by Ron Sexsmith
“Whatever’s the matter, dear?” Maggie tried asking again. Though with all the heaving and sobbing, it was next to impos-sible for Claira to say anything at all. It would not be long, however, before she had composed herself enough to form actual words.
“Father’s getting married in two days!” she spoke through her distress. Maggie and Crad glanced knowingly at each other as if understanding in a heartbeat what the matter was.
“Now, Claira,” said Maggie. “Your father’s been alone for such a long time. Surely enough of it has passed for him to —”
“You don’t understand,” interrupted Claira. “She’s a terrible person! He barely even knows her!” she cried and then buried her face in her hands.
Maggie wasn’t quite sure how to proceed at first but soon found her footing. “Is it possible that she’s not as bad as you think?” she offered hopefully. “Your father’s an intelligent man. I can’t imagine he’ d ever marry someone who didn’t have your best interests at heart. Can you?” she endeavoured to hearten her while placing a gentle hand on Claira’s shoulder.
“That’s just it!” said Claira, inadvertently pushing her hand away. “He’s not himself. It’s like he’s under a spell!”
But Maggie didn’t know what to make of that remark at all. (Crad, though, was pretty sure he knew what to make of it!) “This woman,” he spoke up tentatively, “does she by any chance have a large dog with her?”
“No,” replied Claira. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” he replied as Maggie watched him, looking even more perplexed by this odd question.
“Do you know this woman, Crad?” she asked to no response, for he was busy framing his next question.
“Her eyes,” he continued. “Did you happen to notice what colour they are?”
Claira moved in closer and tilted her head curiously. She did seem to recall they were an unusual colour but had not given it much if any thought until now. “Purple,” she blurted out after a moment’s consideration. “At least I think they were purple,” said Claira, who then eyed Grimsby suspiciously, for she had begun to think he knew more than he was letting on. (And judging by his reaction to this info, he most certainly did!)
For as soon as the word purple fell from her lips, Grimsby commenced a crumbling to the ground in a shivering, quivering heap. “Crad!” Maggie cried as she knelt down to put her hand on his feverish forehead. “What is it?” she pleaded to no response.
But thankfully it wasn’t very long before he, too, was able to form actual words, though his voice now had become little more than a whisper. “Claira, you mustn’t go home,” he croaked as Maggie looked up just in time to catch Claira’s newly horrified expression being born.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” Claira spoke calmly at first before working herself into a fit of frenzy. “Who is she? What does she want? Tell me!”
“Claira, please!” implored Maggie. “Can’t you see he’s unwell, dear?”
Realizing that she had been a little hard on ol’ Grimsby, Claira backed off immediately to give them both some much-needed space. “I just need to lie down,” he said with a sigh. “If you’d be so kind as to walk me back to the inn, I promise to explain everything in the morning.” He smiled weakly on his pillow of grass as Maggie looked down with love and concern (much like the face of Merthaloy).
So it was, after much heaving and pulling, that Maggie and Claira (with the help of Lucky) were eventually able to resurrect our fallen Grimsby until he was back amongst the vertical again. And although he improved greatly on the walk back into town, Maggie could not shake the feeling of dread that had just entered her mind. Purple eyes? she thought and wondered if it could have anything to do with the mysterious bowler hat, or more specifically the woman who had sold it to her late husband! “I must get rid of it,” she said and made her mind up to do just that the following day.
As for Claira, she had more questions than ever, and so having to wait until the next day for answers would be like waiting for some evil version of Christmas to arrive. Deryn, though, couldn’t help but feel a shade of relief in knowing that the witch who’d caused all this havoc might finally be revealed at last!
Upon reaching The Fist and Firkin, Maggie attempted once again to dissuade Crad from staying there. But as usual, he simply swatted the suggestion away. “I’m fine here, really I am.” (Just as two men came crashing through the front window!) Grimsby, though, looked only mildly embarrassed by the timing of his last remark. “Let’s say we meet at Maggie’s tomorrow at one?” he continued, unfazed, to which all in attendance nodded in agreement.
