The Lampo Circus (10 page)

‘Cursed,’ she muttered. ‘My Ernesto has been touched by the
Malocchio!’

Taking up the bowl, Nonna Luna hurried outside, threw the water onto the earth and stomped fervently on it with both feet. When Ernest looked puzzled, she explained, ‘To stampa da evil into da ground. Now we must repeat.’ She hobbled back inside and grasped Ernest by the arm. He tried to squirm away but his strength was no match for Nonna Luna who had built up biceps of steel from years of kneading dough. The ritual was repeated until the oil floated in globules on the water’s surface.

‘Now Ernesto is free!’ she declared in triumph.

Not wanting any repeats of this performance, Ernest devised a way for Milli to accompany him on kitchen duty the next day. This was not as difficult as they had imagined. Milli only needed to feign dizziness, the first symptom of Boilexplodoitis, for Oslo to exempt her from the day’s training.

When the children arrived at Nonna Luna’s kitchen, the first thing she did was to pin a red ribbon to one of Ernest’s undergarments.

‘Justa for extra protection,’ she said, and winked.

She then proceeded to attach more red accessories to various parts of Ernest. His shoelaces were now red, there was a red clip in his hair and Nonna Luna even had the nerve to expect him to wear a red chilli threaded onto a leather cord around his neck. She only allowed him to remove it when his eyes watered so profusely that he couldn’t see what he was doing and added a handful of coffee beans instead of borlotti beans to a pot of soup.

At one point, an owl, earthy brown in colour, flew in through the open window and settled on the back of a kitchen chair. Ernest made to chase it out but Nonna Luna stretched out an arm and made a gentle clucking sound with her tongue. The owl spread its wings, which were flecked with delicate patterns underneath, and flew towards her. The flurry of wings was enough to cause Ernest to duck under the kitchen table. The owl settled comfortably on Nonna Luna’s shoulder. Up close, the children could see that the creature’s eyes were without pupils or irises. They were simply two opaque
marbles that rolled back into its head whenever the animal was annoyed.

‘Dis is Olive,’ Nonna Luna said, stroking the bird affectionately.

‘Is she blind?’ Milli asked.

‘Olive issa blessed with
inner vision.
She is very good companion.’

‘I thought fortune-tellers had cats as companions,’ Milli said.

‘Olive is more cleva dan any lazy cat.’ As if to demonstrate this, Nonna Luna issued an instruction. ‘Olive, bringa me some rosemary for tonight’s offal pie.’

Olive immediately swooped out of the open window and returned carrying a sprig of the requested herb in her beak.

The following days spent in Nonna Luna’s kitchen were a welcome reprieve for the children, especially as Nonna produced all sorts of delicacies for them to sample. Having been nourished by nothing but meat, they relished any departure from protein and Nonna Luna seemed to draw immense satisfaction from feeding them a wide variety of dishes.
To the children’s surprise, she became quite agitated (going so far as to lament and pull at her hair) if they ever declined an item from her never-ending stream of treats.

‘Thank you, but we’re ready to burst!’ Milli explained, but Nonna Luna simply began hitting herself over the head with a bread stick and they did not like to argue any further.

In one day alone with Nonna Luna they consumed creamy gnocchi with a six-cheese sauce that simply melted in their mouths, home-made canolli (which are crunchy tubes of pastry filled with custard and dusted with icing sugar) and a dish containing olives, cold meats and crusty bread which Ernest thought was named after someone called Auntie Pastie until Nonna Luna told him otherwise.

‘How lucky Federico is to have a grandmother like you,’ Milli commented, her mouth full of a mascarpone-stuffed fig.

A shadow came over Nonna Luna’s face at the mention of her wayward grandson and she was forced to blink back tears. Not wanting to aggravate the situation further (Lampo was
clearly a sensitive topic), the children waited patiently for her to recover.

‘My Federico not always this way,’ Nonna Luna began, blowing her nose like a trumpet. ‘He was once a good boy, top of his class. He study music and hope to be a concert pianist.’ She lowered her voice and looked around furtively in case she might be overheard. ‘Then Federico began to mixa with the wrong crowd. He was so young [a mere boy of thirty-three]. He starta to eat hamburgers, sleep tilla lunchtime and disown his Nonna. What canna I do? It happen in da best of families.’

