by B G Denvil
Not something he intended to risk.
Instead, someone already affected might be tricked into taking it into their possession. But what then? It should never again reside at The Rookery. Then the church bell tolled again, and Whistle had another idea.
Fifteen
“An interesting adventure,” Whistle said.
Rosie regarded the small red squirrel and reached out a finger. The fur was resilient but soft, the face was sweetly pretty, and the tail was magnificent. Certainly nothing like Whistle. “You’re really him?”
“Not him, but me,” said the squirrel with an impatient slick of the tail. “You asked for a change? Well, you got it. Yet I hear neither gratitude nor admiration.”
“You have both,” said Edna quickly, “and I am distinctly impressed. You are welcome to visit any day.”
Rosie nodded, “Oh yes, indeed. Move here permanently if you’d like. I’m quite happy to have a resident ghost. And please, dear Whistle, tell us whatever you’ve discovered.”
“The red cup,” said the squirrel with pride, “has a special place built for it beneath the ground not far from Kettle Lane, but no longer beneath The Rookery. Yet, which I found most odd, neither it nor those it has affected, seem able to ignore the calls of the church. The cup positively shivered and cracked, and the people plodded off to church as though sleep-walking.”
“What happened when the bells stopped?” Rosie asked. “The cup put itself together again?”
“So who has built this underground cave for it?” demanded Mandrake, whom no one had heard entering.
Whistle stared at Mandrake with a sniff. “Should you be here? How much do you know about the shadow side? Have you been cleared of any dark shadow dealings yourself?”
“Of course I have,” snapped Mandrake. “And before you ask, I’ve cleared myself. Now, who is the one who has been dabbling with the shadows?”
“Unfortunately, it has to be Alice,” said Rosie. “As this Troilus bug, she’s the only one I see burrowing underground through such tiny holes. And she’s never stopped following the darkness.”
“But,” the squirrel was hopping up and down, and eventually could not resist hopping onto Rosie’s shoulder, “I know exactly where the spot is. I’ve even marked it. Straight down – and there it is. One red cup waiting to be found. And it’s not on old Mike Postlethwaite’s farm, so he can’t come raising his fists and roaring about us ruining his crops. You just need to dig along that bank, opposite here but over a bit.”
“And then we have a good view of a red cup that we can’t touch.”
“If you’re going to be ungrateful again,” said the squirrel, “then I’ll go and find myself a roost.”
“Squirrels don’t roost. Only birds do that.”
“I’ll do whatever I wish,” said the squirrel. “Ghosts can’t be forced to do anything they don’t like.” Whistle turned to Mandrake. “And I suppose you’re getting involved now too. It’s not enough to have three witches nagging me, I have another wizard too. And not even a high powered one. What are you? A fifty-five or something?”
Mandrake pulled himself to his full height, which was a considerable amount taller than Whistle always was, not to mention now being a squirrel, and said, “I’ll have you know I’m a seventy-eight. That’s a high score, even if not as high as yours. But at least I didn’t let some idiot bash me over the head while not paying attention.”
“And now this great saintly seventy-eight,” sneered the squirrel, “is in love with a human, of all things!”
Mandrake sank back. “I am. And she is. But she’s so sweet, I feel she’ll melt in my arms. I can’t bear to tell her how old I am, since she’s only twenty-eight or something. But she’s an angel. I want to look after her forever. I need her to need me, and I relish feeling needed. I’ve never protected anyone else in my entire life before. I look into her eyes, and I see her vulnerability. That makes me feel so strong. Honestly, this is going to be my wonderland – Maggs and me, keep us both in the tree house, if you want to – I don’t care – I shall live in her arms so the room is of no importance – and she’ll marry me so we’ll have a big party. I’m not poor – and I don’t have any shadows - so I’ll be happy for evermore – ”
But, bored stiff, the squirrel had left quite some time ago.
“I have to find Alice,” repeated Rosie, having waited for Mandrake to finish. “You go and look after your fiancée, and we’ll introduce her to everyone at supper. Prepare her, for goodness sake. We have some very eccentric customers here. But meanwhile – there’s a lot to do.”
