The Magic Cottage

by James Herbert

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pointed toward one corner of the house. "Here comes Neil with that water." He cleared his throat, then said, "I guess I did feel unwell that time. Sorry, it was kinda rude of me to rush away like that. Something I had for lunch didn't agree with me, y'know?"

  The passenger door opened and Neil Joby got in, placing the plastic watercan down by his feet.

  "Okay, wagons roll," said Kinsella, switching on the engine. "You folk'll be home in no time."

  We drove around the house and both Midge and I turned as we gathered speed on the long driveway. The gray house—the Synergist Temple—was much larger than we had imagined when we had first caught sight of it from the forest edge.

  To me, at least, it now seemed far more ominous. Yet Midge was looking back with a trace of a smile tilting her lips.

  HEALED

  MY SECOND thought when I woke next day was of my hand: would it be a huge swollen mess pushing out at the bandages?

  The previous night we'd decided we would go over to the hospital in Bunbury first thing in the morning and get the burns treated by experts, despite Mycroft's crazy assurance that it wouldn't be necessary. I'd fully expected to spend the night in constant pain but, in fact, I'd slept like a baby, dreaming of Gramarye itself and all kinds of pleasant things—growing flowers, animal friends, sunshine and brilliant skies. I hadn't felt even a twinge.

  My inclination had been to ring Bob the moment we got back to the cottage and break the bad news, but Midge had talked me out of it. Wait and see, she'd said. Wait and see.

  Midge had gentled me through the rest of the evening, had even kissed each exposed and sore-looking finger to make them better; I'd reveled in the attention, although dreading the time when the powerful painkiller that had obviously been mixed into that green stuff (I didn't give any credence to Kinsella's assertion that it was only an antiseptic) would begin to wear off. Mercifully, it hadn't.

  Midge was still asleep next to me, looking ten years old, which made my first thoughts well-nigh criminal; I soon remembered my prime concern. My left arm was tucked beneath the sheet and I was almost afraid to peep. There was a slight discomfort down there—the bandages felt tight— but no throbbing pain. Maybe sleep was still drugging my brain; I clenched my teeth, waiting for the hurt to hit. It didn't, and I summoned up the courage to look.

  Lifting the sheet, I slowly brought my injured hand up to my face. If anything, the bandages had loosened during the night, the discomfort due to the sticky tape holding them in place rather than pressure from swollen flesh. The exposed fingers were only a little reddish. I flexed them and they were hardly stiff. I waggled my wrist and my hand moved loosely, the bandages the only restraint. I waved my arm in the air and it was fantastic and it was mobile and it was painless and it was unbelievable!

  "Midge!"

  She woke with a start, jumping up and crouching in the bed, eyes wide with alarm.

  "Midge! My arm! It doesn't hurt at all!"

  She looked from my face to my arm and she squealed. Her hands came together and she only just stopped from clutching my raised hand.

  "Mike, are you sure?"

  "Am I sure? Jesus, Midge, I should know if it hurts or not. Look, I can even wave the fingers." I waved the fingers.

  "I knew, Mike, I just knew! I was sure you'd be all right."

  "So you believed in that Mycroft stuff?"

  "No, I felt sure when we got back here. I can't explain . . ."

  She didn't even try. She hugged me, and we both toppled back against the pillows.

  "Hey, hey, take it easy!" I cried, holding the bandaged hand aloft. "Let's not ruin a good thing with too much excitement."

  She smothered my face in kisses. "I knew, I knew," she told me again.

  I pulled her away by dragging at the back of her nightshirt with my good hand.

  "Why don't we check it out properly before we get carried away, huh? You know, what's happening here isn't really possible. You saw for yourself that jet of scalding water hit me."

  "You're right," she said mock-severely. "This isn't happening, the Magic didn't work at all."

  She was joking, she hadn't meant that last remark. At least, the conscious part of her hadn't.

  I held up my arm between us. "Okay, Pixie, I want you to take off the bandages ever so slowly, and if it starts to hurt I'll let you know with a scream. Maybe then we'll come back to the real world."

