Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  Grandfather bongs six bells and the sound of impending drudgery echoes up the staircase. And this little game will have to wait. “Oh, you two,” I say to them. And I’m up and out of my chair. Throbbing head or not, there’ll be worse to pay for if I’m late to school. “If this were Sunday, we’d be having a long chat.”

  “If this was Sunday, chérie,” says Broom, “it’d be a lot longer tha—”

  And Cat swipes him, harder this time, three scratches across his handle. “You get that big moron with the buggy and I’ll get our Miss Dixxon’s head sorted for school,” he says. “We’ve no more time to futz with the aftermath of your feeble attempts at conjuring. There are more dangerous matters for her to attend.”

  Broom’s out the door and into the hallway like he’s a teenage whisk about to slide down the banister.

  Cat looks a little too pleased with himself.

  But I’m out of my night dress and I throw it on him. “Saved by the bell, are you?”

  By the time he crawls out from under my night dress, I’m into my long black school skirt and frilled up long-sleeved white shirt. He clears his throat—the hot fires don’t help his furballs much. “As if I have any control over what that bonging old clonger does with time, miss.”

  I cock my head this time. I wish I had time to dig the truth out of this little black ball of fibbing fur. “Be that as it may, Mister Baxxster . . . Boyette”—he cringes a little at that—“we simply must get ourselves to school.”

  “And since we must,” he says, “Miss Dixxon Dubois, it’s time for you to go play pattycake pretend with the rest of Christ’s cretins.”

  And with that we both giggle, give each other a look, and silently agree to take this matter up after school. By then, maybe my head will be clear and we can get to the bottom of what just happened in my clearing.

  But always one to get the last word, Cat says, “Indeed.”

  — 2 —

  MY LONG-LACED black boots “chop-chop” their way down the Mangy Mansion’s long winding staircase.

  “Mansion” is not the word a human might use. A run-down, dark wooden den for wicked witches, a townsperson might call it. But it’s been my home for . . . well, forever, I believe. And like I said, dark and shadowy aren’t the same things to a witch. “Nothing wrong with a little wicked,” Magnolia always says. “It’s evil you have to look out for.”

  My friend Magnolia is the only thing that makes school bearable. I’m looking forward to seeing her. We’ve got a lot to sort out, especially this week.

  Mangy flashes a boomer into the fireplace in the sitting room, just to the other side of the foyer. But I’m not headed over there yet. First, I’ve got to check on my little kitchen witchies.

  “Morning, Mangy,” I say. “I’ll be back in a speck.”

  Something, somewhere—I’ve never been able to figure out what it is or where it comes from—groans and moans back. “Muuuuuummm” is all Mangy ever says, out loud to me anyway. He talks to Cat all the time, or Cat’s the only one who can understand his groans and creaks, but I don’t think they like each other much. Then again, Cat’s a prickly stick to most.

  And I’m through the big swinging door to the kitchen.

  “Magical morning, everyone.”

  The lot of them answer me, “Monday to Sunday, chérie.”

  My cauldron’s still puffing green smoke from the middle of the room. It’s been boiling for. . . I guess almost a month. A good potion takes time most of all, you know.

  I lean in, careful not to whiff in too much of it. I’ve had enough of the effects of “tea” today. “Almost ready,” I say to myself. I’m quite pleased with the results so far. It’ll be witch-watering wicked when it’s ready. I can’t wait.

  The kitchen’s heavy, dark and wooden, just like the rest of the mansion, but a constant boomer in the pit under my cauldron makes for a nice bright orange glow that you can cook by or enjoy the morning with friends before school.

  I pull Pot from the iron rod she’s hanging over the fire on. “A fine spot of tea to start,” I say to her. Pots have feelings too, you know. “Hold the nightlock, please.” And I pour some into my favorite, Smug.

  Saucer and Smug are not to be trifled with, so I simply sip and enjoy. “Mmmm, it’s a good brew, Pot.”

  “That it is, young miss,” she says. All pots are ladies.

  “You wouldn’t trust a fine morning brew to a gentleman,” Cat’s told me more than once. “Men make a mess of things. Worse than any mangy crocdog can,” is his fifth favorite warning . . . or maybe it’s the sixth. He has so many that I get the order confused. I smile to myself.

