The Bag of Bones Read online

  Gracie Gillypot

  a Trueheart

  Truda Hangnail

  a wicked witch

  Loobly Higgins

  an orphan

  Marlon

  a bat

  Alf

  Marlon’s nephew

  Gubble

  a troll

  Buckleup Brandersby

  Master-in-Charge of the Happy Times Orphanage

  Queen Bluebell

  Queen of Wadingburn

  Prince Arioso

  heir to the kingdom of Gorebreath

  Prince Marcus

  his twin

  THE WITCHES OF WADINGBURN

  Evangeline Droop

  the Grand High Witch of Wadingburn

  Mrs. Prag

  Mrs. Vibble

  Mrs. Cringe

  Ms. Scurrilous

  THE ANCIENT CRONES

  Edna

  the Ancient One

  Elsie

  the Oldest

  Val

  the Youngest

  ASSORTED RATS

  Brother Bodalisk

  Brother Brokenbiscuit

  Brother Burwash

  Doily

  Sprout

  “Wheeeeee!” The small bat did a double backflip, then a twist, and landed neatly on the branch below. “Did you see me, Uncle Marlon? Did you SEE me?” Alf squeaked.

  “Shh!” The older bat flapped a warning wing. “Button up, kiddo. We’ve got company.” He stared into the night. “Hmph. It’s those dames from Wadingburn.”

  The small bat’s eyes widened. “The witches? Oh, Uncle Marlon! Can we stay ’n’ watch? Will they do scary spells?”

  “They’re no big deal, kiddo.” The older bat settled back on his branch. “Deep Magic’s not allowed in the Five Kingdoms. This lot are Shallow, through and through. Couldn’t magic a bird off a branch. But keep mum, all the same. You don’t want to end up in a pot. Your ma’ll kill me if I bring you back half-boiled.”

  The small bat shivered, half in fear, half with pleasure. “Okeydokey, Uncle M.” And he froze into stillness as he watched the line of women, varying in shape and size but all dressed in black, making their way into the clearing at the top of Wadingburn Hill. Limping at the end of the line was the small, skinny figure of a girl, her head bent tenderly over the bundle in her arms. As the witches hurried here and there, collecting firewood and setting up the old and dented black cauldron, she slipped away and settled herself at the foot of the tree where the two bats hung motionless. Softly she began to croon to the bundled-up object she was holding, rocking it gently to and fro.

  “Loobly Higgins!” said a terrible voice. “What on EARTH do you think you’re doing?”

  Loobly jumped. “N-n-n-nothing, Auntie,” she quavered.

  The Grand High Witch of Wadingburn took a step closer. “Did my eyes deceive me, or were you KISSING that rat?”

  Loobly shook her head so hard that her long, stringy hair broke loose from its ribbon and fell over her thin little face. “Wasn’t kissing it,” she whispered. “Not kissing. Just telling sorry. Sorry it be picklified.”

  The Grand High Witch sighed in exasperation. “It’ll be no use now. No use at all. How many times do I have to tell you to leave my ingredients alone?”

  “Sorry, Auntie Levangeline. Loobly hear you. Loobly very sorry.” Loobly pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked up hopefully. “If no use, can Loobly keep he?”

  “Certainly NOT!” The witch was on the point of snatching the rat away when she was distracted by the sound of cackling laughter. Instantly forgetting Loobly, she turned to see her five fellow witches gathering around the cauldron that was now bubbling gently in the center of the clearing. At once the Grand High Witch drew herself to her full height and strode forward to greet them.

  “Dear Mrs. Cringe! I’m so glad you’re with us tonight! And Mrs. Vibble and Mrs. Prag as well. Fabulous! And darling Ms. Scurrilous is here too! And Mrs. . . .”

  The Grand High Witch faltered for a moment. What was the name of the hunched old witch on the far side of the fire? Even with the flames now burning brightly under the cauldron, it was too dark to see her face. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Gabbage, and Ms. Pettigroan had sent a bat earlier that evening with polite apologies.

  Mrs. Cringe shuffled up, looking distinctly guilty, and the Grand High Witch’s heart sank. Even worse, her little toe had begun to throb, which was a far more reliable warning of impending trouble. She had always been wary of Mrs. Cringe, not least because she was known to have relations outside the Five Kingdoms who were suspected of indulging in Deep Magic of the nastiest kind.