  She carefully peeled off the tape and began unwinding the dressing, the gauze beneath coming free as she progressed. It took less than fifteen seconds for my lower arm and hand to be completely exposed.

  "Sheeeee . . ." It was no more than an escaping breath from me.

  The flesh was tender-looking and blotchy-red, but there were no blisters, no stripped skin, no scald marks. It was the most beautiful arm in the world.

  MOTION PICTURE

  I DIDN'T GET back to Gramarye until late Thursday afternoon. The recording session had been fantastic—Collins had to be one of the most professional musician/singers in the business, and one of the easiest to get along with (so long as you were doing your job right) and he made Bob's and my song sound a hundred times better than it really was. I'd stayed on through the day (Wednesday), invited to work on another couple of tracks for the album, and had loved every relaxed, jokey moment. I hadn't realized how much I'd been missing the scene until then, and it was great to catch up on all the news with Bob and one or two of the other musos afterward in the nearest bar.

  I began by going steady with the booze, but I was on a high and easily led. Relieved, too, that my hand hadn't let me down (I'd spent the previous two days with my guitars, working out the slight stiffness left in my fingers—which could have been due to the long lay-off anyway). The buzz I felt took over all sensibilities and I was soon knocking them back like a man out on parole.

  Bob didn't believe in the seriousness of my accident at all, insisting that I must have moved back faster than I'd thought, getting scalded a bit but not badly, and making my usual namby-pamby fuss. Sure, my hand and arm were more pinkish than normal, and there were a few nasty splodges on my face, but the damage could only have been superficial. I told him about the Synergists and Mycroft's trick with the colored liquid. Fucking crazy, was Bob's comment.

  He suggested I stay the night at his place and I had to admit the thought of driving all the way back to Hampshire, loaded as I was, didn't appeal. I found a phone and rang Midge.

  She agreed it would be senseless to drive that far so late and told me to stay with Bob and enjoy myself. Watch yourself, though, she warned, and I knew exactly what she meant: Bob could be a great junkhead at times.

  After getting excited over my day, Midge informed me she'd spent her time painting, enjoying the solitary confinement, but naturally missing me a lot. How much? How high the mountains, how deep the sea . . .?

  I told her she'd pay for her mockery when I got home, and then we both got mawkishly serious, telling each other we really hated not being together, even for a day, that being apart didn't feel natural, that love was a hurting thing—you know the stuff. Cliché endearments, maybe, but we meant them. There were watery blobs in my eyes when I returned to Bob and the others.

  Still, I managed to have a good time. We went for a meal from there and ended up back at Bob's place, a Victorian terraced house in Fulham, about one in the morning. By then, we were feeling no pain. His latest lady (Bob had been married twice and was now legally separated from the second wife) was in bed and she flatly refused (a bit disgruntledly, I felt) to join our party. We played hard rock on the stereo until thumps on the wall indicated that the neighbors weren't in a partying mood either. Our pals left shortly after, and Bob and I carried on with reminiscences of great old times together—gigs, scrapes, practical jokes and women just about covered the field—breaking open fresh cans of beer and suffering bouts of girlish giggling. It was a good night, a night for talking, and I was glad my friend needed no other stimulants
than the beer we were drinking and our own conversation. I've no idea what time we both finally crashed out.

  I awoke around noon, stretched out on a sofa, shoes removed and a dressing gown tossed over me. Bob had (surprisingly) been up before ten and had gone off to "put a deal together," as he would say; his girlfriend, Kiwi (I still don't know to this day what her real name was, or why she was called Kiwi), informed me of this as she handed me a huge Peter Rabbit mug of strong black coffee. I sat there like a zombie, drinking coffee and nursing my head, and after a while (when she started up the Hoover within three feet of me, in fact) I guessed it was time to leave.

  Kiwi was pleased enough to switch off her turbopower machine for a moment when I told her I'd be on my way, and she smiled prettily. "Look forward to Saturday," she said. "Saturday?" I asked. "Bob told me before he left that you'd asked us down to dinner," she trilled. "Oh yeah," I said, remembering vaguely. "Yeah, see you then," I added. "Look forward to it," she repeated. The resumed Hoovering quickly sent me on my way.

