23. MEA CULPRIT
She slung the slumbering Smith over her wrist, like an expensive handbag, or mink stole.
"Seen enough, boy?" she said and pitched Mr Seth over my shoulder and into the fire. The yellow page fluttered from my fingers and was sucked into the flames in the Smith's wake. Mr Seth's eyes popped open, agog, but thick steel spikes shot down from the top of the fireplace, trapping him inside.
"Gotcha," said the Zealtor, smiling. "Now let me hear your death rattle, Smith."
"You'll have no such pleasure," replied Mr Seth. He nodded at me gravely. "My body is just a cage, Patrick" he muttered. "I fly with the phoenix."
"What?" I asked, confused as always by Mr Seth's strange speech.
"I don't have time to illuminate you now. Though I will have plenty of time later." He grinned and gave me a cheeky wink, then his body started to shrink and morph into a moth. The Zealtor blinked. Thin, horizontal spikes of steel jutted seamlessly across the fireplace, hemming in the Smith. I scoured the cage for defects. No gap in the wire existed large enough for even the tiniest of insects to escape. Mr Seth's small silvery-red wings began to blacken and wither under the flames.
"No!" I cried, pulling at the taut wire grid, burning my fingers. Mr Seth's wings were swallowed in flames. Then his furry abdomen and head fell into the glowing embers and was engulfed. A loud bang sounded, like a cap gun. The fire died, leaving nothing of Mr Seth but a small pebble of rusty-brown ash. The metal spikes retracted smoothly back into the wall and mantle, with a pneumatic hiss. Without thinking about it, I stooped and picked out the hardened pebble – cool to the touch – then pocketed it.
"Aunt Bea!" I shouted at the Zealtor, tears stinging the cuts on the face. "What have you done?"
"Call me Master," commanded Aunt Bea, striding over to Mum's bed and squeezing her hand. Mrs Kroker leapt off Mum's bed with a squeal, and hightailed it over to Doc Vassel, who was slumped against the mantlepiece. The doctor shivered, his fingers curled, his mouth a squiggle of horror.
To the Zealtor, I said quietly: "Leave Mum alone. Mr Seth was not the only Smith in town."
I exhaled deeply, and tried again to summons my shadow. It stirred, briefly rattling the lid of the trunk. Then it faded and lapsed back into sleep.
"Is that the best you can do?" sneered Aunt Bea. "And I thought the Smith was easy work, though I guess I have the good doctor to thank somewhat for that." Doc Vassel's face reddened.
"If I'd known you were the Novice earlier," said Aunt Bea, "this silliness would have ended long before the dance." She tucked the bedclothes under Mum's neck. Mum's face was contorted, like she was struggling to open her mouth. Her jaws were clenched and the bones in her neck looked like small twigs twisting in a gale.
The words of Mum's message were burned into my brain: She keeps me prisoner here in chains…
My Aunt stood up, and smiled, her eyes blank and cold. "Katy told me she smelt the taint of Smith," she said.
"Your budgie?" I asked, edging closer to Mum.
"Hah! The sacrifices we make to fit in," sighed Aunt Bea, sitting down on the bed between Mum and me. Most of the smoke from the explosion had dissipated. At the threshold of the conservatory, where the wall had once stood, the four Blackgum snapped to attention. In robotic unison, they lined up, pressing their hands or forearms into the ground like 100 metre sprinters on their blocks. They awaited only the Zealtor's go-ahead to charge.
Aunt Bea shifted her weight on the bed. "Katy, or, more properly, my beloved He-ca-te, is my dear friend. Has been with the family for generations. You could say she is familiar to us Logstons," said Aunt Bea, laughing at her own joke.
I didn't react. I'd read enough penny dreadfuls about Witches to know that they were often accompanied by servants called familiars. Usually, familiars were black cats or hell hounds. I'd never read of a budgie fulfilling the role!
"My dear bird changes the hue of her plumage every few years, so no-one wonders why she lives so long. But Hecate's natural form is somewhat more refined." The Zealtor clicked her fingers and soothed: "Hecate: attend on me!"
Almost at once the bird appeared, seemingly materialising out of thin air from on top of the fireplace. Her dramatic entrance was spoiled instantly as the bird jumped to the floor and slipped on her tail, like an inelegant duck on ice. Despite her poor landing, Hecate was sleek and grey-brown, about a metre long, with a fluffy tail the length of a peacock's. A train of golden feathers curved symmetrically from the centre like a lute. She wasted no time advancing on me, her tail feathers vibrating with each step. She stood between her Master and me, bent forward and pecked me on my bare right toe with her beak: a clear warning shot.
The Zealtor's eyes flashed green-yellow, like a cat's eyes in headlights. She grinned. "We are not alone, my sweet."