  “Ahem,” Mrs. Cringe addressed the Grand High Witch, whose toe was becoming increasingly painful. “That there’s my grandmother, Truda Hangnail. She’s come visiting from the other side of the More Enchanted Forest. Asked if I could invite her in for a week or two. Things got troublesome for her over there, she said. Too many two-headed cows and sheep with five legs appearing all over the place.” She stepped closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Best to be polite. She’s in a bit of a temper. Fell in a ditch on the other side of the border gate.” She nudged the Grand High Witch. “Shouldn’t even be here in the Five Kingdoms. Deep, she is. Very Deep. But we won’t tell, will we?”

  Evangeline Droop, Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, froze. It was a serious offense to invite a Deep Witch to cross the border of the Five Kingdoms. They had been banished many years before, together with werewolves and sorcerers. On the other hand, she had absolutely no idea how to confront a Deep Witch, let alone how to tell her to go home.

  Evangeline’s little toe was now excruciating. All the same, she extended an unwilling hand and said as gracefully as she was able, “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Hangnail!”

  The visitor stared at her with beady little eyes, and the strangely sinuous animal draped around her neck lifted its head and stared too. “Deep or Shallow?” the witch croaked.

  Mrs. Cringe took her elderly relation by the arm. “I told you, Grandma. There aren’t any Deep Witches in the Five Kingdoms.”

  Truda Hangnail gave a laugh like knives scraping steel. “There’s no fun in that,” she sneered. “You can’t turn princes into toads with Shallow Magic. How d’you put red-hot nails in a milkmaid’s shoes? And how d’you scare folk into giving you plump young chickens and apple pies and bowls of eggs and dishes of cream?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Hangnail,” the Grand High Witch said haughtily, “we are respected members of our community.”

  Mrs. Prag looked smug. “We’ve all been invited to Queen Bluebell’s eightieth-birthday party to hear the Declaration.”

  “It’s a Declaration Ball, Vera,” Mrs. Vibble corrected her. “Do get it right.”

  “So exciting!” Ms. Scurrilous beamed with pleasure. “We’ll be among the very first to know who she’s chosen as her successor!”

  Truda stiffened like a fox who has seen a foolish young rabbit. Even her nose sharpened. “Successor?”

  Ms. Scurrilous heaved a romantic sigh. “So sad. Her daughter ran away, and there’s only a grandson. And of course we don’t have kings in Wadingburn, so it’s been a terrible worry.”

  “Serves the old bag right,” Truda snapped.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Hangnail!” Evangeline’s voice rose several octaves. “You are speaking of our beloved monarch!”

  “Oooh — beg your pardon, I’m sure.” The old witch bobbed a sarcastic curtsy. “So what else do you do, besides visiting royalty?”

  Mrs. Vibble bridled. “We offer charms and sooth­ing cures for the afflicted.”

  “That’s right,” Ms. Scurrilous added. “And we get paid for our work without frightening anyone.”

  “YAH!” Truda stuck out her lo
ng green tongue. “Mimsy-whimsy sort of stuff. Cough drops and love potions as well, I’ll be bound.” She hobbled toward the bubbling cauldron and peered inside. “Just as I thought. Moldy mushrooms, shriveled spiders’ legs, chicken soup, and nail clippings. Call yourselves witches? Spineless old hags is what you are! Now, let me see . . .” She began to fish in the pockets of her shabby old cloak, then pulled out a tattered cloth bag. “Frog bones, bat bones, rat bones, cat bones . . . How about a few dragon bones to begin with? Nicely ground into dust, of course.”

  Mrs. Prag grabbed Evangeline’s arm. “What’s she doing?” she hissed. “Stop her! Dragon bones are illegal!”

  Evangeline swallowed hard. As Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, voted into the post by every witch in the kingdom, she knew she should take command. She should order this terrible old hag to go, scat, vamoose, and refuse to take no for an answer. But there had been something in Truda Hangnail’s eyes that was making Evangeline feel oddly indecisive.

  “Erm . . .” she began. “We don’t usually use those kinds of ingredients.”