  I stopped on the way back to Hampshire for a light snack and a hair-of-the-dog, also taking the opportunity to ring Midge to inform her of the hero's return. There was no reply from Gramarye, so I assumed she'd gone for a walk although for once the weather wasn't terrific—not raining, but overcast. She couldn't have gone shopping, because I had the car.

  I was soon on my way again and the throbbing in my head eventually started to ebb. By the time I reached the Hampshire border I was feeling pretty good again, although looking forward to an hour or so in my own bed to clear away the last dregs of the hangover.

  And you know, the closer I drew to home the happier I became: I'd cut loose for a while and had a great time, enjoyed fast company and working again with professionals; but that one day and night had been enough—at least enough to last me quite some time. Great feeling, that. And new to me.

  At last I reached Cantrip and drove through the high street, catching sight of the Reverend Sixsmythe on his bike ahead. Still angry at him for upsetting Midge (not to mention me) with his gruesome recount of Ma Chaldean's death, I was tempted to thump my horn as I drew level to make him wobble, but I resisted.

  Out of the village, then into the lanes, the forest closing in on either side. Light raindrops speckled the Passat's windshield.

  A few turns and God bless her, there she was, a splash of white in the distance. I was grinning all over my face when I pulled onto the grassy shoulder at the side of Gramarye's garden. Now I did toot the horn, just to let Midge know I was back. Opening the hatchback, I hauled out my two guitar cases and rested them on the ground while I closed up again. Guitars in either hand, I stepped over the fence rather than walk around to the gate, and trudged through the flowerbeds to the path, expecting to see Midge's happy pixie face peering from the doorway at any moment. I was disappointed, though. Midge either hadn't heard my arrival, or she hadn't yet returned from her walk. But surely she couldn't have been out all this time, particularly as the weather wasn't up to much? Perhaps she was asleep, or in the bath: either one would suit my purposes admirably.

  I glanced at the upstairs windows, and they were dark and lifeless.

  A small scratching noise, and my attention went back to the front door. There was Rumbo, gnawing at the paintwork. He turned and his expression seemed to say, "So where the hell have you been?"

  I chuckled and he joined in. Bob had scoffed when I'd told him about the cottage in our boozy state—about the animals and birds who came every day, the wild growth of beautiful flowers, the atmosphere itself—demanding to know what kind of "weed" was I growing down here and could he order a caseload? I hadn't risen to the bait, because even I felt much of what I said was exaggeration now that I was back in this real world of cynics and grafters. But you had to be in Gramarye to know; logic took over once outside.

  "Come on, Rumbo, let a man get inside his own home," I said to the squirrel, gently easing him aside with one foot. He found my shoelace tasty.

  I reached for my key, but decided to test the door first. As I'd half expected, Midge hadn't locked up after her despite my warnings. We were no longer in the big bad city, she always rebuked me.

  I pushed open the door and Rumbo scampered in before me. It was very gloomy inside and I had a nasty vision of a rotting corpse sitting at the kitchen table swinging around to greet me with a lipless grin. Oh Stringer, you've gotta forget the vicar's little tale!

  "Midge! You around?" I dumped the guitar cases on the floor and went to the foot of the stairs. "Midge? The hunk's home!"

  She was definitely out. The place was so quiet it was loud.

  Disappointed, I went through to the adjoining room and filled the kettle. Rumbo had preceded me and was darting backward and forward along the top of the old iron range.

  "Don't go up that chimney," I advised him. "You'll come down so black your own family wouldn't recognize you. And I hear you red squirrels have had enough trouble from the grays—so imagine what would happen if a black squirrel showed up in the neighborhood."

  Rumbo looked up into what must have been to him the equivalent of a lift shaft, and accepted my advice (maybe he knew something about racialism), hopping off the range, then over to the fridge-freezer, leaping onto its top. From there, he gnashed his tiny teeth at me.

