The Witch's Revenge (3 page)

A murmur had risen from the crowd: “That isn't such a bad idea,” said some; “Saves us clearing it away,” said others; “We could use a museum,” said a few more.

And so the Museum of Weird Things and Magic came to be housed in one of the smallest and most rickety buildings Morag had ever seen. Its single story appeared to have one room, and the whole place was made of rotting planks of wood—or so it seemed to Morag as she followed Shona up the groaning stairs to the front door. The smell of mold and damp was overwhelming.

The dragon raised a claw and gently tapped.

“Who's there?” came a woman's voice, as creaky as the building.

“Shona of the Volunteer Police Force!” the dragon announced.

With an ear-piercing squeal from the hinges, the door opened to reveal a short tubby woman dressed in gray robes. Her wispy hair was streaked with white and held in an untidy knot on top of her head by two knitting needles. A pair of spectacles hung around her neck on a gold chain, and a ginger cat mewed loudly at her feet. She held a wooden wand in one hand.

“Elma MacPhail, Assistant Curator,” she said, introducing herself. “Come and wait inside while I fetch Muriel.”

Morag stepped through the doorway and looked around, astonished. “It was tiny on the outside.…” She gasped. She could hardly believe her eyes: they were standing in a vast, domed hallway at least twice as high as the roof they had seen from the street. A polished floor stretched before them to marble pillars and a sweeping staircase that Elma was busy hollering up:
“Murrrieeeelll!!!”

On the walls were huge paintings of famous Marnoch Morians, including the green-eyed hero Colm Breck and—Morag was interested to see—Montgomery, wearing what she supposed was fancy dress, for he had on breeches and an old-fashioned tailcoat. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling as light flooded in through the tall arched windows.

“Murrrrieeellll!!!” screeched Elma again. “Visitorrrrsssss!” She turned to the others and smiled sweetly. “She'll be here in a minute.”

No sooner had the words left her lips than a puff of pink smoke drifted down the staircase and formed a tall column on the last step. As they watched, the smoke condensed, until it solidified into a smiling woman in a long cerise gown. She looked older than Elma but obviously spent a lot of time taking care of herself, for her long blond hair had been pinned into an immaculate helmet shape on her head. Pearls hung from her neck and precious stones adorned her many rings.

“Muriel Burntwood.” She smiled, shaking Morag's hand. “Pleased to meet you, Shona.”

“Oh, I'm not …,” began the flustered girl.

“
I'm
Shona!” snapped the dragon, elbowing her way to the front.

Muriel looked down her long nose at the dragon, her face pursed into a tight knot. “Oh, but you're a … dragon,” she sneered.

“Is that a problem?” Shona growled.

“It's just that I didn't expect the head of the Police Force to be a … well … to be a …” There was a pause as everyone waited to hear what she would say next. “A
reptile
,” she hissed.

Morag, Bertie and Aldiss gasped as Shona's nostrils began to smoke. But Muriel didn't seem to notice. “But I suppose you can't help that,” she continued, “so you'll have to do.” She turned on her high heels and began to walk upstairs. “Follow me.”

Click, click, click
. Her shoes tapped off the marble. She glanced behind her and saw no one was following.

“Come on! Chop-chop!” she called, clapping her hands. “You've wasted enough time as it is!”

“Just ignore her, Shona,” Morag said quietly as the dragon's green scaly face turned red with rage. “She's just a silly woman who needs you more than you need her.”

“One more ‘chop' from her and she'll be barbecued,” rasped the dragon.

Morag began to climb the stairs, with Bertie behind and Aldiss scampering on ahead. She motioned for the dragon to follow, and with a face like thunder, she did.

Muriel took them up, past level after level. It seemed as if the staircase would never end. Morag had never been in a building as tall as this before and longed to explore all the other floors.

At last, they came to a stop on a red-carpeted landing. They had climbed thirteen flights and everyone, except Aldiss (who was doing star jumps), was puffed out. The Curator, however, was still as fresh as a Marnoch Mor daisy.