“Now, is Claira okay staying with you tonight?” he asked while pressing his hand affectionately in Maggie’s.
“Yes, of course,” she replied and then blushed in a way that took years off both their faces. “She’s welcome to stay, and so are you!”
“I appreciate the invite, Maggie, really I do. But as you know, I am but a lowly creature of habit,” he said and sent them on their way amid the boozy oompahpah music, sounding much less cheerful now and more demonic, or so he thought, as the Augustafest band played on. “Thanks for walking me back!” he called after them, looking and even sounding more like his former self. Maggie turned to blow a kiss in his direction, which he happily caught and placed in his front coat pocket.
Soon Grimsby was climbing the creaky steps up to his chamber, feeling greatly lifted by the kiss Maggie had directed his way as he began to hum an old childhood tune. A tune he could’ve sworn he’ d heard Merthaloy singing once upon a time: “Leaves in the whirlwind, scarecrow’s clappin’/All good children ought to be nappin’. ”
“Now what was that song again?” he wondered as he struggled to dig the bulky room key out of his front pocket. And in doing so, he dropped it with a loud clang. Soon he was down on all fours, cursing underneath his breath, and feeling around in the dark hallway, until he felt what could be instantly recognized as someone’s boot!
“Looking for this?” came the eerily familiar voice of Eleanoir with eyes that practically glowed in the dark. And in the shadows behind her lurched the bulbous outline of Jacques Tourtière! (Known only to Crad as the rude person who’d knocked him down the stairs.)
“Ah, my key!” exclaimed Grimsby with feigned levity. “I would’ve been crawling around all night looking for that.” Crad rose stiffly until he was once more at eye level with Eleanoir, as before at The Willow Tree. “Now, if I could just have that key,” he said, “I’ll bid you both a good night and put myself to bed.” He spoke steadily while reaching out with trembling hand.
“Nonsense, Mr. Grimsby,” said Eleanoir. “It’s Augustafest! Why, you can’t go to bed just yet! Especially after my friend here has invited us back to his place for a nightcap. Surely you’re not going to pass up an invitation like that?”
Grimsby, who had the distinct impression that this was less of an invitation and more of a direct order, reluctantly complied.
So with Eleanoir and Jacques on either side of him, he was swiftly and silently escorted out of the dank tavern and down the dark alley toward Tourtière’s foreboding abode. And as they marched along as if in a funeral procession, Eleanoir threaded her arm through his and chirped as though they were the best of friends. “Mr. Grimsby,” she said, “I can’t wait to hear what you were planning on telling our Little Miss Nosey-lund! Not to mention that old hag you’ve been seen around town with lately.” Grimsby winced at the cruelty of her words and stole a quick glance at her face, which was briefly lit up by lamplight. Not surprisingly, it was every bit as unnerving as on that first night they’d met. “Oh, and by the way,” she continued with a thinly veiled smirk, “you remember my dog, don’t you? Jupiter? Well, anyway, you’ll never guess how he came into my life, or for that matter, who that pesky deer is! It’s a small world, Mr. Grimsby. A very small world!”
The thing a
bout witchcraft is that it is by no means an exact science. In order for it to work at all, it must first be fuelled by some rage-induced event or by emotional upheaval of another kind. (As in the case of Merthaloy throwing the dishwater or Deryn’s accidental shooting of Jupiter.) Even so, the spell must first have some significance to the unlucky soul it has been cast upon. For example, since Deryn had mistaken Eleanoir’s dog for a deer, she was able to change him into one. And since Merthaloy was last seen looking out of a window, what better place, then, to keep her suspended in a nightmare from which there was no waking. Although it remains to be seen what Pearson Hedlight ever did to deserve such an unlucky bowler hat as the one Maggie was just now disposing of in a bin up the street.
