The Music of Zombies

by Vivian French

  Marley, his head already beginning to throb, hauled himself out of his chair. “G’night,” he said thickly, and set out in the opposite direction from Fiddleduster Squint.

  “It must have been a nightmare. A horrible nightmare.” Marley spoke out loud as he turned and twisted in his bed. “I always did get the nasties after too much drink. It’ll all seem better in the morning.” And he lifted himself up to blow out his candle.

  “Oh, but it won’t, Mr. Bagsmith . . .” The whisper was faint but very clear. “In the morning you must see to your promise. You remember that promise, don’t you, Mr. Bagsmith?”

  Marley’s bloodshot eyes widened in terror. Fiddleduster Squint’s shadow was quivering on his ceiling in amongst the loops and trails of cobweb. “Oh, yes . . .” he said. “I remember . . .”

  “One is very glad to hear it.” The shadow spread its dark spidery arms from one side of the small dingy room to the other, and Marley shuddered. He had spun himself into a web from which even his devious mind could see no way of escaping.

  “I’ll remember,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “But just leave me alone.”

  “Oh, no.” The shadow shook its head, and the candle flame dipped. “This one will be here all night long, Mr. Bagsmith. This one will be waiting for you . . . waiting for the morning.”

  Marley gave a loud wail and hid his head under the blankets. The shadow shook with silent laughter before swooping into a dusty corner, where it settled itself for what remained of the night. Marley, trembling, gradually dropped into a restless sleep filled with voices exhorting him to “Remember, Mr. Bagsmith, remember.”

  “GRACIE!” Marcus stared. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Gracie shook her head. She was still feeling confused after the speed of their journey, a journey she had never expected to make. She was also uncomfortably aware that she was wearing an old grubby apron that had seen better days. Looking down, she saw she was still wearing a pair of Auntie Val’s hand-me-down bedroom slippers, and her embarrassment grew.

  “I don’t know. I must have fallen on the path just as you were leaving. Oh!” A sudden recollection came to her. “I remember! Alf made me lose my balance! He was fluttering under my nose.”

  “Ug.” Gubble nodded. “Was bat. Bad bat.” He pointed upward. “Him!”

  Alf, balanced on a windowsill, did his best to look outraged. “I never, ever did! Would I do such a thing, Miss Gracie? Mr. Prince?”

  “Yes.” Gracie and Marcus spoke together, and Gubble joined in with a loud affirmative “UG!”

  “Well . . .” Alf fluttered his wings. “It’s good to have company, isn’t it, Mr. Prince? Especially Miss Gracie. I mean, if you’re about to go on an adventure, you should be together —”

  “But he’s not on an adventure!” Gracie snapped, and immediately felt guilty for being cross. She was wishing she was anywhere other than outside a royal palace; Marcus’s royal connections made her self-conscious at the best of times, and this was most certainly not one of the best. “Marcus is on his way to see his parents. Aren’t you, Marcus?”

  Marcus didn’t answer. He was staring at the palace walls. “It’s definitely Albion’s place. What time do you think it is? Shall we pop in and pay a surprise visit?”

  Gracie twisted her hands together. “Um,” she began. “What about your parents?”

  Her companion shrugged. “I’ll never get back to Gorebreath in time to see them tonight. The path’s gone, and Glee’s at your house.” Then, seeing Gracie’s anxious expression, he added, “Tell you what, why don’t we ask Albion if we can borrow a horse? If we gallop all the way, we’d just about be back before Mother and Father go to bed, and I’ll tell them how sorry I am, and then you can stay overnight, and we’ll go back to your place tomorrow!”

  “Gubble? Gubble come too?” The troll tugged at Marcus’s sleeve.

  Marcus looked at the solid green figure of the troll. “Hmm. Maybe we’d better ask Albion if we can borrow a carriage.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” Gracie nodded, relieved that the visit to the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood was likely to be a brief one. A further thought struck her. “Oh! Poor Auntie Edna! She’ll be wondering where I’ve gotten to! Alf — here’s a job for you. You can fly straight back to the crones and tell them what happened.” She gave the small bat a hard stare. “EXACTLY what happened, mind you. And give them my love, and say I’m so sorry and that I’ll be home very soon.”

