Demon Thief (3 page)

I’m sure she’s not really a witch, but all the kids call her the Pricklish Witch of Paskinston. Some of the adults do too!

There isn’t a real school in Paskinston, just a converted stable that’s being used as a school until the villagers manage to build a proper one. There are three teachers (two are volunteers), crappy old desks, wobbly chairs, a few tired blackboards, and nothing else except the ancient toilets out back. A big change from my school in the city!

The school’s down the street and around the corner to the left from where we live. To get there, I walk past Mrs. Egin’s house. I could go the opposite way and circle around the backs of the houses if I wanted. But Mrs. Egin has never done anything bad to me. She hasn’t even spoken to me in the year that I’ve lived here. She doesn’t frighten me.

Today I set off for school as usual. Classes start at nine-thirty, but I normally get there at nine, to play some games with the other kids beforehand. Trying hard to fit in, to be like they are, to have them accept me. Not that I’m too bothered if they don’t.

“Off to school?” Mom asks as I’m heading out.

“Yes.”

“Want to take Art to the nursery?”

“Sure.”

The makeshift nursery school is in another converted stable, right next to the school. I often drop Art off.

Art’s small and skinny. A large head though. Dad says that’s a sign that he has lots of brains, but I think it’s because he has a thick skull — all the better for head butting!

I stop Art from trying to bite the hands off a soldier doll and pick him up. He struggles, eager to finish off the soldier. “Stop,” I grunt. Art calms down immediately. He always does what I tell him. He’s more obedient for me than Mom or Dad. Mom says that’s a sign that he really loves me. It makes me proud when she says stuff like that, though I usually scowl — don’t want her thinking I’m soft.

Art’s pale, like Mom, with dirty dark hair that looks like it’s never been washed. Mom always complains about Art’s hair. She regularly threatens to shave him bald like me. (Not that
I
need to shave — I’ve been bald since birth.) She says every guy should be bald — makes life much simpler for the women looking after them.

I throw Art up in the air and catch him. He laughs and gurgles for me to do it again. I compare my skin to his as I toss him up a second time. I’m much darker, a nice creamy brown, more Dad’s color than Mom’s. We don’t look like brothers. Mom says that’s good — people won’t confuse us for one another when we’re older.

I settle Art down and head for the door, carrying him under one arm like a skateboard. He swings his fists around, looking for something to hit. He almost never hits or bites me, but I’m the only one who’s safe around him. He’s given Mom a black eye a few times, and bit one of Dad’s finger-nails off once. He’ll be a real terror when he’s a couple of years older.

We set off down the street. There’s nobody else around. A quiet spring day. Birds are twittering in the trees. A cow moos in the distance. I feel warm and happy. Looking forward to summer. Dad said we might go to the beach for a week or two. We haven’t been on a vacation since we left the city. I’m excited about it.

“You’ve never seen a beach, have you?” I say to Art. “It’s great. More sand than you could imagine. Salt water, not like the ponds here. Seaweed. We can swim and make sand-castles. Eat ice cream and cotton candy. You’ll love it. And if we can’t go, well, we’ll camp around here instead. Find a lake, maybe near a small town, with a movie theater and amusement arcades and —”

“Thief!”
someone screeches.

We’ve just passed the witch’s house. I look back. The front door’s open. Mrs. Egin is standing on the doorstep. Her eyes are wild and she’s trembling. Her hair’s normally tied in a ponytail, but today it’s hanging loose, strands blowing across her face in the light breeze.

“Who’s the thief?” she mutters, staggering towards me.

“Mrs. Egin? Are you all right? Do you want me to get help?” I set Art down to my left and step in front of him, shielding him with my legs, in case she falls on top of him.

Mrs. Egin stops less than a foot away. She’s mumbling to herself, strange words, no language that I know. Her lips are bleeding — she’s bitten through them in several places. Her fingers are wriggling like ten angry snakes.

“Mrs. Egin?” I say softly, heart racing.

“Such a beautiful baby,” the witch says, eyes fixed on Art. He’s staring up at her silently. Mrs. Egin bends and reaches for Art, cooing, smiling crookedly.

“Leave him alone,” I gasp, shuffling Art back with my left foot, standing firmly in front of him now, blocking her way.

“Not yours!” she snarls, glaring at me. I’ve never seen an adult look at me that way, with total hate. It scares me. I feel like I have to pee. Clench my legs together so I don’t have an accident.

