Freax and Rejex

Columbine busied herself with adding cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg to a mug of the best October ale. Then she plunged a glowing fire iron into it, causing a ribbon of fragrant steam to hiss upwards as it bubbled and foamed over the sides.

When she handed the hot brew over, the old woman had already finished the pie and cheese and was dabbing at the crumbs on her shabby kirtle.

“I could wrap more cheese in a scrap of muslin for you to take home,” the girl suggested. “If we had any bread, you’d be welcome to that too, but the kitchen boys are fetching it from the miller’s even now.”

Nursing the steaming mug in both hands, her guest took appreciative sips whilst regarding her keenly. Two dark little eyes, webbed with age, shone out from the shade of the bonnet’s wide brim.

“I would rather eat poisoned snake livers than the finest table loaf baked by Gristabel Smallrynd, the miller’s wife,” she said with sudden vehemence. “Threatened to set her wall-eyed dog on me this day she did and swung a stick at Granny’s head… but she’ll come to rue that.”

Her warty chin moved from side to side as she glugged the ale down. Then, with a contented sigh, she said, “I will take no cheese. Though I thank you for the offer of it. You have been open-handed enough already – and with such victuals that will be missed, which I wager you’ll be punished for. No other in Mooncaster would show such tenderness to a wizened, friendless crone such as I.”

“I could not see you hobble from this door, on so cold a day as this, tired and hungry.”

“Then I must repay you, child. Is there aught you would ask of a grateful forest hag? Granny is in your debt and that must be settled at once.”

Columbine almost laughed, but checked herself in time so as not to bruise the old woman’s feelings. What could one so steeped in poverty afford to give her?

“I wish for nothing,” she said.

The old woman leaned forward and her dark eyes glinted.

“Yet your face tells a different tale,” she said. “Tears leave loud tracks upon cheeks smirched with soot and ashes. And there are bloody stains of violence upon you. How came ye by such gory daubs? What troubles you so sorely? Tell Granny your woe; she may find a way of easing your burden.”

And so Columbine told her what had happened, how the Jockey had caught her, peeping out at the Jack of Clubs, and his unwanted attention afterwards.

“He has sworn to return later,” she said. “But I will not surrender unto him. He or I will die.”

To her surprise, the crone began to chuckle. It was the last reaction she had expected.

“I mean it!” Columbine cried. “I would rather jig a deserving dance at the gibbet than have that fat villain steal my maidenhead.”

Granny Oakwright slapped her bony knees and laughed all the louder.

“I see no merriment in this!” the girl shouted angrily. “My plight is most hopeless and grim. Is this how you reward my kindness? Be still and silent, old dame! How can you laugh so cruelly?”

The woman’s mirth eased and she fixed the girl with a glare so powerful that Columbine caught her breath and took a step back.

“Large in heart thou mayest be, child,” Granny Oakwright said, her voice now harsh. “But thy wits are shrivelled for balance. Let this be an end to play-acting. No more pretence, no more poor old grateful Granny.”

“I do not understand…”

The old woman’s face became sour and severe. “Dost thou truly believe any aged dweller of the forest would brave this deadly frost and tramp the many leagues from their squalid hovel to beg at this door? Hestia Slab is renowned for her parsimony. She is too mean to bait the traps. I can hear a mouse even now, over by the salt sack. No empty-bellied wretch would come a-knocking here.”

“Then…?”

“I am no peasant!” the stranger proclaimed. “I am no starveling, scratching a life in the wild wood. I am she whose name is whispered with awe and dread, with powers enough to challenge even the Holy Enchanter.”

Columbine gasped. “Malinda!” she blurted. “Malinda – the Fairy Godmother!”

“Malinda?” the crone shrieked with indignation. “Malinda of the clipped wings and mangled wand? Idiot girl! Malinda is no more than a mere dabbler and a faded one at that! That spangle-dusted amateur gave up knocking on doors and granting hearts’ desires to silly young maidens many years ago. I am not she!”

“Then who are you?”

“I am Haxxentrot!” the old woman announced and, when she spoke her name, the nearby hearth roared and the flames blazed violet, shooting high up the chimney.

