by B G Denvil
Slowly Alice diminished. Her back shrank until she was forced to bend over onto her suddenly distorted hands and feet now tiny and wrinkled, inching into the ground. Her shoulders popped and became glued to her back, her legs turned to minute sticks, and her entire existence was blushed into a ragged brown, muddy colour which would disguise her entirely as she crawled and hunted. Last to change was her head. It shrank slowly, and with it her expression concentrated into narrow invisibility. For a moment she cried, but soon all the sounds had gone, and on the grass sat a tiny and extremely ugly insect, a troilus, one of the most insignificant but unpleasant insects in the country.
“The court,” said Rosie, “has passed sentence.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lying crumpled and damp on the grass where Alice had stood, was the document she had been ordered to bring. Rosie bent and picked it up. There was no lingering smell of wickedness nor any wisps of unpleasant smoke, but she made no attempt to read it and handed it to Peg.
“It’s Whistle’s writing,” she said, breathless. “But I don’t think I can read it.”
Peg took it eagerly and bent over, her nose almost to the page. Edna meanwhile turned to Dipper, who stood behind her. “The sad corpse lies out under the trees, but Boris must be buried as the others,” she said. “There is also a highly unpleasant cup which I want buried deeply beneath him. None of us wish to touch that cup, so once the grave pit is dug, I shall summon that vile thing and order it to drop itself in. Then you can pile Boris on top. But first, we have some things to rejoice, and probably something to listen to afterwards.”
Rosie stood just a little apart. She smiled at the crowd in front of her. Twenty-three witches and wizards stood there smiling back, including Dipper, carrying a spade, and Alfred with Dodger sitting on one shoulder, and Cabbage perched on his arm. There was Edna and Peg, peering over the badly creased document, trying to read what had been written there so long ago. There was Emmeline and next to her stood Ermengarde. Dandy Duckett was trying to stick his wand back into the opening of his doublet, and Toby Tucklberry was hopping up and down trying to see where Alice had gone.
Ethelred Brown was attempting to summon a cup of ale but couldn’t manage it, and had to ask someone else. Obligingly Vernon Pike produced a large tankard full of strong beer and Ethelred wandered off. Nan Quake and Uta Hampton were gossiping together, and Julia Frost was telling Gorgeous Leek to stop being so timid just because she was only a dismal nineteen, and to remember what a fantastic result she had just achieved.
Mandrake marched around the whole group shaking hands, and Lemony Limehouse sidled over to Percy Rotten and asked if he’d like a walk in the sun. Berty Cackle stood on his own wondering whether he should find the Alice beetle and stamp on it, while Montague looked around vaguely, saying, “Isn’t that the funny little girl that sweeps the stairs? Why doesn’t her mother take her in hand?”
Harry Flash was jumping up and down in excitement, while Inky Jefferson, Butterfield Short and Pixie West went hand in hand to congratulate Rosie for finally getting rid of her mother.
Rosie thanked them but tried to explain that it hadn’t been quite like that, when she was interrupted by Edna.
Holding up the sheets of creased but fluttering document, Edna spoke loudly, addressing everyone. “You will be interested to know a few things,” she announced. “Personally, I don’t care what any of you choose to believe, but here, at last, is the truth.
“Nearly twenty-five years ago, Whistle Hobb found himself, let’s say for convenience, with a new born daughter, a child of tremendous potential. But he was a busy man with a constant stream of things he wished to do, and had very little time or patience. He rightly decided he could not possibly take on a baby to look after, and eventually, deciding the child needed both a mother and a father, that she must go to a married couple. He could not envisage giving the child to any ludicrous humans, but amongst the wiccan folk, there are few couples either married or living as a pair.
“But here, in The Rookery, one pair existed. A lowly but quiet couple, Alice and Alfred seemed the perfect answer. Whistle asked them if they would care to adopt the little girl, yet they apologetically declined. They knew nothing about babies and didn’t want such a strong one, who would surely swamp them. So Whistle thought of a plan.
