And the King consented.
It was a lot of gold.
From that day there was a saying in the huts of the peasants, that a Waterman’s gold made all wishes come true.
A
Bad Substitute Father
“What did you say?” Chanute had to trawl every word out of the cheap liquor he’d poured down his throat.
They’d been tracking the rogue apprentice for weeks to retrieve the belt he’d stolen from his master, after slitting his throat. The magic belt that allowed whoever wore it to understand every language spoken by man and beast in MirrorWorld. A treasure of treasures. A coal burner had spotted the apprentice wearing it as he was being carried on the shoulder of an Ogre... the One-Eyed Ogre who roamed these woods.
“I said you’re too drunk!” Jacob repeated.
The bottle Chanute threw at Jacob missed him by more than a yard, shattering against an oak tree.
Old fool. Raiding an Ogre’s cave... no picnic even when you’re sober. More and more, Jacob had to ask himself whether the old man now also drank to give himself courage.
“Fine,” growled Chanute. “You stay out here and keep watch, while I get the belt.”
Of course. Normally he would send Jacob ahead, but this time he wanted all the glory for himself. The cheap taverns where he drank away his senses were buzzing with gossip of how Chanute’s apprentice was already better than the old master himself.
“Albert Chanute is still the best treasure hunter between Albion and the White Sea!” The old man muttered it in his sleep and announced it in every livery stable where they left their horses. In the past he would have never felt the need. Nobody would have doubted him. But he was getting old.
It was over: the adventure of being Albert Chanute’s apprentice. He’d taught Jacob everything about treasure hunting. And it had all been worth it — the beatings, the dark moods, the days of angry silence that followed his drunken binges.
Chanute’s fingers trembled as he loaded his pistol, but not even the shakes could deter him from Ogres on this grey morning.
“You’re out of your mind. Let’s try tomorrow. Maybe your hands will be less shaky.”
“Now you’re telling me how to do my work?” Chanute swayed as he pushed the pistol, which he’d supposedly received from the Empress herself, into its grimy holster.
What the hell, Jacob. Just let him go. Maybe this is the death he wants.
Jacob untied his horse and swung himself into the saddle.
“That’s right!” The old man shouted after him. “Be gone! I’ll tell everyone that Jacob Reckless ran away from the Ogre! That’ll ruin your reputation forever!”
Jacob turned his horse about. “Go ahead. And I’ll tell everyone that Albert Chanute was a senile old fool who couldn’t wait to die.”
~ ~ ~
Jacob steered his horse through the trees. He’d find himself a quiet inn with warm beds and decent food. Yes. He’d take a hot bath, and scrub off all the dirt and sweat — the stench that Chanute called ‘a man’s best perfume.’ Then he’d sleep for three days, without that horrid drunken snoring drilling into his ears.
Jacob reined in his horse.
Damn.
He spun the horse around and rode back toward the cave.
~ ~ ~
Jacob quietly dismounted, a safe distance away from the cave.
What are you doing, Jacob? Turn around. He’s dead. And it’s his own fault.
How often had he dreamt of an Ogre smashing in the old man’s skull.
He drew his pistol and made sure it was loaded, though the bullets would do little damage. He’d have to shoot half a dozen into the beast before they’d even make a dent in its blue scaled skin.
He stepped into the dark cave.
~ ~ ~
Jacob could barely breathe from the stench. Rotting flesh. He passed through the Ogre’s larder cave, but only gave it a quick glance... luckily the darkness hid the more unspeakable details.
Chanute would have looked for treasure in the innermost “sleeping cave.” Ogres liked to surround themselves with the possessions of their prey: watches, jewelry, eyeglasses, belts. One could find the strangest objects in their caves. Carpets piled with neatly gnawed bones, pianos with bloody fingerprints on the keys, suitcases filled with the clothes of the dead.
He came upon the last cave. And there it stood. A massive Ogre. The largest Jacob had ever seen.
The Ogre had his back to Jacob.
And he was holding a human arm.
Chanute was lying on the blood-soaked floor, his saber clutched in his one remaining hand. The Ogre was staring down at him.
They often tore off a few limbs before they killed their prey. They were strong enough to simply pluck them off, like children would the legs of an insect. The next step was usually to lop off the head, as Ogres considered the brain a particular delicacy.