  “A right fine start to a right fine day,” Pot says. “Off to school are we, chérie?”

  She knows where I’m going—I go every Monday—but better than brewing, pots are perfect for polite conversation over a nice spot of tea.

  I stand tall and proud and recite the school motto for my kitchen witch friends, “No shifter or drifter or cauldron sifter, shall go unpunished by a brother or sister.”

  Now, kettles on the other hand. . . “Lord almighty,” Kettle says from the stove, “they about have you brainwashed with the rest of them Christ-crazy cretins. Don’t you go bringing that voodoo-hoodoo back to this house, Miss Dixxon. One day those evil little leaches are gonna go too far. We shoulda never let them past the Purge. They’ll be the death of us all!”

  Kettle’s pretty old-world warlock in his assessment of humans and the dangers they pose to us magic folk. But things have been quiet for me and I wasn’t even around for the Purge, so I couldn’t agree or disagree with him. But after what I saw last night. . . What I think I saw. . . Well, it seemed to me that we magic makers can get as wicked as they say we are.

  Normally, I’d ask my kitchen friends about my “vision,” but I’m running short on time this morning, so I stick to the pleasantries. I’ll probably ask Oven this afternoon.

  “Oven,” I say to her, “what’ll it be today?” She always has biscuits.

  Oven’s a bit of an old-world bayou drama queen, but she’s fun. She knows more than most in this house, and she’s not afraid to share it with anyone who’ll listen. She opens up and a puff of light white smoke comes billowing out. I can smell the creme fraiche biscuits. “I can tell you one thing, Missy D,” she says, “it won’t be none of that poo-yee-yi that was comin’ in off the porch last night. What are them little white-striped bebettes doin’ out there, anyway?”

  I stop and simply enjoy the smell of biscuits for a second. There’s nothing like Oven’s treats. “They’re just doing their jobs, O,” I say to her. “Just like all of you do so well.” This is as good as my day will get—my kitchen and my “witchin’ ” friends. I try to stay positive as long as I can before I have to get serious for school.

  “You are too sweet,” says Oven, “probably why that big ole tahyo wanna eat you up last night. We heard them screamin’ and howlin’. Whole swamp heard that, I imagine.”

  She laughs and giggles and the rest of the kitchen goes right along with her.

  Interesting. . . Add that to my list of things to talk to Cat about. I can feel my face heating up and I look at the cauldron and touch my cheeks. “Oh,” I say to her, “you are just—”

  “Mmm-huh,” she says. “That ain’t no cauldron heat on your cheeks, missy. What that black Baxxster Cat sayin’? Seven more days ’til you ain’t a chiren no more. And you keep going in that swamp, lookin’ for who knows what trouble. . . Dogs’ game turn into a fight like that.”

  “Well,” I say, “Cat says that Broom spell-spiked our tea last night and I. . .” I might as well just go ahead and ask her. “What did you hear last night, anyway? Broom made us some pretty painful tea and biscuits, and—”

  I don’t see the door to the kitchen swing open behind me, but there isn’t a board in the mansion that doesn’t creak, moan or groan. And by the looks on all their faces and the silence that follows, I know it’s Cat.

  Oven has a “speci
al” truce with Cat, left over from some time no one will talk about. “En parlant du diable, on voit sa queue,” she mutters. It seems they only negotiate it with Cajun Creole jabs I’ve yet to figure out.

  Cat trots to the center of the kitchen and hops up on the big wooden table across from Oven. He sits down and licks his right paw. This won’t be good. He’s very still when he answers her, “Le cheval reste dans l'écurie, le mulet dans la savane.”

  “Know my. . .?” Oven opens and slams her door shut a few times, before she replies, “Know my place? I’ll roast your little arrogant, Baxxster a—”

  “And if you do. . .” Cat says. He’s calm. There’s little chance of anything happening between them. Just about all the fur or smoke that ever flies around here comes from witch words. “. . .she’ll be late to school, and then our friend will come looking for her, and then we’ll all be roasting.”