“At the time he was, and always had been, the sole owner of this entire property, the buildings, the forests, the gardens and almost the whole of Kettle Lane. Whistle had inherited it. He was, of course, a rich man. But he offered Alice and Alfred a term of twenty-four years and eleven months to take over the ownership entirely, and all the funds, payments and profits paid by the residents during this time, on the strict understanding and legal agreement that when his child reached her coming of age at twenty-five, she would inherit the property herself. Indeed, he states that should he die before that day, she should inherit immediately as long as she was over the age of fifteen.
“Well, we know that did not happen, for it was Alice who murdered Whistle, sending Boris to kill him so that she might keep The Rookery with no one knowing that she was not the legal owner.
“Simple as that. She wanted to keep it all for herself, and had made, and probably also cheated, a great deal of wealth from the temporary ownership.”
Peg was losing her voice with all the shouting, but with a few croaks and gulps, she managed to finish. “Whistle and Alice made the agreement, and it was signed in court, but kept secret. None of us knew. But it is all here in several documents.
“Naturally over the years as Alice realised what she was about to lose, she made horrible plans, and also received help from a dark shadow. That is something we must certainly destroy. In the meantime, our High Wiccan Court has passed judgement, found Alice guilty on all counts, and turned her into a very small beetle. She’ll stay that way until someone treads on her. And that might be me, if I see her. Or perhaps a crow will eat her and then probably feel sick.”
A magnificent barrage of cheering and clapping followed this announcement, congratulations called to Rosie, Peg and Edna, and everybody hugging everybody else.
“So now The Rookery belongs to you, my dear?”
Rosie had barely absorbed the facts herself, but in the midst of the turmoil and chaotic happiness, Edna grabbed Rosie’s hand, and they flew back up to Edna’s rooms. Peg was beside them, and they all arrived with a puff and a gasp, sitting back at the little table with the silver toadstool, the spoon, the cup and a jug of water.
Twizzle said, “About time too,” and snatched the chair away with her beak just as Peg was about to sit down. Twizzle cackled, and Peg looked up with a threatening glance.
“If you don’t behave yourself,” she muttered, “I shall turn you into a sand fly and send you off to the Gobi Desert.”
“Do you have Oswald with you?” enquired Edna of Rosie as she helped Peg up off the floor. Gradually they settled, and Peg called for a cup of best wine each and a very large one for herself.
At first Rosie couldn’t remember what Oswald was. Her mind was once again in a whirl. The adoption made sense, and she knew her adopted mother’s character well enough to understand how the whole situation had happened. She had never known that Whistle was the original owner of The Rookery until recently, but then very few others had known either. They had only settled into the house as they felt their age slowing them.
But there was one thing she did not understand. “So Whistle was my father? I must say, he didn’t take much notice of me, considering I was his child, but I suppose that was the whole point of the adoption. Maybe he even thought that all that bad treatment from Alice would be good training for me. And the blockage and suffocation of my magical power, well, either he thought I was weaker than he’d thought, or he knew I’d get all my force back when I came of age.”
“Yes, yes, all very correct and logical, dear,” said Edna. “But you haven’t answered my question. Are you wearing Oswald?”
“And,” Rosie mumbl
ed frantically, “clearly Alice wasn’t that bad in the beginning. It was all the temptation and rising greed that got to her and changed her. But what I have to know, is who is my real mother?”
“Perhaps,” sighed Edna, “I had better repeat my question once more, dear. Are you still wearing Oswald?”
“Oh.” She tapped the ruby hat pin clasped just below her chin on the collar of her tunic. “Yes. He’s here, probably listening to everything.”
“You were given Oswald when you were whisked off into never, never land,” Peg reminded her. “You lost all the other hat pins, but this most precious one stayed with you. Now I know why. Would you hand him over for a moment, my dear?”
Quickly she did as asked. Unclipping Oswald, Rosie gave him an affectionate little rub and passed the hat pin to Edna.
