The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  “Not that I doubt you,” she said hastily. “But there’s been a bit too much shrinkage going on, if you ask me. When do we get to grow —” She stopped midsentence. The barking was getting closer, and Mrs. Cringe clutched at her grandmother’s skirts. “DO SOMETHING!” she wailed, and as she spoke, the four remaining witches popped out of the surrounding undergrowth like so many rabbits, twittering with fear.

  Truda glanced around. If a pack of dogs arrived, there was not going to be time for pleasant chitchat before they found what they might well consider a collection of edible rodents. “Here!” she ordered, and bending down, she swept up Mrs. Cringe, Mrs. Vibble, and Ms. Scurrilous and deposited them in the cauldron. Another swoop, and Evangeline and Mrs. Prag joined the others in the extreme discomfort of a large metal cooking pot that was still unpleasantly warm and damp.

  Truda was only just in time; as she straightened up, the first of the dogs came leaping toward her.

  Up in the topmost branches of the oak tree, Loobly gave an anguished squeak. The moon was full and very bright, and she could see the animals circling around the cauldron. She could also make out the stout and panting figure of Buckleup Brandersby as he toiled his way up the hill.

  “Keep cool, kiddo. You’re doing good.”

  Loobly wobbled and had to clutch at a branch to save herself. “Please — who is you?”

  “That’s Uncle Marlon!” Alf sounded shocked as he fluttered beside her. “Everyone knows him.”

  “Oh.” Loobly turned wide eyes on the older bat and studied him. Marlon shifted along his twig into the moonlight and winked at her. “No worries, kiddo. Soon have you safe and —”

  A crescendo of barking interrupted him, and, looking down, Loobly took a sharp breath. The lead dog had picked up her trail and was heading straight toward her tree, the others behind him. Buckleup was leaning on the cauldron, his face streaming with sweat, and it was obvious that he was quite extra­ordinarily angry.

  “Runaway norphan, miss.” His voice carried clearly as he spoke to Truda. “Dogs know what they’re doing, though. Snarler’ll have her before the night’s over — and WON’T I make her sorry!”

  Truda Hangnail breathed in his frustration and fury with an ecstatic smile. “What fun,” she hissed, then leaned toward him. “Maybe I could —”

  “WO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-OWWWW!” The piercing howl drowned out her words, and a ferocious grin spread over Buckleup’s greasy face.

  “Snarler’s got her,” he said triumphantly. “Snarler’s got her!”

  Gracie and Gubble were making steady progress. Gubble had never been a fast walker; a short, stout troll is not built for speed. He had other skills, however; whenever the undergrowth threatened to be too thick for Gracie to push through, he simply shut his eyes and continued his progress. In this way he and Gracie were able to take several shortcuts, leaving a trail of flattened grass and battered bushes behind them. Gracie was wishing she had had time to put on something more substantial than her bedroom slippers, which were already extremely damp; fortunately her bathrobe was thick flannel, and kept the rest of her comfortably warm. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she was pleasantly surprised to find a package of cookies, which she decided to keep for breakfast. And we’re sure to find some berries, she told herself, and there are plenty of streams along the way.

  “Berries,” Gubble announced as if he had read her thoughts, pointing with a thick, stubby finger at a small, low-growing bush. Gracie stooped and picked a handful, while Gubble helped himself from the other side. “Good,” he said approvingly, and only when there were no berries left did he stomp off once more along the narrow path. Gracie followed him, eating as she went. She was pleased to find that the berries tasted of chocolate cake; she had eaten them before and knew that they had a delightful habit of tasting exactly like her favorite foods. The first time she had taken the journey to the House of the Ancient Crones, she had been guided by Marlon, and he had found her the same kind of berries to eat — but until that time Gracie had eaten only potato peelings or porridge skin, and the glories of the berries had almost passed her by. Having been adopted by the crones, she was now aware that her lost and not-at-all-lamented stepfather had fed her a very limited diet; she had had plenty of time and opportunity to experiment with all kinds of delicious treats, but chocolate cake remained her favorite. Gubble, grunting happily, had obviously found something equally to his taste, and he stomped his way among thistles and stinging nettles with enthusiasm.

