The Music of Zombies

by Vivian French

“Okey-dokey. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Foyce yawned. “I need my tea.”

  “I’m on my way right now,” Gracie told her, but at that moment the door opened and the Ancient One came in carrying a tray piled high with hot buttered toast. A large teapot was balanced precariously on the top of a pile of plates. Behind her stumped a squat green figure carrying a milk jug.

  “Ug,” it said as it put the jug down. “Ug.”

  “Thank you, Gubble.” The Ancient One patted the troll’s head. “Gracie dear, I’m so sorry — I’ve forgotten to bring the sugar, and I know Gubble can’t drink tea without at least six spoonfuls. Could you fetch it?”

  Gracie nodded. “Of course, Auntie Edna. Come on, Gubble. You can go with me.”

  “Ug.” Gubble gave the toast a wistful glance, but turned and obediently followed Gracie out.

  All the doors were amusing themselves by sliding up and down the long narrow corridor, and it took Gracie several moments to find WATER WINGS. “Sometimes I wish we lived in a house where things stayed put,” she said as she caught at the door handle. “This house is lovely, and I wouldn’t ever want to live anywhere else, but when you’re in a hurry, it can be very inconvenient. I suppose it’s something to do with living on the edge of the Wild Enchanted Forest. And whoever thought of calling a kitchen ‘WATER WINGS’? No wonder Marcus gets muddled every time he comes here.”

  “Prince come today?” Gubble asked hopefully.

  “Not today.” Gracie suppressed a sigh. “It’s Gorebreath Day, and he’s got to be at the palace, listening to speeches. And then they have a feast, and he has to go around being polite to everyone. It sounds dreadful.” She rattled the handle. “Why won’t this door open?”

  Gubble grunted. “Bad door,” he said, and kicked it.

  “Oh, GUBBLE!” Gracie gazed in horror at the splintered hole. The door drooped on its hinges, and Gracie gave it an apologetic pat as she went through into the kitchen. “Gubble, I don’t think you deserve any tea, I really don’t.”

  The troll, unrepentant, advanced toward the table and began to help himself to spoonfuls of sugar. Gracie leaned across, removed the bowl, and shut it in a cupboard. “No,” she said firmly. “And now you can help me sweep up the mess you’ve made.”

  Gubble looked up at her. “Gracie cross with Gubble?”

  “I am a bit,” Gracie admitted. “Now, where’s the dustpan and brush?” She went to look in a cupboard, but before she could open it, there was a loud knock at the back door.

  “Bother,” she said. “Who can that be? We aren’t expecting anyone, are we?”

  The troll shook his head. “Ug.”

  Gracie frowned. “I do hope it’s not another order for cloaks. Auntie Edna and Auntie Elsie have been working nonstop for days, and Auntie Val’s doing overtime, and Foyce is about to go on strike.” She smiled at Gubble. “Maybe we’ll have to train you to do some weaving.”

  Gubble looked horrified, and Gracie laughed as she went to open the door. It was in its right and proper place but had turned itself upside down, and Gracie wasn’t tall enough to reach the bolt. She was about to fetch a chair to stand on when the mail slot rattled and a voice called, “Gracie! Gracie — it’s me!”

  The door immediately swiveled around and opened itself in welcome, revealing a hot and dusty prince on the doorstep. “Hi,” Marcus said as he stepped inside. “I’m really sorry to barge in without letting you know I was coming, but I’ve had the most dreadful day and I don’t think Father will ever speak to me again, and the only person I really wanted to see was you.”

  “Oh!” Gracie, to her intense mortification, found herself blushing. “That’s . . . I mean, thank you. Come in!”

  “Cuppa tea,” said a voice from the corridor. “Prince need cuppa tea.”

  Gracie gave Gubble a grateful glance. “Of course — would you like some tea?”

  Marcus grinned. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of something to eat, is there? I’m starving!”

  “I could make you some scrambled eggs, if you’d like.” Hoping that the lights were dim enough to hide her glowing cheeks, Gracie led the way back to WATER WINGS.

  Marcus looked at the damaged door with interest. “What happened here?”

