got my toadstool, spoon and cup, for heaven’s sake. And you have dear Oswald. I made a special point of whizzing you off a couple of weeks ago, not so easy when you’re dead, you know, just to make sure you got Oswald, and now you’ve hardly made any use of him at all.”
Even the dreaming Rosie had to stop and think about this. Yes, indeed, she had been very suddenly spun into a nowhere land and then returned safely with the addition of one remarkable hat pin, pure ruby and quite chatty.
So she nodded “I’ll talk to Oswald again, but he doesn’t know who killed you. Surely you know yourself?”
“Actually,” replied the floating wizard, “I didn’t at first, since he crept up on me from behind. I didn’t feel a thing. Anyway, he’s not important.”
And Rosie woke to the rich smell of pea, leek and cream soup with plenty of buttered chunks of bread.
With delight, Rosie sat, accepted the bowl and spoon, not the huge silver one, but an average sized tin one with a bit of a bump in the middle, and said between mouthfuls, “I dreamed of Whistle.”
Peg sat on the edge of the bed while Edna settled herself on a large cushioned chair. “It’s hard to judge dreams,” said Peg. “But I do agree that Whistle is at the bottom of all this. So I am going to try and bring back all his papers. Some are bound to bring solutions and answers. I think we might learn a lot.” She stood, and Rosie saw she was carrying another large jug of water. Smiling back at Rosie, Peg asked, “You or me, dear? I still believe it should be you.”
Although the silver trio’s answers had not convinced her in the slightest, Rosie remembered the glorious refreshment the second hand water had brought. She longed to experience that again, so she cheerfully agreed, hopped out of Edna’s bed and went to sit at the table once more. This time, with a far steadier hand and more confidence, she poured the water from the jug into the toadstool and then drank. As it had claimed, it took away. Rosie immediately realised it had taken away her remaining aches, her fuzzy thoughts and her worried confusion. So she filled the spoon from the jug and drank carefully. The spoon gave, and so now she was given clear thoughts and a sense of blissful rejuvenation. Finally, the cup. She filled it right up to the brim. Not a drop spilled as she drank.
Then Rosie leaned back with an enormous smile of satisfaction. She felt wonderful and was sure she could achieve whatever she wished. Life was suddenly glorious.
“Ask for every single one of Whistle’s papers, books and parchments to be returned,” Peg murmured. “Brought back from whoever has taken them, but also reproduced if any were destroyed.”
As Rosie spoke the words, a flap of breeze started to whirl and swirl, suddenly switching to flocks of white mist. Then the mist cleared, edges becoming sharp and clear. White merged with traces of black, then the black snatched up the white, still zooming into unravelling circles. White controlled black once more, the papers were visible as they flew, then a little slower, and finally fluttered into a soft surrender. Now the papers lay still, covering the table, the bed, the three skirted laps and most of the floor.
“Claws, beaks and wings,” Peg exclaimed. “There are more than I’d realised. It will take a year to read them all.” Three scrolls of parchment had balanced on her head, and one was unrolling with eager anticipation.
“Me first,” it squeaked.
“I do wish you weren’t all so eager,” Rosie sighed, trying to stop one small piece of papyrus from climbing inside the neck of her tunic.
Edna wasn’t listening. She had turned back to Rosie. “Tell the papers they must arrange themselves,” she said. “Any of them related to the same subject must club together. Letters to him from other people in a separate pile. Organisation in general, and the most recently written papers on top.”
Rosie smiled. “Yes, all of that,” she said without bothering to repeat anything, and at once the papers began to flutter again. “Most obliging of you,” she added.
“Exhausting,” a tome looking like a beautiful prayer book mumbled, flapping open and showing it was actually a book of spells.
“I’m unique,” said a folded paper. “I won’t fit with anything else.” But within a few moments, the papers sat in four neat piles, the first being gigantic, and about to topple over.
Peg grabbed this, and Edna said, “This is an excellent beginning. “I shall leave you in peace, my dear, since you’ve been looking forward to reading all Whistle’s thoughts and experiments. There should be a few good new spells mixed up in there. And, of course, some clues. That’s what we want most of all. And you, my dear, are the expert in runes and translations, as long as you remember not to stand on your head.” She stood, nodding towards Rosie. “Meanwhile, I think I shall go for a walk with Rosie. A very open and obvious walk, so everyone can see her. And I shall be watching each passing face and how they look at her.”
“Must I?”
“I think it’s important, my dear. With me, I promise you will be entirely safe, since I’m on my guard, and a ninety-three being particularly watchful really cannot be beaten. I need to see the reactions. Some more than others, of course, but everyone is relevant.”
“Especially Boris.”
“Boris, Alice, and a few others,” smiled Edna without explaining.
Chapter Nineteen
Boris nodded and said, “Hoppity hop, flopperty flip.”
