The Witch of Clatteringshaws

  “We need Dido here,” Simon said. “She knows all the tunes her father made up—‘Grosvenor Gallop’ and ‘Penny a Ride to Pimlico’ and ‘Lighthearted Lily of Piccadilly’—”

  “Well, I expect a lot of the men know those anyway.”

  So it proved, and the men of the Ninth Army marched eastward in a gale of song.

  Mrs. McClan and her son Desmond were shown into a private parlor in the Monster’s Arms.

  “The gentlemen you are expecting will be with you very shortly,” a waiter told them. “Kindly be seated.”

  There were a table and some chairs. Mother and son sat down.

  “Not very civil to keep us waiting,” grumbled Desmond.

  A bottle of firewater and glasses had been provided. After a few minutes Desmond helped himself to a glass of liquor.

  “How about you, Ma? Will ye take some?”

  “Och, no! And no more than ain glassful for ye, Desmond! Keep yer heid clear for business.”

  “What business? All I want is to be King of England and nae beating aboot the bush.”

  “The gentlemen want proof.”

  “Proof? What better proof can there be than that I’m the spit image of King Charles—I mean King Richard? Poor old Dad may have been a dummy in most ways, but nobody doubts he was a rare hand at a likeness. Too bad he couldn’t keep off usskie water. If he hadn’t been half-seas over he’d never have mistaken a jar of embalming fluid for a glass of iced tea—”

  “Hold your whisht, boy! Who knows what ear may be listening! And, forbye, it’s no’ respectful to your father—puir douce man! He’s a sore loss to me each day when it comes time to gie the Residents their deener.”

  “Ay, he went down the row of them like a dose of salts!”

  Desmond burst out laughing and helped himself to another glass of spirit.

  “Hush up, will ye! For these gentry ye need yer wits about ye—’tis a sad peety ye canna find yon napkin—and the bit paper—a sad, sad peety—”

  “For land’s sake!” growled Desmond. “Who’d have known they’d set such store by an auld bit of rag with yellow thread on it, and a scrap of paper that had a few names and lines on it? Dad probably used them for lighting the kitchen fire.”

  “No, no, he told me he’d given them to you for safekeeping. You were the one who stood to gain, after all. Don’t take any more liquor, ye camsteery boy!”

  “Oh, go to blue blazes!”

  The door opened and two gentlemen came in. They looked decidedly put out and harassed.

  The normal evening fog lay in layers over the dark blue waters of Loch Grieve, like steam over a simmering pot of soup. Piers and Dido, inching their way up the steep, slippery hillside toward the point where it would be possible to climb on to the rail bridge, found that the fog helped, in that they could not look down at the nerve-racking drop below them, but made the climb harder because it cut off the view ahead and hindered their choosing the right route.

  “It’s a right good thing we didn’t bring Fred up here,” Dido said, panting, as they scrambled up a slope. “He’d never have stood for this.”

  “There’s the station, over to the left.”

  The station building was no bigger than a toolshed, with a long granite platform to accommodate the majestic train that came to a stop there once every twenty-four hours. Now the track was empty and the station locked and silent. Nothing except a few bits of eggshell and an odd bullet or two glistening among the heather betrayed the fact that a whole army had disembarked here some hours before.

  The night was cloudy, no stars or moon shone; Dido and Piers did not notice the eggshells or the bullets. They set off at once to cross the bridge, walking between the rail tracks, two parallel metal lines that glimmered faintly ahead of them, hopping from sleeper to sleeper. The bridge was about half a mile in length.

  Dido could not help thinking about Hobyahs. What were they? How large? Did they make a noise or run silently? Did they run on four legs or two?

  At last the bridge was crossed. The rail tracks continued southward, sloping downhill now. But off to the left was a walled enclosure, the coach park Malise had described.

  Why was it on this side of the loch when the station was on the north side?