  “Gubble was in a hurry,” Gracie explained. “I don’t know what the crones are going to say. We were just about to sweep the mess up when you arrived. I can do it later, though. How many eggs would you like? We’ve got loads — Auntie Elsie’s taken to keeping hens. Oh — and why won’t your father speak to you?”

  “Mr. Prince is on the run. Came out of the throne room like, if you’ll excuse the expression, Miss Gracie, a bat out of hell!”

  The voice was small and squeaky, and Gracie smiled as she looked up into the corner.

  “Hello, Alf! When did you get here?”

  “Followed Mr. Prince,” the little bat said cheerfully. “Knew there was something up. Is it an adventure?”

  Marcus sat down, groaned, and put his head on the table. “No. I wish it was. I . . . I went to sleep during Arry’s speech, and I fell off my chair. That woke me up, of course, and all I could think was to get out of there as fast as I could. Father looked FURIOUS! Oh, what am I going to do?”

  Gracie looked down at the despondent figure. Should she give him a hug? The thought made her heart beat faster. A consoling pat might be more suitable, she decided, but a series of squeaks made her glance up at the curtain rail instead.

  “Oh, Mr. Prince! You are the best!” Alf waved a wing while he tried to control his laughter. “Ma says the only way she could ever get me to sleep when I was a baby was by reciting one of King Frank’s speeches . . . and now — hic-hic-hic! — Prince Arry’s doing it too! Only he’s sending his brother to sleep! Oh, hic-hic-hic-HIC!”

  Marcus sat up. For a moment Gracie wondered if he was offended, but a huge smile gradually spread across his face, and a moment later they were all laughing while Marcus, in between gasps for breath, recited “loyal, respectable, and hardworking” over and over again.

  Prince Albion had spent the day in a flutter of anxiety. The Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood had dismissed his story of invaders with a flick of her wrist and a resolute refusal to call out the army. “Nonsense, Albion,” she had said. “Why on earth would anyone start an invasion in the vegetable garden?”

  Even after the under-gardener had been produced, and the bump on his head demonstrated as evidence of a ferocious and armed enemy presence, Hortense had remained unimpressed. “Did you see anyone hit you, Lubbidge?” she asked.

  Lubbidge confessed that he hadn’t.

  “And did you see any strangers in the garden before you were hit on the head?”

  Lubbidge, after some long thought, had to admit that he had seen nobody.

  “Thank you, Lubbidge.” The duchess waved the under-gardener away. “There, Albion. Not the slightest sign of an invader.”

  “But he was shut in the shed, cuz,” Albion argued. “He couldn’t possibly have shut himself in. Bill — I mean, someone who was there in the garden with me — had to let him out.”

  The duchess gave the prince a sharp look. “Bill?”

  Albion stood on one leg and coughed. “A . . . that is . . . someone who works for me.”

  Hortense’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. It was someone who . . . who is sort of looking after me. I suppose I am allowed to have someone if I want? Someone who cares about me and is there to save me from mad carrot throwers and boppings on the head!” Albion’s voice was growing shrill, and the duchess’s suspicions were confirmed.

  “You’re up to something, Albion,” she announced. “I suppose you’ve persuaded some unfortunate peasant to be your bodyguard. Hmm. Well, I suppose it can’t do any harm, just as long as you promise me you won’t pay him vast sums of money. I know you all too well. No idea of what things cost.”

  The prince scowled. He and his cousin had a fractious relationship. She had arrived to look aft
er him when his mother died and was as different from Queen Malliena as chalk from cheese. The queen had indulged Albion in every way; the duchess believed in cold showers, brisk walks, cake only after you had eaten your bread and butter, and — first and foremost — Duty to the Kingdom. She was, however, fond of her young cousin and did her best to set him along the right path without being too strict.

  “You see,” she had once explained to her very good friend Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn, “Albion never had much of a chance. Look at his father! Never sets foot in the palace. You’d need to put hooves on the boy before his father would take any notice of him.”

  “Doesn’t Albion ride, then?” Queen Bluebell had asked.

  “Albion? Never. He was shown a horse when he was six months old, and he screamed himself purple. Ever since then Dowby’s ignored him.”

  “Humph.” Bluebell had considered the situation. “Dowby never did have any sense. Used to catch wasps when he was a boy, then wonder why they stung him. No idea what those horses see in him. But I suppose he is Albion’s father. Oh, well. At least Albion’s got you, Hortense, and you’re a sensible gal.”