Alice glared. “How dare you run off, stupid girl,” she said, glaring, eyebrows in a rigid line of distaste. “No buckets of water when I need them, no beds made, no one to serve meals, no one to help at all.”
With her new confidence exaggerated by the water from the silver trio, Rosie waved and put her nose in the air. “Poor Kate was the maid, and it didn’t exactly make her life a happy one. Go and employ someone else. You can afford it.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed, cold and furious. “How do you know what I have or don’t have?”
“You’d be surprised,” Rosie laughed at the eyebrows. “By the way, you look like a troubled caterpillar. You should send one of the men for those horrible heavy buckets and make your own bed.”
Rosie trotted off before Alice could stagger back from the shock. Edna led her around to the meeting hall, past the stables, beneath the crows’ rookery and back into every shadowed corner, corridor and dining room. A few people waved. Emmeline said she was glad to see her again and offered a lump of chocolate, which Rosie later shared with Edna, and they finally
ended up in Rosie’s own bedchamber.
Standing aghast in the open doorway, Rosie stared at the mess which had once been her own tidy little shelter, where she could dream alone and escape her mother. Now she saw her best tunic torn on the floor, the eiderdown she had made herself screwed in a heap and her nice polished table stuck fast to the wall. The bed stared back at her. The four legs seemed glued to the ceiling, and all the covers had tumbled. Rosie felt like crying again.
She was jolted from her complacency. “That’s – horrible,” she said, trying to stop her knees shaking. “Talk about making the beds. I can’t even reach mine. It’s upside down on the ceiling.”
“So why?” demanded Edna.
“I own nothing valuable. Nothing even interesting.” And then she realised. “My father – that’s Alfred – he came in the middle of the night, really scared, poor man. He told me to run, because I was in terrible danger. Next on the list, he said. So I did, and I hid where he told me and where you found me. But I took the silver things with me. I bet that was what someone was looking for.” Pausing again, she thought of Kate. “Kate took the toadstool and the spoon when she cleaned up Whistle’s room. She stole them, but when I asked her about things, she offered them both if I paid, which I did.”
“And the cup?”
“Dodger the owl brought it to me while I was in his nest. Sounds a bit odd, doesn’t it? He found it in my mother’s chest of secrets hidden under her bed. But,” she added, “I should have asked him what else he saw in that chest. I never thought of it. I was just desperate.”
“I’m not sure it matters,” Edna said. “We’ll see. If we decide it matters one day, we can walk back to the hollow yew tree and ask him.”
“Easier than that,” Rosie said. “He’s living upstairs with Cabbage now. Romance.”
“Humph. Very sweet, I’m sure,” said Edna with evident sarcasm. “Now let us get back to Peg and the papers. I imagine she’s read quite a few by now.”
She had. Peg was engrossed, her nose in the various papers which surrounded her, but she stopped, looking up as Rosie and Edna entered.
“I have an important mission,” Peg said, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms. Being rather short, her feet did not reach the rug, and were dangling half way. Yet her expression was in no manner child-like. “You and I, Edna, are going to do something you know about, but I’ve never done before.”
Edna nodded, “I know what you’re thinking of, my dear. An excellent idea.” I shall guide you.”
“Whistle’s papers are hard to follow,” Peg continued. “Some are completely indecipherable. And sadly, I assume the most urgent and important ones are those he put in such difficult code. But one thing is clear as rat droppings. This whole business is dreadfully important and involves Whistle, Alice and Rosie.”
“Me again?” Rosie sank onto another of the chairs. “And my wretched mother?”
Edna moved away the papers, piling them on the bed with Peg’s help. She then moved the silver objects and took them into the second room. Lastly, she held out her hand to Rosie. “May I have that dear little hat pin you chat to?” she asked. “I have a good reason, as I’m sure you can guess, and you shall have it back very soon.”
With a sigh, Rosie unpinned Oswald and handed him over. Oswald shouted, “What a cheek, old lady. I go where I want.” But Edna took no notice and bundled him off into the other room.
They sat as they had before, in a circle around the small table, but this time the table was bare without jugs of water or anything else.
“Right. I shall start,” said Edna softly. “Close your eyes, my dear, then listen carefully to everything you hear. No looking. Just hearing.”
Rosie knew her neck and shoulders were rigid, and tried to breathe deeply without worry or strain.
“Nothing matters, dear,” Edna continued. “You will not even understand some of what I will say. But I shall ask twenty-four questions, and you will answer whatever comes into your head. There are no wrong answers. Actually, there are no right ones either. Now,” and she clicked her fingers. Immediately Rosie realised she had relaxed so completely that she almost believed she was sinking through the chair and through the floor.
“Umm,” she said, although she’d had no intention of speaking, “I am entirely ready.”
“Good,” Edna smiled. “So, first question. You like numbered lists. So number one. Where are your primary feathers?”