  “I wonder what we’ll find in Gorebreath,” Gracie said as she avoided a broken thistle that was doing its best to retaliate. “And I wonder what we can do to help.” She sighed. “The House did seem very certain we needed to go at once, so it must really be urgent. I do hope nothing’s wrong at the palace.”

  “Unk.” Gubble waved an arm and turned to give Gracie a wide smile. “Marcus?”

  A faint wave of pink, hidden by the night, swept across Gracie’s face. “Erm . . . yes. I suppose I was wondering about him. Just a little bit, you understand.”

  “Prince.” Gubble waved the other arm. “Prince Marcus. Unk.”

  Gracie, rightly interpreting this as meaning that Gubble thought of Prince Marcus as his friend, said hopefully, “Do you think maybe we should go to the palace first?”

  Gubble shook his head, and Gracie suppressed a small sigh. She knew he was right; they were far more likely to pick up news and gossip in the market­place. Prince Marcus of Gorebreath was the only one in the palace who went out to look for adventures in the world beyond the Five Kingdoms. The rest of his family concentrated on being royal; they undertook the necessary state visits, openings of festivals, kissing of babies, and waving to peasants with an admirable devotion to duty and no imagination whatsoever. There were, of course, also a number of social occasions involving princesses from Dreghorn or Wadingburn, Niven’s Knowe or Cockenzie Rood, but Gracie preferred not to think about that particular aspect of Marcus’s life. She was especially not thinking about the Declaration Ball in Wadingburn and Queen Bluebell’s eightieth-birthday party.

  “I mean,” she said to herself as she and Gubble panted up a steep, gorse-covered hill, “why ever would they have thought of asking me? It’s not as if I was a princess or anything like that. Marcus and I were just . . . just companions in an adventure. That’s all.” She squinted up at a small star twinkling overhead and suddenly felt more cheerful. “But if this turns out to be another adventure, I suppose he might be interested. In fact, I probably ought to tell him about it. After all, adventures are what he likes best.” She smiled up at the star and jumped over a small stream. “Why don’t I find out what’s going on, and then tell Marcus?” And Gracie Gillypot positively skipped for the next few miles, even though her bedroom slippers were now soaked through.

  Buckleup Brandersby was wrong. Snarler had run straight into the still-steaming mire where Truda had destroyed the blackberry bushes, and his feet were on fire. Several other dogs skidded after him, and their howls mixed with his in a cacophony of agony. Together they limped back to their master, and the smile was wiped from Buckleup’s face.

  He lurched toward them, staring angrily. “What’s this?” Even by moonlight the large blisters and boils that had sprung up on Snarler’s paws could be seen to have a purplish glow, and Buckleup’s mean little eyes blinked. “By my grandmother’s bunions,” he muttered to himself, and took a quick step backward. “I’ve not seen the likes of that since Deep Magic was banned — but Deep Magic is what that is, sure as hens are chickens.”

  Far up above, at the top of the tree, Loobly’s eyes filled with tears. “Poorly doggies,” she whispered. “Bad badness . . . no hurt doggies. Please be good to doggies.”

  Down on the ground, Truda had no intention whatsoever of being good to anyone, human or animal. Her brain was working overtime. She had recognized a possible ally in Buckleup Brandersby — cruelty and unpleasantness hung about him like a murky fog — but could he be bent to her will? She sid
led nearer and inspected Snarler and his companions as they rolled on their backs, whimpering pathetically. There was nothing she could do to make their paws more comfortable — Truda’s repertory of spells had never included any kind of remedy or antidote — but it might be to her advantage if she put them out of their misery by turning them into toads.

  “Or vipers,” she said, thinking aloud.

  Buckleup gave her a considering look. At first he had taken her for one of the witches of Wadingburn, but he had met Evangeline and her cronies from time to time, and this was a witch of a very different type. Evangeline would have had cold cream and sympathy all over the dogs by now, disregarding their drooling jaws and sharpened teeth. This witch had shown nothing but a cool curiosity. “What’s that about vipers?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No legs,” Truda explained, and pointed to the dogs.

  “Eh?” Buckleup scratched his balding head.

  Truda decided to take a risk. “It’s an ordinary sort of spell. Dog. Whoosh! Viper. Vipers can come in very handy.”

