by B G Denvil
Rosie hadn’t meant it, but she knew that, somehow, she had caused it, when Dickon started coughing. The heaving, gargling cough was clearly uncontrollable, and with a splutter of misery he disappeared behind his sleeve as he continued to cough and then sneeze.
With a huge effort, which made Rosie feel guilty, Dickon closed his mouth, but his face puffed up and turned quite purple. Then as he stood, in the hope of clearing his chest, he found himself hopping. Desperate, but unable to stop, Dickon hopped around the small table, but when he tried to apologise, all that came out was another coughing fit. The hop then turned to a wild and energetic dance, and with a huge leap he started to kick and bounce, twirl and twist, encircling the entire width of the tavern.
Several of the folk sitting around began to clap and cheer, thinking it intentional, but in an agony of disbelieving embarrassment, Dickon rushed from the Juggler and Goat.
As he hopped out, Peg marched in. She sat on the stool Dickon had abandoned. “That will serve him right.” she said, arranging her skirts and eyeing the remaining platter of food.
“Did you do that?” asked Rosie, half laughing.
“Goodness no,” Peg told her. “You must have done it yourself, my dear. Your strengths are starting to reappear.”
Amazed and somewhat horrified, Rosie stared. “It couldn’t have been. I don’t know how to do things like that, and I never intended it. Honestly, it wasn’t me.”
But Peg insisted. “This is how it happens,” she said, “when someone has been under a suffocation spell for years. Your ninety-eight was squashed down to almost half. Now that full power is pushing its way through. I’m quite sure you’ll have a lot of fun over the next year, finding out just what you’re capable of.”
Peg ate the rest of the fig and apple tart with loud appreciation and magicked up some cream to plop on top. As a final moment of pleasure, she ate the remaining quarter slice of liver and smiled widely. “Right, off home.” And she paid the tavern owner, took Rosie’s hand, and they left, closing the door behind them. Once out of sight, they flew back to The Rookery and straight through Edna’s window.
“I doubt that silly young human will bother you again, my dear,” smiled Edna. “Come and sit down with us.”
“I feel a bit sorry for him,” Rosie muttered, “but he decided poor old Dipper was the killer, and we don’t want that.” She took the cup of wine Edna offered and added, “has anything happened with mother? Has she – perhaps – run away?”
Twizzle, having escaped from her perch in the other room, proceeded to answer everyone with a continuous flap around the room until she finally settled on Edna’s shoulder. She insisted, “Good day, mate. Mind the billabong.” Edna took no notice.
Peg frowned, tapping her fingers on her knees. “No such luck. Your wretched mother is protesting her innocence. And no one here is sure what to do. After all, she owns this building, the grounds and almost everything in it. Everyone is nervous that if we press the guilty accusation, she’ll burn it all down or produce a few trolls to threaten us or something like that. As a fifty, I doubt she’s capable of trolls, but we can’t be sure, and burning the place down could be too easy.”
“I’m never going to do anything more for her,” Rosie said, staring down sadly at her lap. “No beds or buckets of water. Besides, my bed’s upside down. And I’ll never call her Mamma again. But she did bring me up. I just feel so strange.”
“Hardly surprising,” Edna said. “But perhaps you are beginning to realise, my dear, that the terrible murders taking place here, actually have a great deal to do with you after all.”
Rosie felt the slide of tears down her cheeks and bent her head further down. “Not really,” she said. “None of it makes sense to me. And you two understand a lot more than I do, but you won’t tell me.”
“We know bits and pieces,” nodded Peg. “But not how it all comes together. So even if I wanted to explain everything to you, I couldn’t. And besides, a glorious ninety-eight should be able to explain it to me, not the other way around.”
“I’m not a real ninety-eight,” Rosie said a little sullenly. “You know I’m not.”
“It’s your potential, my dear,’ Edna cut in. “But first you have to thrust your way out of the fifty you’ve been living in. Only you can do that.”
