The Bag of Bones

by Vivian French

  Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Or I could take it! With . . .” he tried desperately to think of another reason to convince his mother. “With . . . some roses!”

  Queen Mildred looked at him in astonishment. “Marcus, dear, how extremely thoughtful of you! That would be most suitable. In fact, perhaps you both should go.”

  “I’d be much quicker if I went by myself,” Marcus said hastily. “After all, we don’t want to keep Queen Bluebell waiting.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow. She was not normally suspicious, but this concern for Queen Bluebell was distinctly out of character. “Marcus, dear — you’re not planning anything, are you?”

  Marcus dug his elbow into Arry’s ribs, and Arry turned his grunt into a cough. “It’s OK, Mother. Marcus is quite right. His pony’s much faster than mine, and besides . . .” Arry blushed. “I was rather wanting to write Princess Nina-Rose a poem.”

  “How very, very lovely.” Queen Mildred’s suspicions melted away, and she beamed at her oldest son as she settled herself on a sofa. “Did you ask her if she’ll dance with you at the Declaration Ball? You haven’t told me anything about your visit this morning, you know. How was dear Bluebell? And who else was there? Was Nina-Rose as pretty as ever?” The queen nodded knowingly. “Perhaps dear Nina-Rose will be chosen as Bluebell’s successor. Wouldn’t that be just too lovely?”

  Marcus, on the point of exploding, folded his arms and glared. “Shouldn’t we be writing our letters?” he demanded. “Arry can tell you all about it after I’ve gone — can’t you, Arry?”

  Arry, who had sat down next to his mother all ready for a comfortable chat, saw the look in his brother’s eye and leaped to his feet. “Er — yes. Yes, of course I can. That would be wonderful. I’ll be back in a moment, Mother.” And he followed Marcus out to their old schoolroom.

  “Honestly, Arry,” Marcus said as he dug out paper and pens, “you could have tried to stop her from going on and on and on like that. Do you want this stupid feather or not?”

  “Nothing stops her once she gets started,” Arry said with absolute truth. “You know that. If you hadn’t wriggled so much, she’d probably have stopped sooner, but she thought you weren’t listening.”

  “I wasn’t,” Marcus admitted. “Anyway — let’s get these letters done, and then I’ll go.”

  Arry gave him an anxious look. “Will you be back tonight?”

  “Of course not!” Marcus stared at his twin. “I’ve got to ask Gracie to the ball before I go tearing off after your bird. Didn’t Nina-Rose say something about it being seen in Flailing?” He reached up and took an old rolled-up map down from a shelf. “See? It’s miles away.”

  Arry looked at the map doubtfully. “Are you sure you’ll be OK? We’re not supposed to go outside the borders.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Marcus said. “Besides, it’s not far from the House of the Ancient Crones. I’ll ask Gracie to give me a hand. It’ll be easier to catch the peacock with two of us.”

  Prince Arioso, heir to Gorebreath, shuddered. “If you say so. I can’t think of anything worse than trailing around horrible forests full of scary animals and horrible trolls and —”

  “Hey!” Marcus frowned. “Trolls are OK!” He tucked the map inside his jacket and sat down at a desk. “How do you spell apologize?”

  Arry told him, and for a few minutes there was no sound except for the scratching of pens.

  Then Marcus jumped up, waving his letter. “Finished!”

  Arry glanced at his brother’s handiwork and opened his mouth to point out that there were at least five spelling mistakes and two large blots. Remembering how long it would take Marcus to correct these, however, he changed his mind and merely said, “Well done, bro — but maybe we should fold it up and seal it before Mother sees it.”

  “Whatever,” Marcus said happily. Arry finished his own letter with several twirls and a flourish, and Marcus pounced on it. “I’ll seal yours as well,” he offered, and lit a taper. The smell of melting wax filled the air, and Marcus thunked down the royal seal with enthusiasm. “There!” he announced. “All done. I’ll be off now. Don’t forget to rumple up my bed tonight, Arry — and enjoy your two breakfasts!”

  Arry nodded. “You will be back by tomorrow evening, won’t you? Mother’ll have fifty-nine spasms and a fainting fit if you aren’t here in time to get ready for the party.”