Edna did not hold onto the ruby pin but immediately laid it on the table in front of herself. “Now,” she said, settling back. “You may wish to ask various things afterwards, which is why I have your obliging silver trio sitting here patiently ready. But I am going to tell you a story first, and then Oswald will join in. I’m afraid some of this will sound distinctly odd and probably quite unbelievable, but I just hope you will not be upset. I am going to tell you who you are.
“Whistle owned The Rookery and everything that goes with it for many long years. He rented it out to the elderly wizards and witches who wished a calm life, and he employed a very good wiccan cook and three maids. The place was beautifully run, but he himself took very little notice of what went on here. I wasn’t staying here myself back then, but I was Whistle’s far off friend.
“A brilliant wizard as I’m sure you always knew. A ninety-one, more or less, probably higher. And one day he decided to do the impossible. He summoned all his might and all his skills and a nice collection of feathers and down, water from the well and from the skies when it rained, small blossoms, flowers and growing plants, and mixed these all up with his endless spells.
“I came over several times to help him, and once I brought my own little kitten, very fluffy and white. On request, I left her with Whistle. He carried on with his spells, adding various things when he found them, such as fluff from a duckling, a couple of butterfly wings, a few drops of ink, a crow’s feather and down donated by Cabbage, briar rose petals and rippled bubbles from a stream. Whistle went out often with his basin of precious objects, especially during the full moon, and sat in various parts of the grounds and the forest, singing to himself and stirring the mixture. When autumn came and he still hadn’t finished, he added leaves of all kinds and all colours, sedge and moss.
“And then one night he went out again. There was a full moon, but there was also a dreadful storm with forked lightning. He made sure that the lightning did not strike directly into his basin. But it still wasn’t enough and didn’t produce exactly what he wanted. He added snow during the winter, then mushrooms and berries, the roots of many tiny plants due to grow in the following spring, and he went on adding feathers, fluff and spells of all kinds.
“He was becoming somewhat impatient, having worked a whole year on his experiment. But he refused to give up. Eventually as the weather improved in June, he believed he must now succeed. He felt he needed just one more thunderous storm, and this time he would encourage the sparks to dive straight into the basin. The storm arrived, crashing from light to dark and from silence to thunder. Whistle waited, holding the bowl high and hoping for the final spark. It took a long time in coming. Several times he wandered home with no result. But he never lost his trust. He was, after all, a ninety-one.
“Yet one June night, the eighteenth of the month, close to midnight as the full moon gleamed polished silver above him, the rain began to pour. I was again visiting him with my beautiful kitten, so was with Whistle when he once again marched out into the garden. He allowed just a little rain to fall into the basin, which he set down on the ground, hoping for lightning. He heard the thunder rolling far off and crossed his fingers, shouting loudly through his strongest spell. But as he called, he only realised at the very final moment, that my little kitten Rosie had leapt into the basin on top of all the damp mush already there at the bottom.
“And immediately there came the lightening, striking directly into Rosie’s mouth and eyes. She looked up with a cheerful miaow and disappeared. I was horrified and began to cry, thinking my beloved kitten had been struck dead. There instead was a perfectly formed little girl baby with huge blue eyes and soft white hair. The baby chuckled and made one small miaow. Whistle was satisfied at last, and so was I. I stopped crying and gazed down at the baby as the rain stopped, and the storm rolled away.”
“And that’s how he made himself my father?” Rosie stared, open mouthed.
Edna and Peg nodded.
“So I’m actually a kitten” Rosie whispered.
“In a way,” admitted Edna. “Which is why Whistle called you Rosie as well. And it’s also why, knowing that your coming of age was getting very close, I came back here to live, to meet you and to find out how everything was going.”
“Do you mind, dear?” asked Peg. “I suppose it’s a little strange to discover you’re actually your father’s greatest experiment.”