“Then perhaps, number one, I ought to fix up my bedroom instead of stealing yours,” she answered. “And number two, I should talk to Dodger about where he found the silver cup and what else was there. And then number three, look for my father – I mean, Alfred – and make sure he’s alright. Is there a number four?”
“Yes indeed,” Peg replied. “Number four, relax and take your time. Everything will happen as is meant, and when it is right. Most of your learning will probably be slow, and not one single itsy bitsy is your fault, my dear.”
The option of talking to the silver trio or even Oswald occurred to Rosie, but that made her feel strangely vulnerable, and in front of Peg and Edna, Rosie knew she’d be judged as a failing ninety-eight sinking down to the level of a fifty or less, so she stood, straightened her shoulders and said she’d start with number one. Rosie then trotted down the stairs with no attempt to fly, and opened the door to her old room. Outside the crows were calling, the babies had stopped squawking and the sun had sunk below the horizon. The gloaming turned the sky a luminous blue, and every tree was a black maze of branches.
Her room, however, was unchanged. So without much hope of compliance, Rosie raised both hands and said softly, “Totally true but totally new, turn back how you were – make it gleam, nice and clean.”
Then Rosie watched with a delighted smile and the entire contents of her room tumbled back into their proper places with very little noise and not a single mistake. The bed covers arranged themselves in order and tucked themselves in. The window polished itself, and the floorboards blew away the dust. A very small pink mouse scurried out from under the ruin of her best tunic on the floor, apologised with a sniff of whiskers, and ran out of the window, interrupting the mullions’ dutiful polishing. The gown itself gathered up all its torn pieces, managed a few twists and turns, put itself all back together with a little shake and hung itself on a hook. Other items of her clothing cleaned themselves to such an extent, Rosie knew they were cleaner than when she had last worn them. Even her second-best apron reappeared without the large splodge of candle wax which had previously been there, and the mud disappeared from her little black boots.
Gazing with pride and relief at her restored bedchamber, Rosie decided to add a few things. “Some paper, ink and pen,” she said, clicking her fingers. “And with the quill, I’d like a very fancy feather.” It was a peacock feather, and since she’d never seen a peacock, Rosie was most impressed.
“Now a very large Turkey rug almost over the whole floor.” It appeared. Deep crimson and elaborately patterned, it was so thick, Rosie felt almost cushioned.
“And now,” she added, her smile almost splitting her face, “a big squashy cushioned chair beside the table.” Red, voluminous, as comfortable as a bed, Rosie sank down on the most comfortable chair she had ever known. So, incredibly grateful, she added, “And invite that mouse back again. He’s perfectly welcome.”
The mouse thanked her with sniffy gratitude and ran back under the bed.
Leaving her room with huge satisfaction, she even waved it goodbye, Rosie faced the stairs back up to the attic and Edna’s rooms, and for the very first time in her life without someone holding her hand, she flew. It felt wonderfully exhilarating, and Rosie was so excited, she flew straight into the room where Edna sat, and almost bumped into her. Twizzle shot up and demanded a cup of Vegemite.
“Done,” Rosie said. “I did it. I made it tidy itself. The bed flopped off the ceiling, and the table spun off the wall, and they all sorted themselves. Even my old clothes cleaned themselves and hung themselves up. And then – ” she almost danced, “I created new things. “A wonderful chair. A gorgeous rug. Oh, Edna, dearest,
I am truly discovering myself.”
“I’m thrilled,” Edna told her. “But not surprised. This is real power, my girl, and the power is all yours. Enjoy it. So come and sit down. We have other things to attend to.”
“Why couldn’t I do it before?” Everything was still one huge confused puzzle.
“Because, my dear, you had been suffocated. presumably by your mother, if she had the strength, or someone on her behalf. And you had no idea that you actually had more strength hidden beneath, so you never tried to rise above it. And,” she grinned suddenly, “I’ve been knitting away to remove the suffocation cloud, stitch by stich.”
