“My fellow…”
“Yes. He was here, earlier. But he didn’t stay. I gave him some soup and then he buggered off. Terrible singer.”
Perpetua put down her cup slowly. “Granny… Can you lift your left arm?”
For a moment the old woman looked perplexed, then did as Perpetua had asked.
“Good. Now can you tell me what the date is, and who’s on the throne.”
“It’s the seventh of Lambling. And King Auran is on the throne, is he not?”
“He is.” Perpetua said. Not an apoplexy of the brain then. She reached out to press her hand against her grandmother’s forehead.
“What are you—” The old woman batted Perpetua’s hand away. “I’m fine.”
“Granny, nothing you just said made any sense.”
“But Auran is on the throne, is he not? Didn’t the queen just give birth to twins?”
“Before that. About my boyfriend, and soup, and singing.”
“Ah,” the old woman said. And then she told her granddaughter about Mulgreen, and the deer, and the singing, and the soup. “I thought he was yours,” she said, when she’d finished her tale. “He was handsome enough, as handsome does.”
Perpetua had not been brought up in the same village as Mulgreen Grey. She was raised two villages over, and their paths had never crossed before. Perpetua was more a barn dance sort of girl, than a ball goer. She wanted to spin and sing and kick her legs about when she was dancing. She liked the pretty gowns that ball attendees wore, but they seemed impractical to dance in, certainly the way she danced, anyway. By the same token, Mulgreen Grey wouldn’t cross the threshold of a barn dance, where everyone shared cups and swigged beer from them, if his life depended on it.
“Handsome?” Perpetua asked. “Blue-eyed? Dark-haired?”
“Yes, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing. He couldn’t sing for toffee though.”
Perpetua had had a friend, in school. Her name was Alara, and though the two were of differing social stations, they’d become close, and had remained so. Perpetua had met Alara three nights previous, so Alara could live vicariously through Perpetua’s adventures in witchery, smithing and barn dancing. As a lawyer’s daughter, Alara was, like Mulgreen, not a frequenter of barn dances. She often went to balls and assembly halls though, and when they’d exhausted all of Perpetua’s tales, had told her all about the last assembly she’d been to, where an incredibly handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed young man had shown up, and promptly been shunned by almost everyone.
“I knew he must have a reputation,” Alara had said. “For there were a great many more women than men there and still no one would dance with him. So I asked around, and it turns out he’s an absolute cad, rake, bounder – you name it, he’s been called it, and likely worse. His name is Mulgreen Grey, and he’s known for his selfishness, cruelty, arrogance, greed, and that’s just for starters. He threw his own father out of their home, although he was a gambler and had lost everything – in fact, he owes Daddy five sovereigns he said he won’t see again, and—”
At this point Perpetua had leant forward and refilled both of their glasses pointedly.
“Sorry, what a tangent. Do forgive me, it’s just so nice to talk to someone I actually like. Where was I? Oh yes, so there he is at the ball, somehow dressed in velvet, casting his net around the place and peacocking about as if he were the new prince. Well, we all knew who he was and stayed clear, of course. Except for Mrs Marshlit. She disappeared off with him and came back five minutes later very red in the face.”
So now this was twice, by Perpetua’s reckoning, that the handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed young man had been mentioned to her. And Perpetua was not one to ignore signs. Until four days ago, there had been no Mulgreen Grey in her world, and now he’d been in it twice, once with a dear friend, causing a stir at a dance, and now, here, at her gran’s, making a nuisance of himself and eating her gran’s soup. Perpetua’s shrewd eyes narrowed, and she sipped her tea.
“Tell me again,” she said. So her grandmother did, and Perpetua’s not-inconsiderable brain began to draw conclusions. What she concluded was that Mulgreen Grey was up to something, and so she resolved to seek him out. She didn’t like the thought of someone as apparently wicked and mean as Mulgreen Grey anywhere near her granny.
What Perpetua didn’t know was that Mulgreen was already on his way back to her grandmother’s house.