  “You don’t, eh?” Truda sneered. “Well, could be it’s time you did. I’m thinking we could have some fun and games in this cozy little kingdom of yours. I’m thinking we could make it a tad more exciting. Could just be I’ve found something worth staying for!” She gave an evil cackle, opened the bag, and tossed a handful of gray dust into the cauldron.

  Nothing happened.

  Truda swore and gave the cauldron a sharp kick.

  At once there was a flash, and a cloud of thick purple smoke rose up and swirled around Truda’s shoulders before spreading across the clearing. The witches of Wadingburn coughed and spluttered, and Evangeline felt her eyes sting and water. Strange thoughts raced into her mind; she remembered how only that morning the butcher’s boy had accidentally ridden across a corner of her flower bed, and she was suddenly seized with a burning desire to raise a huge red boil on the end of his nose.

  “Do it! Do it!” Truda Hangnail was standing right in front of her. “Let the evil do its work! Let wickedness rule! You call yourself a Grand High Witch — so make folk suffer! Take the power and follow me!”

  Evangeline swallowed. On the other side of the cauldron, Mrs. Prag and Mrs. Vibble had linked arms and were muttering curses. Mrs. Cringe and Ms. Scurrilous were scowling terrible scowls and making threatening gestures as they stamped up and down.

  Truda pointed a withered finger at Mrs. Cringe. “Granddaughter of mine,” she intoned, “you brought me here. Come to the cauldron and take the power of the Deep Magic . . . you and all who are in this place. Let the Deep Magic return to Wadingburn . . . Deep, Deep, Deep Magic!” And she strode to the seething cauldron and held out her bony hand. Mrs. Cringe, moving like a sleepwalker, drifted inexorably toward the hand and took it. Ms. Scurrilous followed and was grasped by Mrs. Cringe. Mrs. Prag and Mrs. Vibble, hand in hand like schoolgirls, joined themselves to the chain, and the Grand High Witch felt an acute longing to join them. Her head was swirling with wicked thoughts and the desire for power, but there was still a part of her that knew this was not her true self, that this was the wish of Truda Hangnail.

  “Don’t go! Oh, Auntie Levangeline, don’t go handling hold!”

  The small squeaky voice cut through the confusion in Evangeline’s mind, and she stopped. Loobly was dancing up and down in agitation, still clutching the rat. “Smell badness,” she shrilled. “Bad badness, Auntie! Loobly knows it is!”

  With a last desperate effort, Evangeline, Grand High Witch of Wadingburn, spoke as her real self. “Loobly!” She gasped. “Loobly . . . go to the crones . . . the Ancient Crones . . .” and then she was sucked into the purple mist.

  Gracie Gillypot sat up in bed with a start. Someone or something was in her room, and it was scratching on the walls.

  “Is — is anyone there?” Gracie asked, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling. It wasn’t that she was nervous, she told herself, it was more that she wasn’t quite sure what was happening. The House of the Ancient Crones had a curious habit of swapping parts of itself every so often, so that the front door would suddenly pop up on the roof, or on a side wall, or even in the cellar. Gracie had lost her bedroom two or three times since she had moved in, but fortunately there was a sign on the door saying HEDGEHOGS ONLY, so she had been able to track it down among the many other doors that played hide-and-seek up and down the corridors. The kitchen was particularly inclined to slide from one end of the building to the other; only room seventeen remained more or less in the same place. This was fortunate, as it was the room where the crones kept their two old-fashioned but all-important looms. On one they created fine pieces of cloth that were made into robes of skulls, or cloaks of invisibility, or whatever else might be ordered (and paid for at a quite exorbitant rate; “We are not,” the Ancient One frequently remarked, “a charity.”). Shimmering on the taller loom was the silver web that held the balance between Good and Evil, and here work never stopped. Day and night alike the Youngest, the Oldest, or the Ancient One sat steadily weaving. Gracie had offered to help and had been allowed a couple of minutes now and then, but never longer. The Newest was forbidden to touch the fragile silver threads at all; she was in the process of being trained in the ways of the Ancient Crones and was, as yet, highly unreliable.