“This way,” she said, tottering toward two large white doors. “Do be careful,” she added, looking pointedly at Aldiss. “And don't touch anything!” The rat looked shamefaced and removed his paw from a large vase standing next to him.

Muriel pushed open the doors and the visitors were immediately bathed in a pure white light. It took some moments before they got used to the brightness, but when they did, Morag gasped. Stunned into silence, she walked into a space larger than a cathedral. Her mouth hung open—this place was
amazing
. Each room seemed bigger than the one
before. The walls were crammed with rows of white shelves heaving under the weight of thousands of books of all shapes and sizes. The white light came from the Full Moonstones, glowing in constellations on the distant blue ceiling. Morag recognized Orion and the Plow, but not the others. She wondered if Marnoch Mor skies had their own stars.

Dotted between the bookshelves were exhibits in display cases. Morag looked into the nearest one and saw the gold bejeweled death mask of a long-forgotten Wizard Emperor. Beside it lay a pair of huge pink bloomers once worn by a giantess. On top of them a glass eye (used by the witch Baba Yaga, according to the card) stared as they went past. The rest of the case was taken up with a huge hen's claw, a golden goose egg, three swan feathers and a wooden pudding bowl and spoon.

On the walls of the library were the disembodied heads of long-extinct animals, which Bertie and Aldiss found distasteful and would not look at. Morag, however, was fascinated. The first was the head of an enormous hairy mammoth, its elephant-like face relaxed and its eyes closed as if it were sleeping. Morag thought she heard it snore and was about to walk on when the mammoth head gave a resounding snort, mumbled something about getting dinner and went back to sleep. Next to it was the head of a fierce saber-toothed tiger. Alert and growling quietly, it watched as the girl tiptoed around it. As she got a little too near, the tiger suddenly snapped its huge jaws, so close that Morag felt a draft an inch above her head.

“Watch Samson,” Muriel warned, a little too late. “I'm afraid he's a bit of a biter! Now, where did we keep the tooth? Hmmmm … Ah, yes, follow me, it was over here!”

While the others followed, Morag found herself drawn to the bookshelves. She had always loved reading and scanned the spines.
“One Thousand and One Ways to Remove Spell Stains,”
she read aloud.

“The Swamp and Me: One Witch's Journey
.

“I Was a Teenage Zombie
.

“Taming Demons and Other Handy Tips for Life
.

“My Dead Husband Came Back to Haunt Me and Now We're Renewing Our Wedding Vows.”

Just then her eyes fell upon a set of small, red leatherbound books marked with a white card saying:
Early Marnoch Mor Poetry
.

She held her breath: they looked remarkably familiar. They looked like … well, they looked like … she felt for her own book of poetry in her pocket. It was the only thing she had left of her parents; she treasured it like a good friend and never let it out of her sight. It was still there.
No, it couldn't be
, she thought.
I'm just being silly
. She dismissed the notion from her head and began to walk away, but the books seemed to be calling her back. Without quite knowing
what
she was searching for, Morag quickly looked over the book's spines. They were numbered one to twenty, but there was a gap where number thirteen should have been. Her heart skipped a beat. Hands trembling, she found herself reaching into her pocket. Slowly, she pulled out her own red leather-bound book and turned it around to
examine the spine. Sure enough, there was the faint outline of a one and a three, which she had never noticed before. She opened the book and stared at the first page. The unreadable ancient words now re-formed in front of her eyes.
The Poetry of Marnoch Mor
, it said.

Morag's head was a blizzard of thoughts. How could her book be part of this set? That would mean her parents had once stood right here, and that they had taken the book to leave for her when she was a baby. Had they known she would find her way to Marnoch Mor? The enormity of this discovery overwhelmed her.

“Interested in poetry, are we?” said a voice. Morag jumped. She turned to see the gray outline of the Assistant Curator at the door. She hastily stashed her book in her pocket.

“Oh yes, absolutely,” she answered. “My parents liked it too. I used to read it at home.”