  "Okay, feller, I know what you're after." Reaching up to a shelf behind me, I took down the biscuit jar and unscrewed the lid. "One for you, one for me." I tossed over a piece which he deftly caught in his paws and immediately munched into. Mine was gone in two bites, but his took considerably longer; he daintily gnawed around the edge, turning the shrinking biscuit in his paws and occasionally glancing my way, presumably to check if any more were in the offing. He was a fascinating little tyke all right, lovably cheeky (we'd once found him snugly asleep in our bed, burrowed down beneath the sheets) although sometimes irascible (he'd thrown bacon rind down at my head one morning from the top of the sideboard after I'd scolded him for running across the kitchen table and knocking over the sugar bowl). A month or so ago I would never have believed an animal could be so tame—at least, not a wild squirrel—or so smart (he always knew when breakfast or lunch was about to be served, rarely failing to make an appearance at those times—he enjoyed our scraps more than regular squirrel food, I think).

  Steam billowed from the kettle and I spooned instant coffee into a cup, adding one sugar, and milk this time. Pouring the boiling water made me nervous and, not for the first time since Sunday, perplexed. You were lucky, is all, I told myself, lucky your arm got dipped in the Synergists' own special brand of Fairy Liquid so soon after the accident. They could market the formula for a million. No, several millions. But they'd have to cut out the holding-hands-voodoo bit if they wanted to be taken seriously.

  Antiseptic only—huh! Who did Kinsella think he was kidding?

  I sipped coffee, burning my lips. Maybe they already did market the green curative, only in discreet quantities—under the counter, as it were. That would explain how they could afford such a large estate as Croughton Hall. Their secretiveness didn't make much sense, but then if they were some kind of nutty religious sect, it didn't need to. Interesting, though.

  I left the kitchen, taking the cup of coffee with me, Rumbo racing ahead up the stairs, the last of the biscuit hastily devoured. The whole place was unusually dull and gray, the sun's absence making quite a contrasting impression on the atmosphere of the place. Long, rainy winter days were obviously going to prove a trial for both of us. Still, weren't they always, wherever you lived? I went straight from the hall into the bedroom—did I mention we'd moved into the bigger room by now, the one that had had the crack in the wall repaired and painted over?—-just in case Midge had fallen asleep in there. I ordered Rumbo off the empty-of-Midge bed where he was having a fine time tangled up in the top sheet, and went through to the round room. Even in here, with the three large windows, it was gloomy. The smell of paint hung in the air and, because it was a familiar scent and one I as
sociated with my live-in partner, it wasn't unpleasant. Her drawing board was sloped at an acute angle, and I remembered she had told me she'd spent yesterday painting. Now, every new illustration from Midge was a delight to me (not to mention to all her fans, young and old) and I lost no time in getting across the room to see.

  One thing I did before peeking, though, was to lay down my coffee on the small table beside the swivel-board where she kept her paints, brushes, and bits and pieces. Our rule was that I never went near her artwork—nor was anyone else allowed to—with dangerous substances in my hand. I made the mistake once, when we were only just getting to know one another, of opening a can of beer while admiring her work at close range; you can guess where the spray went. Midge had taken it well, but I resolved "never again."

  Only when the cup was safely out of my hands did I turn and look. And was instantly lost in pure, worshipful awe of her talent.

  The painting, in her favorite medium of designer's gouache, was of Gramarye itself.

  She had obviously worked from the grass shoulder outside the garden gate, using her small easel to support the artboard, because the cottage was viewed from there, the garden, with its wild patterns of colors, in the foreground. The forest behind provided a strangely brooding backdrop, albeit insignificant against the exuberance of Gramarye itself, the walls brilliantly white, yet detailed, marked where the real walls were marked, worn where the real brickwork was worn. The colors may have been exaggerated—no roof could ever be quite that shade of rusty red, the grass and nearest trees could never be that vividly green—yet they conveyed the true vibrancy of our home and its surroundings, the invigorating quality we had both felt when we first moved in, but which only Midge, with her unique and skillful, child's-view artistry could express. You know, my knees actually went weak as I took it all in.

  But that was nothing compared with what was to come.

  Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, washing the room with a sudden brilliant warmth, striking those lucid colors before me so that they dazzled and surged, yes, surged, with sparkling energy, the brightness striking into me, deep into me, and reproducing—not just duplicating— the image inside my head, as if it had solidified in there, was as real as the original.