Pure Dead Magic

by Debi Gliori

  “We’re talking about her as if she’s a parcel,” sobbed Pandora. “She’s a baby.”

  “She’s a lost baby,” said Titus. “And we have to find her before someone else does.”

  “What d’you mean we?” said Pandora, in between mouthfuls of fingernails. “I don’t know anything about computers or the Internet.”

  They gazed at the screen, each lost in their own thoughts. “Neither do I, really,” admitted Titus. “The Internet’s like a big web, Pandora. It’s absolutely vast. Colossal. Humungous. And somewhere, out there, on one of the millions of strands, is our baby sister.”

  Pandora groaned and rolled back on Titus’s bed. She stared at the ceiling, tears rolling down her face, aware of what little hope they had of retrieving Damp. “Poor baby,” she wept. “Lost on the Web. Stuck, like a … a fly, waiting helplessly for …”

  “You called?” said a voice. Spinning down from the ceiling came a vast hairy spider.

  Titus leapt backward as Tarantella touched down on his monitor. She paused, flexing all eight of her furry legs, and smiling at him with her aggressively pink lips. “YEEEEUCHH,” he said, flapping her away. “Is she still alive? I thought I’d killed her years ago.”

  Tarantella hip-hopped closer, stopping to cup her chin in one of her legs and gaze at this impudent human. “What’s his problem?” she asked Pandora.

  “He’s got several,” said Pandora. “But mainly, he’s got a thing about spiders.”

  “AAARGH—a talking spider,” squeaked Titus. “When did it learn to speak? And wear lipstick? EURCHH. Gross. Kill it, Pandora.” He climbed onto a chair and curled himself up into a spider-proof ball.

  “Titus. Chill out. She’s only a spider,” sighed Pandora.

  “AAARGH—a talking child,” mocked Tarantella. “Yeurk. Urg. Disgusting. And it’s a male one too.… Kill it, Pandora.”

  “Tarantella. Titus,” said Pandora, introducing one to the other. “Do shut up, both of you. Listen, this is really important. We need you, Tarantella. Yes, we,” she added, quelling Titus with a glare. “Tarantella knows about webs; you know about computers. Together you might be able to find Damp.”

  “Is Damp the small wet thing that wears a toilet round her middle?” asked Tarantella, scuttling up a chair leg to face Pandora.

  “Yes. Our four-legged baby sister,” said Pandora. “She’s lost on the biggest web ever.”

  “How big?” said Tarantella, producing a tiny lipstick and applying it to her mouthparts.

  “Urrgh. Aaak. Lipstick …,” gagged Titus.

  “Shut up, Titus,” said Pandora. “The biggest ever,” she continued to the spider, “stretching all the way around the world, and back.”

  “Lots of flies,” murmured Tarantella, licking her lips.

  “More than you could eat in a lifetime,” said Pandora, adding, “and … it’s all Multitudina’s fault.”

  “That verminous baggage,” spat Tarantella. “High time she donated her miserable carcass to medical science.”

  “We’re straying off the point, Pan,” warned Titus. “Time’s flying and here you are rubbishing rodents while Damp wanders the Web.”

  “You don’t mind if I wrap her before I bring her back?” said Tarantella, sidling toward the modem.

  “Just don’t accidentally eat her on the way home,” said Pandora, beginning to twirl her Disposawand.

  Titus instantly turned pale.

  “What a revolting idea.” Tarantella rolled her eyes in disgust. “Have you any idea how putrid human beings taste?” Her voice diminished as her tennis ball body shrank to the size of a period. Spitting delicately on the keyboard, she sprang into the air and vanished into the open drawer of the CD-ROM. Her disembodied voice filtered out. “Terrible compared to a nice plump bluebottle … or a sun-dried daddy longlegs … mmm … deeelicious. So thoughtful of you to leave one in here for me.…” There was a tiny crunch as Tarantella bit into a mummified fly wing she’d discovered in a corner of the modem.

  In a dreamy state of revolted fascination, Titus pressed ENTER.

  A Warm Welcome

  An ornately carved metal gate barred the road to StregaSchloss. It bore a sign that read:

  WARNING

  Trespassers will be

  a. served for breakfast

  b. turned into frogs

  c. forced to eat Brussels sprouts

  Scowling, Pronto braked hard, threw the van into reverse, and backed down the road till he came to a patch of level ground shaded by some dusty chestnut trees. “From now on, we go on foot,” he said, climbing down from the driver’s seat and slouching to the rear of the van to unlock the back doors.