It was extremely hard to assimilate, but now Rosie was the owner of a magnificent and wealthy property, she was a ninety-eight in magical powers, and her only enemy had been turned into a beetle. She was free, rich and could do whatever she wished. She was sorry to have lost Whistle, but he wasn’t her father in the normal way.
But then she looked up. Climbing from the ruby head of Oswald, was a wispy shape, quite translucent but both clearly visible and recognisable.
Rosie grinned. “Daddykins.”
“My dear daughter, I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Whistle said in a faint crackle as if coming from a great distance through a magical loud speaker. “How do you feel now that you know it all?”
“Miaow,” said Rosie.
I do hope you’ve enjoyed Rosie’s first adventure, there’s lot’s more to come in the following books so do have a look.
In the meantime, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a review for others to see.
I look forward to seeing you in the next in the series, The Piddleton Curse.
A preview of The Piddleton Unrest
The small white cat was more fluff than fur as it sat by the chimney, staring from huge golden eyes. With a coat softer than a tea cosy and toes more energetic than sunbeams, anyone trying to stroke it would lose their hand in its depths. She was called Rosie and enjoyed sitting beside the chimney, where the sun turned the roof to golden thatch.
The cottage known as The Rookery belonged to her, but Rosie took time off when she wished, since she had re-employed Dipper, the original gardener, now with a vigorous new assistant. Plod Ironside was no plodder, and in magical power he was an enthusiastic forty-nine. Three maids bustled around the kitchen, by the size of Isa Dimples, it was clear that she enjoyed her own wonderful cooking.
Stretched in the sun, Rosie adored the August sun bath, swiped away the occasional bee, but kept her ears pricked. Then the tap, tap of feet in a hurry forced her to sit up. First, she yawned, and then leapt from thatch to windowsill, from window to door, and from there to the stable courtyard.
On arrival, she rubbed herself against Edna’s ankles, purred and reluctantly changed.
Returning to Rosie the girl from Rosie the cat was always a reluctant jolt, but it was an exercise she was frequently required to do. So now it was Rosie the girl who spoke. However, her voice always took a little longer to change, so her words were brief. “Something’s wrong?”
Edna was out of breath and a little tired of bending to stroke the cat, only to find herself facing the young woman. “Mandrake,” she announced, “has been arrested.”
“In Little Piddleton?”
“Yes, by the village green.”
Mandrake was not one of her favourites but that didn’t matter. She was cross tha
t any human would have the effrontery to arrest a wizard. “Whatever it was, did he do it?”
Edna, shaded beneath her hat of blossom and feather—a vivid mixture of tangled beauty with very little of herself visible below—held onto it and shook her head with vehemence. “Certainly not. However could you think such a thing?”
“Well I don’t know what it is he didn’t do yet.”
“What he didn’t do,” insisted Edna, “is murder the sheriff.”
Having no answer, Rosie simply stared. “I’ve never met the sheriff,” she said at last. “Was he vile? Why suspect Mandrake?”
There was a considerable age difference between Edna, their close friend, Peg, and Rosie herself, since both Peg and Edna had lived for around two hundred years and more, whereas Rosie was only twenty-five years old. Yet Rosie was a ninety-eight on the magical power table, which made her age in years completely irrelevant. However even with a ninety-eight up her sleeve, Rosie was puzzled.
“No more puzzled than I am,” Edna insisted. “I shall find Peg.”
“Why?” Rosie saw no reason why three puzzled women would be any more use than two.
“Because,” said Edna, “she was with him.”
Which made a difference after all.
Peg was extremely small with a hunched back, tiny feet, tiny thin hands, straggly white threads of hair over a small head, squinty black eyes and a prominent nose with a quirky little twist at the end. Yet Mandrake, who looked considerably younger than his hundred and eighty-six years, wasn’t too bad looking, and clearly enamoured of Peg. She kept denying her feelings for him, but no one believed her.
“So where is she now?”
“Probably seething in her room while working out spells to free Mandrake and kill off the assistant sheriff.”