"Of course not. Doc Vassel and Mrs Kroker are here," I said, lamely trying to divert the Zealtor's train of thought.
"Are they boy?" said Aunt Bea in a very quiet voice. "Are they indeed?"
I looked back to where the couple had been standing near the fireplace. Two brown bowls stood in their place, full to the brim with dried dog food.
"What have you done with them?!" I demanded.
"Shhh, boy!" she said. "They were irritating. So crass and modern with their scandalous affair. Incredibly inappropriate. That floozy should have kept my dance as it was. As for the quack, he should have committed your mother to the madhouse a week ago. She might have survived. Anyway, I wasn't talking about them to Hecate, and you know it. A ghost walks amongst us. It tricked me by disguising itself as you. Hecate: hunt the ghost down and kill it."
"No!" I cried. "You don't want to do that. It's -"
"Silence," whispered the Zealtor, and the whole room shook. The lamp lights buzzed and flickered. I had an inkling of her immense power.
Hecate's black eyes bled red, then white. She opened the blades of her venomous black beak and inhaled noisily like a gluttonous spaghetti slurper. A gelatinous belly shuddered and wobbled into view near the Blackgum. A terrified white face, and skinny legs followed. Hecate shook her head and without a struggle or noise, Uncle Gerry's ghost-body imploded like a failed casino, and was sucked whole into the bird's gullet.
"No!" I screamed. If the Zealtor or her familiar recognised my Uncle's spirit, it didn't show.
Aunt Bea lay down on the bed, her back to Mum, as if Hecate's ghost-busting were an every day event like doing the dishes. "After that silly performance by Balder in the reading room the other night - truly I had to pinch myself not to burst into giggles - and then the imbroglio at the dance, I must confess I suspected the young Jokkum was the Novice, not my own flesh and blood. I should have known better. Any son of Fisk would be too stupid to take on a Giant and win. The whole town was in my grasp that night. Your stunt was clever, but supremely irritating. Pushed my timetable back. Now I have to hunt people down one by one. Not to worry, though. My Blackgum surround Quakehaven, awaiting final orders."
"You were right the first time," squeaked a high-pitched boy's voice from the doorway. The Zealtor sat bolt upright and I swung around. Joke was still in my suit pants, though he had lost the jacket. My white dress shirt was shot through with holes, its sleeves stained with filth. "I am the Witch-Smith," said Joke, glaring at me briefly, then turning back to the Zealtor. But you are wrong about my father and me. We outwitted your Giant, solved his riddle, and rent him head from head. Stopped you in your evil tracks."
"Hecate?" asked Aunt Bea.
The bird nodded twice, its tail rustling against the floorboards like a bouquet of tissue-paper.
"It seems you tell part of the truth, Fisk-boy," conceded Aunt Bea. "Though Hecate tells me you both had a hand in the deed. No matter, I will kill you first, Witch-Smith, then deal with young Patrick."
"Grmmm," gurgled Mum from the day-bed, lifting her neck off the bed, then slamming her head back onto the thick fluffy pillow. Hecate launched herself at Mum, flapping clumsily across the room, talons ou
tstretched. Without thinking, I charged after the bird, desperate to protect my mother. The bird was too far away from me to stop it.
A foot from Mum, Hecate's flight came to a crashing halt. An orange liquid, viscous like honey, enveloped her wings and beak, then hardened into what looked like steaming amber ice-cords. Hecate hit and skittered across the floor, smashing headfirst into the solid mahogany day bed. I swerved to avoid landing into Hecate's tail, and fell again, my hands and knees skidding over the sheets of Mum's bed, just missing her feet.
"You must control yourself, Hecate," said the Zealtor. I want my sister to see the end of her current line and to share in my joy as we restore Quakehaven to its glorious heyday." The Zealtor tilted her head casually and launched a shimmering stream of green-yellow fire from the bags under her eyes directly at Joke's head!
The flames hit Joke before he had time to react. For a moment, I thought he was gone, incinerated instantly. Then the stream ebbed and died to reveal Joke, evidently unharmed.
The Zealtor seemed as surprised as I was. She wailed with frustration unleashing curses composed of words I had only heard in the playground and barely understood. She stormed over to the doorway and rent my dress shirt in two revealing his great shield: a bunch of cheap, service station flowers jammed down the front of my suitpants!
"Peonies!" screeched the Zealtor, her face black. "Bridget tried the same trick the night of the dance. Deflected my powers. Nearly burned holes in my roof." She grabbed the flowers out of his trousers with such force, that he keeled onto his knees, and groaned, as if sucker punched. He looked at me and spat with disgust. My Aunt the Zealtor towered over the small boy, her teeth sparking blue fire as she prepared to demolish him.
