Curse of the Dream Witch (11 page)

Olivia lowered herself to the ground, careful lest the tiniest sound alert the mole. The air was thick with the smell of damp fur. At least there was no smell of blood; good – that meant Milo hadn't been ripped to pieces.

Olivia looked around. Tunnels ran off in three directions, each dimly lit by shafts of distant light filtering down from holes burrowed to the surface. Paw prints ran in all directions.

Which way to go?
Olivia wondered.

Her heart skipped a beat: Two furrows in the loose soil disappeared up the darkest tunnel. Milo's heels dragging behind the mole?

Olivia rubbed her arms and legs with earth to dull her scent from the mole's inquisitive nose. Then she edged up the trail on tiptoes, barely daring to breathe. The farther she went, the staler the air became.

The walls of the tunnel widened. A small spill of light from a surface hole on the far side revealed a shadowy place filled with a hill of dark, glistening shapes. Olivia reached out to touch them. Her right hand pressed into thick rolls of cold, slimy flesh. She yanked her hand back in horror. Earthworms. She'd touched a mountain of giant earthworms, all of them waiting to be eaten by the mole. Why – she was in the mole's pantry!

From the other side of the cavern, she heard a chittering sound. The mole had arrived from the far tunnel. What could she do? Where could she go?

An arm reached out of the sickening heap, grabbed her, and pulled her into the pile. Olivia slid between the gooey rolls, her hair and skin slick with their ooze. She tried to scream, but her mouth filled with worm.

‘Shh,' a voice whispered.

Olivia spat and covered her lips. ‘Milo?'

Milo gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Yes,' he murmured. ‘The mole grabbed me and I fainted. It must have thought I was dead or it would've paralysed me. I woke up on top of this worm-hill, and swam down to hide among their bodies.'

Milo's grip tightened. They could hear the mole beyond the wall of food.

The creature shrieked in fury at the disappearance of its most recent catch. It sniffed the air. The fetid sweetness of the worms filled its senses. But another aroma mingled in the stink – disguised, perhaps, but there all the same: the smell of human.

The mole let loose a guttural trill: Its treat hadn't escaped. It was hiding. But where? It churned the earth with its massive paws. No luck. It turned to the mountain of worms.

There was a terrible squishing sound as the mole crawled over its paralysed captives. Milo and Olivia felt the pressure as the worms pressed down over their heads. They sank under the weight, and squirmed as nubby ends tickled down their shirts.

The mole prowled forward. The rubbery torsos rolled and twisted with each step.

Milo took Olivia's hand. ‘Follow me.'

Together, they trailed below the mole's wake, taking cover in the undulations of the worms. The mucky slime greased their slide through the fleshy jungle.

‘We should be nearing the tunnel at the far side of the pantry,' Milo murmured. ‘Before I dived into the mound, I saw a shaft of light at the entrance. If we can make it there, we can try and escape.'

The mole stopped in its tracks. There was nothing on top of its food stores. That meant only one thing: Its prey was beneath.

The mole thrust itself down into the pile. Olivia and Milo moved out of its way. They bumped into a beetle. Using its shell as both shield and disguise, they slogged their way out of the heap. It was like wading through rooms of clammy noodles.

‘There! The light, the roots,' Milo pointed excitedly as they broke through. They raced for the exit, and began their ascent before the mole had time to realise they were gone. Olivia had never thought of herself as a climber. Now, picturing herself as a feast for the beast, she knew she could scale the tunnel in an instant.

They neared the surface.

‘I have to warn you about Leo,' Milo grunted as he climbed. ‘He tried to kill me. He cut the root I was climbing and left me for the mole.'

‘What?'

‘He's a traitor. I'll bet in league with the Dream Witch.'

‘Ephemia,' Olivia gulped. ‘I left her with him. She's in danger.' The princess climbed faster.

‘Yes,' Milo said, scrambling after. ‘And another thing. Leo and I found the pysanka. It was at the base of the burrow.'

‘He must have it, then. It wasn't there when I climbed down.'

‘We have to get it back or he'll smash it.'

‘If he hasn't already.'

Olivia pulled herself up onto level ground. Milo followed right after. In the distance, they spotted the dandelions that towered above the hole they'd climbed down and ran towards them. But when they got there, there was no sign of Ephemia or Leo.

‘Maybe they're hiding,' Milo said.

