You know, little girl, in my day, children were seen and not heard!”
“What day was that?”
“What?”
“What day was your day?”
“No, I simply mean when I was your age, we didn’t ask questions, we merely sat quietly and listened when we were in the company of adults.”
“Why?”
“Because if we didn’t, we were hit repeatedly with a big stick, and if your parents didn’t love you, they would sharpen it first.” Carol, formally known as The Grand Dam, tapped her walking stick on the clean bedrock floor of her sanctuary cave to signal that this was the end of this line of questioning. But apparently no one had educated Conny about this subtle message.
“My mummy sings in a pub full of people who drink alcohol, which is a poison to the body, but they do it anyway. I think she should be seen and not heard.”
“Does she… how nice for her,” Carol thought. I’d take up singing if it meant I’d have access to unfettered alcohol right now.
It had been a long… long… long week of never-ending questions, food dislikes, incessant questions, and comparisons of her cooking to subpar torture methods.
Carol’s nerves had been tested time and time again! And when she’d finally settled on and had come to feel at ease with her decision of throwing the child into the bottomless pit (which she had conveniently built her thunder box hanging over the edge of), the darn little mite would do something downright heart-melting and endearing like hugging Carol and thanking her for looking after her.
If Conny really brought out the big guns, she would climb onto Carol’s bony lap and cry snuffling little tears, then look up and say something sickly like, ‘I miss my’… whatever it was she was missing at the time, then add the real kicker, ‘but I love you too, Carol, and I’ll miss you when I go home.’
“Mummy sings like a cat who’s looking for a good time and can’t find it.”
One of Carol’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Well, that’s what Daddy says. He also says, Mummy goes out singing because she has hidden potential and is looking for it. I think she should stop being a freeloader and embarrassing us all and get a real job.”
Both eyebrows were now halfway up the Grand Dam’s forehead. “Do you now!”
“My Daddy has invented a trap for dragons.”
Carol’s stomach did a huge flip-flop. And there we have it. This was the reason the child had been dropped at her doorstep by her delightful daughter, Anna.
“It’s so powerful, it can squish a dragon flat like a pancake.”
“I see.” Seemed to cover most of what was racing through Carol’s mind.
“And if you push the big orange button, it shoves a stick right up the dragons…”
“That’s enough, thank you, Constance. I am quite sure the last bit is made up simply because you know I’m a dragon and I’m making you eat your porridge, even if it does taste like sugary glue with strawberries in it. It’s good for you, so keep eating, and if you finish your bowl, you may have an apple.”
“Is that the reason the dragon came and dug me out of my room?” Conny held the porridge-laden spoon to her lips, which were showing signs of a downturn and impending tears.
Carol laid her own clean spoon on the table. “Sadly, Conny, I think your father’s dragon trap was a big motivator for my daughter to rip you out of your lovely home and drop you into mine.”
“Your daughter’s a dumb head, and you live in a cave, not a sandbag house, which is much cooler than a sandbag house, especially the toilet.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that.”
“Yes, she is a big fat dumb head, because she doesn’t know that you will like my daddy and he will like you and he won’t squash you because I won’t let him and you won’t BBQ him because you love me.”
Conny inspected her porridge-laden spoon with a discerning eye, then gulped it down before continuing with her contemplations. “Your toilet is the best thing about your house. I love how the warm wind from the bottomless pit whistles up and tickles my bum. I also love listening to see if I can hear my poo hit the ground. I love you, Carol, your house and your loo, to the moon and stars and beyond.”
“Well, that settles it. I can’t set someone so cute as you on fire, so it seems we will have to find your father and sort out this mess my daughter is creating. We shall ride my broom because witches are always welcome wherever they go. And if they are not welcome, they darn well make sure they’re welcome soon after they arrive. Let’s pack and hit the road, my girl.”
“Will there be porridge on the road?” Constance looked up hopefully.
“Yes, it’s good for your bowls.” Carol raised a warning eyebrow, which the young child was intelligent enough not to push any higher.
*
“Why’s it so quiet?” Mr Geezer didn’t like the quiet. He came from a large family, had made several large families, and had added a few children to other people’s families! So, he knew a lot about noise and the ensuing chaos it brought, and he gleefully embraced both to his heart. Putdowns were his love language.