  Alf drooped. “It’s been a long day, Miss Gracie.”

  “I’m sure the aunties will look after you. Now, GO!” Gracie sounded unusually forceful, and Alf spread his wings in readiness for takeoff.

  “I’ll be on my way.” He flew a swift circle over Gracie’s head. “Even though you haven’t said thank you, Miss Gracie.”

  “Thank you?” Gracie looked at Alf in astonishment. “Why should I thank you? If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be here!”

  The little bat waved a claw. “But you and Mr. Prince are together again!” And then he was gone.

  Marcus overheard Alf’s final remark but ignored it. He had realized that Gracie wasn’t entirely happy, but he had no idea why. Aprons and bedroom slippers meant nothing to him; as far as he was concerned, Gracie was always his very special friend, whatever she was wearing. A vague idea that he might have upset her by arriving so unexpectedly at the crones’ house floated into his mind. Maybe she didn’t want to see me? he wondered as he led the way to the palace front door. It was not a good thought, and he gave Gracie a quick sideways glance. Gracie was worrying about what royalty would think of her down-at-the-heel slippers; her expression was gloomy, and Marcus was not reassured. “She’s wishing she was at home. Oh, bother! If only today hadn’t happened. Just about everything’s gone wrong, and now Gracie doesn’t want to be here.” Taking a deep breath, he became exceedingly brisk to cover up his disappointment.

  “Come on! Hurry up! The sooner we see Albion, the sooner we can be on our way.”

  He strode on ahead, and Gracie looked after him in surprise. “He’s ashamed of the way I look,” she told herself, and sighed. “I can’t say I blame him.”

  Gubble, who never suffered from any form of introspection, grunted as he did his best to keep up. “Prince walking too fast. Gubble too slow.”

  Gracie took his arm and drew him into the shadow of the portico. “Here. Look — Marcus is ringing the doorbell! Why don’t we stay here while he arranges for the horse and carriage.”

  Gubble was grateful for any opportunity to catch his breath, and he and Gracie stood still while Marcus waited impatiently outside the gilded front door.

  A manservant dressed in velvet and golden lace swung the heavy door open, and the portly and self-important figure of the royal butler stepped out. He inspected Marcus with suspicion. Most visitors to the palace arrived in golden coaches or glittering carriages, or at the very least riding on a well-groomed horse; it was rare, indeed, to find a tousled and dusty young man standing on the doorstep. “Good evening,” he said coldly. “Might I ask the nature of this h’unexpected visitation?”

  “Hi,” Marcus said cheerfully. “Where’s Sponge? Are you new? I’ve not seen you before, have I?”

  The butler’s eyes narrowed at Marcus’s lack of respect. “Mr. Sponge, young man, has gone into retirement. His Majesty has done me the h’enormous honor of appointing me in Mr. Sponge’s place. Now, I will ask you again. What is the nature of this visitation? The kitchen door is to be found at the rear of the palace.”

  Marcus frowned and stood up straight. “I am Prince Marcus of Gorebreath, here to see Prince Albion. Prince Marcus, together with Gracie Gillypot — Gracie? Gracie, where are you?”

  Gracie stepped out from the shadows, followed by Gubble. The butler took one look, then folded his arms with an expression of intense disapproval. “I suggest, young man, that you and the young person with the h’unfortunate bedroom slippers take yourselves off and away right now this minute
. And make sure you take that . . . that green h’appendage with you. The royal household of Cockenzie Rood is not in the habit of receiving riffraff !” He moved away with the obvious intention of slamming the door but was prevented by a furious Marcus leaping forward and seizing the heavy brass handle.

  “Hang on a minute!” The prince’s face was beet red. “Call Prince Albion! He’ll tell you who I am!”

  In reply the butler raised an imperious hand. The manservant pulled a silver whistle from his pocket and blew on it. At once there was the sound of running feet, and four burly soldiers came hurrying from the guardhouse on the other side of the driveway. Marcus, wildly protesting, was picked up by the largest and slung over his shoulder, while another swept Gracie off her feet and tucked her under his arm. The remaining two hesitated. Gubble was growling loudly and swaying from side to side in a menacing fashion.

  “Put me DOWN!” Marcus yelled. “Put me DOWN! And put Gracie down too, you big bully! Put her down this minute!”

