Curse of the Dream Witch

by Allan Stratton

Milo pressed his face against the glass and squinted. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said a boy. ‘Shh.’

  In the distance, Milo heard the creak of a great iron door on rusty hinges. A dull light, thick as plum jelly, filtered through the room. Milo gasped. He was in an enormous cave. Facing him, were shelves of children, rising up into the shadows, each child in a glass jar like his own.

  ‘Asleep, my poppets?’ a voice growled in the entranceway.

  Milo froze. It was the voice from his nightmare. The voice of the Dream Witch.

  ‘Don’t try and fool me. I know your secrets,’ the Dream Witch purred. ‘Some say the walls have ears. Well, mine really do.’

  The sorceress advanced, growing taller with each step. By the time she reached them, she towered to the top of the cavern. ‘I’ve come for some spice for my spell of the day.’

  The children shook with terror; their jars rattled on the wooden shelves.

  The Dream Witch pulled a hankie the size of a bedspread from her sleeve and smoothed it on the ground with fingernails as long as cornstalks. Then she unfurled her nose from around her waist. It rose in the air and tapped the jars on the highest shelf. ‘Hmm. A pinch of this? A pinch of that?’ The trunk curled around a jar and brought it in front of the witch’s eyes. ‘Hello, my sweet.’

  ‘Not me. Please,’ came the little voice inside.

  The sorceress took the jar in her hands and held it over her handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take much.’ She cranked the top as if it were a pepper mill. Tiny shavings fell out onto the cloth below.

  ‘Ow. Ow.’

  ‘Hush now,’ the Dream Witch laughed. ‘Why do you need toenails? Why toes? It’s not as if you’re going anywhere.’

  She put the bottle back on its shelf, tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve, and leaned towards Milo. Her right eye filled the glass wall in front of him. He felt the heat of its red-coal gaze. ‘Last in, first out,’ she smiled.

  The Dream Witch lifted his jar from the shelf. In horror, Milo realised that the metal slats he was standing on were grinder blades. He clutched the pole at the centre of his jar and hiked up his feet.

  ‘It wants to live, does it?’ The Dream Witch shook the container and he fell back to the bottom.

  Milo froze as the witch sailed him down a stairway of coal into her private spell chamber, a cavernous room that seemed to rise into an inky night. All around was a jungle of clutter. Leather spell books lay scattered in heaps. Hobnailed boots, cloaks, and conical hats were tossed among baskets of herbs, bundles of chicken’s feet, and boxes of beaks and rotting animal parts. Goat heads and monkey skulls peered from crevasses in the rock wall. Eyeballs stared out of pickle jars. The walls were worse, lined with terrifying murals of the witch’s dreamscapes. Their monsters within prowled the canvases as if eager to leap into the room.

  But worst of all was the larger-than-life mosaic of the witch on the far wall. It twitched and wriggled as if alive. In fact, Milo realised, it was alive. Snakes and worms, frogs and toads, newts and salamanders, and beetles and bugs of every description had been painted and pinned on a massive board of petrified oak. The creatures struggled to escape. Beetle-warts spun on their pins; moths and butterflies fluttered helplessly.

  The Dream Witch rolled her eyes at the mess. ‘Order,’ she commanded.

  The hobnailed boots instantly lined up in formation, and clicked their heels; the dirty clothes suspended themselves, shoulders hunched, chests in; the goat heads lurched upright, and the musty spell books flew into the air like falcons. The flapping covers choked the air with soot and dust as the books rearranged themselves into stacks around the witch’s spell table.

  Milo gasped at the table. Carved from a massive oak stump, it was as big as the village square and lit by a candle that flared like a bonfire. The Dream Witch set Milo’s grinder down between a vat of blood disguised as an inkwell and a sheaf of parchments stitched together from the wings of dried bats. Then she unscrewed his lid and spilled him onto the table. Gusts of wind swirled about the chamber. Milo shrank against the inkwell as the witch’s owl descended to her shoulder.

  ‘Look, Doomsday,’ the witch cooed to the owl. ‘We have a new visitor.’

  ‘Am I to be its mouse?’ Milo trembled.