The Ogre unhooked a chain from his belt, then sniffed the air and lifted his head, listening...
Quietly, Jacob...
The Ogre turned and saw him. Jacob raised his revolver and fired all six rounds into the beast’s chest. The Ogre merely shook himself as though he’d been stung by an insect.
Jacob quickly reloaded as the Ogre lumbered toward him, swinging his chain.
He took aim again.
The eye...
It was the only part of an Ogre’s body that wasn’t protected by scales.
Jacob fired.
The Ogre’s screams flooded the cave as he pressed his hand over his eye.
Jacob dropped his pistol and unsheathed his saber.
The Ogre lashed out with his chain. Jacob jumped away, but not fast enough. He cried out as the rusty metal smashed his shoulder blade. The next swing of the chain barely missed his head. The Ogre was teetering with rage, spinning around. The chain came flying at Jacob again like an iron whip. Jacob ducked and then slashed the saber into the Ogre’s side, but the blade merely glanced off the armor-like skin. On the Ogre’s next swing the chain wrapped itself around Jacob’s leg and yanked him off his feet.
The Ogre felt around for Jacob as he lay sprawled on the ground, barely conscious. The enormous hands finally found him and lifted him up by his throat.
Jacob could see the pleasure in the Ogre’s face as it crushed his larynx with its bare hand.
He had to free himself. Now.
The Ogre struck out with his free hand and hit Jacob on the temple so hard that his vision went black.
Jacob crawled around, blind, feeling for his saber. He tried to keep quiet and hold his breath, so it wouldn’t give away his position, but his flesh still smelled warm and appetizing, and the Ogre started to grin.
Think, Jacob!
He threw the saber as far as he could, and as the Ogre turned toward the clattering sound, Jacob quickly crawled to Chanute. The old man looked at him through glassy eyes. It was a miracle he was still alive. The pain had rendered him nearly unconscious, and Jacob wasn’t sure Chanute even recognized him as he reached for the knife in his belt.
The knife that could cut anything. Why hadn’t Chanute used it?
Because the liquor had slowed him down and made him sloppy.
The old fool.
Jacob pulled the knife from its sheath. Chanute had taken it off a gang of highwaymen a year earlier. It had been Jacob’s job to distract them.
“Jacob...” muttered the old man.
So he did recognize him. Chanute tried to grab his arm. “Get out of here.”
Of course. Half dead, and still ordering him around.
Love was a strange thing. How could you feel love for someone who had beat you blue and green every time he came across a bottle?
Well… Jacob loved the old man for everything he
’d taught him. And because in many ways Chanute was just like him.
~ ~ ~
The Ogre reached out, stumbling toward Jacob. And Jacob lunged.
The knife cut through the clothes and the blue skin... again and again... until the Ogre finally collapsed.
The blade that could cut anything cut through his heart.
~ ~ ~
Chanute was still flat on his back. His wound was terrible, but he would survive.
“My arm.” Chanute looked around. “Give me my arm.”
Jacob picked it up. “It won’t do you much good now.”
“I knew this soldier who had his leg sewn back on by a Dark Witch.”
“Yes, and he probably started eating children shortly after.” Jacob stared down at the old treasure hunter. “There’s a cobbler in Schwanstein who makes wooden limbs.”
“It’s over.” Chanute’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’re the best.”
Jacob said nothing.
He’d been the best for a while now.
But only thanks to Chanute.
Child Eating Witch Recipes
The original folios from which these recipes have been translated and transcribed were discovered inside an abandoned gingerbread house in the Hungry Forest.
Poorsister’s Stew
First concocted during Guismond’s Purge of the Witches, this stew helps to reduce stress and anxiety during difficult times.
The wings of 4 dragonflies
One-quarter and 7 wart beans
2 choke vine sprigs
2 pints Thumbling sweat
1 glance of a vacuous boy
It is crucial that the glance you collect be not in fact a stare. If in doubt, or should the glance linger, simply snarl at the child to divert his gaze and eliminate any curiosity. Place the glance in a pewter tureen and quickly cover with wart beans and crushed dragonfly wings. Pour Thumbling sweat over the mulch, and snicker sarcastically at it. Plant the vine sprigs beside the tombstone of a fallen Bluebeard. Bring the stew to a boil, and reduce heat immediately. Serve at dusk.
