Curse of the Dream Witch

by Allan Stratton

  ‘The witch – she must have made the portrait in order to bind nature to her will,’ Olivia exclaimed.

  ‘Of course,’ Milo said. ‘For stronger spells!’

  ‘Quick, set the creatures free,’ Ephemia hollered down a nostril.

  Olivia and Milo raced to the mosaic as the Dream Witch staggered to her feet. The sorceress reared her great proboscis. ‘You’ll pay!’ She staggered towards them. ‘Praditar—’

  But before she could cast her spell, Ephemia bit inside the base of her nose. ‘Prandi— TAAA— AAA!!!’ The nose flailed.

  Olivia removed the pin of a beetle stuck to the portrait’s lip. As it buzzed into the air, a wart popped off the witch’s mouth. Milo freed four snakes on the picture’s nose. Ropes of skin slithered from the witch’s trunk.

  The sorceress lurched forward, eyes steaming, flesh peeling. Her long yellow fingernails slashed the air. Milo and Olivia unpinned a dozen locusts, and the fingernails snapped off. Two steps more and the Dream Witch collapsed, falling apart as newts and salamanders, frogs and lizards, hopped and scurried their way to freedom.

  Ephemia leapt out of the witch’s eye socket and onto Olivia’s shoulder. ‘Look,’ she squeaked.

  As the Dream Witch broke apart, the dreamscapes on her walls were breaking up too: the mole pantry vanished in a billow of bilious gas. The marsh monsters exploded with the last trumpet of her nose. Everywhere, visions of hell were torn to pieces as surely as the demon who created them.

  The last of the Dream Witch twitched at Olivia’s feet. She was now no more than a pair of lips. ‘I took only what the world gave me,’ the lips screeched. ‘Its hopes and fears.’

  ‘Yes, and made us live in nightmare,’ Olivia snapped.

  She loosened the last of the great mosaic – six large grey moths. They fluttered away in silence and the Dream Witch was no more.

  All around, the spell books clapped their covers in applause. But it was too early for celebration. An ominous rumble roiled up from the belly of the earth. The walls of the cavern began to crack and splinter.

  ‘No time to lose,’ Olivia exclaimed, ‘As the witch went, so goes her underworld.’

  She and Milo raced for the children in the hampers, as the cavern split apart. ‘I’ve drawn my parents’ bedroom on this bat-wing parchment,’ she said to Milo. ‘Repeat the words the Dream Witch used to transport you.’

  ‘Transitorrus vittissimo!’ Milo roared.

  The parchment on the writing table spread its wings. It stretched across the floor.

  ‘Here we go,’ Olivia said.

  She grabbed a hamper and ran onto the magic drawing, Ephemia snuggled by her ear. Milo grabbed the other basket and followed her. The spell books followed too. They flapped their covers and flew about the picture, hovering safely around the princess and her friends.

  The sides of the parchment rose high above them. The edges enveloped them. As the cavern walls exploded all around, the parchment vanished into thin air.

  Dawn

  An hour before, in the world above, glimmers of dawn crept across the countryside, lighting the tips of the cornstalks, the reeds along the marsh banks, and the stream of families making their way to the castle. All night rumours had spread from village to farmhouse. Peasants living near the marsh said they’d seen Prince Leo and his cavalry pursuing Princess Olivia towards the witch’s forest.

  Neighbours roused Milo’s parents with the news. ‘Word is, she escaped the castle with a friend to fight the Dream Witch.’

  Milo’s mother put her hand to her mouth. ‘The children left last night, that must have been then. They were here. We helped them.’

  ‘To think we’ve blamed the princess for our pain,’ his father said. ‘Yet she’s risked her life for our children.’

  ‘Lost her life, you mean,’ the neighbour said.

  Milo’s father gripped his pitchfork. ‘Let’s go to the castle. They’ll have news first. When it breaks, we can rejoice or grieve together.’

  By the time they arrived, the square below the royal suite was filling rapidly. A wall of Pretonian soldiers stood between the crowd and the castle gates. Some citizens knelt in prayer. Others stood silently, staring up at the king and queen’s balcony.

  Milo’s parents made their way to the front. There was a fanfare of trumpets. Leo’s uncle swaggered out from the castle: ‘Hear me, people of Bellumen,’ he said, standing before them. ‘As of last night, your king and queen are under my protection. I rule you now.’

  There was a stunned silence. Then a voice rang out from the crowd: ‘Says who? Let the queen speak.’ And another: ‘Yes. Let’s hear that from the queen.’

  The duke bristled. His men grabbed their swords by the hilt. ‘Clear the square,’ he ordered.

  Murmurs rippled through the congregation. A few peasants backed away, but Milo’s parents thought only of their son. ‘We’ll never leave, sir,’ his father said. ‘Not till we hear about our children. From the queen.’

  The duke struck him hard on the shoulder. ‘Clear the square, I said. Go back to your homes.’