“Wha’s been going on in the background, eh? Why’s everyone so …quiet?”
Mrs Tipsy looked up from her romance novel, which was quite hard to read due to the swaying nature of the cart, but she was determined to give it a go as well as write her corrections and suggestions on the edges. “It’s probably sexual tension that’s making all the youngin’s quiet and thoughtful.”
Mr Geezer nodded, “Aye, tha’s probably right, but in our young Stinky’s case, I’s bets it’s a case of a lack of getting his leg over that’s making him all quiet and moody! What shade of blue is they Stinky?”
“Shut up, you rude old git!” was Torren’s only reply.
This resulted in a deep kafuffle from the now happy pensioner. “Well’s that explains ‘im, but what about you Fido, why’s you’se so quiet, ‘n happy, ‘n smiley, ‘n cheerful, ‘n chirpy, ‘n jaunty, ‘n bubbly and constantly wanting to hump me leg?
Zorro laughed loudly and deeply, “Ahhh, my dear friend who is old, you are funny. You bring such joy to my life with your little jokes. You make me laugh.”
Sir Richard, who rode next to the cart and whose horse was quietly pacing itself with Sally. “Well, Mr Geezer, if you ask my opinion, what ho.”
“Haven’t we lost you along the track yet?” Mr Geezer notched his love language up another level. “I’m not ask’n ya so’s, don’t bova, an take me advice get ya leg over, it’ll help ya get that stick outta ya bum!” Mr Geezer sank happily back into his comfort zone.
“Yes, well,” continued Sir Richard, deciding to ignore the rude old man, “I am enjoying Zorro’s current effervescent temperament and say I, with no arrogance or delusion, it may be due simply to my proximity. I have often been told that as soon as I enter any social occasion, I lighten most get-together gatherings.” Sir Richard smiled happily and waited patiently for the silent group to gasp at his wondrous accuracy.
Mr Geezer took a deep and soul-cleansing breath before speaking his mind… or what was left of it. “The mood only gets lighter cause as soon as yous turn up, everyone says ‘oh bugga it’s ‘im’ an leaves the party ‘n goes to the pub, ya silly turnip!”
No one disagreed with Mr Geezer, but a few felt a little bit uncomfortable with the harsh truth.
“Zorro, are you happy?” Torren piped up.
“Yes, my friend, I am most happy.”
“Why are you happy?” Torren felt that since he was the owner of the cart, it was his duty to ensure everyone got on, was safe and happy and didn’t annoy him or damage his property. He also hoped Beatrix was watching and was suitably impressed with his manly maturity.
“Well, Torren, my friend, I will tell you why I am so happy. I am so happy because…”
Zorro stood up, claws and fangs extended like sharpened daggers, then roared a terrible roar that sent chills up everyone’s primordial spine, inducing Torren to yell like a manly 5-year-old child.
“Fido, bad dog. Don do that ya silly bugga, I nearly wet meself!” Mr Geezer was always a little slow at reading social cues.
The werewolf who was now fully embracing his inner self - hair, fangs, yellow eyes, claws and a will to kill, jumped from the cart and onto Sir Richard’s surprised mare. Sir Ricard himself was unceremoniously pushed to the ground as Zorro leapt like a pouncing tiger from the horse’s back and into the dark forest.
“Zorro! Zorro!” Torren handed Sally’s reins to Mrs Tipsy as he jumped from the cart and grabbed the reins of Sir Richard’s skittering mount. “Whoa, girl, whoa. You all right, Richie?”
“Ahh,” Sir Richard lay curled on the wet, muddy ground, “…no! …I think I’m bleeding!”
Torren looked down at Sir Richard, who held a hand to his left shoulder just above his heart, and to where an arrow was protruding.
“Beatrix, BEATRIX! He’s been shot by an arrow.” Torren bellowed, pushing the mare away from his friend, making it clear this wasn’t a practice drill but the real deal, so no one needed to ask, “Is this a practice drill? Is he really hurt? Is that a real arrow?”
Jo and Lucy both yelled at the same time, “Don’t pull it out, leave it there!” Torren pulled his hand back quickly and held Sir Richard’s head up from the ground.
“I don’t feel very well.” A bloody hand was raised, “Torren, if I die, please tell my mother.” Sir Richard grabbed Torren’s hand and held it tightly. “I’m a little bit frightened.”