  Albion, quite unaware of the sensible gal’s affection and genuine concern for his welfare, went on scowling. “I was attacked. Someone tried to hit me with a carrot. I need to be protected!”

  Hortense sighed. “Of course you do, Albion dear. And if anything like this happens again, I’ll make sure there’s a full investigation. Now, why don’t we run through the list of events on Cockenzie Rood Day? After all—” The duchess paused. Was it hypocritical to use a little flattery? Probably not. She went on, “After all, your father’s very unlikely to stay after he’s made his introductory speech, so you’ll be left in charge, and I’m sure you’ll manage extremely well.”

  The prince brightened. “I will, won’t I?” The flattery soothed his irritation, and he beamed at his cousin. “I’ll be Top Royal! Ha! It’ll be the best Cockenzie Rood Day ever! Come on, cuz. Let’s go and look at the plans.” He gave a little skip. “I can’t WAIT until Thursday!”

  “I’m so sorry I can’t be there with you.” This was not entirely true; the duchess was very much looking forward to spending time with her old friend Bluebell and avoiding a long day of speeches and general boredom, but it seemed unnecessary to say so. “Such a shame that your father chose the same day as Bluebell’s birthday. It’s never been a clash before.”

  Albion was suddenly transfixed by a bird flying overhead. He gazed at it with extreme interest while he tried to think of a way to avoid confessing that it was he who had chosen the date. His father, when presented with the 18th of the month instead of the traditional 21st, had made no objection; he had merely remarked that if the date didn’t clash with the weekly visit of the farrier, Albion could do what he wanted when he wanted and where he wanted, just as long as he, King Dowby, was not required to do anything. Anything at all.

  “Ah,” Albion said at last. “Quite so . . . yes. Bad timing.”

  Hortense gave her young cousin a sideways look. “Are you quite sure you aren’t worried about it?”

  “Worried? Me? Oh, NO, Cousin Hortense. Why would I be worried? It’ll be super-duper tip-top dandy, just you wait and see. Well, you won’t see, will you, because you won’t be there, but I’m sure everyone will tell you.” Albion gave an emphatic nod. “Yes. Super-duper.”

  The duchess was now certain that Albion was hiding something, but she made the mistake of believing it was his desire to be allowed out in the public eye on his own. Had she known of his plans for a grand parade (led by Albion in full military uniform), a choral presentation (conducted by Albion in top hat and tails), a talent competition (to be judged by Albion, but also featuring Albion’s rendition of the National Anthem), and a theatrical grand finale (starring Albion in the role of hero), she would have canceled her visit there and then.

  “Well, well,” she said kindly. “You must send a messenger as soon as it’s over with a full report. I’ll be longing to hear all the news!”

  Marcus — after a hearty meal of scrambled eggs, toast, cake, three apples, and a banana — was feeling much better. “Father can’t exactly ground me,” he told Gracie as they washed the dishes together. “I’m too old for that. I expect I’ll just get a long and boring lecture, and then it’ll all blow over. I’ll have to tell him I’m incredibly sorry about it all, of course.”

  “Of course,” Gracie agreed. “Will your brother be angry with you?”

  “Arry?” Marcus grinned. “No. He’ll see it as an excuse to Do a Noble Deed. He’ll forgive me with a gracious smile, while secretly being thrilled to bits that I’ve given him yet another opportunity to show what an utterly splendid chap he is.”

  Gracie giggled. “He’s not much like you, is he?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No. Don’t know where I came from. I think my entire family is pompous and boring, and they think I’m weird. They get palpitations at the very thought of an adventure.” He stopped drying the teapot and gave Gracie a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose there’s anything brewing, is there? Like the web looking spotty? ’Cause that’s what it does when there’s evil sneaking about, doesn’t it?”

  “Auntie Val says that even if the web turns black, they won’t have time to worry about it,” Gracie told him. “They’ve got a huge order for Cockenzie Rood Day. Apparently Prince Albion’s ordered a whole load of scarlet cloaks for a grand parade.”

