‘It’ll drown surely,’ Tanya murmured, but the caterpillar bobbed happily on the surface, wriggling like a tiny eel. Tanya replaced the lid on the jar. ‘Now we just have to wait until the moon is out.’
‘Which gives us time to gather what we need for what’s to come,’ Don said gravely, ‘and to collect the memory from its hiding place.’
‘And when the memory is given back?’ Tanya asked. ‘You said . . . you said something terrible could happen.’
Don nodded. ‘Yes. It could. But I don’t plan on giving the memory back, or at least I won’t allow it to be used. It’s simply to be used as bait to get Henry returned to us.’
‘But how do you plan on not letting it be used?’ Tanya persisted.
‘I’m still working on that.’ Don looked up at her, then at Turpin. His blue eyes were watery. ‘The important thing is that, when the time comes, the two of you must do what I tell you. Exactly what I tell you. Do you understand? Do you promise?’
‘Turpin does not like promising,’ said Turpin.
‘But you will if it means getting Henry back,’ Don said sternly.
‘For Ratty, yes,’ Turpin agreed.
‘Good,’ said Don. ‘That’s settled then.’ He looked to Tanya. ‘And you?’
She hesitated, uneasy, but there did not seem to be any other choice. ‘I promise I’ll do as you say,’ she said at last. ‘What do we need to take with us?’
‘Protection,’ Don replied. ‘Everything you have that will defend yourself against fairies. Fetch whatever you can now.’
Tanya went into her room and collected the iron nail Ratty had given her. She slipped it into her pocket. In her mother’s room, she found a red shawl which she stuffed into the rucksack along with a tub of salt from the kitchen cupboards.
‘I think that’s it,’ she said, poking around in the rucksack. ‘But I’ve still got the torch, too.’
‘Keep it,’ Don instructed. ‘The torch could come in useful.’ He went silent.
‘What is it?’ Tanya asked.
Don glanced at Turpin and sighed. ‘I have reason to believe that we have another enemy. Someone, or rather something, that is also searching for the memory. Something that isn’t fey.’
‘Then what is it?’ Tanya asked. ‘Human?’
‘Not exactly.’ Don’s voice was soft. ‘Though it was created by one. By Henry, to be precise.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Tanya. ‘If it’s not human, and not fey, then what is it? And how . . . how could Ratty have created it?’
Don sighed again. ‘I suggest you take a seat. It’s time you knew the truth about the memory Henry stole.’
Silently, Tanya perched on a chair at the table, waiting for Don to collect his thoughts.
‘Tell me,’ Don said eventually. ‘Were you especially imaginative as a young child?’
Tanya frowned, wondering where this was leading. ‘My parents always thought so. They said I had an extraordinary imagination.’ She cast a look at her mother, frozen in sleep by the cottage door. ‘When I used to try to tell them about the fairies, that is. I haven’t done that for a long time.’
‘And did you have an outlet for your imagination?’ Don asked. ‘What I mean by that is did you tell a lot of lies or create especially inventive games?’
‘I lied a lot to cover up for the fairies,’ said Tanya, puzzled. ‘But only because I had to, not because I wanted to.’
‘No,’ said Don. ‘That’s not quite what I meant. How about pictures? Did you draw much, or did you tell stories perhaps?’
‘I made up stories,’ said Tanya. ‘Lots of stories. My parents encouraged me to write them down. At first, it was an easy way of describing the fairies and the things they did, but when the fairies found out they didn’t like it. So I started to hide those stories and not show them to anyone, and I started writing different stories instead.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure what any of this has to do with Ratty.’
Don gave a sad little smile. ‘Rather a lot actually. You see, what I’m getting at is this: children with the second sight tend to be creative and have very powerful imaginations, often much more powerful than the average child who is unable to see fairies. Can you think of why that might be?’
‘Well,’ said Tanya, ‘I suppose because we don’t just want to believe in magic, like other children do. We know it exists because we see it all around us when others don’t. And if we know fairies can exist then it makes it easier to believe in other sorts of magic . . . and to imagine it, too.’