  Gubble growled louder and took a step forward. The soldiers took a step back.

  “NO, Gubble!” Gracie shouted as she was carried bodily down the steps. “NO! Run away! Oh, do run away!”

  The troll blinked at her. “Gubble run? Gubble run where?”

  Before Gracie could answer, the two soldiers seized their chance. Grabbing Gubble by the arms, they lifted him high off the ground and began marching him in the direction of the guardhouse. “We’ll lock it in for the night,” said the tallest. “’Orrible creature. Thought trolls were banned.”

  “Don’t worry, Gubble!” Gracie had seen what was happening but was unable to do anything to help. “We’ll get you out! Just be good! It’s all a terrible mistake!”

  “Suggest you keep quiet too, miss,” said her captor. “Oi! Captain! What do we do with the girl?”

  The captain of the guard was carrying Marcus, who had not stopped kicking and squirming and shouting for an instant. The captain’s back and shoulders were battered and bruised, and his helmet was over one eye. “This one needs teaching a lesson,” he grunted. “We’ll put him in the lockup for the night. If the troll gives him a chew or two, it’s no more than what he deserves. Let the girl go, but see she takes herself off the property. Village kid, most likely, come to gawp at ’is Highness. No manners, these days. None at all!”

  The butler had been watching Marcus and Gracie’s capture with approval. Rubbing his hands together, he remarked, “That young fellow had the h’audacity to h’inform me that he was a prince. Did you ever hear the like?”

  “Blooming outrage!” The captain puffed out his cheeks. “Don’t think he was after the silver, do you?”

  The butler paused to consider. “It seems h’unlikely that a burglar would come knocking at the front door,” he said, with some regret. “No. My h’opinion is that he is what I would refer to as a chancer. Put him in the lockup, Captain.”

  “Let me GO!” Marcus bellowed. “Let me see Albion! Or the duchess! Or King Dowby —”

  The captain clapped a firm hand over Marcus’s mouth and marched him across the road. A moment later he was pushed into a small windowless cell smelling strongly of cold, wet stone, troll, and disinfectant. Dumped unceremoniously on the floor, Marcus heard the door being bolted not once, but three times. Then came the sound of a shouted order and departing footsteps, followed by silence.

  There was a stirring in the darkness, and the clank of chains. “Is Gracie?” asked a hopeful voice.

  The path had not returned to the House of the Ancient Crones, there was no sign of Alf, and Gracie was, without a doubt, missing. Val was already fearing the worst and alternated wiping her eyes with blowing her nose on a large pink handkerchief. Elsie had pulled at the curls of her wig until she resembled a ginger dandelion. “It just isn’t like her to vanish without leaving a message,” she said.

  “You’ve said that three times already,” Foyce pointed out. “I’d say the brat’s done run off with her boyfriend. Who’d want to stay here if they didn’t have to?” Elsie shot her a sharp look, and Foyce went back to her weaving, muttering to herself. “Was just saying. Didn’t mean any harm.”

  “That may be,” Elsie snapped. “If you want to leave here, my girl, you’ll have to change your attitude. And you’ve got a long way to go, let me tell you.”

  The Ancient One was studying the web of power. “Hush, Elsie. I know you’re worried, but there’s no need to take it out on Foyce. Gracie’s a Trueheart; whatever she’s doing, she’ll have our protection. And there’s no sign of evil in the kingdoms.” She went on staring at the web. “But there’s something niggling at the back of my mind. Nothing to do with Gracie. Mmmmm . . . Elsie, what was it you said earlier? You said something about the giants?”

  “Did I?” Elsie looked blank. She took off her wig and rubbed at her bald head. “Oh. I remember now. It was nothing. Just that they won’t be causing any trouble. They haven’t moved an inch for ages.”

  Edna’s gaze intensified. “No! You said they hadn’t moved for at least a hundred years! THAT was what was troubling me. They must be due to move, and that’s always been, shall we say, interesting in the past. Of course, they may decide to move in the opposite direction, away from the kingdoms. We can but hope. The last time they moved, they caused a tidal wave on Howling Mere, and half the population of Cockenzie Rood were flooded out of their houses.”