  Milo’s father wobbled on his wooden foot, but held his ground. ‘Our homes are here,’ he said bravely. ‘Go home to your home.’

  The crowd roared its approval.

  The duke’s neck bulged against his collar. ‘You mock me?’

  ‘No,’ Milo’s mother exclaimed. ‘Striking the lame – you mock yourself.’

  ‘Seize them!’ the duke bellowed.

  But before the soldiers could act, the crowd surged forward and surrounded Milo’s parents. A voice cried out from the multitude. ‘Seize all of us, why don’t you?’

  The duke peered warily at the rabble. Dawn-light glinted off thousands of farmers’ rakes and pitchforks, spades and hoes. An armed rioting mob was the last thing he wanted without cannons in position. The duke whirled on his heel, re-entered the castle, and stormed up to the royal suite.

  Olivia’s mother had been at her husband’s bedside changing the dressing where his nail had been severed. The sound of the people had stirred her to her feet as the duke barged in. ‘How dare you burst in here after what you did to us last night?’

  The duke ignored her. ‘Speak to your people, Queen. Tell them we rule here now. Demand they return to their farms.’

  ‘But they’ve come to hear about their children.’

  ‘Their children are with the witch.’

  ‘Olivia’s gone to save them.’

  ‘Your daughter’s dead. The hair I plucked from your head and the nail I ripped from your husband was the price of my nephew. Your daughter’s life was the trade.’

  ‘Monster!’ Queen Sophia flew at him.

  The duke gripped her arms by the elbow. She tried to kick but he tossed her to the floor. ‘Mark well: If your people refuse our commands, we’ll mount the castle’s cannons and blow them apart, every last man, woman, and child.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t dare.’ The duke went to the king’s bedside, grabbed a pillow in both hands and held it above the king’s face. ‘The Royal Vegetable can’t move. He’s this pillow and thirty seconds from heaven. Do I have your attention?’

  ‘No! Stop!’ the queen cried. Slowly, she rose from the ground, went to the balcony, and opened the doors.

  At the sight of their ruler, the people cheered. ‘Long live King Augustine. Long live Queen Sophia. Long live Princess Olivia.’

  The queen bowed to them and raised her hand. The people fell silent. She steadied herself on the balustrade. ‘I know you long for news of your children. I have none. Forgive me. Forgive me, too, for my failure. For last night, the kingdom fell into barbarian hands. From this day forth you will be ruled by—’

  Before she could continue, an explosion rocked the witch’s forest. A mountain of earth and stone heaved high as the sky. From out of the hole came the howls of demons exposed to the light. Hordes of smoke-shapes flew into the air – the Dream Witch’s monsters, ghou
ls, and other creatures of nightmare. The people fell to the ground and covered their heads as the visions burned in the sun. The smoke blackened the sky. Then a mighty whirlwind blew them apart, and all was fresh as spring.

  At the same time, a giant parchment of bat wings appeared inside the royal suite. It hovered above the bed and unfurled itself. Olivia, Milo and Ephemia were at its centre with their baskets of bottles. The spell books flew around them.

  ‘Mother! Father! We’re home!’ Olivia called out.

  Jaws dropped. The guards fell back.

  The parchment disintegrated. Olivia, Milo and the baskets bounced onto the mattress beside the king.

  Olivia kissed her father’s cheek. ‘Father.’ She ran towards the queen. ‘Mother.’

  The duke snapped his fingers. Guards stepped between Olivia and her mother. ‘Save the greetings, Princess. Where’s my nephew?’

  ‘He took off with the Dream Witch, the traitor,’ Olivia said smartly. ‘I haven’t seen him since and I hope I never will.’

  ‘Say what you like, but do as I say. The kingdom has gathered outside the castle. Send them home. Tell them their children are dead.’

  ‘But they aren’t!’ Milo exclaimed. ‘They’re here in these baskets.’

  The duke blinked. ‘In those jars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But not for long. Back in the real world, the children returned to their proper size. The grinders popped like bottles of champagne, the splinters of witch-glass turning to air, as boys and girls burst free, laughing and squealing.

  The guards froze in wonder. Olivia dived between their legs and joined her mother on the balcony. ‘It’s me, Olivia!’ she shouted to the people below. ‘The Dream Witch is vanquished. Your children are alive. They’re here! Come, see for yourselves!’

  A deafening cheer shook the square. Parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends ran towards the castle gates.

  ‘Order,’ the soldiers hollered.

  ‘Kill them,’ the duke thundered.

  There were too many. Soldiers raised their swords but were knocked to the ground and trampled underfoot. The line breeched, the rabble stormed through the gates and into the castle courtyard.

  Faced with the roaring mob, the Pretonians fled for safety. Some stripped off their armour and deserted. Others hid in goat carts or jumped down wells. Still others hopped on the nearest horse and galloped away as fast as they could. Even the guards in the royal suite took flight as children continued to erupt from the grinders.

  ‘Surrender, Duke,’ Olivia ordered. ‘Kneel before my mother and father and beg forgiveness.’