‘That’s a very sad story,’ Ernest agreed kindly, but Nonna Luna hardly seemed to hear him, so preoccupied was she with recalling past disappointments.

‘Of course, I hava only myself to blame,’ she continued, wringing her hands and swaying in distress. ‘I shoulda pay more attention to him when he try to read me his poems. But they so long and with such difficult words!’

‘Of course it isn’t your fault!’ Milli countered, but Nonna Luna was beyond consolation.

‘I offer him everything: endless supply of home-made pasta, a roof over his head, a respectable wife! But he no lissen to me and now looka how he turn out.’

‘How?’ Milli asked.

‘The toya boya of that witch! He thinka he so important now working for a Contessa. Contessa, my warts! I beta no one seen any papers to prove her ancestry.’

‘Do you know what they’re up to?’ Milli said.

‘I don’t even know what he has for brekafest! Federico has no time for his old Nonna now.’

The outburst seemed to have a cathartic effect on Nonna Luna. She took a deep breath before vigourously chopping some parsley she hoped would make the hideous flavour of offal pie more palatable. The children, however, were disappointed with the meagre information gleaned from this exchange. They had hoped Nonna Luna would prove a goldmine of information.

‘There must be something more you can tell us about why we’re here,’ Milli pleaded.

But Nonna Luna had done enough confiding for one day. She turned her attention
to the dinner she was about to serve up and would not be drawn into further discussion. Food preparation simply took all of her concentration.

Despite their impatience, Milli and Ernest were forced to resign themselves to learning nothing further from Nonna Luna that night.

O
ne morning reporting for kitchen duty, Milli and Ernest found Nonna Luna sitting at the scrubbed table with her palms upturned and her eyes shut. For the first time, there were no snacks in sight. Instead, on the table sat the prohibited knapsack from the cool room, but in place of the asps were brown cords. In front of Nonna Luna steamed a mug of a pungent-smelling brew which Milli and Ernest both thought must be the elusive Wild Butterbean Thistle.

Olive the Owl was restless. Unlike her usual composed self, she kept flying around the room and circling the children protectively
before returning to her perch. She seemed to be on the alert, watching for the appearance of something or someone. As if to confirm the secret nature of what they were about to witness, the windows were shut and the curtains drawn to block out any prying eyes. Milli could have sworn she saw the silhouettes of two large ravens gliding past.

Nonna Luna wore a grave expression and was engaged in a mumbled conversation with herself.

‘What’s happening?’ the children asked in unison.

As an oracle, Nonna Luna sounded very different from the kindly grandmother they had come to know. Her accent seemed to have disappeared and she was surprisingly articulate.

‘It isn’t what has happened but what will happen that we must concern ourselves with,’ Nonna Luna said. ‘It was no coincidence that you two chanced to land in my kitchen.’

‘It wasn’t?’ In response, Nonna Luna’s eyes flew open and she looked at the children prophetically.

‘Everything happens for a reason,’ Nonna intoned. ‘I know it is my destiny to help stop Bombasta and free poor Federico from her spell. In my opinion, that clumsy ox in her feathered hat needs to be taken down a peg or two.’

The children struggled to make sense of these ramblings and wondered whether it was advisable for Nonna Luna to continue consuming the brew.

On the stove bubbled a pot of aromatic amber broth flecked with parsley. Ernest, who had skipped breakfast (ox tongue on toast), inhaled deeply.

‘That smells delicious,’ he moaned.

‘Organic chicken carcasses,’ Nonna confided. ‘Makes all the difference.’

Ernest was to be disappointed if he hoped to be offered a bowl. Instead, Nonna Luna retrieved a cat-shaped canister from a shelf, drew from it two fistfuls of alphabet noodles and tossed them rather dramatically into the pot. After a few minutes she broke an egg into a bowl, whisked it and poured it quickly into the broth. Immediately the liquid lost its clarity and turned
cloudy. As she stirred, Nonna recited a powerful invocation:

Pot of Fortune

Pot of Fate

Pot with many powers great

Shed light on the future

The past let us see

Let this alphabet noodle

Your loyal scribe be

Speak to us, oh magic broth!

