The Midnight Folk Page 16

  Very timidly he tapped upon the door, half expecting that she would answer. No answer came, all was still within, save for the blind flapping near the open window, a cruising wasp, and a butterfly trying to get out. He took his fate in his hands and walked boldly in.

  There was not any sign of Greymalkin; the room had no visible spies. There were no portraits on the walls for spies to look through. There were a good many books in the shelves, and some portfolios of drawings propped against the wall, for she was always sketching (rather well). On her writing-table was a round case full of coloured discs, which looked very odd and gave Kay a queer feeling; he was glad to turn away from them. Even then, he didn’t like the look of them; he covered them with a cloth. On the desk was . . . what . . .?

  On the desk was the handbag which Mrs. Pouncer had carried when she had come into his bedroom with Blackmalkin. He would have known that bag anywhere, because it was black, with steel moon and stars worked on it. Beside the bag lay the Roper Bilges’s copy of The Sea-Gunner’s Practice, but it had been tampered with; all the written pages at the end had been neatly removed; they were no longer there.

  “I say,” he said to himself, “how on earth did she get this from Mrs. Pouncer?”

  How indeed? It was not so easy to say.

  He stood in the middle of the room, staring round him. It looked innocent enough, but was it? There were some strange little woodcuts on the bookshelves. When he looked at these more closely they frightened him, much as the discs had. Then there were some most strange playing-cards with Latin underneath their figures; he did not like the look of these. Then the books were not quite all that they might be. He only opened one; it had hieroglyphics instead of print. He put it back in its place and opened one of the portfolios of drawings. He did not like that at all: the drawings were of strange black figures upon red paper. He began to be very much afraid.

  Then he thought that it was not very nice of him to come spying on her, when her back was turned; so he went out of the room.

  Then he thought that Grandmamma Harker was right, that he ought to make sure that his home was not being used for witchcraft; so he went back again. He had not yet looked into the cupboard.

  The cupboard (as he knew from Ellen) was really a room, being what was called a powdering chamber.

  “And supposing,” he said to himself, “supposing Mrs. Pouncer is really her sister . . . and supposing she is in the powdering room, living there . . . that would account for the way the things go from the larder.” He looked through the cupboard keyhole; it was dark within; he could make out nothing. He flung the door wide open, crying “Aroint thee, witch,” in case Mrs. P. should be there.

  Mrs. P. was not there; no one was living there; the little room was in use as a clothes cupboard, but what were the clothes which hung from the pegs? Ah, what indeed?

  There was a row of seven crooked pegs. From each peg there hung a witch’s complete outfit; thus:

  1 long scarlet cloak.

  1 black stick with a crooky handle.

  1 tall, black, pointed shiny hat.

  And attached to each hat there was something . . . he had to turn up the nearest hat to see what it was. It was marked inside Sylvia Daisy. The outside was a marvellous wax face of Mrs. Pouncer.

  “Now I know all about it,” he said. “She is Mrs. Pouncer; this is her mask . . . and look at all her magic and witch things on the shelf. She is a queen witch; she’ll take a whole Archbishop to settle . . .”

  He looked at the magic things on the shelf. There was a magic lantern which lit the cupboard like daylight when he touched a button; there were magic baskets labelled Wish; there were magic ladders and ropes, which pulled out, and out, and out, to any length you pleased; there were fox-eye and cat’s-eye spectacles for seeing in the dark (he pocketed a pair of these); there was a gallon tin of Invisible Mixture; there were seven pairs of one league shoes; seven pairs of seven league shoes; and seven pairs of forty-nine league boots (these last were screwed down to keep them still). Then there were green and scarlet and yellow bottles, labelled Snake Bite, Dragon’s Blood, and Pouncer’s Best Bewitching Mixture. Then there was an ivory box labelled “Ointment for turning little boys into tomtits” (Kay did not touch this). Then there were bowls of gums and herbs for incantations. Then there were books, oh such books with such titles:

  Broomsticks, or the Midnight Practice.

  Spells and How to Bind Them.

  The Beginner’s Merlin.

  Merlin’s 100 Best Bewitchals.

  Were-Wolves, by one of Them.

  Shape-changing for all, by M. Le Fay.