  ‘Not yet,’ the sorceress grinned.

  Milo shuddered. ‘What do you want from me?’

  The Dream Witch plucked a tail feather for a quill. ‘A little help.’

  The Dream Visitor

  That night it took Olivia forever to fall asleep. At times, she thought she hadn’t slept at all. But she must have, because she imagined it was the middle of the afternoon and Prince Leo and his uncle had come to visit her in her cell. This might have made sense, except Prince Leo had the head of a toad.

  ‘You’ll love Pretonia,’ Leo said. ‘We have so many bugs.’ His tongue flew across the room and snatched a fly from a window bar.

  Olivia sat bolt upright in bed. The lamp in the corner cast enough light that she could see she was alone. It was a dream. Good.

  She tossed and turned some more. Suddenly, her old Christmas nutcracker leapt out of her armoire, only he was the size of a man. ‘Count Ostroff at your service,’ he bowed, gold epaulettes flashing in the candlelight. ‘Might I have this dance?’

  Olivia squeaked. Somehow she had white whiskers, grey fur, and a tail.

  She screamed and found herself alone at her wall of closets. She glanced at the mirrored doors. To her relief, she looked the same as always. But how had she got there? Was she still in her dream? Had she been sleepwalking? Heart pounding, she slid back under her duvet. These dreams were far too real and far too scary. She decided not to fall asleep again.

  But she must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew a gust of wind blew open the lead shutters over her window bars. These were always locked at night, but not now.

  A great owl had landed on the windowsill with a scrap of parchment in its talons.

  ‘Go away, Doomsday! Shoo!’ Penelope scolded, clawing at the paper.

  The owl tried to snatch the mouse with its beak, but the creature darted in and out between the bars.

  ‘Penelope!’ Olivia plucked her friend from danger.

  The owl hooted, dropped the parchment on the sill and flew off. The parchment blew in through the bars.

  ‘Rip it up! Throw it away,’ Penelope cried.

  ‘Penelope. You’re talking!’

  ‘Of course I’m talking. Why shouldn’t I talk? This is a dream, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Olivia said. ‘My third of the night. And I plan to wake up.’

  ‘Fine. But before you do, get rid of that parchment.’

  ‘If it’s part of a dream, why should I care?’

  ‘Just do it!’ Penelope squeaked, running in circles.

  To calm her down, Olivia put her in the drawer of her night table. Then she picked up the scrap of parchment. It was unlike any she’d ever seen, dark and delicate with a web of little veins. Why, it had been stitched together from bat wings.

  There was a drawing on it: A thatched cottage surrounded by a picket fence. Large windows framed its rounded door; a flowering vine grew on its walls; smoke curled up from its chimney. When Olivia stared at the smoke, it drifted off the parchment; when she blinked, she could swear the cottage moved.

  Well why not? Olivia thought. It’s a dream, after all.

  She tossed the parchment into her armoire, where she imagined it would disappear to wherever dream things disappeared to. Then she closed her eyes.

  ‘At the count of three I will wake up,’ she announced. ‘One. Two. Three.’

  This trick usually worked, but not tonight. When Olivia opened her eyes, she was still beside the armoire. And there was a knocking coming from inside it.

  ‘Count Ostroff, go away,’ Olivia exclaimed. ‘I didn’t want to dance with you in my other dream, and I don’t want to dance with you now.’

  ‘Who’s Count
Ostroff?’ The voice in the armoire sounded like a boy.

  ‘Don’t you toys know each other?’ Olivia demanded. ‘He’s the Christmas nutcracker. Which one are you? The china shepherd boy or the chimney sweep made of pipe cleaners? Whichever, you don’t frighten me. I’m asleep and you’re just a bit of food that went down the wrong way at supper.’

  ‘I’m not trying to frighten you,’ the voice said. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Do what you want. As soon as I’m awake you’ll be gone anyway.’

  The door to the armoire opened and a boy came out. He was about Olivia’s age, tanned and lean, and possibly quite handsome. It was hard to tell because of the filth. His hair was so caked with dirt it could grow tomatoes.

  ‘Am I where I think I am?’ the boy asked.

  ‘That depends,’ Olivia said. ‘Where do you think you are?’