“Indeed,” Mandrake nodded cheerfully. “Planning the supper menu, and making sure everyone comes. But I think I should sit at the head of the table for a change, and Maggs on my right-hand side.”
Rosie stared at him. “Your love affair with a human may be the most important thing in your life,” she objected, “but doesn’t the arrival of an evil shadow seem a bit more important?”
“Only the mean and nasty can be trapped by the shadows,” Mandrake objected. “I’m neither mean nor nasty, so I’ll never be touched. I can concentrate on Maggs.”
He strode off towards the tree house, and Rosie, Peg and Edna watched him go with relief. Edna lowered her voice. “I think we should cross over Kettle Lane and see where Whistle left the sign pointing to the red cup. Not to dig down yet, but perhaps return after supper, and do the delving under starlight, when even the crows aren’t around. Let’s just go and find the spot. Then I’ll work out this wretched introduction feast with Issa and Mary. I’ll have to help with the magic, but they’re both brilliant cooks.”
“Supper again?” Edna walked briskly to the front door. “I want to see this important spot first and see what comes out. I mean smells, or even smoke. I’ll have no appetite for this feast everyone is so obsessed about, if we don’t at least start on the important stuff first.”
The sun was still bright as they crossed over Kettle Lane. Not a wide lane in any way, they immediately walked along the hedged bank, looking for Whistle’s sign. He had explained it well. Kettle Lane was bare beaten earth for most of its length, passing The Rookery and swinging up several miles towards the township of Upper Piddleton. But for the final five hundred paces attached to Little Piddleton, the lane was flat cobbled. It was just before this that the serpent had marked the spot. A deep but narrow hole sloped downwards, and next to this a cutting of briar roses had been stabbed into the earth.
“Very well,” Rosie murmured. “We come tonight with spades, magic and determination. But first we have time to work out the ultimate puzzle. Without risking infection, how do we remove it?”
“And once removed, where do we put it?” Peg twitched her nose. “Simply burying it elsewhere won’t keep it safe forever, as we’ve now discovered.”
Edna smiled. “Whistle said something that surprised me,” she said. “About the church. Although we are wiccan, clearly the number of those well-meaning souls who attend their churches bring enough power of the light to diminish the dark. So – we sit the red cup in some unseen part of the church.”
Impressed, Rosie beamed. “What a clever idea,” she agreed. “So what about wrapping the handle of a spade with cloth, holding it carefully, perhaps even cover the scoop with water or grit or something, and use that to get the cup safely balanced. Then we walk with it up to the church. It’s not far to walk, or we fly if the spade can be held easily. One of the morning clock, perhaps. We will be utterly unseen.”
“Ever practised invisibility?”
“No,” answered Rosie. “Impossible. Risky too. I’ve heard that any wiccan who gets close can just disappear into the clouds. Worse than being a ghost.”
“Oh well,” Peg sighed, “I’m not sure your idea is fail-safe, my dear, but it’s probably the best we have.” She looked to Edna. “Any other ideas?”
Edna shook her head. “It’s an excellent idea,” she said, “and if it doesn’t work, we can keep trying.”
&nb
sp; “I’m hoping – and doubting,” Rosie said as they walked back to The Rookery, “that we don’t have any more residents halfway towards the shadows. I can’t think of anyone, even amongst those who annoy me, and there’s plenty of them, but not one who seems inclined to the other side.”
“We didn’t suspect Boris until we found it was him.”
“True,” Rosie paused, wondering, “but Boris was a weaker number. Should we have another look at anyone under sixty?”
“Too mean,” Peg objected. “More like discrimination than common sense.”
“Not at all,” Rosie said. “I used to think I was a fifty. I didn’t despise the weaker ones. But I think Boris being a lower number made him more vulnerable to the shadow forces.”
“Not Dipper, not Kate, not lovely Alfred who saved my life, nor our new cooks and not sweet Gorgeous.”
“But Alice was. Is.”