“The witch of the Forbidden Tower!” Columbine uttered fearfully. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“To see with mine own eyes how the peoples of Mooncaster are faring,” the witch replied. “Though I own many spies, it pleases me to walk amongst the village folk from time to time and relearn why I despise them so. When I have toppled the Holy Enchanter and the White Castle is a smoking ruin, there is not one whose wretched life I shall spare.”

She tapped her foot irritably on the flagged floor.

“Thus I must be in no one’s debt!” she told the girl as she took two chestnuts from her basket and spat on both. “Place these as nigh to the fire as ye dare. Consider this one to be thine own self and this… he is the Jack of Clubs. If the scorching heats cause them to burst and fly into a thousand pieces, thy secret yearning will ne’er blossom and bear fruit. Yet if they ignite and burn together with steady flame then ye shalt become lovers and remain constant evermore.”

Columbine obeyed. She had heard many stories of the fearsome old witch who hated the Ismus and the inhabitants of Mooncaster. Haxxentrot was always seeking new ways to bedevil and inflict pain upon them. Warily the girl put the chestnuts as close to the fire as she could manage. Haxxentrot muttered some words under her breath and they waited.

Presently the two chestnuts began to smoulder. Then they both crackled and were wrapped in a pinkish flame.

“Behold!” the witch declared with a satisfied, matter-of-fact nod. “Thy future is clear. Great love ’twixt thee and the Knave of Clubs shalt surely come to pass.”

She took up the straps of the other basket and prepared to haul it on to her shoulders once more.

Columbine stared at the burning chestnuts in disbelief. An overwhelming sense of disappointment took hold of her.

“Wait!” she cried. “Is that it? Is that all?”

“All?” the witch repeated. “What more could there be? Hast thou not lain awake, many nights, aching for his embrace? Now thou knowest it will surely happen.”

Columbine felt so cheated she could barely speak. Then her resentment found its voice and any fear she had of the witch was swept aside.

“What sort of magickal reward is that?” she demanded. “Was that the best you can do? This is not how kind deeds are repaid in old tales. Where are the wishes? Where are the magickal gifts? The gown of gold, made with cloth so fine it fits into a walnut shell! Where are the enchanted slippers to make the wearer the daintiest dancer in the Realm? Where is the jug of moon dew that bestows shining beauty on whoever bathes in it? Where is the potion to make he who drinks it fall into a stupor of love for me? Where is the mirror that shows any view I desire?”

“Ye modern maidens expect too much,” the witch observed with a sniff.

“I expect more than two musty old nuts and a bundle of hollow pledges! You call that a debt repaid? You’re naught but a hoodwinker. Hoaxxentrot should be your name!”

The witch rounded on her.

“A morsel of hard cheese and a slice of day-old mutton pie are not equal to a feat of high magick!” she snapped. “That pastry was like elm bark and what meagre specks of mutton it housed were a chewing chore of fat and gristle. Witchery is no exchange for a hard seat with no cushion and a night of griping gut-groan.”

Before Columbine could think of a fitting retort, the kitchen door flew open. The sudden draught gusted through the goose feathers, driving a ticklish blizzard against the girl’s face. She spat out the ones that had blown into her mouth and wafted the rest aside. Then she saw. Standing on the step was none other than the Jack of Clubs.

Surprise, excitement, wonder, adoration, hope and fear played equal parts in the confusion that seized her in that startling instant. Haxxentrot turned her face away and sat down quietly on the stool.

Jack looked even more handsome than before. Silhouetted against the bleak winter light, he seemed no ordinary being. Here was a hero of legend, made flesh and living.

Columbine gazed on him. How fine he was, how noble and fair, how strong. Why was he here? Princes of the Royal Houses never visited the kitchen. Perhaps he was seeking Mistress Slab on a matter of oats for his fabulous steed? Only the best would suffice for that beast. Or perhaps he wanted Ned or Beetle to help the grooms? Or perhaps…? Columbine could feel her heart thumping. No, she must not allow herself to think such fanciful things in his presence. She clasped a hand to her bosom. Surely he too could hear the mighty pounding of her heart? It was louder than the steady, rhythmic clamour of the smithy, only here she was the anvil and the Knave’s unwavering glance was the hammer. Into what shape would this dreamed-of moment be fashioned?