  ‘In the castle. Are you the princess?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve come to rescue you.’

  ‘Really?’ The boy seemed very nice and Olivia thought it would be wonderful to dream about being outside. Maybe she wouldn’t wake up so soon after all. ‘Why do you want to rescue me?’

  The boy looked confused. ‘Because that’s what I’m here for.’ He saw the window and ran to it. ‘My home,’ he pointed through the bars. ‘It’s somewhere out there by that cornfield near the forest. Come with me? Please? Papa could whittle you a duck, or Mama could knit you a scarf, or whatever you like.’ Out of nowhere, he began to tremble. ‘Mama and Papa – they don’t know where I am. Or how I am. Or even if I am.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Yes. No. It’s all my fault.’

  What an odd thing for a dream boy to say, Olivia thought. She began to wonder if maybe he was real. But that was impossible. Her armoire was made of solid oak; there was no way he could have sneaked inside. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  There was a pounding on the door. ‘Olivia?’ It was the queen. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I’m just having a nightmare.’

  ‘You’re what? I’m coming in.’

  ‘I can’t be found,’ the boy gasped. ‘We’ve got to go.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. You’re my only hope. Come with me or I’m done for. So are my parents.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Mother won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I don’t mean her.’ He raced to the armoire. ‘Come now.’

  ‘No.’ Olivia twirled her hands. ‘This is too fast. Ask me tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, if we’re in the same dream. I promise.’

  The key turned in the lock.

  ‘Quick, before you go,’ Olivia exclaimed, ‘what’s your name?’

  ‘Milo.’

  The armoire door snapped shut as Queen Sophia burst into the room followed by four soldiers with raised swords and lanterns. ‘Olivia?’ Her mother swooped her into her arms.

  The princess wrestled herself free. ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Don’t treat me like a baby. Not in front of people.’

  ‘The guards heard voices.’

  ‘I must have been talking in my sleep.’

  ‘Those shutters. What are they doing open?’ The queen waved her hand at the window; a soldier locked them.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve been sleeping. Nothing’s happened. I had a few nightmares, that’s all.’

  ‘The Dream Witch came to you in your sleep?’ the queen gasped in alarm. ‘I might have known she’d find a way.’

  ‘Mother, no, calm down. They were silly nightmares. Prince Leo was a toad, I was a mouse, and a boy popped out of my armoire to rescue me.’

  ‘A boy? Your armoire?’

  ‘He ran back inside when you woke me up.’

  The queen threw open the armoire door. There was no one there. She tore at the racks of dolls and toys until she could see the bare oak walls.

  ‘I told you, it was a dream!’

  The queen sighed in relief. Olivia suddenly realised she was in her nightie and wrapped her arms around her chest. ‘Mother. Those men.’

  The queen shooed the soldiers away and Olivia got back into bed.

  ‘May I sit with you?’ her mother asked quietly.

  Olivia nodded. She propped herself up against a pillow.

  Her mother sat beside her and smoothed a ringlet from her forehead. ‘Forgive me. I should be giving you strength, not scaring you out of your wits.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  The queen shook her head. ‘No. These last few weeks . . . as the curse gets closer. . .’ She looked away.

  Olivia took her hand. ‘I know.’

  Her mother hugged her tight. But instead of holding her to her chest, as she’d always done, she rested her head on Olivia’s shoulder.

  Olivia knew she should do something, but she wasn’t sure what. Slowly, she began to stroke her mother’s hair. Before either of them knew it, they were asleep and it was morning.

  Back in the Bottle

  The Dream Witch reared her nose and loosed a blast that shook her underground study. Her spell books cowered. The creatures on her living portrait froze on their pins. ‘I offered you freedom for a favour, but you failed.’

  Milo pressed his hands against the glass walls of his grinder. ‘I did my best.’

  ‘If that was your best, what use are you? Farewell.’ The witch gave the top of the grinder a twist. The floor of metal blades spun beneath Milo’s feet.

  ‘No wait,’ Milo yelped. ‘I can do better.’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ the witch cooed. ‘If bringing the whole girl is too hard, just bring me her heart.’