They stopped the discussion before entering The Rookery, and Rosie hurried to the kitchens to discuss supper instead.
Mandrake had been preparing for supper since breakfast.
“My dearest girl, we don’t accept wizards who just sit down to eat, but then decide to kill off everyone else.”
“Don’t be silly, my love,” said Maggs. “I didn’t say that. But don’t some of your people hate humans just as some humans hate wizards?”
“Do they? How unjust,” muttered Mandrake, not adding that he had frequently been one of them. “I admit there can be a slight wisp of unfair judgement at times, perhaps a lack of respect. But there are stupid humans, as I’m sure you’d agree. You’re different, my adorable love. And I shall prove it.”
Neither had yet realised that their overly sloppy behaviour towards each other would not help.
“My own sweet beloved,” said Maggs, her eyes moist with loving obsession, “will your friends have wands? Will they flash up and down and shout spells? Will some of them shout at me? And what about me? Should I sit quietly and try not to stare?”
“Just be yourself,” insisted Mandrake, which was unhelpful since she had no idea who she was. “One or two of us have wands, but not at the table, and try not to stare. We just get on and eat and chat, and that’s that.”
“If you notice someone hasn’t come, does that mean they won’t ever accept a human? Will they hate me?”
“You’re far too sweet and lovable and kind and gorgeous to be hated by anyone,” Mandrake told her, clutching her hand. “How could anyone ever treat you badly, my little saint?”
“Godwin did,” Maggs pointed out as a timid reminder.
“Had I known, I’d have killed him myself,” Mandrake announced. “But, of course, I didn’t. Yet if no one had slaughtered the wretched man, you would still be putting up with him, and we wouldn’t have met.”
“If it had gone on much longer, I think I would have killed him,” Maggs whispered. “And now I’d be in that horrid cell with Dickon setting up the gallows.”
“Courageous and intelligent beloved,” Mandrake said at once. “And now I shall dress you with whatever colours and materials you would like, so you can feel absolutely beautiful at your special supper. This is all for you, you know. So choose your clothes, and I shall summon them exactly as you say.”
Staring at him, Maggs wondered if this would prove glorious or terrifying. She waited, back stiff, and tried to think of anything she had longed for years back, when dreams instead of beatings had riled her life.
“All pale blue. Could it be silk? A real gown and not just a smock. And those huge fluttering sleeves that grand ladies have with patterns and fancy edges. And a real linen shift underneath, with long sleeves that come under the fancy sleeves, and a lacy neck. Can I have soft leather shoes? And pearly pins for my hair with a little net.”
He smiled. Not having ever taken much notice of female clothes before, Mandrake began to create everything he had been asked. He was careful not to make her own clothes disappear until she was well covered by the new ones, brought up his hands, fingers designing as he watched.
Maggs felt the materials swirl around her, her hair was pulled from her face as though some personal maid was there behind her with the pins and a comb. Silk, then smooth ironed linen, her toes felt cosseted and looking down she saw the softest leather enclosing her feet, pale blue and buckled in silver. She held out both arms, astonished to see them covered in such beauty, lace-cuffed linen beneath and a magnificent drop, almost to the ground, of blue silk a little darker in colour than the rest of her gown.
Staring back at Mandrake, she wondered how anyone could ever be reproachful, ever unhappy, ever disappointed when living with the power of sweet magic. At risk of creasing her clothes, she rushed at Mandrake and embraced him so tightly he gulped and couldn’t breathe.
“You are – absolutely – magical,” Maggs told him, and then, realising that this was no secret, she added, “the greatest wizard in the world.”
Mandrake blushed. “Not quite. But fairly high.” He reached for her hand and twirled her round to look at her. “Yes, indeed, beautiful clothes, my love. Nothing can make you more glorious than you already are, but you’ve chosen well. The blues suit you. Actually, it used to be against the law for country folk to dress like lords, but no one ever took much notice of that ruling. And no one will object here, I promise. So now let’s see what they’ve planned for the feast.”