  ‘Never!’

  Ephemia jumped on top of the royal footboard and crossed her paws. ‘In the words of the Bully of Pretonia: Say what you like, but do as she says.’ She winked at Olivia.

  In that second, the duke snatched Ephemia in his fist. ‘You dare order my surrender, Princess? It is you who must kneel! Kneel now or I’ll dash your friend’s brains on the cobblestones below.’

  He backed onto the balcony. High above, an owl with a wounded wing took note of the confusion – and of the little mouse in the outstretched hand.

  The red spell book flew to Olivia’s side. The most abused of the witch’s library, it suspended itself before the princess, and fluttered its torn pages. Olivia read the first thing she saw: ‘Amnibia Pentius Prixus Pendor!’

  There was a puff of smoke. The duke found himself hoisting an ample old woman with bright blue eyes and two dozen whiskers. The next thing he knew, he was squashed under her bottom.

  Ephemia got up. ‘A rat!’ she declared, pointing beneath her at the rodent crawling out of the duke’s empty armour.

  The rat turned in a circle. ‘A rat? Where?’

  ‘Why, if it isn’t the Duke of Fettwurst,’ Olivia laughed. ‘Would you like some cheese?’

  The rat looked in horror at the giants all around him. ‘How did all of you get so big?’ He shrieked at the sight of his paws. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Cage him,’ Ephemia said.

  ‘You’ll never trap the Duke of Fettwurst,’ the rat exclaimed. He scurried for a hole in the castle walls. Alas, he didn’t get far. The great owl, diving for a mouse, had found a fatter feast. It snatched the rat in its talons.

  ‘How dare you!’ the rat huffed. ‘Don’t you know who I am? I’m the Duke of Fettwurst!’

  ‘Hoo? Hoo?’ Doomsday hooted and flew him away.

  The children crowded around Olivia and Milo.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the girl who’d been so afraid. ‘Without you, we wouldn’t be alive.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Olivia smiled. ‘But you’ve more important people to see here than us. Quick, go, help each other to your families.’

  ‘I want to see mine too,’ Milo said quietly. ‘If they’ll remember me.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Olivia said. ‘With the Dream Witch gone, so is her curse. But Milo, when you’ve found them, please don’t leave. We want your family to stay with us at the castle.’

  Milo gave her a shy smile. Then, thinking he should do something, but not knowing what, he gave her a hug – ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later’ – and ran to find his parents.

  He squeezed his way down the stairs, through a sea of reunions. His parents had struggled up to the staircase landing. He threw his arms around them.

  ‘Mama, Papa, I’m sorry for all the grief I’ve caused,’ he whispered, burying his head in their shoulders.

  ‘No son,’ his father said. ‘Be proud of what you’ve done. We loved the boy in you. And now we love the man.’

  Back in the royal suite, Queen Sophia held her daughter tight. ‘You’re home. You’re home.’

  They knelt beside the king’s bedside. Olivia put his hand to her cheek. It was pale and cold. Still, he tapped gently with his thumb, as if to say, My darling girl, and gazed at her in adoration.

  ‘I was so scared,’ Olivia said, ‘but I thought of you and prayed I wouldn’t let you down. Oh, Mother, Father, I promise you, I never will. My fear will never overcome my love. Not ever.’

  Her tears fell on her father’s hand . . . and something strange began to happen. His fingers trembled.

  Olivia and her mother looked at the king in wonder. ‘Father?’

  ‘Augustine?’

  Olivia’s father opened and closed his lips. They opened and closed again. Sounds began to struggle from his mouth, like water from a dry riverbed. ‘O . . . O . . . li . . .’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘O . . . li . . . vi . . . a . . . Olivia.’ Her father smiled. It was all that he could say for now. But it was enough.

  Ephemia put her hand on Olivia’s shoulder. ‘The horrors that felled your father have vanished like the witch’s curse. I tended his father and his grandfather before him. With your help and these magic books, we’ll restore him good as new.’

  ‘Indeed, we will,’ her mother said.

  Olivia was filled with the greatest joy she’d ever known. Home had never felt so good. Here, free in her parents’ love, the last of the Great Dread left her heart. In its place was hope for tomorrow.

  A happy dream to last a lifetime and beyond.

  About the Author

  Allan Stratton is the internationally acclaimed author of Chanda’s Secrets (winner of the Michael L. Printz Honor Book). Other titles for young adults include Chanda’s Wars, Borderline and Leslie’s Journal. Allan has safaried in Africa, hiked the Great Wall of China, explored pyramids in Egypt and flown over Cappadocia in a balloon. He lives with his partner in Toronto with four cats and lots of fish.

  By the Same Author

  Chanda’s Secrets

  Chanda’s Wars

  Borderline

  Leslie’s Journal

  The Grave Robber’s Apprentice

  First published in 2013

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

/>   This ebook edition first published in 2013

  All rights reserved

  © Allan Stratton, 2013

  The right of Allan Stratton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–28827–4