‘It's only us,' Olivia called out.

Silence.

Olivia touched her hand to her heart. ‘They're gone.' 

‘They
can’t
be gone,’ Milo exclaimed. ‘Where would they go?’

Olivia looked around in desperation. ‘Ephemia?’

A shadow crossed their heads. Olivia and Milo looked up. The Dream Witch’s owl circled above with a mouse in its talons.

‘Ephemia!’ Olivia screamed.

The owl hooted, as if laughing at some cruel joke, and flew away.

‘Ephemia!!!’

Olivia’s head swam. She collapsed onto Milo’s shoulder. ‘This is my fault. How could I have left her?’

Milo had no idea what to say or do. He’d
never
been held by a girl before, much less one who was crying. ‘It’s all right,’ he comforted.

‘What do you mean it’s all right,’ Olivia wept.

‘I mean it’s
not
all right. Of course it’s not. But maybe it’s not what it seems.’

‘It
is
,’ Olivia wept. ‘You
know
it.’

‘I do, yes, you’re right, I know,’ Milo babbled. ‘But Leo—’

‘Ephemia’s gone! How can you think about Leo?’

‘I can’t. I don’t. I haven’t.’

‘Then why did you say his name?’ Olivia pounded his shoulder in frustration.

‘Olivia, ow, listen,’ Milo said. ‘There’s nothing we can do about Ephemia. But Leo – he has the pysanka. It’s all that stands between you and the witch. Ephemia fought for your life. You have to fight too.’

Olivia wiped the tears from her eyes. Her voice quivered: ‘You’re right. We need to find Leo. We can’t let the Dream Witch win.’

On cue, there were a series of distant wails.

‘Leo?’

Olivia and Milo ran towards the sounds. They found a path with Leo’s boot prints and hurried along it. The wails turned into shrieks. ‘Help! Save me!’

They burst into a clearing by a patch of daffodils. Leo was stuck on a web strung between two flowers. A spider was binding him like a mummy. The pair jumped backwards, but the insect was too busy with its prey to pay them heed.

‘Save me,’ Leo pleaded.

‘Why should we?’ Olivia said. ‘You called the witch’s owl to snatch Ephemia.’

‘I didn’t. I ran when the owl swooped down and got stuck in this web. I don’t know what happened to your mouse.’

The spider knit its web around his head.

 ‘AAAH! HELP ME!’

‘First, why did you leave me for the mole?’ Milo demanded.

‘And what did you do to my pysanka?’ Olivia chimed in.

 ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Leo squealed as the spider’s legs brushed against his cheeks.

‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ Olivia said. She and Milo turned on their heels.

‘No, wait, I’ll tell you!’ Leo screeched. The spider gagged him. ‘MMMMM! MMMMM!’

Olivia and Milo looked at each other and nodded.

‘All right then,’ Olivia said. ‘We’ll spare you. But you don’t deserve it.’

The prince’s sword had fallen at his feet. Milo grabbed it, and swung it at the spider’s head. The insect reared on its hind legs. Milo sliced the strands on the left of Leo’s cocoon. The frayed web blew in the breeze, as the spider retreated behind a flower.

Milo cut the strands on the right. Leo fell to the ground, tangled in his bindings.

‘I’ll cut you free if you tell us what happened to the pysanka,’ Milo said.

‘It’s inside my breastplate.’

‘You said you couldn’t find it.’

‘I was confused.’

‘You were lying!’

Milo carved the cocoon from around Leo, then wrapped his hands in leaves to pull away the final sticky bits. He retrieved the pysanka and gave it to Olivia.

‘How can I ever repay you?’ Leo grovelled.

‘You can’t,’ Olivia said coldly. She hung the talisman around her neck and beneath her shirt by its little gold chain. ‘Make your way back to the castle. Tell your uncle to leave Bellumen by dawn or he’ll have me to deal with.’

‘You?’

‘Yes, me.’ Olivia looked him in the eye. ‘I’m not the little girl you met this afternoon. Then I knew my title, but not who I am inside, nor what I can do or be. I’ve found out so many things since then. And one of the most important things I’ve found out is that I’ve bigger things to be afraid of than you and your uncle.’

‘Nice speech,’ Leo laughed.

‘Let’s see if you laugh now you’re on your own,’ Milo glared.

‘On my own? You’re joking.’

