The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  The Oldest didn’t answer. She had turned back to the loom and was staring at the fine cloth in front of her.

  Gracie, peering over her shoulder, saw a dark purple stain spreading across the silver. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That,” said the Oldest grimly, “is Trouble.”

  “Oh.” Gracie rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “What sort of trouble?”

  The Oldest Crone looked again at the stain. “Magic, I’d say. And Deep Magic at that. The very nastiest sort of magic. Oh, dearie, dearie me. That’s dreadful. I wonder where it could be coming from?”

  “That must have been what the quill was writing about.” Gracie was conscious of a cold chill creeping into her stomach. “No wonder the House is so upset.” She swallowed hard. “It really, really wants me to go . . . and if I leave now, I could be in the Five Kingdoms by midday. It’s market day in Gorebreath, so if anything odd’s been happening, somebody there’s sure to know.” She didn’t add that her stomach was now feeling as if it were full of whirling butterflies and that she wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do if she met up with any Deep Magic. Neither had she any idea how to recognize it if she did meet it. “And then . . . then I suppose I could come back here to tell you?”

  The Oldest wasn’t listening. She was studying the web intently. “That sounds very sensible, dear,” she said vaguely. “Now, should I wake the Ancient One at once or leave it until the morning when Val arrives and we can discuss it together? What we need to know is, has it reached the Five Kingdoms . . .”

  “I’ll try to find out,” Gracie promised, and she hurried out of room seventeen to get dressed before the enormity of what she was about to do made her change her mind.

  The House, however, had other ideas. As Gracie reached the corridor, it tipped itself up, and she found herself sliding inexorably toward the front door. This time she could do nothing to save herself, and before she could shout or scream, she was outside sitting on the front path. With a wriggle of excitement, the path picked itself and Gracie up, swung around toward the front gate, and deposited Gracie neatly on the other side.

  “Ooof!” Gracie tried to catch her breath.

  A second later the top of the path reappeared, and a large, solid figure was unceremoniously dumped on the ground beside her. “Unk,” it remarked.

  Gracie’s eyes widened. “Gubble! Did it throw you out too?”

  “Help.” It wasn’t clear who or what Gubble was referring to, but Gracie could see he was giving her his broad, toothless grin. “Help.” And then, “Help Gracie.”

  “Oh, Gubble,” Gracie said, patting the top of his bald head, “thank you! Thank you so much! Does — does that mean you’re coming with me?” She didn’t say how very much she hoped he was. The path to Gorebreath was long, crossing through the Less Enchanted Forest and over several hills that eventually led to the Rather Ordinary Woods and the Five Kingdoms, and although the moon was high in the sky, the shadows were extremely dark. A substantial troll would be a comforting companion. And if they did meet with some Deep Magic, at least there would be two of them.

  Gubble grunted. “Gubble come too.” And he stomped off ahead of Gracie up the winding track.

  “WOW!” the small bat’s mouth hung wide open in amazement as he stared at the swirling purple mist. “WOW! Look at that!”

  “Alf! Close your mouth this minute!” Marlon snapped. “This is serious! That stuff’s Evil, that is. Gotta take some action, kiddo.”

  Alf looked at his uncle in admiration. “What’ll we do?”

  “We?” Marlon frowned. “This ain’t no game. This is the big time, kid. You buzz off home. Me, I’m going to have a peek from the other side.” And with a flip of his wings, he was gone, leaving his nephew staring indignantly after him.

  From beneath the tree a small voice said, “Crones. What is crones, please?”

  Alf peered down in surprise. “Excuse me, miss — were you talking to me?”

  Loobly blinked. “Was talking. Yes. What is crones?”

  “They’re old, old women,” Alf explained. “Live a long way away. They’re . . . they’re kind of magic. Good magic.” He flew down, landed close to Loobly’s head, and whispered proudly, “I take messages for them!”

  Loobly had no way of knowing this wasn’t strictly true, and she looked impressed. Alf had once taken a message, but only under the critical eyes of his uncle; Marlon would have been shocked to hear his boast. Loobly, however, took him at his word. “No take messages,” she said firmly. “Take Loobly! Take Loobly NOW!”