It didn’t bother her, but Rosie felt this to be a rather stupid question. “I don’t have wings,” she said. “And my only feathers are up my nose from Dodger’s nest. My actual wings are my powers. But if you want a more relevant answer, then waddle and snot.”
“Excellent,” said Edna to Rosie’s great surprise. “An excellent answer. Now, number two. What would you do if someone tried to hit you?”
“Stop him,” said Rosie with a faint sniff.
“Good, good,” Edna said, scribbling with her finger in a sort of notebook enclosed in leaves.
Peg was busy nodding. “Now tell me how old you are, dear.”
“Twenty-four and a few months and several days, plus no end of hours and so on. But,” she concluded, “it’s of no importance whatsoever. Not only has my mother forgotten my birthday, but now I think I have as well. Besides, age is utterly useless for understanding anything. Idiots can be twenty-four too. They can be nasty, and they can be nice, and that’s far more interesting than how old they are. Most of the folk in The Rookery are way over two hundred, and every one of them is entirely different from everyone else. Power makes a difference, but years do not. Individuality is what makes a character, not age.”
She knew it was her voice and could hear it, but Rosie was sure she hadn’t said any of it. She tried to say so but nothing came out.
Once again, Peg took the turn. “Now then, where is Whistle?”
The voice inside Rosie’s head clicked again. “He’s inside Oswald, but he’s fast asleep. When I decide to wake him, he’ll pop back in. Then I’ll have Whistle when he’s awake, and when he falls back asleep, I’ll have Oswald. I shall know how to wake Whistle when it becomes important. Not yet.”
“Choose a number. Any number,” said Edna suddenly.
“Ninety-eight,” Rosie said off the top of her head.
“Really?” Edna was interested. “Right, who are your parents?”
“Alice and Alfred Scaramouch are my adopted parents,” Rosie replied, surprising herself. “Whistle chose them when he needed a mother and father for me. They were a poor choice, especially Alice, but then Whistle knew very little about parents himself having forgotten his own years back. My real parents are difficult to pinpoint.”
“Didn’t Alice and Alfred want you?” Peg wondered.
“Oh yes, they did indeed,” Rosie found herself answering. “Very much indeed.”
Peg turned to Edna. “That doesn’t make sense.’
“We must keep to the questions. Now, Rosie. Imagine three thousand and nineteen tulips from Holland, which you have never seen. Now imagine a collection of twenty-eight copper saucepans. They all suddenly fall into a river in Britany. So what happens to all the fish?”
“There weren’t any,” Rosie said impatiently. “Your hypothesis is absurd, and fish are sensible little creatures, so they don’t fit together. Your river is therefore a fantasy and fish do not swim in fantasies. Besides, I told you already, it’s ninety-eight. And the fish would be singing ninety-eight over and over again.”
‘Very well,” sighed Edna. “Multiply thirteen by a hundred and fifteen, then divide the answer by two and multiply again by seventy-seven. What’s the answer?”
“Ninety-eight,” Rosie said patiently.
“That seems accurate,” said Peg, counting on three of her fingers.
“Repeat after me,” Edna cut in, “Gold tassels.”
“Pirates and pillars,” said Rosie.
“Perfect,” smiled Edna. “Now, repeat after me again. Bristles and badge
rs.”
“Otters and ovens,” Rosie murmured, “plus ninety-eight. You can subtract one from ninety-eight and still arrive at the answer ninety-eight, but the otters won’t know how to put it in the oven.”
“You’re doing very well, my dear,” Edna told her. “Only a few more questions, and it will be all over.”
“I’m happy to carry on,” Rosie smiled.
“Good,” said Edna, her voice falling to a virtual whisper. “So tell me about the dark.”
And Rosie began to explain.
Chapter Twenty
She was still under the spell when Rosie began to explain the shadow side,
“There are two systems by which darkness can inspire a wizard or witch,” she said, her eyes still firmly closed as she relaxed in the chair. “Some wiccan folk are born dark. They are the evil ones and are not too difficult for another wiccan to recognise. But then there are those who have some magical power, but with little idea of what to do with it. They are simple, even kind, and invariably weak. A strong shadow can easily manipulate such a wizard. This is inclined to bring out the wizard’s own light side, but deny it sustenance, so that the brain becomes detached. The result is simple, although it can take several months or even years to create the full result. Then the wizard is assumed, even by himself, to be kind but excessively stupid. On the other hand, the shadow can be triggered, and the simpleton should turn dark as the night. His brain returns, and he will search for actions to satisfy his desire for cruelty.”
She paused and Peg asked, “Is that Boris Barnacle you describe?”
“It was,” Rosie nodded. “But no longer, since the wizard is dead,”
Peg stared, and Edna asked, “In retaliation? Did he fight with someone who got the better of him?”
“No,” said Rosie. “His death was planned.”