  The three men in black unfolded their stiff legs and climbed out. Pronto retrieved his violin case from a rack inside the van and undid its clasps. Inside, nestled cozily on golden plush, lay a small machine gun. Pronto removed this, ripping away the plush to reveal several magazines of bullets. Threading these into the rapid-load cartridge, he made several clicks and snaps of a sort commonly associated with Being Up to No Good.

  From the roof of the van, a muffled moan reminded him of his forgotten colleague. “Release the rabbit, would you?” he muttered to one of the men in black.

  The man obeyed promptly, cutting the rabbit free with a wicked-looking knife. The rabbit slid off the roof and began to complain.

  “You could have killed me with that stunt, you know,” he moaned. “What if I’d fallen off?”

  “Listen, Bun,” hissed the knife-wielder, “one more peep out of you and you’ll find yourself in pieces, shrink-wrapped in little Styrofoam trays in the refrigerated section of your local supermarket. Do I make myself clear?” He thrust a well-used handgun into the rabbit’s paws and turned on his heel. Trailing a peach-scented cloud, Pronto and the posse tiptoed up the drive to StregaSchloss.

  In the late afternoon sun, a great stillness hung over the house, as if the stone itself was basking in the warmth. Innocent of the impending threat, StregaSchloss, with its total absence of alarms and high-tech security systems, represented a burglar’s dream venue. Nobody appeared at windows or doors, no guard dogs lunged at the end of leashes, and the front door stood ajar. There was, however, a long streak of something green and gelatinous smeared across the low bridge over the moat.

  The rabbit stroked the muzzle of his handgun and scowled into the sun.

  “Not exactly security-conscious, are they?” whispered one of the men in black.

  “Right,” said Pronto to the knife-wielder. “You, by the front door as lookout; you, round the back; and you and the rabbit, in with me through the front door.” Pronto’s black-shod foot made contact with the green glop decorating the moat. Immediately the smell of peach air freshener was overcome by something infinitely more unpleasant. The man posted to the back of the house sat down hurriedly on the edge of the moat.

  “I feel sick,” he muttered. “What is that smell?”

  “Oh here we go again,” moaned the rabbit. “Wait for it.…”

  “Is that youse?” hissed the knife-wielder, swiveling round from his station by the front door. “If you’ve done something in your breeches again, I’m going to install ventilation in yon bunny costume.”

  “Cool it,” muttered Pronto, glaring at his besmirched shoe. “It’s not the rabbit, it’s this green stuff.”

  “I’d hate to meet whatever did that,” said the man at the front door, picking his teeth with his knife blade.

  Gazing nervously around themselves, Pronto and his posse neglected to look upward. On wobbly wings, Ffup was on the home flight. Whatever had been in last night’s smocked hiccup was responsible for the worst case of dragon diarrhea he’d encountered in 600 years. Ffup was hoping to make it back to his dungeon without another recurrence, but as his wings bore him closer to home, he realized that this was not to be.…

  “Bombs away!” he yelled, swooping low over StregaSchloss. He saw little figures on the ground fleeing from the large green projectile tha
t was speeding their way.

  “And a direct hit, if I’m not mistaken,” he observed to himself.

  With a tremendous slapping sound, Ffup’s digestive overload landed on a human target. There was a scream, a ghastly choking sound, and then silence.

  Close to the epicenter, the man on the edge of the moat groaned deeply, sank his face into his hands, and began to rock backward and forward, clutching his machine gun and moaning as he did so. In the reeds at the far side of the moat, something stirred. Something that hadn’t eaten a nanny for weeks, never mind a gangster.…

  “Come on,” commanded Pronto, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He stepped carefully round the vast green puddle at the front door. “We’ve got a job to do. No time for sentimentality. Hey. You,” he pointed to the man by the moat. “Take over at the door.”

  “This wasn’t in the contract,” muttered the rabbit, his tongue suddenly freed by the demise of the knife-wielder. “No one warned me about low-flying dragon poo. No one, come to think of it, so much as mentioned dragons.” Regarding the slimy body of his fallen colleague with horror, he followed Pronto into StregaSchloss. As the front door closed behind them, there came a loud splash as Tock discovered the gastronomic delights of raw gangster with a light garnish of machine gun.