  “Albion? What’s he up to?” Marcus went back to polishing the teapot. “They never have parades on Cockenzie Rood Day.”

  “Well, they are this time.” Edna was standing in the doorway with the tray of dirty tea things. “Nice to see you, Marcus! I wondered why Gracie hadn’t come back with the sugar.” She put the tray down on the table and gave the prince a considering look. “Am I right in thinking this is an unexpected visit?”

  Marcus flushed. “Erm . . . yes. I . . . sort of left Gorebreath in a bit of a hurry. I’m going to have to do a lot of apologizing when I get back.”

  The Ancient One said nothing, but the look in her one bright blue eye made Marcus feel the need to explain further. “I fell asleep in the middle of Arioso’s speech, and then I fell off my chair. It made a terrible ruckus, so I made a run for it.”

  Alf, who had been dozing on the curtain rail, woke up. “Ran to see his own true love,” he said in sentimental tones, then sniggered. “Oooh! Miss Gracie! I’ve thought of a joke. You could say Mr. Prince ran to meet his own Trueheart love, couldn’t you?”

  Gracie, in an agony of embarrassment, frowned at him, but he took no notice. “Or you could say —”

  The Ancient One snapped her fingers, and Alf was silenced. “So you ran here?” Marcus nodded. “Hmm. After falling asleep in the middle of your brother’s first speech. I can quite see the need for an apology. And I’d suggest the sooner you get it over with the better.” She glanced out of the window. “It’s still light. If you leave now, you could be back before your parents decide you’ve run away and call out the army.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened. “But—” he began.

  Edna sniffed. “Silly boy. I wasn’t suggesting you ride your pony. You wouldn’t be back until the wee small hours of the morning. Seeing as it’s something of an emergency, I’ll send you home on the path. You can leave Glee here. Gracie’ll look after him, and you can come and collect him whenever you like, just as long”— the one blue eye grew frosty —“just as long as you tell your parents where you’re going.”

  “Oh, I will. Thank you very much, indeed.” Marcus was genuinely grateful, and Edna smiled.

  “Run along, then. Gracie, the path takes far more notice of you than me. See what you can do with it, and then come and help me with the dishes.”

  Gracie gave her adopted aunt a quick hug before leading Marcus outside. Alf flew above them, twittering happily, and Gubble stomped after Gracie. The path was frisking merrily up and down outside the house, but when Gracie whistled, it straightened itself and
waited for instructions.

  “Now, Path — listen carefully,” she said. “Could you please take Prince Marcus back to Gorebreath? Quick as you can!” She gave it a small stroke, and the path wriggled with pleasure. “To Gorebreath, then.”

  The path wriggled again, but Gubble stepped heavily on the end to hold it down.

  “No wiggle!” he instructed. The path responded with a sharp twist that left the troll lying flat on his back with his legs in the air. “Bad path. Path is rude,” he grunted as he began to struggle to his feet. “Rude, rude, rude!”

  The path quivered gleefully, but as Marcus seated himself, it lay still. “I’ll see you very soon, Gracie,” he said. “And thanks for the supper. It was brilliant!” He hesitated, wondering if he should kiss her or at least give her a parting hug. He half got up, and at the same moment Gracie leaned toward him to say good-bye.

  “Go on, Mr. Prince!” Alf, horrified by the lack of romance, zoomed down with a loud squeak. His arrival startled them both, and Marcus slipped as Gracie lost her balance. The path did a double flip, then swirled away from the house, through the gate, and into the midst of the forest that surrounded the House of the Ancient Crones. Marcus, all breath knocked out of him by the speed with which they were switchbacking in and out of the trees, decided the only thing to do was to shut his eyes tightly and hope for the best. This had the curious effect of sending him to sleep, and when the path finally stopped with an abruptness that sent him slithering to the ground, he woke with a start and looked up at the palace walls in astonishment. “Wow! Am I home already?”

  The Ancient One, assuming that Gracie would see Marcus off and then finish up washing the dishes, returned to the looms in room seventeen. There she found Elsie, her wig of tumbling red curls slipping over her nose, in the middle of an argument with Foyce.

  “It’s no good,” Elsie was saying. “You can’t expect Prince Albion to accept a cloak covered in butter. You’ll have to unravel that whole section.”