  Foyce looked up from the scarlet cloth on her loom. “A hundred years ago? How old ARE you?”

  “Older than my teeth, but the same age as my tongue, Miss Inquisitive.” The Ancient One ran a finger over the web. “Yes . . . I can definitely feel a stirring . . .”

  She was distracted from any further comment by Marlon. He had taken off to investigate the outside of the house in case there were any clues to explain Gracie’s disappearance, but now he flew in through the window. “Path’s back,” he announced. “Looks a bit sorry for itself. You’d better come and see.”

  Leaving Val and Foyce in room seventeen, Elsie and Edna hurried to the front door. There was no sign of the path.

  “Skulking around the corner,” Marlon reported from above.

  The two crones followed him and found the path doing its best to tie itself up in knots and hide beneath the henhouse.

  “It’s ashamed of itself,” Edna pronounced. “Something’s gone wrong.” She bent down and peered under the shed. “Come along out, dear. No one’s going to hurt you. And we all make mistakes sometimes. Is that why you’re hiding? Because you made a mistake?”

  The path gave a faint ripple.

  Elsie started to say something, but the Ancient One hushed her with a wave of her hand. “Did you take Gracie as well as Marcus?”

  The ripple was more pronounced.

  “I see.” Edna creaked upright. “I thought as much.”

  “Did you take Gubble too?” Elsie wanted to know. “And Alf?”

  The path rippled again but still showed no sign of emerging. The chickens flapped encouragement, but the path ignored them.

  Marlon flew a swift circle. “Not my speciality,” he remarked, “but I’d say you ain’t heard the half of it. Kid was headed for Gorebreath, did you say?”

  Edna and Elsie nodded, and the path turned a deep guilty pink.

  “Gotcha,” Marlon said triumphantly. “There’s the story. Wrong place.” He flew lower. “Am I right, or am I right?”

  The path gave a feeble wriggle of assent, and Edna frowned. “Oh, dear. But you did go to one of the Five Kingdoms?”

  At once the path threw off its knots and came sliding out from under the henhouse, wriggling cheerfully.

  Elsie wagged a reproachful finger. “Bad path! Poor Gracie. No wonder we couldn’t find her. Still, I’m sure Marcus’ll look after her.”

  Marlon made another circle. “Niven’s Knowe?” he asked. “Dreghorn? Wadingburn?”

  The path took no notice.

  “Where have I forgotten? Yeah. Cockenzie Rood?”

  There
was a guilty twitch, and the bat flew a victory roll. “Result. I’ll be offski. Gonna check it out!” And he was gone.

  “Bother.” The Ancient One turned to go back into the house. “I wanted to ask him if he’d heard any rumors about the giants.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all be fine.” Elsie fell in to step beside her. “And if it isn’t, we’ll hear soon enough. Or the web will tell us.”

  The Ancient One sighed. “You’re quite right, Elsie dear. And we’ve still got five of those cloaks to finish.”

  As they walked back into the house, the path gave a long shudder of relief. Noticing that it was beginning to rain, it looped itself around and sank back into its usual position between the front door and the gate that led out into the Less Enchanted Forest. There it lay still, only a very occasional twitch suggesting that it might, just possibly, be considering other options.

  Prince Albion was admiring himself in a mirror. His military uniform was a triumph, he decided. The grand parade would certainly be the stunning success he had planned, especially if the smart red cloaks for the palace guards were ready in time.

  “Must send a message to those creepy weaving women,” he told himself. “Tell them to hurry up. Aha! I know. I’ll get . . . What was his name, now? That spy fellow . . . Bill. Bill something. I’ll get him to see to it tomorrow.”

  Pleased with this idea, Albion adjusted the scarlet plume on his hat and saluted his reflection. “Guard! ATTEN . . . SHUN! Guard! AT . . . EASE!” A self-congratulatory twirl reminded him that he was now in possession of a ceremonial sword, and his smile grew wider. Pulling it from its sheath, he waved it in the air. “Die, villain, die!” he shouted, and lunged at his pillows. A moment later the room was filled with flying feathers. Prince Albion coughed, then panicked. His beautiful new uniform had turned snowy white, and as fast as he brushed the feathers away, more floated down. With a cry of despair, he rushed out the door, shouting loudly for help.