“That's the only set in existence, you know,” Elma said, proudly running her fingers over the spines until she reached the gap. “It's such a shame it's not complete.”

She gazed at Morag, as if she knew the girl was hiding something. Morag felt her face burn.

“Number Thirteen.” Elma continued, “A terribly unlucky number … for some.”

Morag tried not to tremble as she shifted from foot to foot.

“Maybe someone who liked poetry forgot to bring it back? Maybe they couldn't remember where it came from?” she suggested.

“And remembering where something comes from is very important,” Elma said, leaning down to look right into Morag's eyes. “Isn't it?”

“Well,” replied Morag. “It helps.…” Elma eyed her suspiciously and Morag winced under the intensity of her gaze. It was as if Elma was trying to peer into her soul.

Just as Elma opened her mouth to say something else, she was interrupted—much to Morag's relief—by Shona.

“What's the big secret?” Shona shouted. “Stop whispering and come look at this.”

With a tight smile, Morag excused herself and hurried over to the far corner of the room, where Shona, Muriel, Bertie and Aldiss were staring intently into an empty display case.

“What do you make of this?” the dragon asked as Morag joined them.

“What is it?” asked Morag.

“Look!” said Aldiss, pointing to a perfectly round hole cut in the glass lid. Underneath was a purple velvet cushion that had once held something very small and very not-there anymore.

“It's a hole.” Morag shrugged. “So what?”

“So what? So
what
?” shrieked Muriel, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “Have you any idea what you're looking at?”

The girl shook her head. “An empty cushion?” she ventured.

“On that cushion lay an item so old and so powerful it could raise the dead,” Muriel said with a shudder. “The witch Mina MacPhail's jagged tooth. It was rescued from
her ashes after humans burned her at the stake in 1531. She made the mistake of eating three boys and half a girl.”

Morag's eyes widened.

“You must know the story of Hansel and Gretel?” Muriel continued. “Where an old hag tries to fatten a poor little brother and sister so she can gobble them up?”

Morag nodded.

“That was based on Mina. She was always on the lookout for little lost children who had no one to save them.” Morag shifted nervously.

“If we don't get it back, someone may use the tooth for … well, I dread to think what they'll use it for.”

Morag studied the hole again and frowned. If the tooth was so dangerous, what was it doing in a glass case in a museum? She was about to voice her concerns, when Shona did it for her.

“So,” said the dragon in her most professional Police Officer voice, “how did the thief steal the tooth? Surely it was well guarded, or you were using security spells?”

“Well, yes,” Elma said. “I was on duty last night and we always make sure we have at least three security spells on the building so that no one can get in. We've also got magical motion sensors on all the doors and staircases so that nothing can move from floor to floor, or from room to room. Or through walls. If something's detected, the perpetrator is immediately sprayed with a web that freezes them until the morning. Works a charm on moths, too.”

“And did you see or hear anything unusual last night?” Shona went on. “Was anything caught in the web?”

“No, nothing,” Elma replied, “although the rats seemed
worse than usual. Scuffling about all night they were. We'll need to get a Rat Catcher in to get rid of them.”

Aldiss bristled.

“Have you always had a problem with rats?” Morag asked.

“Why are you asking that?” Muriel snapped. “What has that got to do with the theft of Mina's tooth?”

Morag was a little taken aback, but went on. “Well, if you would answer my question, I'll tell you.”

“Please answer her,” Shona said.

Elma pursed her lips. “No,” she replied. “The problem only started about a week ago. But I've heard them every night.”

“Where are they at their worst?” the girl asked.

“In the cellar,” replied the witch, “where the drains go outside. And I've also heard them scuttling about in the air vents in … in …” The woman's face paled.

“Where?”
Morag and Shona cried together.

“In this room …,” she answered.

“Hmmm,” said Morag, “interesting. And where is the air vent in this room?”

Elma did not speak, but pointed to a small grill fastened loosely on the wall, near the floor. Morag walked over and got down on her hands and knees to study it closely. She sniffed at the grill and the space around it. “And have you actually
seen
these rats?” she asked skeptically.