Knowing again I would be too late, I was nonetheless about to rush to Joke's aid, when two things happened at roughly the same time. Through the bed-clothes, Mum gave me a hard kick right in the funny bone of my right elbow that caused me to jump as my arm straightened in reflex and then crashed onto Mum's chest. And a metallic voice boomed an announcement from the dining room: "Don't move, Filthy Queen. I've got a chopstick and I'm not afraid to use it!"
Aunt Bea squinted through the smoke to the doorway, trying to make sense of what was going on. The four restless Blackgum started to fidget at the perimeter, unsure whether to cross into the room without clear orders from their Master. Despite the auto-tune distortions, the voice was familiar, and the words sounded like they were from a bad movie. Then I woke up: they were words from a bad movie: Tasers and Tarantulas! And the voice was Mark's, using his Ancient Assassins game console, just like he had at his party!
"Nck," mumbled Mum, fighting for breath under my weight. I rolled off her. Through the sheets, her hands clutched my wrists and pulled me closer.
"It's going to be all right, Mum," I whispered. "I'll get us out of here." I had no idea how I was going to do it, but there were tears in Mum's eyes, and beads of sweat dotted her brow. Her skin was raw and broken. It looked particularly sore where her skin had reacted to the precious metal of her swan pendant.
Yellow paper memories: "Keeps me a prisoner here...In chains." The swan pendant! With shaking hands, I leaned in to unclasp the pendant from my mother's neck.
"Stop right there or I'll kill the Fisk-boy where he stands," hissed the Zealtor, the claws of her left hand pressed against Joke's jugular. Simultaneously, the four Blackgum snapped to attention and marched into the room.
"Forget me," squeaked Joke. "I hate you, but your mother was always good to me. This monster is going to kill me anyway."
"True," admitted the Zealtor. "Though I was planning to make your death quick and painless. If Patrick prefers, I could make it unbearably traumatic over hours," she said, the coarse nails of her claws digging deeper into the flesh of Joke's neck.
I dropped the clasp, and fell back. The Zealtor smiled and said: "You should have listened to the pipsqueak." Murder danced in the Zealtor's eyes. Danced an antic hay.
"Not so fast, lady," said Mark, in his tinny Texan drawl, and cavorted into the room, brandishing his arm cast like a rocket propelled grenade. Defenceless, Mark relied wholly on the element of surprise. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen.
Hecate, dazed and perhaps chastened from the collision with the bed, her beak and wings still bound by amber ice-hoops, stagger-flapped at Mark, scratching at the floor with its talons as it skated across the room. Distracted, I nearly missed the Zealtor's ears. Like a potato head, an ear detached from each side of her head and embedded themselves with two dull thwacks, deep into Mark's chest.
I opened my mouth. Mark looked down at his chest. The Zealtor-ears dug themselves out of the boy's chest. Like vampire-boomerangs, the ears flew back to their owner. "Do it now, space cadet!" Mark said, then collapsed.
"Mark!" howled Joke, ducking under the Zealtor's claws to break the mortally wounded boy's fall. Great gouts of Mark's blood gushed out of Mark’s chest onto Joke’s shirt.
I watched, helpless. "You'll be OK, Mark" promised Joke. "Just relax."
"Thanks, pumpkin-patch," said Mark, with a wan grin. "You are one cool dude," he said, exhaling deeply. Joke held him tight, rocking him gently. Mark's once bright blue eyes faded to a dull matte green. The most popular boy in class, the son of the richest man in Quakehaven, blinked his eyes shut, then open, then breathed no more.
Furious, and with Joke's sobs in my ears, I snatched at Mum's necklace and tried again to unfasten the clasp. A strong electric current passed through the chain, conducting into the palm of my right hand. I snatched my hand away with a yelp.
"Tell you what, Patrick," said the Zealtor. "Let's do a deal."
"Not a chance," I shouted, massaging my wounded right palm with the knuckles of my left.
"Hear me out. The battle for Quakehaven is over. You've seen what's happening outside Sub Rosa. You know it. The more you fight, the more people will die. Because of you."
"You're the one murdering innocent people," I yelled, fighting to control my emotions. "You don't have to kill anyone."
"You're right," allowed the Zealtor. "I don't. But I will continue killing people - your Mum, your little Jokkum, and anyone and everyone else you have ever loved, or loves you - until you submit to me. Do you want another friend's blood on your hands, and for nothing?"
While the Zealtor had been talking, I'd kept an eye on the Blackgum. The four monsters had advanced further into the room, and now stood at the head of Mum's bed. They were within touching distance. The very thought repulsed me.