  The Hot Toddy Revisited

  Low bars of afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows of StregaSchloss, doing little to dispel the atmosphere of gloom in Titus’s bedroom. Unaware that their home was being invaded, Titus and Pandora sat in front of the computer screen. Titus felt awful. No matter which keys he pressed or files he opened, he couldn’t find a way to locate Damp. Who am I trying to kid, he thought, sending a spider off down a modem into the mother of all webs? There’s no way Tarantella’ll find her. Face facts, pal, you’re in trouble. You need bigger, more qualified help than a talking spider with a knowledge of terrestrial webs.…

  Pandora gazed hopelessly into space. Her eyes focused on nothing as she chewed her last fingernail, trying not to start crying again. It’s hopeless, she thought, we don’t know what we’re doing, Tarantella doesn’t know where she’s going, and Damp is probably lost forever. At this point, a vast wave of unhappiness swept over her, and she began to cry.

  “Come on, Pandora,” said Titus, wrapping an arm round his weeping sister. “We’ve got to face up to this. We need help.”

  Pandora’s shoulders heaved.

  “I’m going to tell Mum,” Titus decided. “We can’t handle this on our own.”

  Pandora’s face appeared from behind her hands. Her eyes were pink, her nose ran, and her face was awash with tears. Titus doubted if it was humanly possible to look more miserable than his sister did at this moment. “Mum’ll kill us,” she whispered.

  “Yup,” agreed Titus, adding illogically, “but it’ll be worth it to get Damp back.”

  “I’d do anything for that,” sobbed Pandora.

  “I know,” said Titus, patting her back. “I’d do anything as well. She may be small and smelly, but she’s ours, our baby sister.”

  “I miss her,” howled Pandora, “even if she does take up all the bed.”

  “Me too,” said Titus, his voice wobbling dangerously near to a sob. “Don’t worry, Mum’ll know what to do.”

  They stood outside Signora Strega-Borgia’s bedroom, unsure of what to do next.

  “You go first,” said Titus. “You tell her.”

  “I’d rather you did,” said Pandora.

  “No, you tell her. You look really sad, she’ll feel sorry for you,” said Titus. “I look too normal, she’ll think I don’t care or something.”

  “MUM,” sobbed Pandora, opening the door and starting to cry again. “Mum, something awful’s happened.…”

  Signora Strega-Borgia lay across her bed, a huge smile on her face. She hiccuped, rolled onto her stomach, and fell onto the carpet, still smiling. “Oopsee,” she said. “Shilly me. Shorry, darlingsh, Mummy’s a bit shquiffy.” For some reason, she appeared to find this enormously funny, and she rolled around on the carpet, roaring with laughter at her own wit.

  Titus was horrified. “She’s drunk,” he hissed.

  “Legleshh,” agreed Signora Strega-Borgia, overhearing Titus’s comment. “Drunk ash a shkunk. Wheeeee. Dear Mishish McLachlan and her hot toddy. Hot toddy. Soddy soddy, lots of toddy.” She rolled to a halt at Pandora’s feet and gazed upward at her daughter. “Wosha matter, darling?” she slurred. “You look a bit upshet. Bit shad? Down in the dumpsh?”

  Pandora sank to her knees, still crying. “We’ve lost Damp,” she began. “On the computer. I borrowed one of your spells, shrank Damp, and she ended up in the modem.”

  Titus looked at Pandora in admiration. She didn’t mention my part in the disappearance of Damp, he thought. Mind you, he added, nor did she mention Multitudina’s.…

  “Modem, shmodem,” said Signora Strega-Borgia unhelpfully. “That’sh your father’sh department. Me, I’m jusht a shimple witshhh, no interesht whatshoever in technoloshy.”

  “But Mum—we’ve lost Damp. She’s vanished.”

  Pandora watched as her mother heaved herself across the carpet and hauled herself inelegantly back into bed. She picked up her pillow, gazed at it in apparent adoration, and kissed it tenderly before placing it on the bed beside her. With a little smile, she pulled the covers up to her chin. “Ashk your father,” she said, closing her eyes. “He’sh good with computersh. And don’t worry about Damp,” she added, patting her pillow lovingly. “She’sh quite shafe here with Mummy, aren’t you, pet?”