But, scared as I am, I don’t move. I stand my ground. I have to protect Art.

“Are you ill, Mrs. Egin?” I ask, my voice a lot calmer than I feel.

“Find him!” she shouts in reply. “Find the thief! Beautiful baby.” She smiles at Art again, then mumbles to herself, like a minute ago, but gesturing at Art this time, as though she’s casting a spell on him.

I look for help but we’re all alone. I can’t just stand here and let this go on. No telling what she’ll do next. So, without taking my eyes off her, I stoop, grab Art and awkwardly hold him up behind my back. Art squeals happily — he thinks I’m giving him a piggyback ride.

“We have to go now,” I say, edging away. Mrs. Egin’s still looking at the spot where Art was. I notice that lots of the patches of light around us are pulsing. They’re closer than they normally are, as if hedging us in. But I can’t worry about the lights. Not with Mrs. Egin acting like a real, mad witch.

“Soon!” Mrs. Egin barks, and her eyes snap upwards. “All will be happening soon. They thought I didn’t have it in me. Said I was weak. But they were wrong. I have the power. I can serve.” Her hands go still. Her eyes soften. “You will see me die,” she says quietly.

Tears of confusion and fear come to my eyes. “Mrs. Egin, I . . . I’ll get help . . . I’ll get someone who can —”

“Thief!” she yells, silencing me, wild and twisted again. Her hands come up and wave angrily at me. “Find the thief! Soon! You’ll see. The mad old witch going up in a puff of smoke. Boom, Kernel Fleck.
Boom!
”

She laughs hysterically. When you hear a witch laugh in a movie, it’s funny. But this isn’t. The laughter hurts my ears, makes them ring from deep inside. I half expect them to start bleeding.

“I have to go now,” I say quickly, turning away from her, sliding Art around so he’s in front of me, all the time protecting him from her.

“Kernel,” the witch says in a cold, commanding tone. Reluctantly I stop and look back. “You won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen today.” It’s not a question.

“Mrs. Egin . . . you need help . . . I think . . .”

She spits on the ground by her right foot. “You’re a fool. I’m not the one who needs help —
you
are. But never mind that. You won’t tell anyone. Because if you do, I’ll creep into your room late at night when you’re asleep and slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” She uses a trembling index finger to illustrate.

That’s too much. I lose control and, to my shame, feel the front of my pants go wet. Fortunately Mrs. Egin doesn’t see. She’s already turned away. Walks back to her house. Pauses at the front door. Looks up. There’s a six-sided patch of pink light pulsing rapidly just above her head. She reaches up and strokes it. The pulse rate slows, as if the light was afraid and she calmed it down.

“Thought you were the only one who could see them,” she says as I stare at her in shock. “But I can too. Now. For a while. Until they take me.”

Then she goes inside and shuts the door.

For a long moment I stand, fighting back tears, ears still ringing, wanting to run away and never return. But I can’t do that, and I can’t turn up at school with wet, stained pants. So I hurry home, clutching Art tight to my chest, steering as far wide of the witch’s house as I can.

MARBLES

I
LIE
to Mom. Tell her Art peed on me. She’s surprised —he’s never been a wetter. She wants to change him. I tell her it’s all right, I’ll take care of it. I hurry to my bedroom and change my pants. I’m almost out the door before I remember that Art should be changed too, so I quickly find clean clothes for him.

I consider telling Mom about Mrs. Egin’s behavior. Recall her threat — “slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” Don’t say a word.

The day passes uncomfortably. I can’t forget what Mrs. Egin said, her wicked expression, stroking the pulsing patch of light. “You will see me die.”

I should tell someone. It doesn’t matter that she threatened me. She won’t be able to sneak into my room if I tell someone and they lock her up like the mad old witch she is.

But I wet my pants. If I tell about the rest, I’ll have to tell about that too. And I don’t want people knowing. So I say nothing. I pretend it didn’t happen, that it doesn’t matter. And all day long I feel as if a thousand eels of terror are wriggling around inside me.

Dad’s talking with Mom about a craft fair when I come home. She’s listening quietly, sitting by the piano. (It was in the house when we moved in — none of us can play). She’s frowning.

“This is one of the biggest fairs in the country,” Dad says. “It’s held every year, and a few of the Paskinston artists always go, representing the village. They sell a lot of work at it, and rack up loads of orders. It’s a real honor to be asked. It would be rude to refuse.”