I glanced at Joke. He had lain Mark's body flat on the floor next to the door, and was doing his best to mop up the blood from Mark's fatal wounds with my ruined shirt. Dirty tears streamed down Joke's cheeks like ink rivulets. He thumbed Mark's eyes shut. Shut for the last time.
Poor Joke. In one day, he had found his father, felt the betrayal of his best friend - me - lost his dad forever because of it, and held a classmate in his arms and felt him die. How much more did he have to endure for a lost cause? For the last time that night, I tried to summons my shadow and failed. It was just too injured to help. I scoured the room for spirits, but none would help me face the Zealtor. I was powerless. A weak, pathetic boy against the most powerful creature in town, short of a God.
"Come now," soothed the Zealtor. "You can't stop me. The Smith knew it was over the moment the dog-food stammerer stuck him with the needle."
You've killed us all! I remembered the horror in Mr Seth's face as he’d said it.
"What's your deal, Zealtor?" I said looking at Mum, my voice hoarse, my mind clogged with sand.
"Your Forger-soul," said the Zealtor licking her lips. "In return I'll spare your mother and the Fisk-boy."
I nodded, trying to process the terms. Uncle Gerry's chilling words echoed in my head: There are worse things that death. Imagine eternal existence without a soul. It's the closest thing to hell you could imagine. I trembled at the hopeless choice I had to make.
Mum's eyes
bulged out of her head. So much pain because of me. I turned to Joke, now orphaned, who was praying over Mark's corpse. His hands and my shirt were saturated with innocent blood.
"Can you bring back Mark?" I asked. "Can you save him?"
"That is beyond even my powers," said the Zealtor, smiling.
"Will you guarantee you and your minions won't touch them - Mum or Joke - or their souls? That they'll stay free of you and the Blackgum?"
"Zealtor's honour," smirked Aunt Bea, mimicking a smug girl guide. The whites of the Zealtor's eyes were stained as a glowing grey cloud descended over her pupils. The Zealtor opened her mouth, displaying, finally, its glossy black gums. Steaming blood red saliva cascaded down her blue, flaming teeth.
"OK," I said, simply, and the room fell silent. I kissed Mum on the cheek, inhaling her wonderful scent. Mum's eyes were wide and wet. Her body was limp and damp all over. Warily, I climbed down from the bed and trudged slowly towards the Zealtor. "Let's seal the deal then."
The Zealtor almost beamed, closed her eyes, and extended her arms, a sick imitation of a protective mother. Then, horribly, her head flipped all the way back, her chin pointing directly to the ruined roof. A small square flap of withered skin, like an elephant's, rolled down between her neck and chin, revealing a small compartment. It looked like the gearbox of Dad’s old car. A black, slimy tube about the width of a garden hose, and the length of a toothbrush, unfurled and sniffed the air like the hungry tongue of a serpent.
Instinctively, I knew that the Zealtor used the tube to eat souls like a straw. Almost paralysed with fear, I willed my feet forward, and prepared to give my Aunt a final kiss goodnight.
"Gmmmm!" screeched Mum, suddenly animated, thrashing up and down in the bed like she was possessed.
"There's no other way, Mum," I said, not looking back, fearing I would lose my nerve if I did. "I failed. I'm sorry, but this is for the best. You deserve a great life. I'll say hi to Dad for you."
"There's always another way!" squealed a voice, like a soprano war cry. "Think harder you idiot!"
Tiny, blood-stained hands encircled the Zealtor's neck. From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of skin and silver, and then heard a terrible braying wail. The thin, black tube - the Zealtor's soul straw - flopped onto the floor, with a burning hiss. Spastically, it coiled and uncoiled, rolling its way towards me like a loose wagon wheel. I jumped back onto the day bed.
The Zealtor's head flipped back and she roared in agony, almost bringing down what was left of the roof. Three of the four Blackgum swung into action, digging their outstretched fingers into the ringlets of Mum's hair, twisting and tearing out tufts of her beautiful tresses at the root and tossing them on the floor like discarded weeds.
The maimed Zealtor bent down and picked up the silver weapon, hurling it into the wall just above the mantlepiece. Joke's compass! Then she scooped up the writhing tube and shoved it into the pocket of her hideous floral day-dress.
Joke was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably bolted out the door as soon as he'd stabbed the Zealtor's soul-straw with the end of his compass.
"What are you waiting for?" roared the Zealtor at the motionless Blackgum. Her eyes were mad. "Bring me his head."
The Zealtor was rattled. Joke had risked his life to give me a few seconds. He'd risked everything to give me the chance to save my Mum and my soul. I couldn't waste it.