  The rest of the kitchen remains silent at that, but Saucer and Smug rattle in my hands, just a touch. They’re tough as they come—they’d do anything to defend me—but no one wants a mess in the kitchen. Least of all the witchies who have to clean it up.

  I glance over at the kitchen door when it creaks, and Broom’s got his handle poked in just enough that he can see. “Buggy’s boiling in the drive, chérie,” he says. Once he notices Cat staring down Oven, he steps all the way into the kitchen and the door creaks shut behind him.

  Cat doesn’t even move. He just keeps staring at Oven. Her door’s quivering. Maybe this will turn ugly.

  Broom takes a couple of whisks at the floor. “Look at you two,” he says to them, “still stuck in the past, prodding and poking at each other like it wasn’t fifteen years ago. Bile Island be damned, it was near sixteen years. Bloody hell.” Now he’s swished closer to both of them. “I can stomach your juvenile joking at me—part a my job—but your brawling before chérie’s had breakfast? Ashamed of yourselves. You’ve got jobs to do—you swore an oath. Same as me. Far as I can remember, didn’t include airing out your quitches in the kitchen.”

  Broom’s content to go along and get along most of the time, but we all have our limits. I’ve rarely seen his, but this seems to be it.

  Cat hops down off the table and trots to the door, making sure that Oven and the rest of us get a good view of his backside. He flicks his white patch and stops. “Mets pas ton doigt entre l’arbre et l’écorce,” he says. Then the kitchen door creaks open and he’s out before Oven can say anything.

  The rest of us just stare at Broom.

  Broom scoffs at the door. “Finger between the tree and the bark,” he says. He looks back at Oven. “I know why his tail’s all twisted up, but you’re getting a bit rusty in the hinges for this, O. And lessen you forgot, he was the only thing ’tween you and a dented door, if I remember. And you both lost something ’cause a it.”

  O spits out her tray of biscuits onto the table and slams her door shut. “No love lost here.” I’m pretty sure that’s the last anyone will get out of her this morning.

  “Broom?” I say to him.

  He ignores me. “The rest of you wicked witchies, chérie’s off to school in a stitch. Mind yourselves, you will, ’cause I’ll be keepin’ the fireplaces fresh and flaming until she gets back. Any more a this and I’m liable to pitch one of you in ’em. They’s fairies afoot, witchies, and I won’t have you quitching amongst yourselves with that going on. It’s giants in the garden this week and my handle feels like croctarts for breakfast. So keep a sharp stick out, the lot of you!”

  I look around the room. “Well,” I say, “I think what Broom means is that—”

  But Broom creaks out the kitchen door. “Bloody hell. . .”

  I have no idea what he was saying, but from the looks on my kitchen witchies’ faces, they certainly do.

  I come out of the kitchen, drinking a little tea from Smug and munching one of Oven’s creme biscuits. The door creaks shut behind me.

  I can see Cat and Broom in the sitting room across the foyer. They seem to be chatting to each other like nothing ever. . .? I wash my bite down with a sip of tea and set Saucer and Smug down before I go in to give Cat and Broom a little speck of my thoughts on their behavior. Atrocious. . .

  When I enter the room, they end their conversation. “Ready for school?” asks Broom.

  “What,” I say to him—both of them really, “was that all about? That was. . . I just don’t know what to make of it.” I look right at Cat. “And you. . . Oven has never spoken like that to you. Your manners with her are horrible. You need to be minding them a bit more closely.”

  “Manners,” Cat says, “Yes. . .”

  Broom chuckles, but then covers his mouth.

  “And you,” I say to him, “you shouldn’t be laughing. I’ve never—I had to leave Saucer and Smug in the hall for fear you’d insult them too.”

  Broom uncovers his mouth. I can’t believe he’s still smiling. “I don’t know ’bout any insulting,” he says, “but I do know a little about injury. And as for manners, they’s nothing like a little ‘bad Cat-badder Broom’ to get everyone minding theirs.” He nudges Cat a little with his handle. “What’s say there, sir?”

  “You were spectacular,” Cat says. Then he licks a paw and rubs his ear a little, thoroughly satisfied with himself. He looks like he just ate three mice—tails sticking out of his mouth and all. “ ‘Quitching,’ indeed.”