Leaning over with excitement and delight, Rosie put her hands on Edna’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “What a wonderful darling you are,” Rosie exclaimed. “And Peg too, of course. Where is she?”
And at that exact moment, the door was hurled open, and Peg rushed in, flapping three pieces of thick parchment. “I’ve found it,” she said. “This will solve it all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Now late, the night was closing in. But excitement ignored tiredness. They all three sat around the table again, where Peg laid out the three pieces of parchment. The pages were unmarked, and it seemed as though they contained nothing at all. But Peg began to whisper a spell, several times mentioning Whistle’s name, and concluding with a hearty “Done.”
The words began to appear. Edna leaned over eagerly to read them.
This is the document, officially verified by his highness Tulip Onceover, to state that the property in Kettle Lane, in the shire of Wiltshire, including all buildings thereupon, in particular that known as The Rookery and its out buildings, and the entire grounds, trees and other plants, including the well at the side of the property, are of one single occupancy and ownership, being that of Master Whistle Hobb, a proven ninety-one and three quarters.
As the sole owner since the year in human terms known as 1278, Master Whistle Hobb is entitled to do whatever he wishes with this property, except that of destruction. For this entire property has been originally built by one Spencer Ludgate Hobb, who has marked it with a damnation on any witch, wizard or human who attempts to ruin any part, including the trees, bushes and other plants.
Since this property was created for Mistress Flordal Bonnet Hobb, Whistle Hobb’s mother, it is protected in her name on her sad demise.
Whistle Hobb is free to designate whomever he pleases as the inheritor of this estate, but the inheritance must be accompanied by some relationship, however small. If absolutely no person can claim a relationship, then the entire property must be passed over to the country for the use of aged and disabled souls, preferably of wiccan descent.
In the meantime, the rights of this estate belong solely to Master Whistle Hobb and if any harm is done to him, then the consequences shall be as follows:
Whomever has performed or ordered to be performed an act of aggression towards Whistle Hobb during his lifetime with any relevance to the ownership of this entire property, will be held in contempt of the Wiccan Court. If found guilty, they will be exploded on the spot.
This consequence is under the ruling of the court, but any offender who manages to escape this sentence, will be immediately transformed into a common troilus bug, wherever it is, and be condemned to live in this manner forever during the criminal’s lifetime.
Meanwhile, should Master Whistle Hobb be annihilated, then the entire estate of The Rookery shall automatically belong to Whistle Hobb’s designated descendent, unless that designated inheritance be that same personage as awarded to Master Whistle Hobb’s proven killer.
In such a case, the estate will be legally presented to the shire under the conditions stated above.
I hereby authorise every word within this document as undeniable legal imperative, and sign herewith.
The signature was large and very black, with the name Humbugnas Triampanze. The name was known to all as the first and only wiccan Lord of Rule, a wizard with a full and extraordinary one hundred, who was still alive somewhere, probably in some place utterly unknown.
With huge grins which were becoming almost fixed, Rosie, Edna and Peg all linked hands and nodded at each other with the satisfaction of the over eighties, having achieved the extraordinary.
And with a twitch of absolute delight, Rosie said, “So it always belonged to Whistle. It never belonged to my adopted mother at any time.”
“So why did he let her think so?” puzzled Peg. “Or was she somehow the designated relative?”
Rosie didn’t need to think about it and quickly shook her head. “Impossible. Mother – I mean my adopted mother – didn’t like dear Whistle, and I’m sure it was on her orders he was killed, even if she didn’t do it herself, which she might have done. She’s hardly a dainty little thing.”
“It will be interesting to see if she turns into a bug, or gets flown off to the High Wiccan Court and exploded.”
“It’s been a few weeks,” wondered Edna. “Whatever she deserves should have happened by now. Or perhaps,” and she lit up in smiles again, “the court is sitting without her being present. In which case something deliciously nasty will suddenly happen to her out of the wild black nothingness.”
“The sooner the better.”
“I think,” Rosie added, gaining confidence, “it’s time we got the silver out again.”