‘Precisely,’ said Don. ‘Well, like you, Henry was an imaginative child. Perhaps even more so. Though he had Turpin, his ability made it difficult to be friends with other children, as I’m sure you understand. Having the second sight can often be very lonely, and the thing Henry longed for more than anything was a little brother or sister. But, after his mother died, I never met anyone else. And so Henry invented one.’
‘Invented one? You mean like an imaginary friend?’
‘Yes,’ Don replied. ‘An imaginary friend. Lots of children have them. He named this friend . . .’ He paused and took a shaky, almost fearful breath. ‘Morghul.’
As he uttered the word, Turpin let out a little moan.
‘Morghul,’ Tanya repeated. It was the name the fairy had whispered when the shape-shifting creature had attacked them on the bridge, and again in the castle dungeons.
‘It all began well enough,’ Don continued. ‘Whatever Henry did, Morghul did, too. I became so used to it that Morghul was talked about like it – he – was a real person. Henry even insisted on having a place set for him at every meal. It seemed to keep Henry happy, for a while, and so I was happy, too. Well, Turpin was jealous, of course.’
Turpin sniffed, but said nothing.
‘Anyway, we both thought it was something Henry would grow out of, in time,’ said Don. ‘And perhaps he would have, had it not gone on for so long, and if Henry were an ordinary boy. But . . . but because we had allowed it and encouraged it, this, mixed with his belief, well . . . it had unlocked something in his imagination. And, with Henry’s imagination being so powerful, Morghul, too, took on some of that power.’ Don’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘And he became real.’
‘Real?’ Tanya repeated. ‘Real enough for others to see, too?’
‘Not at first.’ Don’s eyes were filled with guilt. ‘Only Henry was able to see him. But, with the power of Henry’s imagination, slowly but surely, he grew stronger. It was only when the time came that Henry outgrew Morghul and decided he didn’t want him around any longer that everyone, including Henry, discovered just how strong Morghul had grown. Because he wouldn’t go away, and Henry didn’t know how to make him.’
‘So Ratty’s imagination not only created Morghul, but brought him to life,’ said Tanya.
‘Yes,’ said Don. ‘And now that Morghul was outgrown and unneeded, he grew angry and resentful. Instead of Henry being the one in control, things began to change. Morghul’s anger not only fed his power, it also made him cruel. He began to do things, things that got Henry into trouble. At first, it was put down to mischief on Henry’s part, but, as the incidents grew more unpleasant, it was plain that Henry was afraid. And, in turn, that fear of Morghul lent him further strength still.’
‘Like the fear of a bully,’ Tanya murmured.
‘I only realised the truth one day when Morghul turned his anger towards Turpin. Henry was now about six years old, and he and Turpin had been playing in the garden. One minute there was laughter and the next a terrible scream.’ Don cast an apologetic look at Turpin.
‘When I arrived outside, Henry was crying and Turpin was simply shaking. There was a horrid smell of . . . burnt flesh. Somehow or other, they had managed to unearth an old key in the garden. It was made of iron. At first, I thought that Turpin had accidentally dug it up, but then I saw the impression on the back of her hand. It had been pressed into her skin. Henry was hysterical by now. He said that Morghul had made him do it, and t
hat, if he refused, Morghul would feed the key to Turpin in her sleep.’ Don paused. ‘If a fairy swallows iron, it will kill them.
‘I was furious. Henry was ordered to his room with strict instructions to never speak of Morghul again. But as he was walking away . . . it was Turpin who saw it.’
‘Saw what?’ Tanya asked. She glanced at Turpin, but the fairy’s face was stony, giving nothing away.
‘Henry’s shadow. It was sort of . . . separate from him. Still joined, but not quite mirroring his actions. Like it was something else. Once it knew we had noticed, it tried its best to mimic Henry’s movements, but though it came close it was still out of step. And that’s when I knew that Henry had been telling the truth, and that Morghul had become more than just a figment of Henry’s imagination. I knew then that something had to be done, and that Morghul had to be sent back to wherever he had come from before he took over Henry completely. The problem was, neither Turpin nor I knew how. Because how do you get rid of something that’s been created by the power of someone else’s imagination?’