  “What?” Alf was suddenly alarmed. It was beginning to occur to him that there was something odd about this girl. She didn’t sound or look at all like Gracie Gillypot, who was the only girl he had ever spent much time with. On the other hand, despite smelling faintly of cheese, she didn’t seem particularly evil.

  Loobly glanced in the direction of the purple mist. It was slowly dissolving, and shadowy figures were gradually emerging. With a muffled squeak of terror, she slid in between the trees; Truda Hangnail stood revealed, her eyes gleaming and her long green tongue flickering as she tasted the night air.

  “There’s something strange hereabouts,” Truda muttered, turning back into the mist.

  A moment later she had dragged Evangeline Droop to her side . . . but it was a very different Evangeline from the tall, imposing figure who had made her authoritative way to the weekly Cauldron Fest on Wadingburn Hill. This Evangeline was old, twisted, and bent; her face was covered in large, purple, whiskery warts, and her eyes were blank and expressionless.

  “Tell me!” Truda hissed, and she shook Evangeline until her teeth rattled in her head. “I heard you — I heard you calling to someone. Are they in the bushes?”

  Evangeline waved a hand. Her mind was still filled with misty confusion and anger at the butcher’s boy. “Boils on his nose . . .” she chanted. “Boils on his toes . . .”

  Truda shook her again. “TELL ME! Who were you calling?”

  “Boils . . .” Evangeline repeated, but she frowned as a different memory floated up from somewhere behind the butcher’s boy. “Rats . . . pickled rats . . . where’s the pickled rat . . . ?”

  With an exasperated snort, Truda dropped Evangeline’s arm. “Rats? Rats? I’ll give you pickled rats!”

  In among the trees, Loobly froze and clutched the rat closer to her skinny chest. “Not Ratty,” she mouthed silently. “No hurt Ratty. . . . Please be good to Ratty. . . .”

  The fire in the center of the clearing hissed and spat, and Truda swung around to look. A clear blue light sprang up, hovered over the cauldron, then died. Truda jumped, muttering as she turned first one way, then the other, her tongue flickering to and fro until she gave a sudden angry grunt.

  “That’s a whiff of Trueheart in the air, if I’m not much mistaken — but how come? There are no Truehearts here . . . or are there?” She eyed Evangeline coldly. “You’ll tell me who was here sooner or later. I’ll see to that!” And she scowled as she moved back toward the center of the clearing.

  The purple mist was patchy now, and the witches of Wadingburn stood waiting for her, each of them covered in warts and whiskers and, like Evangeline, with mindless eyes.

  Truda smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Now, you witchy women of Wadingburn — you listen to me, and listen well. You’re in the power of the Deep Magic, and you’ll do what I say.”

  “Do what you say . . .” the witches of Wadingburn repeated in a monotonous drone.

  Truda nodded. “And it’s time things changed in this little kingdom of yours. You”— Truda jerked a thumb at her cowering granddaughter —“you invited me to come, and here I’ll stay.” She gave a high-pitched cackle. “But not in that there poor little shed you call home. No, it’s a palace for me. Queen Bluebell’s still creaking her way around that palace of hers — but she’s got no daughter, and it’s a daughter she needs to be queen after she’s dead and buried.” Truda stopped for a moment. “That’s right, isn�
�t it? Only queens can take the throne?”

  “Only queens can take the throne,” the five witches chanted in unison.

  “Well, then!” Truda looked triumphant. “And if there’s no daughter, she’ll be choosing another fine lady — and I’ve always had a fancy for silks and satins and a crown. Silks and satins, and servants waiting on me hand and foot.” She looked down at her drab and faded black skirts. “A bit of luxury, that’s what I want — a bit of luxury, and a nice little kingdom where I can do as I like.” Her eyes began to gleam as she envisaged her future. “Queen Truda of Wadingburn, that’s what I’m after! And with a handful of Deep Magic here and there, that’s what I’ll get. Understand?”

  The witches swayed from side to side. “Queen Truda of Wadingburn. We understand.”