The Jack of Clubs said nothing. His blue eyes stared back at her. With long, purposeful strides he entered and approached. The servant girl stood as still as stone. Her own eyes grew increasingly wider until the pride of Mooncaster stood before her. The corners of his mouth lifted and the gentle smile made him even more charming and adorable. Then he pointed a toe and made the most perfect, courteous bow.

Columbine felt faint as she dipped into the answering curtsy. Here was her every desire, unfolding right in front of her at last.

“M…my Lord!” she finally managed to stutter.

He reached out and placed a fingertip against her lips. This was not a time for words. Taking her dirty hands in his, he held her close. From somewhere, maybe it was merely inside her own head, Columbine thought she heard music. Clasped in each other’s arms, the prince and the kitchen maid began a slow dance. The cool flagstones beneath her feet might have turned to clouds for all she could feel of them. Around and around they danced. His eyes locked on hers and the air almost sparked between them. She would embed this beautiful moment in her memory forever more. Her jubilant heart flew up through the ceiling, up through the beams and stones of the castle and up into the clear sky.

Still lost in the devoted stare of her prince, a movement in the corner of her eyes caused them to flick aside. There was Haxxentrot, perched on the stool, hugging herself in amusement. In the shock and joy of what was happening, Columbine had completely forgotten about the witch. And there was something else…

She looked across the kitchen, over Jack’s athletic shoulders, to where the copper pots and pans gleamed on the walls. The rippling reflections that glided over polished lids and swollen curves made her frown. Those imperfect, broken echoes of she and her gallant knave were twisted, molten likenesses that flowed from one surface to another. It was difficult to recognise the fractured, merging figures and she began to peer at them intently, to try and untangle them. Yes, there was her own revolving form, with arms held out. But Jack’s shape looked so odd, even the colour of his velvet jerkin was wrong. She could see no scarlet or gold in those copper surfaces. What was that teetering tower of four white globes that followed her wherever she twirled? Columbine could not decipher it until finally, in a lightning flash of comprehension, her mind unpuzzled what she saw.

The girl shrieked and leaped away.

Standing on one another’s shoulders, four Bogey Boys sniggered and mocked her. The illusion was broken. Here was no Jack of Clubs, just these ugly creatures of Haxxentrot. They were her stunted servants, with large, white, wobbly heads and mouths crammed with baby teeth. Their yellow eyes were ringed with ginger lashes and their noses were upturned. The one at the top had an adder coiled around his brow. The one beneath wore a necklace of living spiders. Below him was a wig of rats’ tails. The Bogey Boy at the bottom was the fattest of the four and had powdered his shiny cheeks with green pigment and blackened his thin lips with ink.

Their hideous appearance, coupled with their snaky laughter, revolted Columbine and she snatched up a ladle to smite them and knock them down.

“Jub! Crik! Hak! Rott!” Haxxentrot commanded. “Enough!”

The creatures stopped sniggering and leaped from each other’s shoulders. The witch lifted the lid of the larger basket. Leering at the girl and making insulting gestures, they hopped inside. Haxxentrot closed the lid and patted it.

“Now is pie and cheese repaid in full,” she stated flatly.

“Repaid?” Columbine objected.

“Thou hast experienced thy heart’s great dream! Thou canst not deny thou had much joy of it. I saw thy rapture.”

“It wasn’t real! It was false and ugly.”

“Love is always thus,” the hag observed with a dismissive shrug.

“It isn’t good enough!” Columbine protested. “I gave you food and warmth and all you do is trick and deceive!”

“The food was not thine to give!”

“The bruises I’ll get from Mistress Slab will pay for it and more! Malinda would not have treated me so…”

“I am not Malinda!!” the witch reminded her hotly. “The lover’s heart is a region unmapped by me! I do not deal in longings and gladful ever-afters. Seek out that wingless Fairy Godmother in her cottage, deep in Hunter’s Chase, if thou wouldst procure a philtre to turn a prince’s head, but ask it not of me! Venom and curses and ill deeds are all I know.”

She was about to lift the basket on to her back again when she paused and gave Columbine a sidelong look.

“And yet,” she murmured, “there is one gift I could grant unto thee. A present more useful than the way to a Jack’s heart.”

“What could you give me?” the girl asked sceptically.

Haxxentrot tapped the wicker lid. It creaked open and a Bogey Boy’s white face appeared beneath.

“Jub,” the witch ordered. “Fetch me the timbrel.”

