Clover Twig and the Magical Cottage

by Kaye Umansky

  Still, she hesitated.

  It was at that point that a large black cloud slid across the moon. The garden went from silver to black, and it began to rain. Slowly at first, just a thin pitter patter of drops. But within seconds, there was a downpour.

  That did it. Clover dropped the curtain and hurried to the door. If she left the cake out, it would be ruined. Anyway, what was she afraid of? It wasn’t as though she had to cross the threshold. She could just reach out and bring it in.

  It only took a moment or two to deal with the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Surprise!

  Outside, the rain was really coming down. Heavy drops were bouncing off the cake and rapidly forming a puddle on the doorstep. Hastily, Clover reached out and picked it up—it was satisfyingly heavy—then moved back into the kitchen.

  Behind her, a sudden gust of wind tore the door wide open, then smashed it closed again.

  The cake smelled wonderful—of sugar and spice and all things unbelievably nice. She carried it to the table, admired it for a moment, then hurried back to deal with locking the bolts across the door.

  There, she thought, as she shot the last one across. Safe again.

  Outside, the rain abruptly stopped. Just like that.

  “Neville?” shouted Clover. “Where are you?” She went to the staircase and peered up into the shadows. There was no sign of him.

  “Come on down,” she coaxed. “If you’re really good, I’ll give you a little lick of icing.”

  And then a voice said, “Well. Isn’t he the lucky cat?”

  Clover whirled round and nearly collapsed with shock.

  Floating in the air just behind her was a head.

  It was a woman’s head. The hair was swept up in an elaborate pile that reached almost to the rafter. Perched on top was a pair of large glasses with green frames. The face beneath was powdered white—all but the mouth, which was scarlet. The eyes were emerald green. Identical eyes to Mrs. Eckles—except colder.

  The head was abruptly cut off at the base of the neck. Floating in the air below was a furled, dripping umbrella—and at floor level, there was a pair of feet, jammed into a pair of bright red high-heeled shoes.

  Slowly, the disembodied feet backed towards the door, with the head keeping pace. The hard green eyes never left Clover’s face. The umbrella rose and deposited itself on the hook where Mrs. Eckles always hung her pointy hat.

  There was a rustling sound, and a body began to emerge. It appeared with a kind of confused rippling effect, one bit at a time. First, the ankles. Then the lower part of a scarlet gown. Then two arms materialized, wearing matching scarlet elbow length gloves. Then came the upper part of the body—then the shoulders. The head vanished briefly then was back again, joined to the neck. There was the sound of something wet and wooly dropping to the floor.

  “Surprise!” hissed Mesmeranza.

  Clover’s eyes flickered to the drawer containing the rolling pin.

  “I’d advise you not to try anything stupid,” Mesmeranza went on. “I’m in, you see. In at last. Back in the dear old cottage. And about to make myself at home.”

  She stooped down and both hands vanished. She reached up to the hook and suddenly her hands were once again on the end of her arms.

  “There,” she said. “Know the old saying? Wherever I hang my Poncho of Imperceptibility, that’s my home.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Clover, finding her voice at last.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s ‘Wherever I Hang My Hat.’ That’s Mrs. Eckles’s hook. She hangs her hat there. That makes it her home.”

  “Not anymore,” said Mesmeranza. “I’m over the threshold. All spells are down, all bets are off, all old folk sayings are rubbish anyway, and the cottage is mine.”

  Suddenly, with no warning, she threw open her arms and twirled around on the spot.

  “Mine!” she shrieked. “Mine mine mine!”

  Then she began to laugh. It was a shrill, triumphant cackle that went on for quite a long time. Clover thought it was overdone.

  “Have you quite finished?” asked Clover. “If you must gloat, at least do it quietly.”

  Mesmeranza spun to a halt. She put her head on one side and examined Clover.

  “Oooh! Big, bold words from such a small girl! It’s not a good idea to clash with me, deary. Do you know who I am?”