As she laid it on top of the trash, it occurred to her that she’ d never really looked at it all that closely before. It seemed ordinary at a glance. Upon second glance, however, she found herself positively transfixed by it. For sewn into the charcoal-coloured fabric were small flecks of purple that gave it a strangely hypnotic glow. Turning it over, she was even more intrigued to find a mysterious inscription on the inside that read:
C.O.W. Hixenbaugh.
COW? thought Maggie with a comically puzzled look. Now what’s that s’posed to mean? Little did she know that the inscription had once stood for Coalition Of Witches.
AND NOW A BRIEF HISTORY OF C.O.W.
Around the time the hat was made, there came a small order of witches who’d all secretly moved back to Hixenbaugh in the hopes of infiltrating and ultimately taking back what they believed to be their rightful home. By selling these hats, scarves, and pies, all with these purple flecks in them, they had hoped one day to unite their powers and summon up a tidal wave of black magic strong enough to wipe out the enemy.
(The enemy being the descendants of those who’d burned their ancestors at the stake and all those who ran them out of town with their torches blazing.) Fortunately for the good people of Hixenbaugh, this tidal wave of black magic was never to be. For the ringleader of C.O.W. was nabbed for questioning after a child noticed traits in her that were consistent with the bedtime stories she’ d heard. This very public arrest sent witches scurrying like mice in all directions to avoid the police dragnet in full force. (One of these witches, you may recall, fled for Hinthoven at the outset of this book with a dog named Jupiter!)
After contemplating the meaning of C.O.W. for the entirety of the last paragraph, Maggie shook herself back to reality. Then, after taking one last look at the cursed hat, she said, “Good riddance!” though under her breath, for an elderly couple had been watching her and scowling with disdain at the disgraceful sight of a grown woman talking to a garbage can. Maggie waved to them in a friendly manner, though all she got back was a look that said, “Do not engage her.” “Some folks’ garbage is too good for the bin, I s’pose,” she said before heading home to where Lucky and Claira were still awaiting Grimsby’s arrival.
As she re-entered her humble abode, Maggie double-checked the rusty nail on the wall to make sure the bowler hat was truly gone before turning to her guests, who shook their heads in unison.
“Still no sign of him, eh?” she said, unwrapping her copious scarf. “What could be taking him so long?” she wondered aloud while looking up at the clock. It was already half past three, yet still no word from Grimsby.
“Maybe he overslept?” Claira offered hopefully. “He did have quite a stressful night, after all.”
“True,” said Maggie, who then shuddered anew at the thought of it. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“What do you suppose brought that on?” asked Claira. “I mean, all I said was purple.”
Maggie had debated telling her the story of Pearson’s death by hat but decided against it. “I really can’t say,” she replied and then reached for a cold piece of toast on the table. “I was hoping Mr. Grimsby might shed some light on that very question!”
As she crunched in the awkward silence her bread, Claira and Lucky sat in the awful silence of dread.
For they were equally troubled by the imminent wedding, as well as Mr. Grimsby’s disappearance. “I have an idea!” said Maggie as she washed down her toast with a swig of tea. “What if I were to take a stroll over to The Fist and Firkin and see if he’s about?” she offered while scanning their faces for any traces of disapproval.
“Are you sure?” asked Claira. “Would you like us to come with you?”
“Thank you, dear, but that won’t be necessary. My friends Griff and Gruff will be there, so I’ll be fine, I’m sure of it. Besides, you should probably stay here in case he has taken some alternate route and we miss each other on the way. You know how confusing these streets can be!” With sound reasoning like that, there was really no arguing with the plan, or the comment about the streets, for that matter. “I won’t be long,” she said, then added, “lock the door, and if I’m not back within the hour … HIDE!”
So after rebundling herself, Maggie ventured out once more in the hopes of finding her special friend. It was August 31st now, and all around the summer held on for dear life as a small army of street cleaners prepared for the final night of Augustafest. But in leaving the security of her home for the insecurity of The Fist and Firkin, she was completely oblivious to the set of purple eyes watching her from the bin at the end of the street. For Eleanoir, it seems, had rescued the discarded bowler hat and was now twirling it around menacingly in her hands. “So that’s where you live,” she said, grinning with bad intent as she walked toward the tiny house ’neath a crowd of ravens all circling above. “Well, I hope she won’t mind me dropping by unannounced.”