The face vanished and the lid closed once more. A moment later, a small hand appeared, clasping a tambourine. Haxxentrot took it and rattled it in front of her with a flourish.

“What use is that?” Columbine asked.

“Patience provides every answer,” the witch answered tetchily. She placed the tambourine on the table then sorted through a leather pouch hanging at her waist.

“Here,” she said, removing a small velvet bag and emptying it.

Columbine uttered a cry of disgust at the thing that fell on to the instrument’s circle of taut parchment. It was a human ear, dried and blackened and scabbed with old blood.

“What horror is this?” the girl demanded.

Haxxentrot’s crabbed mouth broke into a depraved grin. “’Tis the only relic of Sir Lucius Pandemian left above ground or uneaten by wolf, gore toad, marsh snake and battle crow,” she explained. “A valiant questing knight was he. Most courageous in Mooncaster.”

“I’ve never heard tell of him.”

“Hast thou not? How easy the denizens of Mooncaster forget. How my hatred festers for them anew. ’Twas many long years past, when the Dawn Prince’s exile was still fresh in mind. The Realm was plagued by countless terrors, dreader fiends than they who abide in the dark forests today. One such was the Lamia. She harried cattle and carried off infants in her claws, devouring them in the ivy-choked ruins of the Black Keep, nigh to mine own tower.”

Haxxentrot snorted with displeasure and her face became more twisted with rancour than usual.

“A noisesome neighbour was she,” she grumbled. “Entry to the vault, wherein she slept during the hours of day, was granted only by the tolling of a great bronze bell high above. This bell couldst not ring lest she commanded it. Three deafening clangs and the marble cover stone would slide aside. Then out she would fly – on webbed wings. Never was so deafening a clamour as that bell heard in the land. Deathknelly the peasants named it, in their usual vulgar fashion. When its fearsome voice shook the night clouds, they would flee to their homes, cowering till they heard it resound again ere dawn when all was clear.”

Columbine cleared her throat and held up her hand to interrupt. “How does that lead to this foul object?” she asked, grimacing at the severed ear.

“’Twas Sir Lucius who pursued the Lamia back to the forest one rain-lashed night,” Haxxentrot said. “His spear pierced her side and she did drop the latest child victim from her claws. Bellowing in pain and fury, she swooped upon the knight, seizing his horse by the head and bearing both beast and he aloft. Over field and treetop she carried them and all the while he hewed and grappled with her, fending off her blows and fangs till his shield shattered. And so he raised his sword for one final thrust, but she cast his mount from her grasp and horse and rider fell from the sky. At the very entrance to the Black Keep they came crashing. The steed burst on the forest floor, but he fared a little better. Though one eye was torn from his head and his body was slashed by twig and talon, still he lived. He saw the Lamia come screeching down to rend his limbs and feed on his noble flesh, but luck had not yet deserted Sir Lucius. In that very instant, as his death seemed writ and certain, the sun pushed above the eastern hills. The Lamia screamed and rushed to the safe darkness of her lair. The mighty bell clanged direct over the brave knight’s head and his ears bled. Marble grated back in place and the vault was closed. Then Sir Lucius knew what must be done.”

The witch paused and regarded the blackened lump of skin with almost tender eyes.

“Wounded, ripped and broken, driven half mad by the bone-jarring sound, he climbed the ruined keep – up to the lofty pillars where the monstrous bell did hang. Without its voice, the tomb could ne’er open again so he reached into Deathknelly’s mouth and removed its tongue. Yet the thing was so grievous heavy and he so beaten, he could not bear the weight and so he toppled.”

Haxxentrot took up the ear and held it close as she inspected and stroked it.

“I found him there, late that day, crushed ’neath the bronze bell tongue. Already the forest creatures had been at him. They are such busy, eager workers. This I took in token of a brave man, the best in this putrid Kingdom. He had rid me of a rival scourge and for that I was grateful. The Lamia has ne’er been heard of since. The sealed vault became her tomb.”

Her voice faltered and she stared at the gruesome souvenir intently.

Columbine shuddered. “And you think I would want that as a gift?” she muttered incredulously. “Are you as mad as you are ugly?”

The witch did not answer, but put the hideous thing to her withered lips and kissed it. Then, before Columbine could prevent her, the crone lunged forward, pressed the ear against the girl’s shoulder and rolled it in the Jockey’s still glistening blood. She called out strange words, picked up the tambourine and slammed the two together.