  Ah, Malise had explained. In the old days there had been a ferry, a boat that plied daily back and forth across the water. Carts and coaches had waited in this field, for the ferry could take only two vehicles at a time. But first the Hobyahs and then the construction of the rail bridge had put an end to the ferry traffic.

  Over at the bottom end of the coach park they could see a small stone hut, even smaller than the station building.

  “That must be where Malise lives. But it’s tiny—smaller than a broom cupboard.”

  “It’s not lit up,” said the Woodlouse. “Looks as if there’s no one at home.”

  “She said she’d be there all evening.”

  Behind them, on the track that led downward to the loch, Dido could hear a kind of panting mutter. She did not like the sound at all.

  “Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah …”

  “Yah-yah-yah-yah-yah …”

  “Hah-yah-hah-yah-hah-yah …”

  “Dido, do you think those are the Hobyahs?”

  She looked back. A black wave seemed to be coming up the hillside—a black wave with pairs of pale shining eyes set at different levels.

  We are done for, thought Dido.

  Piers, turning round, picked up a rock and threw it.

  “Get back!” he shouted. “Get back, you hateful beasts!”

  At this moment Malise arrived, riding on her golf club. She dismounted and swung the club in great sweeping crescents; each swing made a loud whistling drone.

  The black mass on the hillside wavered, halted, and then began to melt away back down the hill. Faint whimpers were heard. In three minutes there was nothing to be seen.

  “I’m so sorry I was a little late,” said Malise, panting. “I was held up by a case in Knockwinnock—they thought it was athlete’s foot but it was really Achilles’ heel. Come over to the hut and I’ll put on the kettle. Have you brought the napkin? Oh, good. And the ancestral chart? Oh, too bad. Well, they’ll have to make do without it. But where is Fred?”

  Dido explained about his fear of heights.

  “Oh, pity; well, I suppose it’s not to be wondered at. Given his history.”

  By now they were in the hut, which was the size and shape of a public lavatory, but without the equipment. There was just room for the three of them. Piers would have had to carry Fred.

  “I got rid of the furnishings twenty years ago,” Malise explained, putting a kettle on a trivet over an oil burner. “Nothing worked anyway. I get water from the burn.”

  “Burn?”

  “Brook.”

  There was no room to sit and nothing to sit on, so they stood. Malise made herb tea, served in tin mugs that she took from hooks on the wall.

  “Malise, the Hobyahs—”

  “Well?”

  “What are they?”

  “Oh, I think they are something leftover from the Ice Age. They migrated here from Siberia, I believe; you can’t blame them really, can you? In Siberia it’s dark so much of the time.… But now, about Fred—”

  “Yes, about Fred.”

  “Let’s have a look at the napkin.”

  Malise examined it. It was a square yard of fine damask, old and worn but in good condition, with a crown about the size of an orange embroidered in gold thread at one corner.

  “Yes; to the best of my recollection this is what the baby was wrapped in when I took him after the Battle of Follodden.”

  “You took him?”

  “Yes, my sister Hild, who was the Queen’s waiting-maid, was just about to dump him in the Clothes for Charity bin. The Queen had died, you see, and I suppose Hild didn’t want the responsibility.”

  “What happened to Hild?”

  “Oh, the Hobyahs got her. She was a total loss anyway; a n
asty nature and no use at all. Queen Ethelfleda was dead, and King Malcolm died in the battle.”

  “But what happened to the baby?”

  “I’m telling you. I gave him to my friend to take care of, and he left him at the Eagles nursing home. I’m afraid Tatzen thought it was a hospital. And by the time I called in, on one of my district visits, the place had changed hands several times. The McClans had bought it and were using Fred as a boy-of-all-work. I know, I know. I should have looked in before, but, but, but time passes so fast when you are a witch. Luckily …”

  Malise did look a little shamefaced.

  “Anyway there was a king on the English throne, so it didn’t matter.”

  Dido was scandalized. “The McClans have treated Fred abominably! He has a permanent black eye. And he’s only about half the weight he ought to be. Who is your friend, anyway?”