"Joke," I thought, trying to push the words to him telepathically, though unsure if it was working. "If you can hear me, run for my bed-room and climb onto the pomegranate. Platto will protect you. It is on its way." I leapt onto the bed, pulled my shirt sleeve over my damaged hand then, through the fabric, yanked Mum's swan pendant chain with all my strength.
The Zealtor whirled around and caught me. She screamed and pitched her left ear at my head like a malevolent frisbee. I ducked, falling onto Mum's chest again. The ear karate-chopped itself into the mahogany bed-head, thrashing vainly to free itself.
I pushed myself off Mum, and tugged at the chain, wrapping my middle fingers around the kissing swans. Mum gurgled noisily as the chain-links at the back of her neck sliced into her skin. But I had no choice.
Like a stingray, the Zealtor glided low across the room. Long, gold and diamond blades erupted from her claw tips, glinting through the smoke. "Please," I almost prayed to my shadow. "Please help us."
The trunk rattled again, but this time the latch gave and the lid flung open, clipping the Zealtor's chin. The Zealtor screeched, as her shins caught the full brunt of the open lid, upending her and pitching her onto her head, between the foot of the bed and the moon-faced trunk.
I planted my feet on either side of Mum's head, facing the foot of the bed. I squatted down and put my back and legs into the task. Sword-claws sliced through the dark wood of the bed like jelly, and Aunt Bea's distorted face popped up. Her eyes were rusty, and black liquid sloughed down her chest from the wound in her neck.
"Stop him, Hecate," barked the Zealtor, her voice bubbling, like she was talking through a mud-filled drain-pipe. The amber ice-cords around the familiar's beak and wings vanished and the free bird launched itself at me from the floor.
I lurched to the side, ducking Hecate's swinging talons. The bird missed my head by centimetres, then landed on one of the Blackgum's purple crests. The Blackgum tried to swat the bird away, but the enraged familiar was having none of it. Like a psychotic cassowary, it lashed out at the Blackgum, slicing its throat ear to ear.
The bird turned from the dying monster and prepared to launch itself at me again. Being careful not to trample my mother in the rush, I yanked at the chain, and tried to ignore the choking sound emanating from Mum's throat.
"You'll die a thousand times for this impertinence," hissed the Zealtor, now standing at the foot of the bed. Hecate was perched at the head of the bed preparing for takeoff. Trapped between the Zealtor and her familiar, I redoubled my efforts, grasping the necklace with both fists at its centre, using the muscles in my arms and upper back to prise them apart. The swans tilted, then parted with a hard crunching sound, like work boots crunching a broken windshield into bitumen. Finally, the weakest link gave out.
The pendant chain broke in two.
Mum's arms had been trapped at her sides like an Irish dancer's. Now her right arm flew up into the air, and her left scissored down across her body, knocking my feet out from under me. I tumbled off the bed, as a red-platinum beam erupted from Mum's palms, like digital flame-throwers, concentrated beams striking the Zealtor and Hecate.
I landed with a thud, and rolled across the room, stopping just short of being face down in the dog food that had once been Mrs Kroker. Craning my neck to the left, I caught a whiff of burning feathers and stale lavender water.
Hecate thrashed about the floor, in agony, trying uselessly to beat down the conflagration consuming her magnificent tail. She morphed furiously but could not escape the fire: a lizard with black-green scales, a brown pheasant, a black water rat, a giant scorpion, a yellow and red budgie, then back to her true shape. It all made sense! Hecate had infected Tim, starting the Blackgum nightmare on behalf of her Master!
A deep almost inaudible hum sounded under the floor. My stomach lurched. The air around the remaining Blackgum shimmered. Both froze, then burst into what looked like crazed break dancing. With a slopping squelch, both collapsed in on themselves!
The red beams stopped. I fought the urge to throw up at the stench of burning flesh and feathers. At both the foot and head of where the now-incinerated bed had been, stood a Witch. They glowered at each other.
Wordlessly, Aunt Bea turned to me, pointing the shards of her twisted sword fingers at my head. Mum winked and a tiny net shot out of her eyelashes, unfurling and expanding as it flew across the room like a Roman gladiator's net. It spun as it hit me around the chest, dragging me to safety behind the moon trunk. A split second later, the shards of the Zealtor's swords thrummed, harmlessly describing a semi-circle around the mantl
epiece. They looked like daggers tossed at a circus-girl pinned to a whirling wheel. They'd have minced me.
Cautiously, I freed myself from the net and inched my head up, like a soldier peeping over his trench at the enemy. The Zealtor's fangs were bared at my mother. Mum looked wholly unfazed.
Hecate had managed to stamp out the fire in her tail and began to retch violently, near the fireplace. The bald, burned-red stump of her tail twitched, as if cold.
"No," shrieked the Zealtor, ignoring Mum and hurrying over to her burned familiar.