It was Deryn who noticed her first, peering in the window, making him buck and bleat with the utmost terror. Claira saw her next and screamed, not realizing who it was at first. (Though she probably would’ve screamed anyhow.) “Go away!” Claira shouted at her through the glass.
“Please,” implored Eleanoir. “I’ve come to apologize! If you’d only hear me out, I promise everything will be different,” she said and then wept unexpectedly. (And though the thought did cross Claira’s mind that this could all very well be just an act, she had to admit, it sure looked convincing!) Claira glanced over at Lucky to get his trusted opinion, which mostly involved vigorously shaking his head and recoiling in horror. “But she seems so sincere,” remarked Claira before drawing a heavy sigh. For her next decision would fly straight in the face of her better judgment. “I’d just like to hear what she has to say … all right?”
And although Lucky was not the least bit “all right” with it, Claira’s mind had already been made up. “Wait here,” she instructed. “I’m just going to have a quick word with her,” she said with a look of guilt and self-doubt that betrayed her valiant attempt at a comforting smile, as she began unlatching the door before heading out into the street.
Deryn watched from the window, unable to hear a word they were saying. And with Claira’s back to him, he wasn’t able to get a read on her expressions either. All he could see was the face of Eleanoir as she pounded Claira’s eardrums with what could only be lies. But Claira Hinterlund’s nature was so forgiving and so pure of heart that the very idea that Eleanoir could be anything other than a rather cold and stern stepmother had not even entered her mind. And certainly the notion of her being a witch was something she would not have entertained even in her wildest dreams. For whatever reason, her father had fallen in love with this woman, and maybe (just maybe) it was she and not Eleanoir who was the unreasonable one. Through it all, Deryn’s mind screamed, “Don’t listen to her!” but to no avail.
About this time, Magnus Hinterlund himself appeared in the street outside Maggie’s home as all three formed a tear-filled group hug.
And after what looked like a round of heartfelt apologies, they hugged and cried some more, adding greatly to Deryn’s mounting disbelief. The next thing he noticed was Mr. Hinterlund pointing to
the bowler hat, which Eleanoir had concealed behind her back. She presented it to him as though hand-picked from the finest boutique.
Claira smiled as her father tried it on, neither one realizing it was most recently worn by a garbage can! All the while, Eleanoir shot knowing glances at Deryn, who she could see in the window, and smiled cruelly at him whenever possible. Has the world gone mad? he wondered frantically. And as if to confirm these suspicions, Claira came rushing in and announced in a voice that was much too cheerful for Deryn’s liking, “C’mon, Lucky, we’re going home!”
This unforeseen development only made him recoil more, to the furthest reaches of the room, which was not all that far if we’re being honest. “Lucky, it’s going to be fine, trust me,” said Claira with eyes still wet from crying. “We’ve worked it all out! You won’t have to stay in the barn anymore, AND Father is going to get Tressa back! It’ll be just like old times … I promise!”
Although Deryn did trust Claira, he knew from experience that this was all just another heartless joke. At the same time, he also knew his mother would be home very soon and thought it best to get Eleanoir as far away from there as possible!
“I just need to write Mrs. Hedlight a quick note to tell her we’ve gone home,” said Claira, who went right to work jotting down the following words:
Dear Mrs. Hedlight,
Thank you so much for your generosity. Lucky and I can’t possibly thank you enough! As you know, my father is getting married tomorrow, and being his only daughter I felt it was only right that I be there to support him on his big day. I look forward to seeing you (and Mr. Grimsby) soon.
Love,
Claira (and Lucky) XO
Soon the fragile family was trotting back to Hinterlund farm with muted optimism on Claira’s part, relief on her father’s, and slowly simmering vengeance on Eleanoir’s. Even so, the sun managed to peek out from behind the clouds to brighten the road before them, for what it’s worth.