  “He is a tatzelwurm—the last of his species left in Europe. There used to be a few in the Swiss or Austrian Alps but none have been seen in recent years. They have spinal spikes, head like an otter, wings, and paws with claws. Semiamphibious. Very intelligent. Very good friends.”

  “Your friend is the Monster?”

  “Of course!”

  “Leftover from the Ice Age also?”

  “Probably. But now, about Fred—”

  “Who has been writing letters to King Dick’s aunt Titania about a claim to the throne?”

  “The McClans, I suppose. I’ve a notion they planned to substitute Desmond for Fred.”

  “Piers and I will take him back to London and leave him in the care of Father Sam. Don’t you think that is the best thing to do with him? But we need money for the train. Ours was stolen—that’s why we are working at the Eagles. Can you lend us some money?”

  “I haven’t enough for train fares. People mostly pay me in food—if they pay at all. Yes, Cousin Sam would be a good choice to take charge of the boy—he has sense, he’s a responsible person. Ever since that sad lapse at the saint’s deathbed—”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Dido. “The first two saints—Saint Ardust and Saint Arfish—ain’t they past their tell-by date by now? Three years and nine years? Somebody must have what they said written down, mustn’t they?”

  “Maybe. The bird must know them as well; he has them in his memory.”

  “What bird? That parrot?”

  It was hanging by a claw from one of the hooks in the wall.

  “Yes. He belonged to Cousin Sam when we were students. He remembers everything he hears. And he was there at the death of Saint Arling. But among all the things that he says, who could possibly tell which were the saint’s last words? He is so talkative.”

  “ ’Tis vain to cast your net where there’s no fish,” agreed the parrot.

  “But there might be some way to get the right words out of him.”

  As if in protest at this suggestion, the parrot suddenly flew out of the window.

  “He’s gone to Cousin Rodney,” said Malise carelessly.

  “All the way to London?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you—King Simon is up here just now with an army.”

  “Simon is up in Scotland? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I forgot! There has been a Wendish invasion and Simon, with my cousin Rodney, has come up to fight the Wends. I expect Rodney can give you some money for the train fare. By the way, in the meantime, watch out. There’s a couple of slippery customers staying at the Monster’s Arms. They probably want to get rid of Fred. So keep a sharp eye on them—”

  There was a whistling and a scratching on the roof above them, and then a thumping twang! as if somebody had dumped a heavy metal harp on the cement surface.

  “That’ll be my friend, come to fetch you home,” said Malise. “It’s a bit too risky at this time of night with the Hobyahs. There are so many of them—they are like piranhas. They just munch up anything they come across.”

  TEN

  No sooner had Fred gone off to sleep, curled in his bundle of sacking under a shelf in the glasshouse, than he was rudely thumped and shaken awake again.

  “Come on! Out of that, you! You gotta come with us!”

  “Why? Where?”

  “Shut yer gob!”

  Fred was hustled, half dragged, half carried, out of the greenhouse, out of the gate, along Alarm Clocks Road to the tall deserted tenement building called Mackintosh’s Rents. The street was empty and dark; nobody witnessed this abduction. He was hauled through the street door and up a dozen flights of dusty stone stairs.

  Fred was so accustomed to ill treatment that he made no outcry but took what was being done to him with resignation, as the sort of usage that might be expected at any time. The recent kindness he had received from Dido and Piers was something quite out of the common, and probably he was now due for weeks of bullying to redress the balance of good and bad fortune. He didn’t even think of trying to escape; the two men were large and strong; he had not the least hope of being able to wriggle out of their grasp and run off. On the contrary: he made himself as limp as possible in order not to provoke more cuffs and thumps than he was already receiving.

  When they had reached a room that was probably on the top floor of the building, he was jerked to a standing position and his arms were tied behind him with what felt like a piece of rag.

  “Now then! Stand there! Speak up! Answer what you’re asked, or ye’ll get a ding on the ear!”