Hecate's tail spasmed, and the once great bird toppled onto her side and vomited what looked like a puddle of melted vanilla ice-cream. The familiar closed her eyes for good.
"No!" whispered the Zealtor. "Not like this."
Without sympathy, Mum strode towards the Zealtor and slapped her - hard - across the face.
"How dare you," said Mum, the first words she had spoken since she'd been released from the necklace. "This was our parents' home-town. We were born in this house. And this is how you repay Quakehaven? By desecrating it and enslaving its people?"
I couldn't tell if Aunt Bea was listening. She nursed her jaw, and watched, in abject misery, as her dearest friend perished at her feet. She looked suddenly like a sad, feeble old woman. But, after all that had happened, she deserved every ounce of pain Hecate's death would deliver!
Eventually, the Zealtor spoke. Her voice was soft, but cold, her eyes fixed on the carcass of her fallen pet and friend. "You don't know what you're talking about, Bridget. You left Quakehaven as soon as you could with that man to see the world. Left me here to guard our traditions, our way of life. I did this," she said, gesturing at the broken room, "to save Quakehaven."
Mum's eyes glittered with rage and contempt and disbelief, but she merely shook her head at her sister.
"You didn't see what was going on before I stopped the rot," said Aunt Bea. "New people arriving from the City every day, knocking down our grand houses turning them into cheap blocks of flats and tacky mansions. No-one interested in our heritage. Barn dances turned into rock shows. Boat sheds now game arcades and internet cafes. Barker debasing our history, turning the place into a jumble of fun-parks. Too many shops, open every day of the year, selling worthless junk to worthless people. No time for family. For reflection. A dinosaur park, for goodness sake! What would my dear Gerry have said about that, sitting in his old armchair in the reading room?"
"I'd of loved it," gurgled the small white puddle still growing from a trickle pouring from the dead bird's mouth. The pool rippled, and pulled itself, roughly, into a two dimensional representation of Uncle Gerry's jowly face. "We could have taken our nephew and sister-in-law out and made a day of it. As a family. A picnic."
"Gerry?" said Aunt Bea, aghast, a green algal tear leaking down the side of her left eye.
"I'm not saying I love all that stuff you were talking about, Beatrice. The congestion, pollution, the nasty developments, the strip malls and fast food outlets. Kids twexting, twimmering and bodysurfing the Interwebs, consuming mindless gossip all the time, many without adding a glimmer of an original thought to the mix. Some of this stuff gets me pretty steamed up as well. And there's a place for monuments and heritage, including in our heads. But people and things change - it's the way of this world. Paradise doesn't exist. Trust me, I know. There were some pretty bad things with the way Quakehaven was back when we were young."
"No!" said Aunt Bea, shaking her head vigorously. "It was perfect."
"You forget the unemployment and violence? The racism and sexism. Mothers dying in child-birth. Babies dying from treatable diseases. Nuns forcing teenagers to give up their babies. Orphans being forced to work on the farms, abused by the people charged to look after them. Poor kids going to school hungry, without shoes or enough food in their bellies. You forget all that?"
"There were hardships. But that made us better people. Life was simple then," said Aunt Bea.
"True," gurgled Uncle's Gerry's puddle. "Too simple, in some ways. Like not being able to buy milk on a Sunday, or go to the pub with friends after 6pm. Innocent men and women hanged based on the evidence of corrupt police. Kids told to just accept 'their station in life'. Families torn apart because a daughter dared to marry a man of the wrong stock, or from a different brand of the same religion. Young men and women drinking themselves to death. Trying to conform to the median; to hide who they were. The intolerance for anything different. For anyone different."
"I was trying to save the town, Gerald. To protect our way of life."
"No, Beatrice," said Mum. "You tried to kill the town to save it. How many have died while I was your captive, or worse. Can't you see the monster you've become?"
"I did it for Quakehaven," said the Zealtor, stubbornly.
"You've massacred children," snapped Uncle Gerry, a fizz in his voice. "One in this very room tonight. You have held your sister a prisoner in her own body and tried to assassinate your own nephew. Your creatures are this very moment roaming the streets hunting down innocent people - including your neighbours and those that you love - all for the sake of an impossible and twisted dream of something that never existed outside your head. The only thing more dead than Quakehaven is you. And, to think, I loved you once."
Aunt Bea started to sniffle. "But -" she said, then Mum slapped her across the face again.
"No buts. Face what you've done, Beatrice. Bring this madness to an end. I'll help you. Before we're overrun while we stand here jabbering."