  “Oh yes. I know,” said Clover. “You’re Mrs. Eckles’s sister. She told me a lot about you.”

  “Oh, she did? Such as?”

  “Well now, let me think. What was it again? Oh yes. You’re greedy. And selfish and vain and spiteful and never want to share. Oh, and you cheat.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. You’re as old as she is. You only look like that because you’ve got a Magic Mirror that keeps you looking young.”

  “I see. She told you about that, did she?” Mesmeranza spoke coldly. Her green eyes narrowed. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. She said you can’t come in unless you’re invited.”

  “Well,” said Mesmeranza, “That just goes to show how wrong she is. Because, would you believe it, here I am! And do you know what? It’s your fault. You brought me in. Well, not all of me. Just a small piece of me. An eyelash, to be precise. A single eyelash hidden in the cake. That’s all it took. And the second you brought it over the threshold, the rest of me followed wearing Grandmother’s trusty Poncho.”

  “You should let it down,” said Clover. “It shows your silly feet. And it smells of mothballs.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to make personal remarks, deary,” snapped Mesmeranza. “That green dress is very faded, and the boots are simply appalling. Who are you anyway? Do you have a name?”

  “Clover Twig. I’m here to clean. I’m taking care of the cottage while Mrs. Eckles is away.”

  “Well,” said Mesmeranza, staring around, “I can see you’re a good cleaner. I’ve never seen the old place looking so thoroughly scrubbed. But you’ve fallen down rather badly in the caretaking department, I’m afraid. So I shall fire you.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Clover.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you didn’t hire me. Mrs. Eckles did.”

  “Mrs. Eckles, Mrs. Eckles! It might have escaped your notice, but Demelza is conspicuous in her absence. I’m in charge now and very much looking forward to settling in.”

  Mesmeranza gave a little twirl, then threw herself into Mrs. Eckles’s rocking chair.

  “You see?” she purred. “Here I am, making myself comfortable. In a moment, I shall treat myself to a celebration slice of that delicious cake. And then I shall reacquaint myself with the old place. Drag the wretched cat out from wherever he’s hiding and tie his whiskers in knots, just like I did in the old days. Poke around in private cupboards and help myself to anything I fancy. Unravel Demelza’s knitting. And then, finally, when I’m good and ready, off I shall go, taking the cottage with me. Sadly, my plans don’t include you. You, little Miss Twig, will be going home.”

  “So make me.”

  The words were out before Clover could stop them. They were probably not very wise words, but as we know, Clover has a bit of a stubborn streak.

  “Oh, I can make you. Nothing will give me more pleasure.” Mesmeranza reached up, took the dark glasses from her head, and settled them on her nose. “Look into the glasses. Look deep. What do you see?”

  “Little green sparks,” said Clover. She shifted her eyes slightly until she was focussing on Mesmeranza’s nose. Then she disconnected her brain from her eyes. The sparks whizzed about angrily, demanding her attention, dancing on the edge of her vision, but Clover ignored them. She was thinking about other things.

  “Are they spinning?”

  “Yes,” said Clover. She was thinking about frosty mornings, when you could see your breath in the air.

  “You’re under. Listen to my voice. You will leave this cottage. You will walk st
raight home, and you will not return. You will tell no one about this meeting. What did I just say?”

  “That I’ve got to go home, not come back, and say nothing,” said Clover, thinking about the taste of ripe cheese.

  “Good,” said Mesmeranza. There was a long pause. “Well, go on, then.”

  “No,” said Clover, thinking about what everyone would be doing at home right now. “I like it where I am, thank you.”

  “Why aren’t you under?” snapped Mesmeranza. She snatched off the glasses. “How are you able to resist the Hypnospecs? Has Demelza been training you up? Is that it?”

  “No,” said Clover. “I’m just good at staring.”

  “Oh, you are? Then it seems that tougher measures are required. Let’s see how good you are at dealing with this!”

  She opened her bag and took out a thin, black stick. She raised her arm and pointed it at Clover.