Apoplectic with rage, Mulgreen tore through the woodland, terrifying badgers, foxes, deer, pine martens, wolves and even a wild boar. Bushes and trees leapt out of his way, so vast was his rage. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized her handsome boy in the twisted face of the creature that hurtled towards the old woman’s cottage, murder on his mind. His blood was screaming inside him, his breath coming in great snorts and pants. When he saw light flickering distantly he sped up, now sprinting towards the unsuspecting Perpetua and her grandmother.
The women were winding up their visit, chewing on honeycomb and sipping at a fine bramble wine the old woman had laid down five years ago. As she rose to pack a small picnic for Perpetua to take on the walk home, the door of her cottage flew open and there stood Mulgreen, eyes blazing.
“You,” he said, taking one step forward before halting as Perpetua stood and moved between him and her grandmother.
“You,” Perpetua said, knowing at once who the blue-eyed man was.
“Stay out of this,” Mulgreen hissed. “This is between me and the witch.”
He stormed past the girl to face down the old woman. “You lied to me,” he snarled at her. “That was no potion you gave me. It was no spell. Had you done what you were supposed to, I’d not be able to tell you what an ugly, foul, disgusting old hag you are. I wouldn’t be able to tell you that your face looks like a warthog’s arse, and your breath is as foul as a swamp. I wouldn’t be able to say that you’re a repulsive, lying old witch and that I might as well beat you sideways as nothing could make the state of you any worse. You’ll regret lying to me, you filthy wench.”
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears at the onslaught, not at the words, but at the shame of being spoken to so in front of Perpetua. She glanced at her granddaughter, and Mulgreen followed her gaze, his eyes narrowed to vicious slits.
“If you came here for a spell, you’re out of luck,” he spat at her. “She’s a fraud.”
“But I never said I was a witch,” the old woman said, her voice trembling.
“Shut up,” Mulgreen said, without looking back at her.
“I didn’t come here for a spell,” Perpetua’s voice was curiously flat. She met Mulgreen’s blue eyes with her brown ones.
Mulgreen looked her up and down. She was tall, perhaps as tall as he. Lush bodied, her brown hair falling in waves. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Perpetua. Ravenscroft. This is my grandmother’s home.”
Mulgreen remembered what the old woman had said earlier. “Are you here for Perpetua?” Not a potion. Her granddaughter.
He knew then, that he’d made a mistake. That this was his fault, for assuming. But because he was Mulgreen Grey, he couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t even acknowledge it. Instead he thought about how his dreams had been destroyed again. First there was no duchess. Then there was no princess. Now there was no witch. He had nothing: no income, no parents. No friends. No hope. Time and again he’d been thwarted, denied. And no one denied Mulgreen Grey anything.
His eyes were cold when he looked back at the old woman.
“Get out of here, girl,” he said calmly to Perpetua, his back to her. “I don’t think you want to see this.”
The old woman shrank back as Mulgreen raised a hand, reaching for her…
He couldn’t touch her.
He tried again, and again, but each time he missed her. His fury mounted as he tried to grab her, hit her, kick her, but he couldn’t lay a single finger on her.
The woman looked down at the charm that lay against her breastbone, and then loo
ked to where her granddaughter stood, a small, grim smile at her lips.
Once more Mulgreen followed the old woman’s gaze and saw Perpetua. If he couldn’t hurt the old woman, perhaps he could hurt the girl.
He smiled his own, evil smile and the old woman screamed, realizing his intent. Perpetua remained as though frozen, though a poker had appeared in her hand as Mulgreen stalked towards her, his fingers twitching with the need for violence.
“I’m afraid that won’t do you much good, my dear.” His voice was slick with malice. “But you’re welcome to try.”
She raised the poker and held it out, pointing it at him, and he laughed.
Then he stopped. Stopped moving, stopped laughing. Stopped breathing.
Not a poker. A wand.
Perpetua had drawn her wand the moment Mulgreen had whipped past her, the instrument leaping into her hand as though it wanted to be nowhere else. She’d waited, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it, not wanting to use her magic to do harm. She was at heart a good, kind young woman.