“But can’t one of us go and one stay here?” Mom asks.

“Yes, but couples normally go together. It’s not just about selling. There are hundreds of artists and interesting people there. It’s a chance to meet, mingle, get to know other people. It’ll be fun.”

I hand Art to Mom and sit close to her, following the conversation. I learn a bit more about the fair, where it’s held, who’s going, how long they’ll be gone for. Dad’s proud to have been invited and eager to go, but Mom’s worried about Art and me. She doesn’t want to leave us alone. “Can’t we take them along?” she asks.

“It’s not done,” Dad says patiently. “Nobody else brings their kids.”

Mom’s frown deepens. We haven’t been apart since we left the city, not for a single night. But if they go to the fair, they’ll be gone for at least a week.

“They won’t be by themselves,” Dad says. “We’ll leave them with one of the neighbors.”

“I know, but . . .”

“Kernel doesn’t mind. Do you, Kernel?” He smiles broadly at me, expecting my support. If this was yesterday, I’d have given it instantly. But Mrs. Egin’s threat is fresh in my thoughts. I don’t want to be left alone. So I just shrug in answer. “You OK, big guy?” Dad asks, surprised.

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t want us to go, just say. It’s not
that
important.”

“No. I mean, I don’t mind. Not really. It’s just . . .” I can’t explain without telling them the truth. So again I shrug.

“What about Art?” Mom says, kissing his head, looking up at Dad.

“Art will be fine too,” Dad says, and he sounds a little impatient now.

“I’m not sure, Caspian.”

“Melena . . .” Dad sighs. “Look, if it’s going to be a big deal, we won’t go. But this is our home now. We’re safe here. I don’t think we’ve anything to fear in this place. Do you?”

“No,” Mom says quietly.

“So . . . ?”

Mom makes a face. “I just don’t like being apart from my darling babies!” she exclaims. We all laugh at that, and everything’s fine again. Mom bounces Art up and down on her knee. Dad smiles and hugs her. I feel happy and safe. I ask what’s for dinner, and forget about the witch and all the bad thoughts of the day.

The morning of their departure. Dad gets the car ready while Mom takes Art and me over to Sally’s house. Sally is one of the villagers who lives alone. A bit older than Mom. Fat. A great singer. She has two children of her own, but they’ve grown up and left.

“We’re going to have a great time,” Sally says as we set our bags down in the room where Art and I are staying.

“I wish there was a phone, so we could call and check that everything is all right,” Mom grumbles. There aren’t many phones in the village, and Sally doesn’t own one.

“Relax!” Sally laughs. “These boys can get along fine without you for a few days. Can’t you, Kernel?”

“Sure.” I smile. Mom smiles back, but shakily.

Dad calls for us and we head outside. He’s standing by the car. The back seat and trunk are filled with musical instruments and paintings. Two other couples have already left in a caravan with the majority of the pieces that they hope to sell. Dad hugs Art, then me.

“Look after your brother,” Mom says, kissing my cheek.

“Of course he will,” Dad says. “Kernel’s the best brother in the world. He’ll take care of Art better than you or I could.”

Dad gets in and starts the engine. Mom hugs us one last time, then gets in beside him. And they’re off. Art, Sally and I wave after them. Mom rolls down her window, leans out and waves back, until they turn a corner. Although Sally’s right beside us, I can’t help but think as they roll out of sight — we’re alone now. Just Art and me. In a remote village. With a witch.

The day passes smoothly. School, playing with Art during lunch, dinner with Sally and some others. The villagers like to share meals. Here, it’s not polite to eat by yourself all the time. We often have guests over to eat with us, or go to a neighbor’s house.

Art doesn’t miss Mom and Dad. He eats, drinks, plays and behaves the same as always. Doesn’t cry when Sally gives him a bath. He does give her a sharp nip on her left forearm at one point, leaving deep marks, but that’s normal for Art.

“We should stitch his lips together when he’s not eating,” Sally says, rubbing her arm. But she’s only joking. Sally loves kids. Of course she’d rather not be bitten, but the whole village knows about Art’s biting habits. Sally knew what she was getting herself into when she offered to have us.

It’s strange not having Mom and Dad around. Things were different when we lived in the city. They often went out at night, leaving me with a babysitter. And they’d go on trips by themselves occasionally. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed staying with other people — I always got loads of treats.