  Titus and Pandora stood unbelievingly by their mother’s bedside, watching until her heavy breathing turned into loud snores. In a state of shock, they tiptoed backward out of the bedroom. In floods of tears, Pandora fled to the bathroom.

  “She was drunk,” muttered Titus as he stormed upstairs. “I’ve never, ever seen her do that before. She was disgustingly, dreadfully, horribly, revoltingly DRUNK!” Titus burst into tears and sat down abruptly on the stairs. I can’t handle this, he thought. First, Dad does a bunk, then Damp vanishes, and now … He gripped one of the balustrades as if he wished to throttle it. Fathers aren’t supposed to leave their children, baby sisters aren’t supposed to shrink and vanish into the ether, and mothers are definitely not supposed to get drunk. Holding the balustrade for support, Titus stood up. Wearily, as if he carried a huge weight on his shoulders, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and headed for his bedroom. Closing the door firmly behind him, Titus looked around himself. His bedroom afforded little comfort. No solutions leapt out at him from the overcrowded bookcase. He didn’t own any manuals on how to find missing babies. The afternoon sun shining in through the window failed to raise his spirits, and it only served as a reminder that Damp had been missing for several hours. His unmade bed seemed to be the sleeping place of some other, younger version of himself. The model airplanes dangling from the ceiling on dusty threads were made by some other, younger Titus. With the disappearance of his father and now Damp, Titus felt that his childhood was over. Something has to be done, he resolved. Help has to be found.

  He sat down heavily in the chair in front of his computer and began to type a message to his father.

  signor strega-borgia at dad@mafia.org.ital

  Dad,

  We’re in trouble. Damp is lost, mum is drunk, and we need your help. Please can you come home immediately? And no more sad kidnap stuff. this is serious.

  Love,

  Titus

  He pressed ENTER, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, but still nothing. No reassuring MESSAGE SENT box, just his own letter hanging there on the blue screen.

  “Oh GREAT!” yelled Titus. “Just what I need. Come on. Do it for me. Just this once. Please.”

  Unknown to Titus, inside the modem a minute speck of fly wing dropped by the outgoing Tarantella lay across a vital part of the circuitry. This was causing Titus’s message to pause in its journey, shriek to a halt, perform a speedy U-turn and head back to
base with the happy news that the information superhighway was now blocked. Also unknown to Titus, this was one of those occasions when a swift thwack to the modem would have solved the problem. However, Titus had been brought up to seek logical solutions rather than those of brute force. In vain, he opened files, scrolled through Help directories, and trawled through computer manuals before laying his head on the keyboard and conceding defeat.

  His sister was lost, his mother drunk, and his father unreachable. Concluding that there was nothing more that he could do, Titus loaded Death & Destruction II and began to plan his assault on Nettlefold.

  Tarantella Does the Biz

  Routed from stregaschloss.co.uk to dad@mafia.org.ital, Damp had one brief glimpse of her father’s face before being whizzed off to the Web site for The Really Authentic Italian Food Company, known to its many clients worldwide as spag.bol@mamma.

  Here was the place where you logged on to order pasta by the square mile. Here was where you could, should you wish, order up a pizza the size of the Coliseum.

  Damp huddled in a corner of a monitor and looked out. Launched onto the Internet before lunchtime, she was now extremely hungry. The sight of so much food reminded her that she’d missed a meal. Wishing to share this discovery, she pressed her face up against the glass of the screen and began to grizzle. This failed to produce the desired result. No one scooped her up and bore her off to the kitchen, bib, and bowl. Damp turned up her volume a bit. Nobody noticed. Resorting to desperate measures, Damp flung herself around, thrashing her arms and legs, and uttered a brain-curdling shriek. Unfortunately, since she was the size of an atom, her best efforts were little louder than a whisper.

  Her tiny body connected with an outgoing e-mail, and before she could blink, she found herself once more hurtling along the information superhighway like a human tumble-weed. Damp closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and howled. She whizzed along telephone wires, under the sea, along deep-sea communication cables, and occasionally was bounced up into outer space via satellites. Lights flashed past, electricity hummed, and computers shrieked like strangulated peacocks. Damp was thoroughly dizzy and deafened. Abruptly she came to a near standstill. She swung back and forth, at first in a wide arc, and then slower and slower in decreasing swings till finally she came to a complete halt.