As if eavesdropping on Mum's words, an enormous beast crashed into the room, looking for its Master. It had the body of a large, black bull, but no head. Three yellow eyes pulsed from each flank, six in all. A ridge of sharp armoured peaks rose up from its spine. A furry, blue tongue flopped out of its neck, like a flaccid feather duster, sweeping the floor before it from side to side like a blind man's cane.
Before anyone could react, the thing charged at the bed, then stopped suddenly at the pool of white liquid that was Uncle Gerry. Without pause, the bull-monster mop-lapped my uncle's puddle up, its stained white tongue twisting and retracting like a drill-bit into the monster's neck when it was done.
"No!" groaned Aunt Bea, seemingly forgetting her powers, apparently paralysed with shock. "Not my husband!"
Mum clapped her hands like an impatient maitre de calling for help, and a maroon sphere, the size of a snowball, shot out from her thumbs and pounded through the bull monster, reducing it instantly to dust.
"No," whimpered the Zealtor, her voice barely audible. Mum slapped her again. "Gerry's gone, Beatrice. And you have only yourself to blame. Let me help you bring this calamity to an end."
Three additional headless bull monsters - one ridden by what looked like a disembodied ogress' head, the reins lashed to her tusks - bounded into the room.
"No," said Aunt Bea, determination returning to her voice, even as more algal tears stained her cheeks. "Get the boy out of here, Bridget." The Zealtor straightened her narrow shoulders and began to expand, her eyes a just formed galaxy of stars and black matter. "This is my mess, sister. Let me clean it up."
"Let me help you," said Mum, her voice breaking.
"You already have," said Aunt Bea, smiling sadly. "You, my husband and your remarkable son." I couldn't look at her. Not after what she and her minions had done to my friends.
"I love you all," continued Aunt Bea. "I want you to know that, though you owe me nothing for it. Now get him out of here, Bridget. And tell him the truth soon. He's ready. And he deserves to know."
Mum nodded, and embraced me like an anaconda. "Hold on to me, Paddy. Don't lose me again."
I squeezed Mum back with all my remaining strength. Aunt Bea was now at least twice the size of the Giant. Without warning, she let out a deafening shriek that eviscerated the three bull-monsters where they stood and shattered the ogress head's tusks like a fallen icicle. A foul wind encircled the Zealtor, and with it a squealing whistle that set my teeth
on edge.
"She's calling them all to her," muttered Mum. "The Blackgum are all racing back to mama. Hold on to me and think of somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't find us." I held my breath. The world collapsed and we flickered momentarily out of existence, popping back cramped and lost into absolute darkness.
I clawed at the walls of our new prison. "Where are we?" whispered Mum, shivering against the cold stone that surrounded us like a mausoleum. "What's that?"
A faint light leaked from the opening of my jeans pocket. I reached in and pulled out the source. The ash-pebble that had once been Mr Seth cast the dull silver light of a distant sun. I looked up. The roof of our cell was dotted with air holes. Through one of them, I spied eight bare hooks hanging from the roof. From another, I saw sacks of flour and stacks of cans on shelves covered in dated, oil-flecked green floral wall-paper.
"We're in the larder," I said. "Under the thrawl, I think. Sorry. It was the safest place I could think of. I should have thought of somewhere farther away. Like a beach in Queensland. Or a farm house in the South of France. Anywhere but where I'd landed us, in fact! Of all the places in all the world, I'd consigned us to the spookiest room in a house overrun with Blackgum!
"It's perfect," said Mum, smiling and stretching her arms, relishing her relative freedom despite the war going on around us. She clapped her hands, gently this time. Bolts of solid steel appeared and welded themselves across the inside of the larder door and the stone thrawl under which we were hiding, reinforcing them against probable attack. She clicked her fingers and the small, mesh grille near the roof sealed itself shut with shards of brick and dust, sealing us in. (And Them out.)
"I didn't even know there was a secret chamber under the thrawl," I said suddenly weary as some of the adrenalin coursing through my bloodstream ebbed.
"You probably knew there was something strange about this room," laughed Mum. "It's designed to give people the willies. Witches love hidey-holes. Can come in very handy every century or so when people decide to burn us all. Your great grandfather hid here once for three weeks while farmers with pitchforks trashed the place."
The long, thin cavity under the thrawl was just wide enough for Mum and I to sit down facing each other. Mum's hair seemed to fill half the space, even after the Blackgums had barbarically thinned it out. Despite our relatively insulated position in the larder, the sounds of destruction - rocks scraping on concrete and exploding glass - filtered through the thrawl. Nervously, I put Mr Seth's pebble down between us to even out the light. The pebble flickered and I stifled a giggle.
"What's so funny?" asked Mum, bemused. "We really should try to stay as quiet as possible."