At once the hearths erupted. Torrents of green and purple fire exploded into the kitchen. The flames whooshed and roared about Haxxentrot and Columbine and fiery stars went zinging about the room, ricocheting off pots and plates. One struck a large glazed jug and it shattered into dust. Another shot into the salt sack and the precious grains came streaming out. The air screamed. The witch spun around shrieking an incantation. Columbine yelled for her life. The coppers shivered on their hooks. Tables juddered across the floor as the flagstones trembled beneath them and the big basket quaked as the Bogey Boys rocked with wild laughter within.

Then, abruptly, it was over. The fireplaces crackled cheerfully once more and the kitchen was as normal as ever.

Shaken and afraid, Columbine stumbled away from the witch.

“Begone, foul hag!” she cried. “Leave now, before I call the Punchinello Guards.”

Haxxentrot gave a throaty cackle. “I am done here, my pretty pie-giver,” she said. “Here is the magickal gift thou didst demand of Haxxentrot.”

She held out her aged hands and presented the tambourine. Columbine stared down at it.

“It cannot be!” the girl exclaimed.

“And yet thine own eyes say it is so,” the witch replied. “They tell no lies this time.”

In the centre of the drumhead, where moments ago there had been only blank parchment, there was now a human ear. The two were fused together, with no visible seam. The ear was no longer black and shrivelled, but the same hue as the stretched skin to which it had been joined.

“What have you done?” Columbine breathed. “And why?”

“Sir Lucius Pandemian was the last to hear Deathknelly’s strident voice,” Haxxentrot told her. “Just as the final image is retained in the eyes after death, so the din of the great bell was locked inside his ears.”

She waggled the tambourine experimentally and looked very pleased with herself. “To thee and me, ’tis but a harmless jingle,” she said. “But shake this timbrel when the Jockey comes a-leching and the thunderous voice of Deathknelly shalt awake and resound in his head, for it is bonded to him by blood. One shake will send him reeling and yowling from thy presence. Another will cause his own ears to gush as freely as the fountains in the Queen of Hearts’ garden. One more and his oafish head will crack like a hen’s egg and the yoke of his brains shalt bubble forth. So, child, is this not a most marvellous recompense for pie and cheese? What say thou? Art thou not most adequately repaid for thy kindness to Granny Oakwright?”

Columbine received the instrument in amazement. She was too stunned to know what to say.

Haxxentrot nodded with pride and rubbed her bony hands together.

“You have saved me,” the girl cried at last. “He will never get close enough to touch me again!”

She was so delighted she capered around, smacking the tambourine against her hips and over her head.

“Be certain to keep the timbrel with thee always,” the witch cautioned. “Do not let it stray out of arm’s reach or thou shalt suffer the consequences.”

Columbine swore she would carry it with her wherever she went.

“Let me help you on with your pack,” the girl offered.

Haxxentrot refused. “No more kindnesses!” she said. “Or I shalt be obliged to thee for another gift, ye greedy girl. Dost thou truly…”

Her voice trailed off. She was staring into the far corner, where the salt had leaked freely over the floor.

“Mistress Slab will be in such a rage!” Columbine cried when she saw the mess. “Its value is great! I must sweep it into another sack and hope she…”

The witch grabbed at her arm. “Hold, child!” she snapped. “Canst thou not see? What marks are those?”

Then Columbine noticed the shapes sunken into the spilt salt.

“They are footprints,” she murmured in astonishment.

“Just so,” Haxxentrot said. “Yet neither of us hath ventured thither this whole while.”

The girl turned a frightened face to her. “Then what made them?” she asked.

“’Twould seem the mouse I heard was no mouse. There is an eavesdropper here. A trespasser who veils himself from our eyes.”

“But who in Mooncaster can do such a thing? Is this some new torment of the Bad Shepherd? Is he here now? Are we to be butchered and slain?”

“That is what I shalt discover!” the witch declared. “Jub! Crik! Rott! Hak! Jump out! Hunt down the unseen spy!”

The lid of the basket flew up and the four Bogey Boys leaped out.

“Arm thyselves with knife and skewer!” the witch commanded. “Sniff out the shadow-wrapped sneak. Bring it down! Kill it!”