21. GAMES TO PLAY WITH ONE RED WITCH
The Joke-monster released me, its finger tips splashing blood - my blood - everywhere. I scrambled to my feet, my arms out in front of my chest like a karate champion. The monster lent down and, with one puckered hand, clutched at its right leg, then swatted away a small object with its left. The thing started to spin anti-clockwise, its swollen stomach convulsing half a rotation behind its chest.
The monster kicked out with its left chicken claw and connected with its assailant. A clattering of skidding plastic, was followed by the quick clacking of a cursing beak. A small, black box charged back across the street and leaped back into the fray.
"Platto!" I cried, delighted to see my friend. "Good boy!"
My helper was too busy to answer, careening down the monster's back then circling the beast's chicken legs. On each rotation, Platto nipped at the backs of the creature's knobbly knees with his duck-bill. The monster screamed, revealing white teeth and pink gums.
"He's not a Blackgum yet," I said, half to myself.
The monster swayed from side to side, its enormous gut twitching. Platto ran up the creature's right leg and pressed its bill deep into the undulating folds of flesh. The monster doubled over.
With a belch, then a huge retch, the monster's grille-jaws flew open. Buckets of purple slime erupted out of its mouth. Then, a white, slimy sack, the size of a stuffed laundry bag, tumbled out of the monster's mouth and landed with a splash-plop a foot from my feet. The weakened creature collapsed and fell, and began to diminish, lying motionless under the continuing volley of Platto's nibbles and scrapes.
Horrified, I jumped back from the slimy sack. "That's enough Platto," I said, holding my stomach like I'd been stabbed through. "That's Joke. He's had enough -."
"Help!" shrieked the writhing white sack at my feet. "Is someone there? Help. I can't breathe."
Covering my nose with one hand, I hunkered down warily and pawed at the sticky membrane. Although wet and malleable, it was strong like a spider's web; and it took more than a minute for my fingernails to pierce the bag's hide.
As I ripped through the final layer of webbing, a black shiny limb sprang out through the hole and grabbed my hand. "Platto!" I shrieked. The small calculator on legs turned from the fallen Joke-monster and bounded towards me.
A small human shoulder followed the black-glossy arm out of the bag. Then, a wet, slithery body slipped out of the torn sack. My feet froze as the repulsive, smelly thing rolled towards me. It was about my size, maybe a little bigger, and it was covered in mouldy-slime that smelt like it had been dipped in manure, then fried. Platto readied his charge. Then the steaming, smelly lump spoke.
"Paddy," it cried, gasping for air. "It's me. Thank you."
I'd never heard those words from his mouth, but I recognised the voice.
"Mark?" I said.
"Yes," he replied sitting up, wiping off the worst of the gunk from his face. "I came over to thank you and Joke," said Mark. "For saving my life at the dance."
"You remember?" I asked. Maybe Joke and I weren't the only Forgers left in town, a thought that gave me a glimmer of hope.
"Of course. It's not every day you get set on by an axe wielding Giant," he said, blinking his gunk-laden eyelashes as he adjusted to the sudden daylight. "Though it seems there are worse things that can happen to you in this town!"
I couldn't disagree with that!
"Poor Joke," said Mark, and then burst into tears. "I treated him like a dog, and worse," he sobbed. "If only he knew how jealous I am of him."
I raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly have to be jealous about? You've got everything."
"I've got a lot of things, sure. I've never had to try for anything. Never will have to try for anything. Joke has nothing."
"You're jealous of someone with nothing?" I asked.
"Everything he's done, everything he is going to do," said Mark. "Is off his own bat. He doesn't care what people think. He knows what he wants to do with his life. He has a purpose. What do I have? I have a really big TV!"
It was almost touching. But I didn't have time to be Mark's counsellor. Not today. I had to get to Mum.
"Tell me what happened," I commanded. "Today, I mean".
"Well, I finally found the guts to press the bell, then heard a rustling sound above me. Before I knew it, that thing reached down. "Pulled me up with its suckers. Then, as far as I can remember, it stuffed me into its mouth. It was hot and disgusting. And I thought I was going to die. Thank you for saving me, Paddy. I owe you my life."