But she really did have a devil of a temper, and the moment Mulgreen Grey had tried to attack her grandmother the power began to build, to crackle through her veins, itching for release.
“You’re a witch,” Mulgreen said.
“How dare you raise a hand to my grandmother?” Perpetua’s voice sounded as though a thousand women were speaking through her, and Mulgreen cowered. “How dare you barge into her home, say ugly things to her, threaten her, and try to hurt her?”
Perpetua towered over him now, filling the cottage. Her hair swirled around her as though caught in a hurricane, and her brown eyes had turned black.
“I’ve heard of you, Mulgreen Grey,” Perpetua said. “How as a child you liked to snatch and pinch. How as a young man you stole, and took. How you grasped at girls, without their permission. And now I’ve seen for myself the kind of man you are. Always taking. Always demanding. Always hurting.”
“I wanted—”
“You always want,” Perpetua roared. “Want want want. You wanted a witch – well now you’ve found one. You wanted a spell – I’ll give you one. But you’ll wish I hadn’t. You can add it to the list of things you’ll wish you hadn’t before this night is through…”
At that, Mulgreen lunged, arms outstretched, hands reaching for her.
Perpetua flicked her wand, and a jet of light surged from the tip, wrapping itself like rope around Mulgreen’s wrists. As he watched, it tightened, and tightened, until at last it severed both his hands. They fell to the floor with two meaty thuds, and the light vanished.
There was no pain. There was no blood. There weren’t even any scars. The ends of Mulgreen’s arms ended smoothly, as though he’d never had hands at all.
He stood frozen, staring down at his former appendages.
Perpetua crossed to them and picked them up. She placed them gently in a small basket that had appeared by her side and hooked the basket over Mulgreen’s arm.
“Oh Perpetua,” her grandmother sighed, stepping forward. “What have you done?”
“It’s not forever,” Perpetua said, her voice only faintly sounding as though she wished it were. “They’ll go back on.”
“When?” Mulgreen croaked. He couldn’t look at the witch, nor her grandmother, couldn’t look anywhere but down at his hands, nestled in the basket.
“When what you have given is more than what you have taken.” Perpetua said. “When you’ve done more good than ill. You’ve spent a lifetime taking what isn’t yours. Demanding things you don’t deserve. When the balance is restored, your hands will return to your arms and it’ll be as though it never happened.”
“How long will it take?” Mulgreen asked.
“Only you know that,” Perpetua said. “Only you know exactly how much you have to atone for.”
With that Mulgreen sank to his knees and began to weep.
“Come on, Granny,” Perpetua said. “Pack a bag. I think you’d better come and stay with me for a few days.”
The old woman nodded, and gathered a few things together. They left Mulgreen, still sobbing bitterly, on the dusty floor of the cottage.
That was one hundred years ago. Mulgreen Grey fled the village that very night, and was never seen in those parts again. As time went on, he was almost forgotten. Until tales began to reach the ears of the villagers of a man with no hands who travelled Tallith, Tregellan and even Lormere, beseeching people to allow him to aid them.
Eventually, all the players in the sad story of Mulgreen Grey died, except for Mulgreen himself. He still wanders the earth, looking for good deeds to do, for his goodness has still not matched his wickedness. Until then, he’ll keep going, his basket with his hands in tucked over his arm.
Mully No-Hands, the children call him.
Melinda Salisbury lives by the sea, somewhere in the south of England. As a child she genuinely thought Roald Dahl’s Matilda was her biography, in part helped by her grandfather often mistakenly calling her Matilda, and the local library having a pretty cavalier attitude to the books she borrowed. Sadly she never manifested telekinetic powers. She likes to travel, and have adventures. She also likes medieval castles, non-medieval aquariums, Richard III, and all things Scandinavian.
She can be found on Twitter at @MESalisbury, though be warned, she tweets often.
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The King of Rats first published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2016
The Heart Collector and Mully No-Hands first published in this collection, 2017
Text copyright © Melinda Salisbury, 2016, 2017
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eISBN 978 1407 18140 0
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