  “It’ll be a good few years before she’s properly drained of evil,” the Youngest had told Gracie when the Newest first arrived. “Took me long enough, and I wasn’t anything like such a Falseheart as her. She’s the worst the Ancient One’s ever taken on.” Then suddenly remembering that the Newest was Gracie’s stepsister, the Youngest looked awkward. “That is, I’m sure she had moments of being nice. . . .”

  “She didn’t,” Gracie said with feeling. “It’s OK, Auntie Val. She was dreadful.” And the conversation had been dropped, and the Youngest went back to her weaving.

  The scratching continued.

  Gracie felt on her bedside table for the matches and, after a couple of attempts, finally managed to light her candle. Holding it high, she peered around the room . . . and saw a quill pen spattering ink in all directions as it wrote furiously on the whitewashed walls.

  “Oh,” Gracie said with relief. “It’s only you.”

  The pen paused momentarily, then started off again.

  Gracie yawned. “Couldn’t you do that in the morning? Is it really important?”

  The pen shot across the room, wrote YES YES YES! on the wall above her head, then zoomed back to continue its scrawl. Gracie sighed and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. Only the week before, the pen had spent a whole afternoon drawing big fat hearts on her ceiling together with a banner inscribed GRACIE LOVES MARCUS. Gracie hadn’t been pleased, partly because this was a very private matter, and partly because it had taken her a whole morning to wash it off.

  “What is it now?” She picked up the candle, and walked over to read what the pen had written.

  “DANGER HELP HELP DANGER,” she read. “GO GO GO . . .” And then the same again, over and over.

  “Please —” Gracie was always polite, even to a quill pen that had woken her at midnight. “Please . . . couldn’t you give me a bit more information?”

  The pen spluttered, wrote URGENT! and shot off under the door. Gracie looked after it in resigned exasperation.

  “I’d better go and ask one of the aunties,” she decided, pulling on her bathrobe. “And maybe I’ll make myself a cup of tea at the same time.”

  She opened her bedroom door, stepped out into the corridor, and set off for the kitchen. A second later she found herself facing the front door, which opened itself invitingly, letting in a great deal of cold night air.

  “No, thanks,” Gracie said. “I’m going to have a cup of tea and a chat with whoever’s on the loom.” She turned around and set off in the other direction. The House gave a convulsive shake, and yet again she was looking through the open door at the dark night outside.

  Gracie folded her arms. “Look,”
she said. “I get the message. I know you want me to go — but I’m still in my pajamas, it’s the middle of the night, and I want to talk to Auntie Edna or Auntie Elsie. If I promise I’ll leave right afterward, will you let me go and find them?”

  There was a curious heaving along the floorboards, and the House settled down.

  “Thank you.” Gracie took a deep breath, turned around yet again, and hurried along the corridor until she found the door marked WATER WINGS. Once inside, she sighed with relief as she found the kitchen exactly the same as it always was and went about the business of boiling a kettle and making tea for two.

  “Three,” said a voice from a cupboard.

  “OK, Gubble,” Gracie said cheerfully. “Tea for three.” She filled the teapot, poured out a cupful, and added milk and four sugars.

  “Five?” The voice was hopeful.

  Gracie shook her head. “Not good for you.” Leaving the cup on the table, she put the other two cups on a tray and made her way to room seventeen, where the Oldest was steadily weaving. The second loom was neatly packed up for the night; a length of sky-blue velvet lay on it, and Gracie smoothed it lovingly as she walked past.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” said the Oldest as she pushed her wig of bright red curls farther back on her head. “Shame it’s for Princess Nina-Rose; it’d suit you nicely. Just the thing for a pretty girl at her first ball. Although I don’t know why Queen Bluebell’s calling it a Declaration Ball, exactly, seeing as her daughter ran away years ago.”

  Gracie smiled, trying hard not to look as if she were sorry for herself. “I told you, Auntie Elsie. Queen Bluebell’s not going to ask me. The ball’s this coming Saturday, and I haven’t had an invitation. I’ve brought you some tea.”

  “That’s very nice of you, dear,” Elsie said, and she patted Gracie’s hand. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, though?”

  “I was.” Gracie busied herself with the cups. “But . . . but the quill’s been writing things all over my walls. I came to ask you about it. It wrote DANGER, and HELP, and URGENT! — and the House is desperate for me to go somewhere, but I don’t know where. What do you think?”