  The wailing of the dogs was beginning to get on Buckleup’s nerves. Any feeling he had for them was entirely connected with how useful they could be. Snarler had brought down many an escaped orphan and was therefore a Good Thing, but Snarler unable to walk, let alone run, was a liability. “I could use a python or two,” he remarked.

  Truda nodded briskly and fished in her pocket for her bag of bones. Pulling it out, she tossed a handful over the squirming dogs. A shower of hissing sparks flew up in the air, turned bright blue, and floated gently down. Snarler and his companions leaped to their completely healed feet, let out a couple of surprised yelps, and hurled themselves at Truda and Buckleup in an ecstasy of gratitude, their tails wagging madly.

  “DOWN!” Buckleup roared, and as the dogs obeyed, he turned to Truda.

  She was trembling with suppressed rage. “Trueheart!” she hissed.

  “What’s that?” Buckleup pushed Snarler away as the dog tried to lick his hand. “What’s a Trueheart? And where’s my snake?”

  Truda did her best to look as if she were in control of the situation. “You’ve got your dogs back, haven’t you?”

  Buckleup folded his arms. “Just a minute. You said you were going to give me a python. I don’t say as I’m not grateful that Snarler’s back on his pins, but a snake’s a snake, and a deal’s a deal.” He stroked his bristly chin thoughtfully. “Good at tracking, are they? I’ve got a missing norphan, and I need to catch her pronto.”

  “Use your dogs,” Truda snapped. She was feeling decidedly unwell. She was used to the occasional malfunction in her Deep Magic spells, as there was no quality control over dragon’s bone, but it seemed that here in the Five Kingdoms, nothing she did turned out as she had expected. She wanted to practice a little serious nastiness without this large, foolish man glaring at her.

  Buckleup grunted angrily but whistled his dogs back around him. “I’ll be waiting for that snake,” he growled. “Like I say — a deal’s a deal. And if you happen to see a skinny little wretch of a norphan trailing along the road, tell her I’ll have her on toast for breakfast.” He yawned and gave a last look around. “Could be she’s slipped back to the orphanage after all. She has no more brain than a parsnip, so she could have gotten lost — but if she’s not there, I’ll be after her first thing tomorrow!” And he stormed away down the hill, the dogs gamboling happily at his heels.

  “Yoo-hoo! Truda!”

  The plaintive cry echoing faintly from the depths of the cauldron made Truda start. Slowly she walked toward the cauldron and peered in. The five witches were squashed together at the bottom, looking cross, disheveled and damp around the feet. Truda leaned on the metal rim and stared thoughtfully down at them. It had never occurred to her before that moment that the ability to shrink small and grow tall could be extremely useful. The singularly unexpected shrinking of the witches of Wadingburn could, perhaps, be turned to her advantage after all.

  “Now, listen,” she began. “I saved you from those dogs, so you owe me. Isn’t that right?”

  Insofar as they were able, the witches nodded, Mrs. Prag trying her best to avoid sticking her elbow in Evangeline’s eye.

  “Good,” Truda went on, “and don’t you go forgetting it. Like I said, I’ve got plans, and having a few little creatures to do a bit of spying could come in handy. You can go scuttling and creeping and listening, and that’s what I want. There’s things I need to know, and you can find out. What’s the old bag thinking? What’s she planning? What’s this Declaration? Has she found anyone to be queen after her?” She let out a high-pitched cackle. “It’s to be a Declaration Ball, you say. . . . Well, if I have my way, it’ll be to declare Truda Hangnail as Queen of Wadingburn!”

  Evangeline let out a tiny protesting squeak, and Truda glared at her.

  “Don’t you go trying to trick me! I’ll call that fool and his dogs if you do . . . or do you want to be a pip-squeak forever and ever?”

  There was a pause as the five witches paled beneath their whiskers.

  “So, you’ll be doing as I say.” Truda folded her arms.

  There was an immediate chorus of enthusiastic agreement from inside the cauldron.

  Truda nodded. “That’s what I like to hear,” she said, and she tipped the heavy metal pot onto its side.

  There was a flurrying and a scurrying as the contents disentangled themselves, and Evangeline Droop pulled herself to her total height of some ten inches. “As the Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, I’m taking it upon myself to speak for my fellow witches,” she announced. “I’d like —”

  “Speak for yourself, dearie,” Mrs. Cringe inter­rupted. “I’m sticking with Grandma. Seems to me that she’s the one who says what’s what just now, not you.”