‘You can’t,’ said Tanya. ‘I mean . . . I guess only the person who imagined it in the first place has the power to un-imagine it.’
‘Exactly,’ said Don. ‘And trying to convince a small boy to do such a thing – that he was even capable of doing such a thing – when Morghul was so real and so powerful . . . well. It was impossible. Henry’s fear made it impossible, unless he learned to conquer it at least, and there was no telling how long that might take. So we began to try and think of another solution. And that’s . . . that’s when I remembered Solomon.’
‘Solomon? That’s the fey man you mentioned before,’ Tanya realised. ‘Whose memory Ratty stole.’
Don bowed his head. ‘Yes. I’d known him since I was a boy. He lived next door—’
‘Wait,’ said Tanya. All this had started to sound familiar. ‘Gretchen and Griselda lived next door to you . . .’
Don nodded and gave a weary sigh. ‘Solomon is their brother. Like them, he not only had magic in his blood, but a great gift for it, too. He was focused and determined, always reaching towards the next level of greatness. He became a success; in both his secret practice of fey magic and his outward appearance as a doctor.’ Don paused. ‘A very, very good doctor, who could heal all kinds of ailments. Of course, those who knew him realised that magic was involved. And where was the harm in that? If it healed, what did it matter if it was magic or medicine? Over the years I lost touch with him, especially since everything that occurred with Gretchen and Griselda, but I heard that he had suffered a personal tragedy. He had fallen in love with a human woman, a dying patient whom he vowed to save. But though he tried everything he could, with both magic and medicine, the illness was just too strong. She died, leaving him devastated.
‘Then, about six months before we sought his help with Henry, I bumped into Solomon by chance. He invited me for tea, so of course I went. We reminisced for a while, but I noticed he seemed distant, like something was troubling him. When pressed, he confessed that he had ambitions for a particular spell which he was sure was possible, only he hadn’t quite figured it out yet. This spell, he said, would have the power to change lives, for, in essence, the spell was a life form itself. His aim, he told me, was to undo the suffering brought about by death – not only by preventing it, but by bringing loved ones back from the dead.’
‘But that’s a wonderful idea, isn’t it?’ Tanya said. She thought of her Nana Ivy, who had died two years ago and whom she missed terribly.
‘Is it?’ Don answered. ‘Think about it a little more. We all have people we miss, and for whom we’d do anything to spend another day with them, or even another minute. But life isn’t like that, and it’s not meant to be. However difficult death is for us to accept, we must, because the alternative is far worse. The world would become crowded. The sick would cling to life, even if their illness meant no real life at all. And how would we learn to appreciate each moment if it were not precious? If life were forever?’
Tanya fell silent, digesting Don’s words. Reluctantly, she had to admit that what he said was true.
‘When I told Solomon my thoughts, he was angry,’ Don went on. ‘He said if I’d seen the suffering he had, I’d think differently. I didn’t agree, but to spare further argument I said nothing else. When we parted, I thought no more about it or him, until we came to ask for his help in ridding us of Morghul. But when I saw him again I was shocked.’
‘Why?’ asked Tanya.
‘He was thin and haggard, clearly not eating or sleeping properly, and was on the verge of losing his job. I felt uncomfortable, for he was rambling to himself about this elusive spell, and how if he could only figure it out then all would be well again. I almost left right then, for it was obvious he’d driven himself half mad in pursuit of this spell, whatever it was, and I didn’t want to trouble him further. Yet a spark of the old Solomon remained and he saw that I, too, was in distress and insisted I tell him what was wrong.
‘When I explained, a feverish look came into his eyes. He became excited and said he was convinced he knew of a way to rid us of Morghul.’ Don shook his head. ‘Foolishly, I thought his enthusiasm came from the thought of helping Henry. Little did I know the truth.’
‘Which was?’ Tanya asked.
‘That he had just found the answer to what he was looking for. The missing ingredient that would finally complete his spell.’ Don closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Morghul.’