They lit two candles, then set up the toadstool, spoon and cup once more on the table, summoned a jug of cool clean water out of the air, and Rosie, this time with a hand as happily steady as a rock, filled each item with the water, and then drank. She felt the usual rush of exhilaration and a thread of burning excitement ran from her head to her toes.
“Where is Alfred Scaramouch?” Rosie asked, “and is he guilty of anything involved with these murders?”
After the prolonged taking and giving, and even though Rosie had squashed in two questions, the answer was clear. “He is in hiding with the owl known as Dodger.” announced the cup. “And no, he is entirely innocent of every crime, except that of not trying to stop her when he realised she had wicked plans.”
“Right,” said Rosie, “Who murdered Whistle?”
“Boris Barnacle, on Alice Scaramouch’s orders,” was the expressionless answer.
“And who murdered Kate Cooper?”
“Boris Barnacle on the orders of Alice Scaramouch.”
“And so who murdered Boris Barnacle?”
“Alice Scaramouch.” No one was surprised at the answer.
“It’s fairly clear at last,” said Edna. “She had dear Whistle killed in order to take over The Rookery. And she ordered the killing of Kate, because she had stolen some of Whistle’s belongings which Alice wanted. Then she killed Boris herself, otherwise he could have disclosed her orders, especially if he got caught himself. He was the only one who could know for sure.”
“But what I don’t understand,” Rosie frowned, “is why Alice and Alfred claimed to own everything while Whistle was still alive, and he never denied it. He quite cheerfully let them take all the rents and all the favours and never spoke a word about himself.”
“Ask the cup. Or ask your dear mother.” Peg wagged a finger.
“The cup,” Rosie answered, “is magic of a very superior quality. But none of them can explain things in death. It’s all yes or no, or him or her, or some other very simple direction.” She stood, smiling down at the others including the toadstool, spoon and cup just in case they felt insulted. “As for my darling mother – well – evidently I don’t have one. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m off to find my father.”
Twizzle raised one foot, “No paddling in the billabong,” he squawked, as Edna and Peg both wished Rosie goodnight.
After a twenty-four-year lifetime of feeling pathetic and no use for anything except cleaning up, Rosie jumped into bed, heard the strings creak beneath her mattress as they began to sing a faint lullaby and cuddled down to an extremely comfy sleep.
As planned, she
woke before dawn, ready to achieve everything she desired.
Now able to fly wherever she wished, Rosie folded her skirts around her ankles and sped off towards the yew tree where she had been hiding only a few days past. She discovered the hole in the yew tree disappointingly empty of all but feathers, fluff, the occasional mouse and rat bone, and plenty of moss, twigs and old leaves. It actually smelled damp.
Clearly Dodger was no longer at home, even though this was the right time of day when he should have been fast asleep in his cave.
Aware that he had proclaimed a desire to live with Cabbage, even though she had thought he only meant for a night or two, Rosie flew back to The Rookery.
Flying on her own power came as a very different and remarkably pleasant experience. The wind blew through her hair, yet seemed quite friendly. The dawning sun waved good day. Rosie felt carried, as though sunshine, breezes, even rainbows, were all massing together to float her wherever she wished to go.
She certainly wished she’d been able to do this as a child as the experience would probably have seemed even more thrilling, and then, as she descended on the thatched roof, Rosie remembered doing exactly that. She had flown from the kitchen, where she was helping her mother, up to her father’s tree house. But her father had trembled and told her this wasn’t safe, and she shouldn’t do it again. “Oh no, my dearest darling Rosie, if she sees you, your mother will kill us both.”
When she had returned to the kitchen, Alice had greeted her with a great slap on the cheek, a punch to her nose, a kick to her stomach and had then grabbed her by the hair and swung her around the room almost dropping her in the fire.
“Don’t you dare ever do such a thing again, monstrous brat,” Alice had roared at her. “If I ever catch you flying again, I shall cut off your arms. Do you hear? And then the werewolves will come out of the forest and eat you all up.”