Sixteen
Edna had dressed the table just as Mandrake had been dressing Maggs. On a sweeping white linen cloth, all platters, knives and spoons looked silver, although they weren’t really. Huge candles in silver stands lined the centre, and the chairs were covered in red cushioned velvet, which had some mumbling about exaggerated over-lavish taste, while most others sank down with exclamations of the wonderful comfort.
Not seated at either end, but in the middle where he could see and speak to everyone, Mandrake stood with Maggs beside him, raised his cup of rich red wine, and introduced his fiancée.
“Margaret Bank,” he said loudly, “has agreed to be my wife. Although human,” he gazed around, daring anyone to object, “she is the perfect woman.”
“Maggs Trout,” someone said, without disclosing his identity.
“Godwin Trout never deserved her,” Mandrake objected. “I have used her father’s name and ignored the Trout. She’s Margaret Bank, my adorable Maggs.”
Sounds imitating those of being sick faded out. A few others raised their cups and wished them happiness. Most had turned up, although a few were either too timid, too bored or too disapproving. The very shy Gorgeous Leek had not come. Neither Toby Tuckleberry nor Ethelred had been tempted, and as expected, Bertie Cackle did not arrive.
Everyone else, however, had been both interested to see the human and to see what magnificence had been set up along with food fit for a wedding feast.
It was during the carving of the roast venison that Peg pushed back her grand chair, actually a little large for her, and stood. She didn’t show much above the table, but she raised her cup and shouted very loudly. “To Maggs and Mandrake, wishing you both all the best of – ”
But her words faded out as she flicked thumb and index finger to produce some special sign that no one saw. Instead Peg twirled three times and so fast that she became an impressive golden blur, and rose up into the air before abruptly disappearing.
Maggs screamed and sank back in a faint. Mandrake, expecting something of the sort, caught her, whispering, “Don’t worry, she does this often. Not intentional, you see. But she’s forgetful. Getting old. Says her spells backwards. She’ll be back soon. Never goes for long and never gets hurt.”
With a sigh of recognition, Maggs thanked Mandrake for catching her and resumed eating her roast venison, peas with nuts, sliced onions and dried figs. She had already finished a plate of chicken stuffed with bacon and sage, green beans in fried suet strips, parsnip slivers in fig jam, baked goat’s cheese topped with grated ginger, a piece of rhubarb pie with lemon custard, a small experimental mout
hful of carrot jelly and a dollop of cream over another dollop of what Emmeline told her was her own creation, called chocolate.
Now halfway through the venison and peas and her third cup of wine, Mandrake admired her appetite.
Maggs had never seen more than one small platter on the table for any meal before coming to The Rookery, and Godwin had always helped himself to most of it, even when he complained afterwards that it was awful muck and badly cooked.
Whistle had not joined them, deciding that a jolly little squirrel dancing across the table and helping itself to the nuts and sultanas, might not be a sensible idea. Besides, being dead meant he did not need to eat anymore. Instead he was curled up in a little red furry ball on Rosie’s window alcove where, even at supper time, the sun bathed him in gentle blankets of soothing heat. Ghosts, he decided, enjoyed being warm since they had no natural inner thermostats.
Indeed, none of the many animals, birds and bats had been invited. The owls and bats were waiting to sail off into the darkening skies, while the crows and smaller birds were falling asleep beneath their wings. Twizzle, annoyed but accepting, had been shut in Edna’s bedchamber with a large pile of seeds to mumble over.
The left-overs, if there were any, would be offered to all and sundry on the following morning.
Another who had failed to attend the special introductory feast was Ethelred Brown, who had other interests on his mind. He had waited in his own room until the raucous entertainment from the supper table was loud enough to ensure privacy, and then left The Rookery down Kettle Lane.
Ethelred had not been invited into the discussion of the red cup, the tunnel or the consequences. But he had heard everything. Having overheard the first few words as he walked outside, he quickly sat further away, looked innocent and used his meagre magic to hear every word spoken between Rosie, Peg and Edna. This was one of his few individual talents, one he was proud of being only a thirty-four. And what he had heard had seemed fascinating.