21
The Hidden Memory
‘MORGHUL WAS THE INGREDIENT Solomon needed to make the spell work?’ Tanya asked.
‘Yes,’ Don replied. ‘As soon as Solomon heard about Morghul, he knew it was the key to unlocking the entire thing. For a spell so ambitious, he needed a vital ingredient to make it work: a life force. Up until then he had worked out that to undo death would take the cost of a life, but he could not bring himself to kill. After all, it was the opposite of what he wanted to achieve.’ He paused. ‘Given time, though, I often wondered if his desperation would have led him there, had we not brought him the solution. And what a perfect solution it was. A life form created entirely from the power of a child’s imagination.’
‘So what happened next?’ said Tanya. ‘Did he manage to free Ratty from Morghul?’
‘He did,’ said Don. ‘But at great cost to us all.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, but Turpin’s fist hit the table, snapping her back to the present.
‘Enough talking,’ the fairy said fiercely. Her face was scowling and red. ‘Is growing later and later. Time for us to leave.’
‘Yes,’ Don said, shaking his head a little as though to free himself from the past. ‘Turpin is right, we must go. It’s time to collect the memory.’
Tanya rose from the table, placing the spell jar in the bag. Already the liquid inside had diminished a little; clearly, the caterpillar had been busy. ‘I think we have everything,’ she said.
‘Not everything,’ said Turpin. She hopped off the table and disappeared into the bedroom.
Tanya and Don waited expectantly, saying nothing. Sleeping noises filled the air and Tanya turned to watch the statue-like figures with a pang of guilt. It was the first time since her parents’ divorce that she had seen her mother look peaceful. The little worried crease between her eyebrows was gone, and her lips moved softly, as though she were singing or speaking within her dreams.
Raven’s and Feathercap’s faces were blank and unreadable, but Gredin’s wore a slight smirk. Probably dreaming up some horrible punishment for me as payback for this, Tanya thought dismally. A rumbling snore drew her attention to the Mizhog, but, though it was drooling heavily, the sound was coming from elsewhere. It was only then she remembered that someone else had been in the cottage when she had thrown the graveyard dirt: someone unseen.
‘Thingy,’ she whispered. She dropped to her knees, ears straining to follow the noise. Oberon trotted over to her, his claws cl
icking softly. ‘Where is it, boy?’ she said. ‘Where’s it coming from?’ Another snore, softer this time, sounded nearby. Oberon snuffled along the floorboards near to the coffee table. Tanya caught sight of a small section of wood lifting slightly under his paw. Using her nails, she prised the section of floorboard out and peered into the cavity below. An underground draught whistled out of the space.
‘What are you doing?’
Turpin had appeared next to her, clutching two jars. One contained the shimmering Spidertwine and the other held the Cornish brownie.
‘I think we just found our resident grudge-keeper,’ Tanya answered. They stared into the space below the floorboards. There, amongst years of thick, grey dust and dirt, lay a pitiful figure, about half Turpin’s size. He wore ragged, patched-up clothes, but his feet were bare. Matted hair stood out in a cloud from his head and his face was deeply lined. His mouth was open to display the broken, yellow teeth Tanya had glimpsed through the floorboards when she’d first arrived at the cottage. She remembered the anger and dread she had felt, but found that now all she felt was pity. Thingy snored again, then shivered in his sleep. Tanya reached out and touched his arm. It was painfully cold.
She reached into the cavity and gently lifted the little figure out, trying not to flinch as her hand broke through thick cobwebs. With her other hand, she replaced the floorboard. Then she got up and took the pathetic creature into her room and placed him in the bed, wrapping the covers round the cold little body.
‘You sleep now, Thingy,’ she told him. ‘Sleep in the warm.’ She leaned closer. ‘I forgive you.’
The snoring paused and the faintest of smiles tweaked the corners of the fairy’s mouth. Tanya left the room, brushing dust and cobwebs from her hands. Turpin was on the table, stuffing the Spidertwine and the brownie into the rucksack.