  And at the end of the shelf was a small red book: Why I am a Witch, by Sylvia Daisy Pouncer.

  “I say,” he thought, “that is confession; she glories in it. I’ll write to the Bishop. I don’t care if it is sneaking. She has no business to be doing this kind of thing.

  “All the same,” he thought, as he looked at the row of scarlet cloaks, “it would be rather sport to try on Mrs. P.’s things.”

  He hesitated for an instant, then he lifted the cloak from the peg; the outfit came down in one piece. He put it on before the mirror; the cloak was rather long; but when he said: “I wish it were shorter,” it shrank to the right size. When he looked at himself in the glass, lo, he was Mrs. Pouncer, hooky nose, crooky chin, and wicked black piercing eyes which could see further into things than his own eyes, as he very soon found; they were eyes like gimlets.

  “I say,” he said, “I look exactly like her. Now I will just watch myself conjure.” And at this he put his left hand on his heart and struck the crooky stick downwards on the floor.

  Instantly he felt himself lifted into the air, off his feet, and through the open window. He had not time to catch hold of the rose trellis, he was carried so quickly past. He went floating along the drive, over the gate, over the Crowmarsh Estate, past Blinky’s tree, over the manège where they were lunging the chestnut colt, then faster and faster, past the house where the poor mad lady lived, past the milestone on Racecourse Road, past the white rails of the course . . . on, on, on . . .

  “Oh dear,” Kay cried, “it’s taking me straight to where all the witches are . . . and they’ll turn me into a tomtit. Stop, stop. I charge you to stop.”

  It didn’t stop, he didn’t stop; he went faster and faster.

  Soon the second milepost was passed; then the third, the stick began to point downwards towards a wooded hollow where the house called Russell’s Dene stood. The stick was pointing towards the house; nothing that Kay could do seemed to have the slightest effect. “I can’t turn it or stop it,” he said. “It’s going straight to those windows.” The house was a big brick building of the time of Queen Anne. It had a gloomy, heavy look as though it were drunk and wore a wig.

  “I’m going straight to where all the witches are,” Kay thought; “they will bewitch me into a mouse and set the cat at me. Oh dear, Oh dear.”

  The stick carried him swoop through one of the upper windows into a big, gloomy room, panelled to the ceiling. There were two open doors in this room, one on each side of Kay. People were talking just beyond one of these doors. Kay heard his governess’s voice saying:

  “What was that, that came through the window in the next room?”

  “It was my cat, Jouncer,” the milky voice of Abner Brown replied. “He always comes in that way.”

  “Really?” the governess said. “By the pricking in my toes I thought that it must be one of us.”

  “No, dear Pouncer,” Sister Aconite said, “my toes pricked, too; but I distinctly heard the cat’s feet go patter-patter.”

  “Jouncer is one of us,” Abner Brown said. “He knows our moonlight games and loves them. But . . . more coffee, dear Brother Venom?”

  “No, I thank you, Master Abner.”

  “How time has slipped away, my dear Seven,” Abner Brown said, “in listening to Sister Pouncer’s thrilling story revealed by this Owl. What a pity that her faithful spy Black
malkin did not wait for the end; it might have spared us so much trouble; we might have learned the whole truth. And this Harker child released the Owl, you say?”

  “Yes, imagine it. I’d a very good mind to tomtit him there and then.”

  Here the other witches joined in with: “It’s a pity you didn’t.” “The idea of such impertinence.” “Just as we might have learned the whole truth, too,” etc., etc.

  “Wait,” Abner Brown said. “Does this Harker child know more of the Owl’s tale than we do?”

  “He may. He may know the whole truth.”

  “So I think,” Abner said. “I am sure, or almost sure, that old Trigger got the treasure. What he did with it is the question. I think he gave it back to old Harker, who put it under that big hearthstone which you say is in his room. We’ll look there this afternoon. But in the meantime I have been preparing a Peep Show into the Past. The spells for that must be almost working now. We may be able to see exactly what did happen. I saw it as a child, remember, but was too young to know, and neither my pop nor my lamented grand-pop ever explained it to me.”

  At this instant, a gong began to beat in a room somewhere on the other side of the house.