  “Excellent! Queen Truda . . . Queen Truda of Wadingburn.” The gleam in Truda’s eyes shone even brighter as her vision suddenly grew. “And who can tell? Could be I’ll be Queen of the Five Kingdoms one of these fine days! But I’ll begin right here and now. I’ll get the old bag to declare ME her successor, and then —”

  She stopped and stared. Something unexpected was happening . . . something so unexpected that she took a sharp step backward. The witches of Wadingburn were growing ever more whiskery, and they were shrinking. What remained of Mrs. Cringe let out an agonized shriek as she reached the size of a largish rat, and Mrs. Vibble and Mrs. Prag went pale beneath their extensive whiskers. Ms. Scurrilous dropped onto all fours and scuttled in an anxious circle, and Evangeline Droop drew herself up to her not-very-full height. Her eyes had completely lost their blank expression, and she was quivering with fury.

  “How COULD you?” she squeaked. “Just LOOK at us! I DEMAND to be restored to my correct size AT ONCE!”

  Truda Hangnail didn’t answer. She was thinking. It was true that her spells misfired from time to time, with surprising results. Those five-legged sheep, for instance. But this? This was different. Very dif­ferent. Could a Trueheart be involved? The Witches’ Handbook (Deep Edition) warned that calling up the power of Deep Magic in the presence of a Trueheart could result in unwanted side effects. . . .

  Truda ground her teeth in fury. If a Trueheart, or anything resembling a Trueheart, was responsible for spoiling her spell, she would make quite certain that he or she never had the chance to do it again. But in the meantime, there were five small and exceedingly whiskery women standing in a row on the grass in front of her, and they were no longer her willing slaves. They looked angry. Very angry . . . and Truda decided to consider the matter of the Trueheart later.

  “Now, now, now, ladies,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Ladies — don’t go fretting yourselves. I do have a plan. . . .”

  “It had better be a good one!” squeaked Mrs. Prag, and Mrs. Vibble and Ms. Scurrilous shrilled their agreement.

  “It’s very simple,” Truda promised. “You help me, and I help you —”

  She stopped midsentence. The animal draped around her neck had suddenly raised its head and hissed in her ear.

  “What?” Truda’s face darkened as she glared into the shadows, where the trembling Loobly was hidden. “A sneeze, Malice? WHO sneezed?”

  Malice, created by Truda from snake, rat, and weasel, complete with the very nastiest characteristics of all three, whispered again. Puffs of purple smoke shot from Truda’s nostrils. “Just you wait here,” she told the witches, and she strode toward the trees.

  “Run!” Alf fluttered wildly under Loobly’s nose. “RUN!”

  Loobly ran.

  Buckleup Brandersby, Master-in-Charge of the Happy Times Orphanage (“Orphans of Any Age speedily collected from anywhere in the Five Kingdoms and kept in a Caring and Supportive Environment in buildings located on the Healthiest Gravel Soil near the Ancient Town of Wadingburn”), was muttering darkly to himself. He’d had his doubts about sending Loobly Higgins out on work experience right from the start. If he’d had his way, Loobly would have stayed safely in the orphanage washhouse where she belonged, but the ladies on the committee had decided otherwise.

  “It is so important that a child like Loobly has a fair chance,” Mrs. Withery had insisted. “We know she’s not exactly one of us. But she’s a dear little soul. And Evangeline Droop IS her aunt.”

  “Excuse me, missus, but she’s not really.” Buckleup Brandersby shook his large and heavy head. “She only calls her Auntie for politeness, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Met on a orphanage open-house day; seems they took to each other, talking about black cats and frogs and rats and the like. That’s all it was. Miss Droop never sends the girl so much as a birthday card — not that we knows when her birthday is, of course, seeing as she was left on the doorstep in an egg basket with no note nor nothing.”

  “Nevertheless, there is a connection.” Mrs. Withery’s tone was sharp. She suspected the Master-in-Charge was concerned for himself rather than for Loobly’s welfare. As long as an orphan was safely under his roof, he earned himself a silver shilling a week and a loaf of bread. Orphans who vanished meant losing both, and judging from the extreme rotundity of Buckleup’s stomach, any reduction in sandwiches would be regarded by him as a serious matter.