‘Not on your life,’ Olivia said. ‘We offered you friendship and you betrayed us.’

‘How will I survive?’ Leo quaked.

‘You have a sword,’ said Milo, throwing the weapon at his feet. ‘That’s more than we have.’

‘Besides,’ Olivia added, ‘your friend the Dream Witch will protect you.’

‘She’s not my friend.’

Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Goodbye, Leo.’ She turned to go.

‘Wait, you
can’t
leave,’ Leo blustered. ‘I forbid it. I’m Leo, Crown Prince of Pretonia!’

‘Well, I’m Olivia, Crown Princess of I-Don’t-Care.’

With that, she and Milo marched into the unknown.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ Leo snarled under his breath. ‘Just wait and see.’ 

Back at the castle, Leo’s uncle was having a fitful sleep. He’d taken the bedroom next to Olivia’s parents, but even its rich velvet canopies and goose down pillows had failed to ease his mind.

After sending off his nephew to capture the princess, the duke had had uneasy thoughts. Chasing down an unarmed girl and a peasant boy shouldn’t be a problem, especially when accompanied by fifty armed cavalry. But Leo was a special case: if there were a way to mess things up, the idiot would find it. Then what? Despite the duke’s bluster about heroic deaths, he knew that Leo’s father would be none too pleased if his heir came to harm.

So the duke tossed and turned, his dreams made worse by indigestion. His bum trumpet ripped the air; the gases billowed the bed sheets. With each foul blast, he heard a cannon’s roar and pictured Leo leading a charge into a sulphurous bog.

The duke leapt from his bed, still fast asleep, and tried to follow the brat. Ahead, he saw two red coals glowing in the mist: The eyes of the Dream Witch.

Come after me if you dare
, the apparition cackled.

‘If I dare?’ the duke exclaimed. ‘I fear no she-devil!’

Imagining himself in full battle gear, he sleepwalked down the castle corridors, swinging his arm as if brandishing a sword. Sentries cleared a path; they knew better than to wake their master when he was in a state.

The apparition descended a rocky cliff – the castle’s spiral staircase.

The duke followed. ‘Yes, run from me, witch!’

They crossed a plain of pebbles – the cobblestoned courtyard – and entered a cave.

‘I have you now,’ the duke bellowed.

Silly man.

‘Silly. Do I look silly?’ the duke raged. ‘I’ll show you who’s silly!’ He sliced the air with his broadsword. The exertion released an explosion of rump gas so vile it nearly blew a hole in his nightshirt.

The duke blinked awake. He wasn’t in a cave; he was in the castle stables. Nor was he in battle gear heaving a sword; he was in his nightshirt, waving a candlestick.

‘Good evening,’ the Dream Witch purred. Her eyes glowed from a nearby stall.

The duke retreated a step. A great flap of wings descended from the rafters. Owl claws clipped his forehead. The duke turned to run, but something thrust itself out of the dark and wrapped around his neck: It was the witch’s nose.

The duke tried to break free, but her trunk tightened; it pulled him towards her and dropped him, limp, at her feet. The heat of the witch’s eyes burned his cheeks. He trembled with fear.

‘Why, you’re shaking,’ the Dream Witch teased. ‘But surely you can’t be cold. You’re hairy as a sheep.’ She flicked the air with her tongue. ‘Ah, the taste of fear. You’re not so very different from your nephew, are you?’

‘What have you done with him?’

‘Who says I even have him?’

‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes, come to think of it.’ The Dream Witch winked. ‘He’s a waste of air. Your Pretonian heir. Even breaking an egg is too much for him. Still, I need payment for the trouble of keeping him alive.’

‘What can I give that you can’t conjure?’

‘The means to make a living image of the king and queen. Spirits can be conjured to play the role of servants. But poppet parents require greater craft: It’s a rare child that cannot tell its own.’

‘What must I do?’

‘Bring me a hair from the queen’s head, and a fingernail from the king.’

The duke frowned. ‘Why not enter the castle and take them yourself?’

‘I may be a sorceress, but I’m not a thief,’ the Dream Witch said. ‘I take only what people give me: their deepest hopes and fears; their promises; oh, yes, and their children, who trade their futures for my treasure. From these, I weave my spells, my dreams and nightmares.’ She paused. ‘A hair from the queen’s head, and a fingernail from the king. Have we a deal?’

Within minutes, the spice jars rattled as the door to the Dream Witch’s cavern creaked open.