  “Goodbye, Clover Twig,” she said. “I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  And then the world exploded.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Breaking and Entering

  Wilf was only a short way away from the cottage when he saw the flash. A sudden, vivid blaze of light that briefly lit the trees up ahead, then flickered out. Then, once again, the woods were dark.

  Panting hard, trying to move quietly and not to bump into anything, Wilf crept forward, keeping low and ducking behind bushes. He stopped behind a tree at the edge of the moonlit glade and cautiously peered around.

  There were no lights showing in the cottage. It looked just the same as it always did … apart from one thing. The gate was off its hinges. It lay flat on the ground. It had a nasty dent in its bottom bar, and it wasn’t talking.

  “Psssssst!” hissed Wilf. “Gate!”

  There was a pause. Then a little tinkling sound, like rust falling. And the gate said, feebly, “Out of order. Try again tomorrr …”

  Its voice rattled off into silence.

  “Wilf?”

  The voice came from behind him. He whirled around. There, sitting on the ground, half in and half out of a ditch, was Clover. She looked quite unlike herself. Her dress was crumpled. There were twigs and leaves in her hair, and she looked rather dazed.

  “Clover!” gasped Wilf. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  He hurried towards her and stretched out a hand. Uncertainly, she grasped it, and he hauled her to her feet.

  “I don’t know, exactly,” said Clover. “One minute I was in the kitchen, then she pointed the Wand at me and … Whoo! I feel a bit dizzy.”

  “She?” Wilf put an arm around her shoulders to steady her.

  “Mesmeranza! Mrs’ Eckles’s horrible sister! She’s taken over the cottage! I did my best, but I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” said Wilf, soothingly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But it is! I took the cake in! I wasn’t going to, but she used the Bad Weather Umbrella, and I thought the cake would get ruined in the rain. She must have been waiting by the door, but I didn’t see her because she was wearing the Poncho of Imperceptibility …”

  “Whoa!” said Wilf. “Look, just slow down. Let’s move back under the trees.”

  Firmly, he led her into the shadows. There was a fallen branch, and he gently pushed her down onto it, then crouched next to her.

  “Just take a deep breath and tell me everything.”

  “Well,” said Clover, “I was sitting in the kitchen …” And she told him all about it, in as few words as possible.

  “Well I’m blown away,” said Wilf grimly, when she finished. “An eyelash, eh? Talk about sneaky.”

  “But I should have been more careful. I should have guessed it was a trick.”

  “I don’t see how. Mrs. Eckles said cakes were all right. You couldn’t have known.”

  “That doesn’t help, though, does it?” said Clover, miserably. “I let her in, and now she’s going to steal the cottage and it’s all my fault and I don’t know what to do.”

  “We, you mean. We’re in this together.” This sounded rather brave and heroic, so he repeated it. “We’re definitely in this together. You can count on me.”

  “What are you doing here anyway?” asked Clover. “Did you forget something?”

  “No,” said Wilf. And, briefly, he summarized Grampy’s strange tale.

  “ … and it was when he said about the red shoes,” he finished. “The phantom horse was weird enough, but when he said about the shoes, I don’t why, it sort of rang warning bells in my head. And then, when he mentioned a floating cake, it all kind of pointed to some sort of major weirdness going on, and I guessed you were in trouble.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” said Clover.

  “Ah, forget it. The thing is, what do we do now?”

  The two of them peered through the trees at the dark cottage.

  “We’ve got to get back in,” said Clover. “It could take off at any time. I’m not having her fly off with all my things. Everything I own is in there. And we’ve got to rescue Neville.”

  “Oh,” said Wilf. “He’s in there, is he? Where?”

  “I don’t know. He ran upstairs to hide. He’s really scared. I’ve never seen him in such a funk.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “The cherry tree,” said Clover, after a moment’s thought. “One of its branches nearly touches my window. We’ll have to sneak around the side into the back, then climb up the tree and get in that way.”

  “You must be joking. We’ll break our necks. I’m hopeless at climbing.”