  Marcus was already in the doorway. “No worries. I’ll be back with handfuls of feathers by then. You get busy practicing your dance steps for Queen Bluebell’s Declaration Ball!” And he was gone.

  Arioso sighed. He found himself wishing that his tutor, Professor Scallio, was still living in the palace instead of in a cottage with his sister somewhere in the Less Enchanted Forest. The professor was the only person who had ever been able to direct Marcus’s wilder ideas into more practical channels; King Frank and Queen Mildred made no impression on him whatsoever. If anything, they made him worse; Arry had noticed long ago that the more his parents put pressure on Marcus to conform, the more he refused to do so. Arry sighed again. He hated having to ruffle his hair and rush around, pretending to be his own brother, but perhaps it was a small price to pay for the bliss of dancing with Nina-Rose for an entire evening. He went to wash the ink from his fingers before going downstairs to give his mother a blow-by-blow account of the morning’s visit, with certain careful omissions — notably the demand for a white peacock feather.

  Marlon was frustrated. He had thought that he, Loobly, and Alf would arrive at Wadingburn Palace early in the morning, but he had completely failed to realize how slowly Loobly would travel once she thought they were out of danger. Years and years of being incarcerated in the orphanage washhouse meant that, for her, the outside world was a place of wonder, and she stopped to look at every plant and tree. She peered into rabbit burrows and whistled up at nests, and it was nearly lunchtime before they finally reached the back door of the kitchen.

  Then, to Marlon’s intense irritation, she refused to go inside. “No like meeting peoples,” was all she would say when Alf asked her what was wrong.

  “But you won’t be meeting people, kiddo!” Marlon said in exasperated tones. “You’ll be scrubbing floors and washing dishes and all that stuff. Lowest of the low. You’ll be emptying all the rattraps, I expect, and —” Marlon stopped.

  An expression of interest had flickered across Loobly’s thin little face. “Rats?” she whispered.

  “Horrid things,” Alf chipped in. “But they’ll be dead as doornails. Deader than . . .” His voice faded away as he saw the tears begin to roll down Loobly’s cheeks. “Erm — that is — maybe some of them won’t be as dead as all that.”

  Quick to seize the opportunity, Marlon nodded. “Loads of rats here, kid. Palace is heaving with ’em. Like rats, do you?”

  Loobly smiled a watery smile. “Ratties is my friends. Was always kind to Loobly. Nicer than peoples.” She pulled the pickled rat out from her pocket. “See? Poor Ratty. Was almost dead like doornut. But getting better.”

  Marlon very much doubted she was right but was too tenderhearted to say so. Instead he concentrated on his task of getting Loobly safely hidden away from Buckleup Brandersby and Truda Hangnail. “Just think,” he said encouragingly, “you’ll be able to rescue loads of his merry little mates if you work in the kitchens.” Loobly’s face brightened, and Marlon added hastily, “Make sure nobody sees you at it, kiddo.”

  Loobly’s eyes widened. “Can tippytoe. Nobody sees Loobly on tippytoe.”

  As she tiptoed toward the palace by way of demonstration, the back door was flung open and a red-faced cook came storming out, waving a wooden spoon. In front of her scurried an undersize boy in an oversize apron who cannoned into Loobly with such force that he knocked her over. A string of sausages sailed up in the air and was caught by the cook with a triumphant grunt. Grabbing the small boy by his ear, she was about to haul him back into the kitchen when her eye fell on Loobly. “Oi! What do you think you’re d
oing out here? There’s a heap of pans waiting to be washed. Get back in that kitchen this minute!”

  And before Loobly had any opportunity to protest, she was whisked inside with the now sniveling boy, and the door slammed shut behind her.

  Marlon inspected a claw in a casual manner. “See how it’s done, kid? One orphan, safe and sound.”

  Alf gazed at him in admiration. “How did you know the door was going to open at that exact moment, Uncle Marlon?”

  “Intuition, kiddo,” Marlon lied. “And now we’d better fly.”

  Alf, delighted to be included in the plan, puffed up his very small chest. “Sure thing, Unc. Let’s hit those crones!”

  His uncle cuffed him, but not unkindly. “You said it, kid. Let’s fly.”

  And they flew.