Cosmo Tytketail
1 wiggle of guttersnipe’s run
3 chawts of triple-muc
Lime dirt
Pistol of Fairy lily
Swirl the run and muc and lime dirt with gentleness in the empty perfume bottle. Care not to allow the ingredients to mix complete, only mingle, for the wasps drink but twice a weary night. Break pistol to caress the flume.
Jambe d’Enfant à l’Albion
(Poached leg of stout child with caper sauce)
To replace appearance of aging with appearance of youth
1 whole leg of stout child
1 hexed finger of stout child
1 palm of hard quarry salt per quart of blighted water
2 palms of capers
1/2 loaf of thistle
1 cup of father’s tears
2 tablespoons of earwax
Remove and discard shoe and stocking. Ignore any foul smell emanating from the foot – odorous feet are common to children who wander into the forest, and stenching will not diminish the magic properties of the dish.
Hexing the finger:
Insert the finger into your nostril. Wipe the mucus residue into eyebrows, reciting the Triptych Incantations of Soulise Benoit, then expectorate through uncleaned teeth into cauldron of water. Add salt and bring blighted water to boil. Simmer leg and finger for 13 days. DO NOT OVER BOIL. If crows around your home begin facing west in unison, you have overheated the water, and a plague on local farmers’ turnip crops has commenced.
Caper sauce:
Beat the thistle and capers into the tears, then fold the gritty slaw into the earwax continuously until bubbles form on the surface.
Place poached leg on a wet or moldy wooden platter, preferably birch. Drizzle with caper sauce. Sprinkle with red coriander for rosier cheeks.
Turt
A schoolgirl of the height of a smoot, drowsy
One grab of Moor Comfrey root
Blanched beak of crow
Scalp oil
Yowl at her, prowl, growl to bring her to bite.
Flip the smoot, the beak to toot, and shoot the root into oiled boot.
Hallow the moon and curse the noon.
Savor, for it is done.
Tankhuzkidjabloko
(Meat with apples)
(13c. Andalusian)
Ribs of human child
Middle eyeball of tryclops or cyclops ogre child
Oil of 3 stone
Black onion
Swamp licorice
Birch dust
Baffle beans
Petunias
Flagonette eggs
Infant’s rattles
Reeking root
Ginger flower
Black mark apples
Salt
Chew onions and bury them. Pound the ribs and place them in pot and pour over them oil and salt. Boil and stir in swamp licorice and birch dust and baffle beans and 1 hand of petunias pounded to a mylsc. Add white of one egg and let rest until the lard runs out. Smash three infant’s rattles and put in the pot with onion and reeking root and ginger flour. Boil it in the pot over fire until it releases its water and a single sigh. Cover with the juice from apples and bake. Separately heat eggs with eggshells adding whole apples without cutting and the pickled eyeball of ogre child. The meat is done and so cover the meat with egg concoction and leave to rot on warm hearthstone.
Birch Tea
Pluck the leaves from the sapling of a Witch Birch tree. Care only for the leaves, as stems and dross play no part in this pleasure. Dowse in bubbling water for 8 turns of the beleaguered eye. Witches not consuming children will only allow 6 turns. Remove and deheat.
After School Delight ~ Child Pickles
During the months of early summer, the warming weather brings an abundance of exuberant children, freshly liberated from kindergarten. The best way to cope with a surplus of these sweaty darlings is to pickle them with hedgehog quills and eyes of potato. The sweetness of the children is replaced with vinegar, salt, and malice — the brine itself to be a distinct, secret formula of each individual witch. A helpful hint, however: bitter flowers and aromatic, pungent allium vegetables are not a bad idea; nor are the 17th century incantations of the Northern Hungry Forest witches.
The difference between a good tart child and a great pickled child lies in the emotional comportment of the child and the intensity of the enchantments. Summer humidity also aids the transfer of magic, through the air itself, to the pickles.
The three basic kinds of child pickle:
Hard pickle (or “cartilage pickle”) – Made from the hard parts of the child. The crunchiness and chewiness of these pickles keeps a witch’s eyes sparkling bright and helps suspend motherly instincts.
The MirrorWorld Anthology Page 5