  I wave my hand behind me and Saucer and Smug go flying back toward the kitchen. I don’t want them to hear any of this. Once they creak through the door and I hear them rattle down into the sink, I say, “So all that. . .?”

  Cat stands up and heads toward the foyer. “After school, miss,” he says. “We’re cutting it close enough as it is. Suffice to say, there’s been a troubling lack of security around this mansion, and I employed our nocking knot of a broomstick here to help me remedy it.” Cat has a habit of speaking as if everyone should know what he’s talking about. “The entire potioning palace, you and I included if I might say so, have gone a little ‘pixie in the wind’ of late. And it’s been my unfortunate experience that just about the time that happens, something unexpected happens as well. This late in—your birthday looming. . . I won’t have it. And with your visions getting worse. . . Swamp slogging behind my back—real or in a vision—there’s black magic afoot. I can feel it in the tip of my tail.”

  Broom swishes up next to me and gently puts my arm under his. “Let’s get you off to school, chérie. Best way to get a day done is to get it begun.”

  “But. . .” This is all getting to be a bit much.

  “Hurry now,” Broom says, “or the both of you’ll be late.”

  “Both?” I say. “Who else is. . .?”

  “Mangy,” Cat says at the front doors, “if you please.”

  Mangy moans open the front doors. And this is the first thing I completely understand today, and I smile down the steps at her.

  Just down the front steps of the mansion, past the skunks and peering out the side window of my battered black carriage, like she’s been waiting all night for me, is Magnolia.

  I let out a little squeal. I can hardly help it. I have so much to tell her. So much to ask, too.

  Magnolia’s a witch like me, the only other one I know of at school. And just like me, she’s hiding in plain sight to keep the humans from finding her.

  With the clothes we have to wear, you might mistake us for twins, but everyone has to wear them. Well, a version of them anyway because some of “us”. . . I understand why, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

  Regardless, Magnolia’s much more worldly than I am—she pushes the boundaries a bit more, too. And she’s out of the carriage and running over to me. “Six days,” she says. We hug and kiss each other on the cheeks—first one side then the other—pretending we’re important white witches of the new world. When we stop, she looks up the steps. “Why, Baxxster Boyette,” she says, “aren’t you looking seriously sweet this morning.” Magnolia’s not much for Cat’s
rules about his name, but he never seems to mind when she uses it. “And, Knoxx, you’re looking well-swept as well, aren’t you.” She waves a hand at them and raises her eyebrows a little. “Ya’ll must be getting plenty a good rest this week.” She giggles. Then she looks up above them. “You keeping these two teasers in line, Mangy?” She shakes a playful finger up at him. “You remember the last time they got caught resting their eyes. . .”

  Mansion moans like I’ve never heard him before.

  Neither Cat nor Broom say a word, and the silly smiles on their faces look ridiculous. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but when Magnolia witches words with them, they act like the undead.

  “What’s a matter, Broom,” Magnolia says, “Cat got your tongue in trouble again this mornin’?”

  A whinny from one of the carriage horses reminds us all that school’s waiting. And I hate it when he does it—he can be so callous—but my driver’s got a job to do and the undead are nothing if not focused. Snap! He cracks his whip above the horses’ heads and their feet start to clop in place.

  Magnolia and I both giggle. You can put a tall black top hat on them, a tattered black coat with long tails. . . You can even spell them up to look human, but nothing can be done about those bugging eyes. However, if you’ve got a dirty job that needs doing, night or day, the undead will get it done . . . without fail.

  So when Cat descends the stairs, stands next to the driver’s seat and says, “Safely to school and back at the end of the day, sir. If you don’t mind.” You can bet that’s where we’re going and what will be happening.

  Magnolia and I barely get inside the carriage when we hear the whip again, and we’re jerked to the back seat. And the horses, the carriage and the both of us are all racing up the gravelway to town like we’re being chased by soul suckers.

  The inside of my carriage is spelled up much nicer than the outside. Not that anyone who peered in would know, but Magnolia and I can see it plain as the moon. Dark green velvet seats and the glowing floor would be enough for them to burn us at the stake, but if any human ever saw the rusty cauldron. . .