The liquid on the stove began to bubble more violently and the alphabet noodles rose to the surface arranging themselves into a wobbly sentence.
What is it you seek to know?

The children looked at one another in confusion. What question should they ask first? But Nonna Luna, who was clearly confident about what she was dealing with, answered on their behalf.

‘Show us what lurks within the jade citadel.’

The letters instantly sank to the bottom of the pot and something even more unfathomable
occurred. The broth that had looked so appetising only a few moments ago started to spin like water being sucked down a plughole.

Before Milli and Ernest had a chance to marvel at this, they found themselves staring at an image of the jade citadel glowing ethereally against a black sky. The children realised that the entire building must be carved from the precious stone. There was even a jade drawbridge lowered over a solid jade moat. The citadel itself was elongated and spindly, reminding them of a long and bony man. Its one window was gothic in design and filled with tiny panels of stained glass like you might find in a church. They could see that the glass formed a picture—it was of a hand, a skeletal hand with fingers like tentacles reaching for the sky. If they were not mistaken, it seemed the hand sought to hold the entire world within its grasp.

Abruptly, the image of the citadel faded. Now the children were unseen guests inside a lavish drawing room. Contessa Bombasta was standing in front of a large map mounted on one wall and tracing a route with a plump finger.
When she reached her target (a mushroom icon), she savagely speared the image with a thumbtack and gave a maniacal laugh. This was more puzzling than ever. What could it mean, other than the Contessa’s determination to avoid vegetables of the fungi variety?

‘Just as I suspected,’ Nonna Luna murmured. ‘Federico has been lured into great danger. We have just witnessed the hatching of a terrible plot.’

‘What is the use of that unless we know what’s being plotted?’ Milli cried, but Ernest shushed her excitedly. Another image was forming in the pot.

The children now saw a vast field of sunflowers turning their heads to the sun and waving in the breeze. The sight was so calming that Milli and Ernest sighed with relief and almost felt the weight of the past few days lift from their minds. But a shadow was creeping across the field, a black and angry mass of clouds like bruises on the sky, and soon the entire expanse was in shade. All at once the sunflowers burst into flame. A fire swept through the field with devastating speed, consuming everything in its
path and leaving only mounds of ashes in its wake.

The vision shocked the children but they had no choice other than to watch with mounting trepidation as a final image began to take shape.

This time it was of a narrow room with a low ceiling. Something told them it must be the apex of the jade citadel as a small window looked directly onto a sliver of sky. The room had the coldness of a crypt as everything was made of polished black stone. The walls were covered with swirling inscriptions in an ancient tongue that Ernest thought might be Latin, although he couldn’t make out enough of the letters to be absolutely sure. There was no furniture, only a stone font like the ones used in christening ceremonies. A figure was bent over it. He had his back to them so they could not see his face but he wore crimson robes that spilled onto the floor like a wine stain. His hands and neck were startlingly white in the dimly lit surroundings. His milky blue hair was twisted into dozens of tiny braids, each one fastened with a silver bell and pulled away from his head. His skin was
crinkly like tissue paper after you have eagerly unwrapped a present, and equally translucent.

When the man turned from his work and drifted across the room, the children jumped back in alarm. They had caught a glimpse of his eyes—distinctive eyes that even in the watery image before them did not stop shifting colour. The face of Lord Aldor seemed to be moving towards them. The veins in his forehead throbbed with the effort of concentration and the sharpness of his features reminded them of a locust.

The broth began to give off the cloying odour of decomposition such as one might smell on a forest floor, and the scene shifted to show Lord Aldor glaring at Federico Lampo who was kneeling on the stone floor beside him.

‘Everything is progressing as Your Lordship planned,’ Lampo said in an obvious state of agitation.

Lord Aldor arched a thin eyebrow. ‘And the brats?’

‘Shaping up into fine young warriors,’ Lampo bragged.

A depraved smile crept over Lord Aldor’s
face. His eyes were as bright as candles and he licked his lips.