  The room was minimally furnished and dimly lit by two candles set in a dish on a stool.

  Fred saw two more men seated on chairs facing him. One was fat, with thick lips, and wore a wig; the other, younger, had a harsh, dark face and untidy black hair; both were handsomely dressed. A fume of brandy came from them. They stared at him intently.

  “What’s your name, boy?” said the fat man.

  “Fred.”

  “Fred what?”

  “No more. Just Fred.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I dunno. No one ever told me.”

  “Why is your eye shut?”

  “Because it hurts! Des—someone threw a stone at it.”

  “Have you always lived at the Eagles?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “I dunno. Fourteen—fifteen years maybe.”

  “Have you brothers or sisters? Is Desmond McClan your brother?”

  “Sakes, no!” said Fred thankfully.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “I’ve none.”

  “Did anybody ever send a letter to you?”

  “A letter? No. Forbye I canna read. Who’d write to me?”

  “Did anybody ever operate on your face?”

  “Operate? What’s that?”

  “Cut it open. Peel your skin off. Sew it up again.”

  “Havers! No.”

  “What do you know about Desmond McClan?”

  The answer “He’s a mean, stupid bully” trembled on Fred’s tongue, but he kept it there and only said, after a pause:

  “Nae thing. I’m no’ great with him. He don’t talk to me.”

  Except to bawl me out and throw stones at me, he might have added, but did not.

  The fat man said, “This is a waste of our time. This cub is no good to us; will never be any good to us. If he is—is the one we are searching for, he is too stunted and backward to be any good for our purpose. He can’t even read! His IQ is that of a half-wit.”

  “Humph,” said the other man. “I’m inclined to agree with you. But he’s a loose cannon. Suppose … someone else … gets hold of him and puts him forward as a claimant. He’s a pawn—slice it how you like, he might be thrust in our way.”

  “True. That is quite true. What do you suggest, then?”

  “Dispose of him.”

  “How?”

  The thin man glanced toward the window, which was half open—had probably been left open for the last ten years.

  Fred, half guessing their intentions, began
to tremble. He could not help it. A cold night wind blew in through the open casement, making the candles flicker. Fred thought of the nine-story building, the black drop to the street below, the granite cobbles. He remembered his kitten, which Desmond had hurled out of the bedroom window. All its bones had been broken.…

  He opened his mouth to plead for mercy but shut it again. What was the use? Those men put no more value on him than a used match or a chewed apple core.

  The fat man barked an order.

  The casement was thrust open to its fullest width. Fred’s two abductors picked him up by the feet and shoulders and balanced him on the windowsill.

  “Don’t!” he began to gasp, but there was no time; one hard shove dislodged him from the sill and hurled him out into the black air.

  “That’s solved that problem,” said the fat man.

  As dawn began to break, Simon decreed a rest for the Ninth Army. He reckoned they might have marched about half of the distance they had to cover.

  The men sat down and dug their way into the sacks of hard-boiled eggs donated to the army by kind ladies when the train stopped at Northallerton station. Simon overheard a few grumbles: “Thirsty work, hard-boiled eggs is, on their own. Wouldn’t mind a nibble of cheese or a sup of beer!”

  “All right, you lot!” Simon shouted after ten minutes. “Let’s be on our way!”

  The track they were on clung to the side of a valley. Ahead, it curved round a hill.

  A gray parrot came flying from behind them and alighted on Rodney’s shoulder.

  Simon, ahead of the others, rounded the bend on the road, then came to a startled stop.

  Ahead of them, on the other side of the valley, was the force they had come to fight. The track ran down, crossed a bridge, then rose again to where the foreign army was stationed, glittering red and gold, with the new-risen sun fetching flashes from muskets and shields, spearheads and musket barrels.

  They had horses. And small cannons mounted on wheels. And they outnumbered the English force by at least two to one. The cannons, which looked very impressive, were drawn by wide-horned oxen.