The Bag of Bones (4 page)

Buckleup Brandersby, Master-in-Charge of the Happy Times Orphanage (“Orphans of Any Age speedily collected from anywhere in the Five Kingdoms and kept in a Caring and Supportive Environment in buildings located on the Healthiest Gravel Soil near the Ancient Town of Wadingburn”), was muttering darkly to himself. He’d had his doubts about sending Loobly Higgins out on work experience right from the start. If he’d had his way, Loobly would have stayed safely in the orphanage washhouse where she belonged, but the ladies on the committee had decided otherwise.

“It is
so
important that a child like Loobly has a fair chance,” Mrs. Withery had insisted. “We know she’s not exactly one of us. But she’s a dear little soul. And Evangeline Droop IS her aunt.”

“Excuse me, missus, but she’s not really.” Buckleup Brandersby shook his large and heavy head. “She only calls her Auntie for politeness, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Met on a orphanage open-house day; seems they took to each other, talking about black cats and frogs and rats and the like. That’s all it was. Miss Droop never sends the girl so much as a birthday card — not that we knows when her birthday is, of course, seeing as she was left on the doorstep in an egg basket with no note nor nothing.”

“Nevertheless, there is a connection.” Mrs. Withery’s tone was sharp. She suspected the Master-in-Charge was concerned for himself rather than for Loobly’s welfare. As long as an orphan was safely under his roof, he earned himself a silver shilling a week and a loaf of bread. Orphans who vanished meant losing both, and judging from the extreme rotundity of Buckleup’s stomach, any reduction in sandwiches would be regarded by him as a serious matter.

“And you never know,” Mrs. Withery went on, “little Loobly could have a feeling for witchcraft. Just imagine”— her eyes grew wide with a vision —“the witches of Wadingburn might offer her an apprenticeship!”

Buckleup did his best not to sniff. He had no time for witches, especially witches who declined to contribute to the Happy Times Orphanage Fund. His last appeal (“Make an Orphan’s Day by Providing the Funds to buy Him — or Her — a Woolly Vest”) had met with nothing more than this offer of work experience, with the proviso that the orphan chosen was to be obedient, female, and not afraid of frogs, rats, or spiders.

“So it’s decided, then?” Mrs. Withery had looked around at the other members of the committee. “Loobly Higgins will be sent to spend a week with the witches? Returning home every night, of course.”

The vote had been passed, with Buckleup’s the only negative voice.

And now Loobly was missing. For the past five days, she had turned up more or less at the right time, but this was her last day — and she wasn’t back. Buckleup looked at his clock, and his face darkened ominously. Half-past midnight. She’d been given an extension so that she could accompany the witches to their weekly Cauldron Fest, but it had been on the strict understanding that she was to be back at the orphanage by ten at the latest. Buckleup growled and stomped off to let the dogs out.

Loobly, stumbling and scrambling in and out of the trees, her breath catching in her throat, gradually became aware of a voice in her ear. A voice that wasn’t Alf’s. “Don’t
run,
kiddo —
climb
!” it insisted. “Swing a left, and go
up
!”

Too scared to do anything except blindly obey, Loobly turned left and found her way barred by an ancient oak tree. Tucking Ratty into a pocket of her dress, she began to climb, still urged on by the voice.

“Keep going, kid! There’s a fork coming up — keep right! Good — now up again!”

Her arms aching, Loobly did as she was told.

It wasn’t until she began to see the stars twinkling between the branches above her that the voice finally said, “OK. Take a break, kiddo. You deserve it.”

From far down below came the sound of another voice. Truda was hissing angrily as a twist of thorny blackberry bush caught at her ankle, and as she tried to disentangle herself, another twist caught her other foot. Furious, she pulled a handful of bone dust from her bag and scattered it with a mumbled spell. At once the tangle of thorns dissolved away into a steaming purple puddle, and Truda stepped free, slapping at the creature around her neck as she did so.

“A waste of dragon’s bone,” she croaked. “Sneeze, indeed! If you can’t do better than that, Malice, I’ll see you made into gloves!”

Malice didn’t answer. He knew someone totally lacking in evil had been close; he could sense it in the air, but now there was no sign. No sign at all. And he disliked being slapped and threatened. He closed his eyes firmly and put himself to sleep.

Truda felt him fading and considered hurling him into the darkness, but on second thought she decided against it. He had his uses, even if he did fall asleep at the most inconvenient moments. “Should have added dog for obedience when I made him,” she muttered. Malice smiled sourly in the midst of his dreams, and Truda peered this way and that into the darkness.

“No scent . . . Where’s that dratted Trueheart gone?” Her green tongue flickered. There were bats nearby, but that wasn’t in any way unusual, and there was a strong odor of rat, but that too was of no interest to her. Could Malice have been wrong? Was it really a Trueheart who had sneezed? Something or someone had twisted her spell, but it seemed that whatever it was had vanished. Truda shook her head and turned to go back to the clearing. Pushing her way between the bushes and trees she saw that the moon had come out from behind the clouds, and in its light the cauldron shone silver . . . and solitary. Of the witches of Wadingburn, there was no sign.