  Evangeline Droop wasn’t enthusiastic about rats when she was her usual height; in her present circumstances, being only a little taller than the rat in front of her, she was terrified. She screamed — then slapped her hand in front of her mouth, horrified at what she’d done. Fortunately, Queen Bluebell was in the middle of a spasm of nonstop sneezing, and the scream went unheard.

  “Now, now,” the rat said reproachfully, “that’s no way to treat a guy.” He grinned at Evangeline. “Busy this afternoon, are you?”

  “Er . . .” Evangeline was quite unable to think of a suitable reply. A voice answered for her.

  “What you got on offer?”

  The rat blinked. There was something strange about this voice, something that made him feel edgy and uncomfortable. It was also a voice that expected an answer.

  “Erm . . . us rats are having a big meeting,” he said without enthusiasm. “Thought the young lady here might like to come with me.” He nudged Evangeline in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Just the two of us.”

  Evangeline swallowed hard. She knew that voice; it was Truda Hangnail’s. It must have been Truda who had been whispering with Mrs. Cringe a moment or two earlier. Evangeline’s heart began to beat much too fast, and without being aware of what she was doing, she edged a little nearer to the rat.

  “What kind of meeting?” Truda insisted. “What’s up?”

  The rat had had enough. “What’s it to you, lady? I’m talking to the pretty one. Taken a fancy to her, I have, and seems like she feels the same about me. So keep your nose out of our business, if you don’t mind!”

  There was a tiny puff of purple smoke, and the rat began to cough.

  When he spoke again, his tone was very different. “ ’Scuse me. Sorry about that, lady. Didn’t mean to be rude.” He coughed again. “It’s our leader, Brother Burwash, ma’am. He’s gone missing, so it’s voting time. Gotta pick a new leader, see?”

  Truda gave him a sharp glance. “And who are you?”

  “Brother Bodalisk, ma’am, at your service.” The rat bowed to Evangeline. “You can call me Boddie, sweetheart.”

  The horrified Evangeline was saved from thinking of an answer. The sounds in the Royal State Room suggested that visiting time was ending, and a babel of voices drowned out any reply she might have wanted to make. Queen Bluebell, intermittently interrupted by ferocious sneezes, was wishing everyone a good journey home, and Prince Vincent was scurrying about, getting in everyone’s way.

  As the final footsteps departed, the queen heaved a loud, gusty sigh and remarked, “Thank goodness for that! ATCHOOO! Glad to see the back of them. Never seen such a lot of frilly-minded females in my life; couldn’t say a word when I asked them what they thought about this year’s hay crop or the price of peas. Not Kesta, of course. Good woman, even if she does talk too much. Vincent — stop shilly-shallying and go and do something useful. ATCHOOO! Find out if your rat catcher’s doing his stuff. We’ve got rats everywhere, and it won’t do. It won’t do at all. Never bothers me, of course — I quite like the little fellows, in fact — but what’ll our guests think if the place is running with rats tomorrow? They’ll all be off home again, quick as a wink, and there won’t be a single king or queen left to witness the Declaration.” There was another loud sigh. “D’you know what, Vincent? I’m feeling my age. I never thought I’d say it, but I am. I’m surrounded by nincompoops frightened by nothing more than a set of whiskers and a scaly tail . . . Atchooooooo . . .” And her booming voice faded away as she sneezed herself into the distance.

  At last there was no sound. The witches and the rat strained their ears, but there was an emptiness in the air. Brother Bodalisk took advantage of the silence to give Evangeline a quick squeeze, and she screamed again.

  “What’s that?” Prince Vincent, who had been brooding in the doorway, came clattering back. Bending down, he peered under the bookcase and was appalled to see six pairs of eyes staring back at him. Bodalisk had vanished.

  “EEEEEEEK!” Vincent’s shriek echoed to the roof turrets of Wadingburn Palace, and the pigeons fluttered away. Servants came running from all directions, and the gibbering prince pointed with a trembling finger to the bookcase. “There!” he quavered. “Under there! THOUSANDS of rats . . . I saw them!”

  “I’ll get the catcher, Your Highness,” said a tall footman as two of the maids jumped hastily onto chairs, and the others suddenly remembered they were urgently needed elsewhere. “I understand as he’s having a cuppa tea in the kitchen.” He marched off at speed. A second, braver footman bent down to see for himself, but a shaking Vincent pulled him away.