  “And you never know,” Mrs. Withery went on, “little Loobly could have a feeling for witchcraft. Just imagine”— her eyes grew wide with a vision —“the witches of Wadingburn might offer her an apprenticeship!”

  Buckleup did his best not to sniff. He had no time for witches, especially witches who declined to contribute to the Happy Times Orphanage Fund. His last appeal (“Make an Orphan’s Day by Providing the Funds to buy Him — or Her — a Woolly Vest”) had met with nothing more than this offer of work experience, with the proviso that the orphan chosen was to be obedient, female, and not afraid of frogs, rats, or spiders.

  “So it’s decided, then?” Mrs. Withery had looked around at the other members of the committee. “Loobly Higgins will be sent to spend a week with the witches? Returning home every night, of course.”

  The vote had been passed, with Buckleup’s the only negative voice.

  And now Loobly was missing. For the past five days, she had turned up more or less at the right time, but this was her last day — and she wasn’t back. Buckleup looked at his clock, and his face darkened ominously. Half-past midnight. She’d been given an extension so that she could accompany the witches to their weekly Cauldron Fest, but it had been on the strict understanding that she was to be back at the orphanage by ten at the latest. Buckleup growled and stomped off to let the dogs out.

  Loobly, stumbling and scrambling in and out of the trees, her breath catching in her throat, gradually became aware of a voice in her ear. A voice that wasn’t Alf’s. “Don’t run, kiddo — climb!” it insisted. “Swing a left, and go up!”

  Too scared to do anything except blindly obey, Loobly turned left and found her way barred by an ancient oak tree. Tucking Ratty into a pocket of her dress, she began to climb, still urged on by the voice.

  “Keep going, kid! There’s a fork coming up — keep right! Good — now up again!”

  Her arms aching, Loobly did as she was told.

  It wasn’t until she began to see the stars twinkling between the branches above her that the voice finally said, “OK. Take a break, kiddo. You deserve it.”

  From far down below came the sound of another voice. Truda was hissing angrily as a twist of thorny blackberry bush caught at her ankle, and as she tried to disentangle herself, another twist caught her other foot. Furious, she pulled a handful of bone dust from her bag and scattered it with a mumbled spell. At once the tangle of thorns dissolved away into a steaming purple puddle, and Truda stepped free, slapping at the creature around her neck as she did so.

  “A waste of dragon’s bone,” she croaked. “Sneeze, indeed! If you can’t do better than that, Malice, I’ll see you made into gloves!”

  Malice didn’t answer. He knew someone totally lacking in evil had been close; he could sense it in the air, but now there was
no sign. No sign at all. And he disliked being slapped and threatened. He closed his eyes firmly and put himself to sleep.

  Truda felt him fading and considered hurling him into the darkness, but on second thought she decided against it. He had his uses, even if he did fall asleep at the most inconvenient moments. “Should have added dog for obedience when I made him,” she muttered. Malice smiled sourly in the midst of his dreams, and Truda peered this way and that into the darkness.

  “No scent . . . Where’s that dratted Trueheart gone?” Her green tongue flickered. There were bats nearby, but that wasn’t in any way unusual, and there was a strong odor of rat, but that too was of no interest to her. Could Malice have been wrong? Was it really a Trueheart who had sneezed? Something or someone had twisted her spell, but it seemed that whatever it was had vanished. Truda shook her head and turned to go back to the clearing. Pushing her way between the bushes and trees she saw that the moon had come out from behind the clouds, and in its light the cauldron shone silver . . . and solitary. Of the witches of Wadingburn, there was no sign.

  Truda cursed under her breath. It seemed as if even Mrs. Cringe had deserted her, but as she stormed her way out from the trees, she heard a small squeak, and the diminutive figure of her elderly granddaughter scuttled toward her.

  “Grandma! Where were you? Can’t you hear the dogs?”

  Truda lifted her head and listened. The sound of distant barking floated up from the bottom of Wadingburn Hill.

  “That’s hounds,” Mrs. Cringe whimpered. “They’re on someone’s trail. What if they come up here? Snap us up in a whisker, they will — you’ve got to do something! Call up that magic of yours — at least call it up if it’ll do any good.”

  The icy glare that Truda turned on her grand­daughter made the miniature witch quail.