  Milo shuddered. Before his visit, the witch had made his task sound noble. Olivia wasn’t human, she’d said, she was a curse: The cause of the Great Dread, the kingdom’s misery, the missing children, their weeping parents. But Milo couldn’t think that now, not now that he’d met her. The princess was a child like him, only nicer. She wouldn’t hurt her parents like I have, he thought. She wouldn’t say things to break their hearts.

  Milo filled with shame. ‘Please, let me get you the heart of a sheep instead.’

  ‘For that I could go to the market,’ the Dream Witch laughed. ‘Or save the bother and pluck your heart.’

  ‘Why don’t you then?’ Milo blurted. ‘You’ve taken everything else I care about.’

  The Dream Witch arched an eyebrow. ‘You’re a little too young to play the hero.’ She scraped her fingernails down his grinder. The glass shrieked. Milo covered his ears.

  The witch held his jar in front of her face; Milo sweated from the heat of her red coal eyes. ‘If you can’t stand the squeal of glass,’ she purred, ‘how can you stand the howls of your mama and papa as they die of grief? Bring me the princess, or it shall be so.’

  ‘If I do what you want,’ Milo whispered, ‘who says you’ll keep your promise? Who says I’ll be free and my parents safe?’

  ‘How dare you question my honour? You deserve a good shaking. That’ll knock the insolence out of you.’

  The witch gripped the grinder with her nose and shook it for all it was worth. Milo bounced from top to bottom and back again.

  What should I do? he wondered in horror. What?

  The Toad Prince

  Prince Leo and his uncle, the Duke of Fettwurst, arrived at Olivia’s castle at noon with two hundred of their most battle-hardened soldiers. They were greeted at the gate by the queen and introduced to the king, who’d been transported from his sickbed in a ceremonial litter.

  Olivia watched the proceedings through a spyglass from her turret window. She took particular interest in Prince Leo, the fifteen-year-old who was apparently to be her new friend, and in his uncle, the Duke of Fettwurst, who was to escort her to Pretonia.

  Leo wasn’t exactly a toad. All the same, he was slimy with spots. Sweat dripped from his pasty cheeks, w
hile his pimples glistened like ripe cherries. The duke was worse; a walking sausage of cysts, his hands and neck matted with hair as thick as sauerkraut.

  Olivia hoped they’d bathe before lunch. They didn’t.

  While their soldiers set up tents in the castle courtyard and servants brought their luggage to their guest quarters, Leo, his uncle, and a rumble of bodyguards were escorted directly to her cell. When they entered, the room filled with the stink of old cheese.

  The queen slipped a perfumed handkerchief into Olivia’s hand. ‘Our guests couldn’t wait to meet you,’ she said. ‘May I introduce Prince Leo and his uncle, the Duke of Fettwurst. Your Royal Excellencies, my daughter, the Princess Olivia.’

  The duke nodded to Olivia. ‘Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Your Excellency.’

  Leo smirked at her and mumbled something.

  ‘Thank you?’ Olivia replied.

  The duke beamed at the queen. ‘Shall we leave the children to get to know each other?’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Of course not. With our royal chaperone, Lady Gretchen,’ the duke winked. ‘Our Leo’s been known to turn a girl’s head.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ the queen said diplomatically.

  Leo pursed his lips. ‘Father’s placed my picture in castles all over Pretonia. Girls like it.’

  Olivia pretended to sneeze, gasping air through her scented hankie.

  ‘Lady Gretchen,’ the duke called to the corridor. His bodyguards parted and a dour dame with a large horsehair bottom-warmer strode into the room wielding an ear trumpet. ‘Lady Gretchen minded Prince Leo’s father and me and our grandfather before that. Didn’t you, Lady Gretchen?’

  Lady Gretchen raised a bushy eyebrow, harrumphed, and dumped her well-padded bones onto a sofa in the corner. The queen looked helplessly at Olivia. ‘We’ll be back shortly,’ she assured. ‘Very shortly.’

  Once the queen and the duke were down the turret stairs, Leo closed the door and pressed his back against it. He gave the princess a long once-over. She felt as if she’d forgotten to put on her dress. ‘You’re not as pretty as your picture.’