"You can start by helping me with Joke," I said waving him over. It seemed the monster had lost more than its lunch when it vomited up Mark. The flamingo pink colouring had faded, and Joke's normal pinched mouth had replaced those grille-jaws. I squatted down and put my head to Joke's chest.
"He's alive," I said. "Help me get him over to the pomegranate tree, around the side of the house."
"He could still be dangerous," said Mark, unsure.
"He could," I said. "But trust me on this. I won't let him hurt you." Mark nodded without further question and, with difficulty, hoisted Joke onto his slime-covered shoulders. Staggering slightly, he carted Joke down the cement path to the right of the house, and over to the tree.
"Now lean him against the trunk," I ordered. "Put his feet between those two big roots." Mark did what I'd asked.
"Stand back," I said, then turned to the tree.
"Against your trunk lies a friend of the Ferine," I whispered into a hollow knot in the tree's trunk. Mark looked at me strangely, but for once said nothing.
"Tell me your price to restrain and protect my friend from himself, and others. I will grant it to you, as a Smith. A Novice Smith."
For a few seconds, nothing. Then the tree groaned and shook. "Light," whispered the tree.
"Huh?" I asked.
"For my leaves," whispered the tree. "The eaves of this house are too wide. My leaves thirst for light."
"Then light they shall have," I said. "Consider the eaves gone. Just look after my friend while I'm gone."
"Go," said the tree, its roots uncoiling and then wrapping themselves gently around Joke's shoulders like a thick wooden car seat-belt. "The Zealtor awaits you inside. It is no friend of the Ferine, or the Tamed and the Crops. Go with our blessing."
I grabbed the tree's trunk and started to scale it, pulling myself up with my legs, like I'd done so many times before.
"What about me?" said Mark, staring agog at the writhing roots.
"The tree is strong, but not mobile," I said. "If Blackgum - monsters - come here while I am gone, I'll need you to hold them off for as long as possible."
"No problem," said Mark, straightening his back and staring out at the street like an armed sentry. "Whatever you guys need, I'll deliver."
Behind Mark, Platto lay motionless, his claws retracted, looking just like a calculator. I winked at him, and he flipped his lid open in reply. If there were trouble, Platto would be more use than Mark, and truth be told I just wanted Mark out of the way.
The hallway was dark and empty, so I turned into the reading room, and walked through the empty dining room, pausing in each doorway like a SWAT team member clearing a drug den. The sliding door to Mum's conservatory was ajar. Wafts of sour lavender and sandalwood stung my nostrils. Flickering shadows played against Aunt Bea's tapestries. Their knights and damsels appeared to dance (or fight?) with each other. I smelt the smoke and heard the din of a fierce, crackling fire emanating from the conservatory.
I skirted the dining room walls and hunkered down against the wall between the dining room and the conservatory. Past the creepy larder I crawled, my bruised knees pressing painfully into the cold floorboards. At the doorway to Mum's room, I lay down flat, and poked my head around the door.
Despite the fire, the room was icy. An eerie blue light suffused the air, illuminating galaxies of dust motes. Apart from the fire, it was very quiet. The people inside were s
tatues: the portrait of a concerned family clustered about a beloved but sickly daughter.
Mum - still alive! - lay sprawled out on her daybed. She was not sleeping. Her eyes were wide open, in fright. Aunt Bea stood next to the bed. She was trying to comfort Mum, stroking her forehead. She also looked terrified.
In front of the fire place, sat Mrs Kroker tied to a chair with a pinstriped gag poking out of her mouth. She'd been crying: her eyes and nose were red against her otherwise tanned body. She still wore her silver cocktail dress from the barn dance. Her hands were tied behind her back with rope.
Dr Vassel hung upside-down from the ceiling, suspended from another rope. His tuxedo jacket had fallen down his back, surrounding his head on three sides like blinkers. His mouth was open, as if to scream.
Against the far wall was Mr Seth. "Now, once again, let's settle this like civilised folk," said the Smith. "Hand over the Zealtor-Witch, and I'll be off. You can pretend tonight never happened."
"You're a ma-madman," sputtered Doc Vassel. "If you think we are going to let you take this very sick woman out of this house, you're sorely mi--mi-mistaken."
I was impressed. It took a brave man to stand up to Mr Seth.
"Let me ask you again. And please answer me honestly," said Aunt Bea. "Where are the boys? Are they safe?"