  “They might run out!” he said. “Don’t look! They’re horrible! They might leap on you! They’ve got the beastliest whiskers and hideous teeth!”

  The footman looked alarmed. “I’ll tell the rat catcher to hurry up, Your Highness!”

  As he strode away, Vincent climbed onto his grandmother’s golden throne. One of the maids tittered, and he gave her a chilly look. “I can observe the rodents better from here,” he announced.

  Under the bookcase, Truda glared at Evangeline. “Now see what you’ve done!” she hissed, and reached into her pocket.

  “Teach her a lesson, Grandma!” Mrs. Cringe encouraged, rubbing her hands together in glee. Evangeline, very pale, was beginning to stutter an apology when her hand was grabbed.

  “This way, doll!” Bodalisk was back. “Quick! Follow me.” And he led her swiftly toward a small opening at the back of the bookcase. With a squeeze and a wriggle, he disappeared. Evangeline hesitated. The hole was extraordinarily small and dark.

  “Get on with it!” Truda said. “Here — let me go first!” She shoved Evangeline out of the way and followed the rat. There was the sound of a kiss and then a scuffle, but any comment from Truda was drowned by the noise the rat catcher made as he stomped into the State Room, accompanied by his yapping dog. Mrs. Cringe squeaked in terror and elbowed her way past Evangeline. She forced herself through the rat hole, and as the yapping grew closer, Ms. Scurrilous, Mrs. Vibble, and Mrs. Prag squeezed after her. It wasn’t until the little Jack Russell terrier pushed his nose under the bookcase that Evangeline finally plucked up the courage to follow them . . . and found herself sliding into a blackness so profound that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

  “That you, babe?” said Bodalisk’s voice. “Welcome to Chez Rattus Rattus! But we’d better get going.” There was a creaking sound as if a rusty door were being opened, and a dim light lit up the tunnel. “This way, gorgeous!” And Bodalisk frisked his way around the other witches to take Evangeline’s arm before walking her away along a twisty tunnel that led down and down.

  Truda Hangnail snorted but said nothing. In the distance she could hear the sounds of many rats squeaking and murmuring, and there was a cold and calculating look in her sharp black eyes as she hurried along behind the Grand High Witch and her scaly-tailed companion. Her hand was in her pocket, fingering her bag of bones.

  Gracie’s head hurt.

  She tried to open her eyes, but the stars circling her head twinkled so brightly that she shut them again. Someone dripped cold water on her face, and it dribbled down her neck; she sneezed, and a
voice said, “Told you! I knew she wasn’t dead. She’s just been snuffed.”

  This time Gracie managed to open first one eye, then the other. She was lying on a bed so hard she had thought she was on the floor, and she was surrounded by a group of children with enormous hollow eyes. They were so skinny that the light from the dirty barred window almost shone right through them, but they were looking at her with interest.

  “Where am I?” she whispered.

  “Orphanage,” said the tallest girl. “You should know that. You’ve lived here long enough.”

  “What?” Gracie turned her head to stare at the girl and winced. Her head was throbbing, and there were still a few stars dancing just beyond her vision. She was also extremely cold; her bathrobe had vanished, and her pajamas were muddy and damp. “What do you mean? What orphanage?”

  “He said you wouldn’t know where you were,” said a small boy with sticking-out ears. He peered at Gracie. “Or who you are. And you do look ever so different. He said it was the witches did that to you.”

  Gracie’s head began to spin, and not just with pain. “Witches? What witches?”

  The tallest girl folded her arms. “Come on, Loobly Higgins.” She spoke in a loud, clear voice as if she thought Gracie were deaf or simpleminded. “We know you aren’t very clever, but even you must remember you’ve been up with the witches. Work experience, remember?” She leaned closer, and for a millisecond Gracie thought she saw a tiny wink. “You were let out for a week, and you ran away last night —”

  “And Mr. Brandersby found you, but you didn’t want to come back here, and so he snuffed you!” the small boy interrupted. He sounded as if he were thrilled by the excitement of it all.

  “But you’ll never run away again, will you, Loobly?” The tall girl was now looking at Gracie very hard indeed, and again there was the suspicion of a wink.

  “Erm . . .” Gracie’s thoughts were whirling. Was she expected to agree? “No. No, I’m sure it’s a very bad thing to run away.”