  “I’m not, though. You can wait below. I’ll get my stuff and throw everything down to you. Then I’ll look for Neville.”

  “No way You’re not going in that cottage by yourself.”

  “Yes I am, there’s no choice. Come on, we’re wasting time. And whatever happens, don’t trip over the log pile.”

  A short time later, they stood beneath the cherry tree in the back garden. All was quiet in the cottage. The back door was firmly closed, and the curtains were tightly drawn. There was no clue as to what might be going on inside.

  Clover peered up into the branches, choosing the grips she would use and noting which limbs would take her weight and which wouldn’t. She examined the long branch that stretched almost to her window. Almost, but not quite.

  “All right,” she whispered.”I’m ready. Give me a hand up.”

  Wilf made a stirrup with his hands. She put her foot in it, and he boosted her up onto the thickest lower branch.

  “Be careful,” whispered Wilf as Clover began to climb.

  She was indeed good at climbing. When she was little, Pa used to take her to work with him sometimes. Clover would swarm up a tree like a monkey and sit watching him, admiring the way his axe flashed in the sun. She hadn’t done it for a long time, of course. Pa hadn’t worked for ages. Besides, tree climbing was for babies, not respectable girls of nearly eleven.

  But she still remembered how to do it.

  Quickly, steadily, she moved on up. Down below, Wilf watched her anxiously. The branches were getting thinner the higher she climbed.

  “Careful,” he called again, in a low tone. “Slow down.”

  “Shhh!” Clover glanced down and put a finger to her lips. She had reached the long limb that jutted out towards the window. She took a steadying breath, lowered herself onto the branch, gripped it with her knees, pushed herself away from the trunk, and began sliding out.

  Wilf watched her inch her way along, heart in his mouth. The branch was swaying alarmingly. Small twigs and pink blossom floated down onto his head. A leaf landed on his nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze.

  Clover had nearly reached the end of the branch. It was bending so low that she was now beneath the window sill. There was still quite a gap between her and the ivy-covered wall. Hardly able to watch, Wilf saw her push herself up into a sitting position. Slowly, carefully, she leaned forward, her right arm outstretched towards the ivy. The
branch dipped lower. She leaned out even further. Her fingers were still inches away.

  Wilf closed his eyes. There was a swishing noise above. He waited for the cry and the thump. Which never came.

  When he dared open his eyes again, he saw the branch had sprung back into its original position. To his intense relief, Clover was leaning out of the window, waving down at him. Then she turned and was gone.

  Wilf bit his lip. He had never been good with heights. What should he do? Wait below and let a girl take all the risks, like a big sissy? It was hardly heroic. On the other hand, if he tried climbing up after her, he wouldn’t make it. He would come crashing down, probably break every bone in his body and bring Mesmeranza rushing out of the cottage. Or even worse, freeze! Get half way along the branch and just cling there, unable to go back or forward.

  It was then that he heard the noise.

  It was a strange, deep, rumbling noise, and it came from the cottage. It seemed to emanate from low down. It sounded like stones grinding together. Deep roots being torn apart. Foundations crumbling. To his horror, he could see the walls shaking!

  As he watched, a section of gutter came loose and swung to and fro from a rusting bolt. A piece of the roof detached itself and fell into the herb bed with a thud. Ivy leaves fluttered down, and from somewhere high above, a brick came loose and dropped onto the roof of the chicken coop, sending Flo and Doris into a fit of hysterical squawking.

  And then he saw something else. Small, dark shapes streaming out of the cottage and moving towards him across the lawn. There were dozens—no, scores of them. They were making a panicky, chittering noise.

  Mice! All the mice that lived in the walls and under the floorboards were making a run for it.

  More blossoms were raining down from the cherry tree. He stretched out his hand and touched the trunk. It was vibrating! He could feel it through his fingers, up his arms, even in his teeth. Below his feet, the ground was quivering. And from all around, came that terrible rumbling!

  He looked up. Clover was back at the window. He could see her pale, shocked face staring down at him.