Truda cursed under her breath. It seemed as if even Mrs. Cringe had deserted her, but as she stormed her way out from the trees, she heard a small squeak, and the diminutive figure of her elderly granddaughter scuttled toward her.

“Grandma! Where were you? Can’t you hear the dogs?”

Truda lifted her head and listened. The sound of distant barking floated up from the bottom of Wadingburn Hill.

“That’s hounds,” Mrs. Cringe whimpered. “They’re on someone’s trail. What if they come up here? Snap us up in a whisker, they will — you’ve got to do something! Call up that magic of yours — at least call it up if it’ll do any good.”

The icy glare that Truda turned on her granddaughter made the miniature witch quail.

“Not that I doubt you,” she said hastily. “But there’s been a bit too much shrinkage going on, if you ask me. When do we get to grow —” She stopped midsentence. The barking was getting closer, and Mrs. Cringe clutched at her grandmother’s skirts. “DO SOMETHING!” she wailed, and as she spoke, the four remaining witches popped out of the surrounding undergrowth like so many rabbits, twittering with fear.

Truda glanced around. If a pack of dogs arrived, there was not going to be time for pleasant chitchat before they found what they might well consider a collection of edible rodents. “Here!” she ordered, and bending down, she swept up Mrs. Cringe, Mrs. Vibble, and Ms. Scurrilous and deposited them in the cauldron. Another swoop, and Evangeline and Mrs. Prag joined the others in the extreme discomfort of a large metal cooking pot that was still unpleasantly warm and damp.

Truda was only just in time; as she straightened up, the first of the dogs came leaping toward her.

Up in the topmost branches of the oak tree, Loobly gave an anguished squeak. The moon was full and very bright, and she could see the animals circling around the cauldron. She could also make out the stout and panting figure of Buckleup Brandersby as he toiled his way up the hill.

“Keep cool, kiddo. You’re doing good.”

Loobly wobbled and had to clutch at a branch to save herself. “Please — who
is
you?”

“That’s Uncle Marlon!” Alf sounded shocked as he fluttered beside her. “
Everyone
knows him.”

“Oh.” Loobly turned wide eyes on the older bat and studied him. Marlon shifted along his twig into the moonlight and winked at her. “No worries, kiddo. Soon have you safe and —”

A crescendo of barking interrupted him, and, looking down, Loobly took a sharp breath. The lead dog had picked up her trail and was heading straight toward her tree, the others behind him. Buckleup was leaning on the cauldron, his face streaming with sweat, and it was obvious that he was quite extraordinarily angry.

“Runaway norphan, miss.” His voice carried clearly as he spoke to Truda. “Dogs know what they’re doing, though. Snarler’ll have her before the night’s over — and WON’T I make her sorry!”

Truda Hangnail breathed in his frustration and fury with an ecstatic smile. “What
fun
,” she hissed, then leaned toward him. “Maybe I could —”

“WO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-OWWWW!”
The piercing howl drowned out her words, and a ferocious grin spread over Buckleup’s greasy face.

“Snarler’s got her,” he said triumphantly. “Snarler’s got her!”

Gracie and Gubble were making steady progress. Gubble had never been a fast walker; a short, stout troll is not built for speed. He had other skills, however; whenever the undergrowth threatened to be too thick for Gracie to push through, he simply shut his eyes and continued his progress. In this way he and Gracie were able to take several shortcuts, leaving a trail of flattened grass and battered bushes behind them. Gracie was wishing she had had time to put on something more substantial than her bedroom slippers, which were already extremely damp; fortunately her bathrobe was thick flannel, and kept the rest of her comfortably warm. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she was pleasantly surprised to find a package of cookies, which she decided to keep for breakfast.
And we’re sure to find some berries,
she told herself,
and there are plenty of streams along the way.

“Berries,” Gubble announced as if he had read her thoughts, pointing with a thick, stubby finger at a small, low-growing bush. Gracie stooped and picked a handful, while Gubble helped himself from the other side. “Good,” he said approvingly, and only when there were no berries left did he stomp off once more along the narrow path. Gracie followed him, eating as she went. She was pleased to find that the berries tasted of chocolate cake; she had eaten them before and knew that they had a delightful habit of tasting exactly like her favorite foods. The first time she had taken the journey to the House of the Ancient Crones, she had been guided by Marlon, and he had found her the same kind of berries to eat — but until that time Gracie had eaten only potato peelings or porridge skin, and the glories of the berries had almost passed her by. Having been adopted by the crones, she was now aware that her lost and not-at-all-lamented stepfather had fed her a very limited diet; she had had plenty of time and opportunity to experiment with all kinds of delicious treats, but chocolate cake remained her favorite. Gubble, grunting happily, had obviously found something equally to his taste, and he stomped his way among thistles and stinging nettles with enthusiasm.

“I wonder what we’ll find in Gorebreath,” Gracie said as she avoided a broken thistle that was doing its best to retaliate. “And I wonder what we can do to help.” She sighed. “The House did seem very certain we needed to go at once, so it must really be urgent. I do hope nothing’s wrong at the palace.”