‘I’m home,’ the witch sang merrily. ‘Can you guess what I want?’

The terrified children buried their heads between their knees and pressed their backs against their glass cells.

‘Oh, come on, guess,’ the witch twinkled. ‘No need to be shy.’

One little boy was overcome by the shakes. His bottle toppled over.

‘Why, hello there.’ The Dream Witch unspooled her nose from around her waist and plucked up the jar. ‘I smell a boy with salty tears and dirty fingernails.’ She curled the jar in front of her face. ‘So tell me, precious, what do I want?’

The moppet shrank back. ‘Grindings?’

‘Clever boy. And why do I want them?’

‘To make a spell?’

‘Excellent child. A lad like you is far too bright to sit on a shelf with dunderheads. You must come to my study: today’s spell needs special spice.’

‘I’m not special at all! Really!’ the boy begged.

‘No need to be modest,’ the Dream Witch cackled, and whisked him down the long coal stairs to her study of horrors. The lad shuddered at the sight of the living portrait of the witch at the end of the cavern; the nightmarish murals lining the side walls; and the oak-stump desk the size of a village square with its bonfire candle, sheaf of bats’-wing parchments, and inkwell smelling of death.

The Dream Witch put the boy’s bottle to one side. Then she smoothed out her handkerchief with her long, yellow fingernails, while her monstrous trunk rooted about in her pocket.

The nose retrieved its prize – a velvet pouch delivered by the duke from the bedroom of Olivia’s parents – and shook it out over the handkerchief. A hair from the queen’s head floated down onto the left side of the cloth; the bloodied nail from the king’s left thumb fell to its right.

‘And now for some special spice,’ the Dream Witch said. ‘The spice of life.’ She picked up the glass jar.

‘Why me?’ the boy cried.

‘I have to use someone, don’t I? The king and queen promised me a gift and they didn’t keep their promise. I need a spell to put things right.’

‘But I’m not the one who cheated you!’

‘Maybe not. But innocents always pay the price.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will, my child. All it takes is growing up.’ She gripped the grinding handle.

‘No!’ the boy screamed

‘Hush,’ the Dream Witch cooed. ‘This won’t hurt much. Well, not for long, anyway.’

The boy wailed uncontrollably.

The Dream Witch wrapped her nose around her temples. ‘It’s been a long day, my pet, and I have a splitting headache. Any more crankiness and I shall grind and grind until there’s nothing left to grind but your eyebrows.’

The boy cowered in silence, as the sorceress turned the handle three times. Slivers of skin and a drizzle of red fell on the queen’s hair. The witch put down the bottle and snapped her fingers. A musty spell book flew from the top of a stack and opened itself above her outstretched hand.

‘Ah, here we are,’ the witch said, turning a page with the flare of a nostril. ‘
Somnambulo mortitious vivant
.’

The candle flared and suddenly the tip of the hair from the queen’s head rose up from the handkerchief. The witch sang a song in languages long forgotten, commanding the hair like a snake charmer. It coiled and rose and coiled again, the slivers of skin rising around it. The hair became two, then three, multiplying to infinity, as it grew into sinews and muscles and limbs. The skin enveloped the hair-flesh until they moved as one, undulating like dancers in a tango.

The Dream Witch glanced at her spell book. ‘
Visatato tremulo regianet
.’

Invisible fingers kneaded the tissues like dough. In no time, they were sculpted into the image of Olivia’s mother: the eyes a deep blue; the hair a soft brown; the smile aglow. The Dream Witch waved her hand; the thing was instantly clothed in the queen’s favourite skirt and bodice, a red brocade embroidered with gold thread, and adorned with a perfect imitation of her finest jewels. A whistle of air through the witch’s teeth and it began to breathe.

‘Good evening, Queen Sophie,’ the Dream Witch said.

The spell-queen blinked. ‘Good evening, Milady.’

‘Are you set to do my bidding?’

‘Your wish is my command.’

‘Wait but a minute,’ the Dream Witch smiled, ‘and I shall conjure you a spell-king.’ The sorceress lifted the grinder over the king’s nail. ‘Just a teensy bit more,’ she told the boy.

‘It isn’t fair,’ he whimpered.

‘
Life
isn’t fair,’ the Dream Witch shrugged. ‘And that, my pet, is the scariest nightmare of all.’