  “Hark,” said Abner Brown. The gong-beats changed to a voice which cried, “The spells are working. The Past is laid bare. I charge you to come to see it.”

  “There is the call,” Abner said. “Now, if nothing blurs the picture, we may see what happened. Let us come along, then. Will you not wear your wrap, dear Pouncer?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “This way, then; through the door . . .”

  “Oh, Oh,” Kay thought, “they are coming here; they will catch me.”

  He had no time to think what to do. Since the stick would not take him back through the window, his only possible way of escape was through the door beside him. He slipped through it into a corridor just as the witches entered the room where he had been.

  The corridor was long and white, with doors on each side. Quite close to Kay was a small steel door standing ajar. It was very heavy. He slipped past it into a narrow passage and closed it behind him. He just had time to draw the heavy bolts before the witches were pushing at it from the other side. Kay went along the passage into a small room, brilliantly lit, although it had no window. There was a second steel door; when Kay had shut and bolted this, he could hear no sound of the outer would; not even the witches hammering on the steel outside.

  “I am a prisoner now,” he thought.

  The room had steel walls, some of which were hung with red velvet, all marked with magic. There were eight chairs in a row facing these red curtains, Kay sat down wondering what he was to do next. Suddenly fiery letters appeared one by one across the curtains, spelling out the words

  OPEN US.

  “All right,” Kay said. “I will.” So he walked across and opened the curtains. Behind them was a recess in which stood a tall red pedestal the height of a man. On the top of the pedestal was a man’s head, made in gold or other bright metal. This head was fitted with spectacles and ear-pieces of a magic kind, so that it might see and hear the past.

  “I have seen and heard,” the head said. “Remove these trappings from me.”

  Kay removed the spectacles and ear-pieces; as they pricked his fingers, he dropped them to the floor, against which they burst. After this there was a silence, till the head said, “One minute is past, question me.”

  “What have you seen and heard?” Kay asked.

  “You shall see and hear,” the head answered.

  The room became suddenly dark, except for a glimmering about the head.

  “You are looking into the past and hearing it,” the head said.

  Instantly Kay saw a tiny shining picture, of waves beating on a beach; but, no, it was not a picture, it was real; the waves broke and the trees beyond the sand were shaking. It grew larger, till it was like the scene itself; the surf was bursting, the sun glaring, and the hard leaves of the trees clacking on each other.

  A man came out of the jungle onto the sand. He was dressed in grey cotton clothes, and wore a tall straw sun-hat. He was staring along the beach. Suddenly he turned his head and looked straight at Kay, so that Kay saw his face. The words of Miss Pricker Trigger came into his mind at once, “a white, sweet, sanctified horse-dealer . . . a cherry-lipped poisoner.” The man in front of him was so like those descriptions. He had long white hair and beard, a rosy face, and a smile. His eyes had a way of turning up, as though looking at heaven were his chief delight; his hands were plump and white, he smoothed down his beard with them. Yet when his eyes turned up, Kay felt that the man was watching out of the corners of them. His outside seemed all woolly white lamb, and the inside all bitey rough wolf. “That is old Abner Brown,” Kay said. “It could not be anybody else.”

  Abner Brown poked into the sand for turtle eggs, found some and then sat down to suck them.

  “Yes, my Benito Suarez,” he said, in his milky voice, when he had sucked the eggs, “I thought I recognised you when you came by three days ago. I was sure that you were my Benito and so you are. And you are looking for what we looked for all those years ago . . . just as I am. Now, as no one seems to be about, I’ll look at these papers of yours, which I made so bold as to pinch from your room at the inn this morning, while you were fishing.”

  Here he settled himself comfortably, pulled out some letters and read:

  “Oho,” he said, “so your real name is Trigger, is it? Sir Piney Trigger, of Trigger Court, England . . . You must be a rich man, yet you come looking for my property.

  “Well, if I don’t find my property soon, I’ll see if I can’t squeeze a little of your wealth out of you. I guess you’ll be quite glad to pay little Abner not to tell what he knows about you. So.

  “Though I guess we are on the brink of finding my property, now that we are digging that red clay . . .”