"Safe is a relative term in this town, thanks to the Zealtor," said Mr Seth. "But your sister's boy is perfectly well and out of danger. I chained him up myself."
"You did wh-what!" croaked Doc Vassel. "If you've hurt a hair on his head, I'll - I'll!"
"Don't make threats you have no means of carrying out," said Mr Seth, releasing the rope stringing up Doc Vassel with a click of his knuckle, lowering him (almost gently) to the floor. "But you are right when you say she is a sick woman," he said, gesturing at Mum. "What type of woman would send hideous monsters to ravage the very town that has done nothing but help her? What sort of woman would risk her own son's life - and the life of his friends and family - to suck the soul out of Quakehaven? Only a terrible monstrous queen would do that. And that's precisely the definition of a Zealtor-Witch!"
"This is the 21st Century," said Aunt Bea, her voice quaking with fear or rage (or both). "Do you seriously allege witches and demons walk our streets!?"
"I do, madam," said Mr Seth, indignantly.
"I love my sister," said Aunt Bea. "I have known her her whole life, and she is the most sweet-natured, beautiful person I have ever had the good fortune to know. You cannot seriously suspect she is a witch."
"I do, madam."
"Then you are deluded. Please leave my house immediately. And we will try to forget this intrusion."
"I will not. I'm not going anywhere without her head."
"Wrggwch!" Like everyone in the room, I looked at Mum. The sick woman thrashed against the bed, like she was tied down, trying desperately to say something. But she could not. It was like something was stuck in her throat, something more effective than Mrs Kroker's gag. Aunt Bea put her hand to Mum's chest, and tried to soothe her.
"Silence, Zealtor," shouted Mr Seth, waving his hand imperiously. "We will have none of your curses today."
And with that Mum's mouth seem to disappear completely!
Mrs Kroker screamed, muffled by the gag. Mr Seth clicked his tongue twice and she too fell silent.
Mr Seth advanced across the room towards Mum and Aunt Bea. But he'd been distracted by Mum, and then Mrs Kroker's screams, and had lost sight of Doc Vassel. The doctor had escaped the rope around his leg. He wormed his way across the floor on his stomach. Then he crept over to his medicine bag and pulled out a very large syringe. He turned to Mr Seth, but it was hopeless. The Smith would have ample time to seize Mum, then spy and disarm the doctor. Doctor Vassel needed more time.
I took a deep breath and undocked my shadow. Still injured from its confrontations with Mr Fisk and Mr Seth at the pier, it hobbled across the floor, snuck into the moon-faced trunk at the end of Mum's bed and threw open the lid with a tremendous bang.
"Doc Vassel do it now!" I screamed, and ran into the room, my arms helicoptering through the smoky air.
Mr Seth froze in his tracks two steps from Mum's bed. In two seconds, he swung first to the cacophony of the slamming trunk, then back to the doorway, and charged me like a furious bull. It took Doc Vassel those same two seconds to scamper across the room, and plunge the needle, deep, into the flesh of Mr Seth's right calf.
"No!" shouted Mr Seth, going down on one knee, his hands outstretched towards me. He cursed and fulminated. "What have you done, Paddy?" he said grasping my wrist. "You've killed us all!"
I snatched my hand back and Mr Seth crashed to the ground. For a terrible moment, I thought Doc Vass had killed him.
"Just a tranquiliser, Paddy," said Doc Vassel, smiling. "A strong one, but it'll wear off by tomorrow morning. By then your friend Mr Seth will be in the intensive care of Avonlea, getting specialist treatment for his delusions. Well done, Patrick!"
Then it was our turn to be distracted.
"ScissorRock!" screamed Mum, her mouth restored. Then the back glass wall of the conservatory cracked, shattered and blew out in an explosion of glass, knocking over Mrs Kroker's chair. Aunt Bea screamed. A think blanket of plaster dust fell from the ceiling and covered Mr Seth.
For a few seconds, Doc Vassel's eyes bulged out of his head like a 1950s cartoon character, then he too was knocked off his feet by a second blast, somewhere behind the house. Covering Aunt Bea with my back, I pulled her to cover behind the moon trunk. As we cowered there, hugging each other close, I knew suddenly that I had done something terribly wrong.