  Evangeline bit her lip but did her best to continue. “We’ll do as Mrs. Hangnail asks, but in return I’d like a solemn oath that once she’s achieved her aims, she’ll leave us in peace.”

  “But she’ll be Queen of Wadingburn, ducky!” Mrs. Cringe gave Evangeline a triumphant leer. “So you won’t be needed, far as I can see. We’ll be dancing to your tune then, won’t we, Grandma? And if Grandma’s queen, that makes me a princess — so you’ll be lucky if I send you to fetch my shoes!”

  Truda looked down at her whiskery granddaughter. While approving her sentiments, she had noticed that Mrs. Prag, Mrs. Vibble, and Ms. Scurrilous had moved to stand close to their former leader, and division could be dangerous. She smiled coldly at Evangeline. “I’m sure there’ll be no need to be troubling you again,” she said, without meaning a word.

  “Can’t I stay with you, Grandma?” Mrs. Cringe put a hopeful hand on her relative’s boot. “They say that palace is infested with rats, and I never could abide their horrible, scaly tails. Let me stay with you! I’ll be no trouble.”

  Truda’s eyes flashed as she bent down. “Who’s going to keep an eye on that fancy Grand High Witch if you aren’t there?” she hissed. “She’s as Shallow as they come. And you’ll be seeing me soon enough — don’t you worry!”

  Mrs. Cringe perked up immediately. Spying on her so-called friends was always a pleasure, and the thought of being able to tell tales about Evangeline made her quiver with excitement. “Of course,” she whispered hoarsely. “Won’t let her out of my sight!”

  “That’s it.” Truda nodded. She watched the five little cloaked figures bob away down the moonlit path and considered her plans. “So the palace is infested with rats, is it? I’ll remember that. Where there are rats, there are tunnels and holes and secret ways. But for now there’s that Trueheart to deal with.” She turned to the cauldron. Tossing in a handful of bone, she began to mutter. A moment later, a thin, purplish snake with glittering black eyes slid over the rim, and Truda rubbed her skinny hands together. “See that, Malice?” she crowed. “Nothing wrong with my spells.” She pointed at the snake. “Find the Trueheart. Go!”

  But Loobly was gone. As soon as Buckleup Brandersby and his dogs
had tramped away, Marlon had per­suaded her to slip down from the tree and follow him on a zigzag journey down the hill. Loobly had done as she was told without complaint, even when he’d insisted she paddle across a freezing stream not just once but several times.

  “No smell in water, kiddo,” he said. “It’ll keep whatever’s after you off the scent.”

  “But the dogs went the other way,” Alf pointed out.

  “There’s things worse than dogs,” Marlon told him severely, and as they flitted on through the wavering moonlight, Alf saw with some astonishment that they were heading toward the outskirts of Wadingburn village.

  “Where are we going, Uncle Marlon?” he asked.

  “To see crones.” Loobly’s voice was small but definitive.

  Marlon did a backflip, landed on a twig, and gave Loobly what Alf thought of as Uncle Marlon’s Serious Stare. “Listen, kiddo,” he said, “do you want to help your auntie?”

  Loobly nodded.

  “Then we don’t go to the crones,” Marlon told her. “’Scuse me saying so, but you wouldn’t travel fast. We need to play close, and we need to play clever. Right?” He did not add that he thought it highly unlikely that Loobly would ever make it to the House of the Ancient Crones before being found either by Buckleup Brandersby’s dogs or by Truda Hangnail. He was also aware that he could reach the crones much faster if he was unimpeded.

  “Right,” Loobly echoed, but her small, grimy face was screwed up in confusion.

  “We’ll put you where they’ll never think of looking, kiddo.” Marlon winked at her. “Check this out. Where d’you hide a big black cat?”

  Alf did a double spin and squeaked, “In a big black cellar!”

  Marlon shook his head. “Good, Alfie boy, but not good enough. Get the dogs out — they’d find it right off. Nah — you put your big black cat in the middle of a dozen big black cats.” He waved a wing at Loobly. “Small, skinny —’scuse me, kiddo, but facts are facts — we’ll put you in the palace kitchen. There’s at least a dozen small, skinny kitchen maids — you’ll vanish. And that Truda dame? Last place she’ll look for you.”