  At this point he stood up muttering, “I may be Millionaire Brown even now.” Shading his eyes, he stared at a big, strong wooden ketch, with tanned sails, which had just swung into sight on her way to the sea.

  “That’s the wherry that was at Watford’s Farm Landing,” Abner said. “I wonder what she’s doing. She was to have taken Watford’s cotton, but not till next week. I may be wanting her myself if all things go as I hope. But she is laden and seems to be making for the sea.”

  After this Abner picked some berries from the shrubs, as a dessert to the turtle eggs. “Well, well,” he said at last, “I have had my little walk; I’ll be getting back to the great work. Today may repay me for all my troubles.”

  At this moment, there came a loud cry of “Popper, popper, are you there, popper? Hey, pop, where are you?”

  “I’m here, Ab,” Abner called. “Don’t make such a noise, boy, even if you have found it. What are you yelling murder for? Have you found it?”

  A man of about thirty years of age appeared through the scrub, he was dragging by the hand a boy of about five. Both were like old Abner in the face, being plainly son and grandson; both were scarlet from running, and gasping for breath.

  “Speak, can’t you?” the old man said. “Have you found it?” Young Abner panted and waved towards the wherry:

  “He’s got it . . . in the wherry.”

  “Who’s got it? Got what? What wherry?”

  “The man Ben, all the treasure; he tied old farmer up in a bag and took the lot. He’s taking it to sea in his barge there.”

  At this old Abner boxed his son’s ears. “Don’t bring me a crazy tale like that,” he said.

  The son took out a pocket telescope, focused it, and handed it to his father. “Take a see for yourself, pop,” he said. “That’s Ben steering.” And now little Ab, don’t you stand there grinning as though this were something good to eat.” At this he boxed his son’s ears, which set him howling.

  Old Abner took one hasty glance at the steersman. “It’s he,” he said. “It’s Benito Trigger. There’s only one chance, and that
’s a poor one. He’s going about now, there are his head sails shaking. He will make one short tack almost to that little point. If we run there like smoke we’ll get there as soon as he will. As he goes about, you hail him, Abner; he may not know you.”

  “What am I to say?” Abner said.

  “Yell out Danger, or Murder, or ask a passage, or say a snake’s bit you, yell Help.”

  “He won’t pay no heed,” the son said.

  “Anyway, he’ll look at you. And while he looks I’ll give him all the lead I’ve got in my shooter. Run, now, run. Let the brat stay here. Stay here, Ab, and eat berries. Pop and grandpop are going in swimming.”

  They left little Ab on the sand, while they ran as fast as they could towards the channel. Kay saw the barge leaning over, with all her sails wrinkling full, and a white streak spreading at her bows. She was making good speed, for the current in mid-channel helped her. Son Abner ran for the point, the old man ran more to the left. Kay saw his white hair blowing and saw him draw his revolver.

  In a minute, Abner was crouched behind a shrub. Abner, the son, was hopping from rock to rock to the water’s edge. He flapped the rocks with a bough to scare the snakes which were sunning there. His father, a much more poisonous snake, was now making a rest for his shooting arm.

  The barge came rapidly nearer, her bows gleamed in the sun, her long, green wind-vane streamed away to the leeward. Kay saw an Indian crouched in her bows. The sails still hid the steersman, but Kay kept saying to himself, “The steersman is Piney Trigger, or Twiney Pricker, I shall see him, for this is he alive, this is what happened.” Young Abner was now knee-deep in the creek, with his arms lifted as though pleading for help.

  Something seemed to trouble the ketch; the white streak at her bow suddenly dimmed to grey; at the same instant the full, wrinkling, swelling bag of the foresail crumpled up, shook and banged. The wind went out of the mainsail an instant later, then her wet side swerved itself round and Kay saw the helmsman stoop as he pitched some gear across and let the boom gybe. The foresail flapped and filled on the other tack. Young Abner (just an instant too late) shouted, “Hi, brother, for any’s sake. Hi, hi, hi, give me a passage.” The steersman, whose eyes were on his sail, cast a glance at him; young Abner cried again, “Hi, brother, take me down with you.” Then bang, bang, bang went the shots from the old man’s revolver: a white streak suddenly appeared on the barge’s side, where a splinter had been knocked off by a bullet.