"Sorry," I whispered. "Something Mr Seth said: I don't have time to illuminate you now. Though I will have plenty of time later! It was a riddle. Mr Seth is illuminating us now!"
"More like a bad joke," said Mum. But we both laughed quietly at it, until I started to cry.
Mum reached over and placed her hands on my shoulders. "He would have been so proud," she said. "Your dad. I'm so proud of you figuring this all out, surviving so many atrocities without me there to help you."
I said nothing and concentrated on controlling my breath. "You're not my little boy anymore," Mum said.
"Maybe not," I said, giving in and blubbering like a baby. "But I am your boy."
"And I'm your mother. And don't you forget it!"
We sat with our foreheads pressed together for a while, listening carefully to the carnage around us. Although the fight was closing in on Sub Rosa, I felt more relaxed sitting there with Mum than I had felt since the start of the Blackgum ordeal. I felt myself dissolve into formlessness, not needing to say or do anything to communicate how happy I was we were together, sentient and free again. Time slowed. Ecstatic bliss!
A jolt of cold reality. I jumped up, almost braining myself on the bottom of the thrawl.
"What is it?" said Mum, alarmed. "What do you sense?"
"Joke's out there on his own, upstairs. I have to help him."
Mum closed her eyes, then opened them and smiled. "Something tells me Master Fisk is going to be fine," said Mum. "And he's not on his own."
"He is. I've got to help him."
"Your Mum's right," squeaked Joke. I looked over my shoulder at Joke's sweaty, blood-stained face. In his arms, he cradled a rather battered but excited Platto, his black case pocked with sucker marks. And at Joke's feet, against my back, sat two bowls of unsullied dog food.
"I'm OK," said Joke, grinning at Mum, but pointedly ignoring me. "The pomegranate's sustained some damage, but it's still standing. And you wouldn't believe the hurt your sister is raining down on the Blackgum. She's locked down Sub Rosa altogether, except for a small hole in the dining room wall, just wide enough for one of the big ones to squeeze through. She's picking them off one at a time as they line up to get at her! Dunno how much longer she can keep it up. She lost a lot of blood from that wound to her neck."
Joke lowered his eyes. "She was ambushed by a parliament of were-owls about half an hour ago, and would have been a gonna if not for this thing," he said, stroking Platto's case. Despite the seriousness of our predicament, I felt a pang of jealousy as Joke petted my helper.
Joke would have continued his blow by blow account, but for a group of howling Blackgum that breached my Aunt's defences and broke into the kitchen with a cacophony of crashing saucepans and clanging cutlery.
Mum whispered a spell to mask our scent and to amplify the larder's natural defences. Joke and I held our breath and kept very still, both clamping up hands around Platto's restless bill, the small boy studiously avoiding my attempts to catch his eye.
Aunt Bea released a blood-curdling scream as she ran into her beloved kitchen and engaged her former soldiers in mortal combat, metres from our hiding place. Automatically, Mum and I joined hands and threw all we had at defending the breached kitchen wall. When it became clear that the battle was lost, she focused on holding up the flimsy larder door: the last defence between us and the relentless Blackgum.
All around us, the savage impact of the battle shook Sub Rosa's foundations, and those of us hidden within them.
24. SCATTERSMITH
We went from room to room, inspecting what was left of Sub Rosa. Joke and I followed a step behind Mum, like two sons touring a soon-to-be-auctioned house with their mother. Flattened fragments of Blackgum corpses littered the hallway and rooms like unfashionable linoleum. The roof was completely missing. Upstairs looked like a bomb had hit it.
Warily, we entered the dining room. A tiny lump lay half-shrouded under a blue velvet curtain in the middle of the table. The small, withered figure gave off a faint scent of charred lavender. Instinctively, I looked away, studying Mum's tortured features.
"Yes," she nodded, tears welling.
"Your sister died with honour, Mrs Lee," squeaked Joke.
"She died alone," said Mum, her voice brittle. "They all turned on her in the end. I should have helped her."
"She died," I said, wrapping my arms around Mum, "protecting those she loved. But - I'm sorry Mum - I can't forgive her for what she did to us."
"She wasn't the only murderer in Quakehaven," muttered Joke darkly. He clearly still blamed me for the death of his father.
I began to explain what had really happened, but Joke didn't want to hear it. Mum was about to intervene when we were interrupted.
"What happened?" shrieked a woman.
"And where are our cl-cl-cl-othes?!" demanded a man.
We swung around, on guard. Mrs Kroker and Doc Vassel- both stark naked - sat red-faced atop their dog food bowls, covering their naughty bits with their hands. Much to the couple's obvious displeasure, and despite (or perhaps because of) the trauma we'd just survived, Mum, Joke and I exploded into a fit of giggles. I laughed so hard I was almost sick!