“Don’t worry. Beatrix will look after you. She’s a witch, and she knows lots about medicine, so don’t worry yourself.” A dark feeling of dread swamped Torren’s soul. The arrow was deep in Sir Richard’s chest, and he was starting to show little bubbles of blood on his lips.
Sir Richard cried as Beatrix inspected his wound.“I don’t want to die. I really, really, really don’t want to die! Torren,” Sir Richard looked away from his wound into his friend’s warm and compassionate brown eyes, “I haven’t told the person I’m in love with that I love them. I’ve been too afraid to do it, and now it’s too late.”
Beatrix mumbled, “It’s okay, you just need to calm yourself. You need to think about the biology of the chest, wounds, and arrows. Just think, it’s going to be okay. What would Mother Harper do?”
Beatrix was in a world of her own, so Torren smiled at Sir Richard and gave comforting words instead.
“It’s alright, Richie, she’s just thinking about what to do so she doesn’t make the problem any bigger. You stay still and try to calm your heart down. Beatrix will sort it out, and then you can tell San… the person you love that you love him.”
Torrens’ words burned in his throat as he watched terror and fear run through Beatrix’s wide blue eyes. He didn’t know what was worse, watching Richy slowly die or Beatrix not being able to save him.
Mrs Tipsy’s head wavered a little bit.
The only person who noticed, for once, knew to keep his mouth shut. This was grim. Mr Geezer was old, and because of that, he’d seen a lot of people die. It didn’t look good, not good at all. To steady his nerves, the old man held Mrs Tispy’s hand, because she was looking very serious and not yelling out, “Oh, it’s alright, he’ll bounce back, I’ve had a peek in the future and everything will be okay.”
Beatrix’s hands began to shiver and shake as she gently cut Sir Richard’s blood-soaked clothing away with her small surgical penknife. After she’d carefully inspected the arrow and wound, she slowly commented. “There’s only a little bit of blood coming out, so I think it’s in your lung.”
The knife had been a gift from Mother Heggerty on her graduation, and now the young witch desperately wanted to be back working next to the old witch, watching her use her own penknife to perform miracles with life and death.
“I think by how nice and how quiet everyone is being, that I’m definitely going to die.” Big fat tears rolled down Sir Richard’s face. “If it weren’t serious, someone would be telling me to shut up by now, what ho!” He coughed up a fine splattering of bubbly blood. “Torren, there’s something I need to whisper to you so you can pass it on after I die. I… even at death’s door, I’m a coward just like my family says, and I don’t seem to have the courage to do it… face to face, like, what ho.”
“No, it’s okay, Richie, it’s okay. Beatrix will do some magic and heal you. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”
Jo and Lucy came and kneeled beside Beatrix; their faces were solemn and serious; both knew from first-hand experience and now, looking at the wound by an educated guess, just how deadly the shot was.
“Jo.” Whispered Lucy, “Do you think your bow is strong enough to get it out?”
The inventor calculated something very physics-based before answering, “Yes, with a slight adjustment.”
Sir Richard’s eyes widened, “Don’t you even think about shooting me with another arrow, this one hurts enough as it is, I’d rather just take my chances and die with one arrow, thank you!”
Jo leaned over and patted Sir Richard’s shoulder, “No, Sir Richard, we tie one end of fine rope to the arrow inside of you and the other end to another arrow which we fire off. The force of the projectile arrow will pull this arrow out of you.”
“Oh, I see, so it’s a quick and painless procedure then?” Sir Richard relaxed a little, not waiting for an answer.
Torren, Lucy and Jo wordlessly disagreed with Sir Richard’s thought, but no one had the heart to tell him otherwise.
Beatrix poked and prodded at the arrow. “No, that won’t work. From the wound shape, it looks like the arrowhead is barbed. I’ll either have to push it through to the other side or take the arrow shaft out and leave the head in until we can get to a hospital and I can talk to Mother Heggertyy. But then I don’t have the medicine to fight off an infection, and it’s going to be very, very painful, and I need a silverbacked mirror.”
“What happened to the magic idea that Torren had, eh? You bibbity boppity booing it magically out of me, eh? No one seems to be discussing that option.” Sir Richard looked around the solemn group, fear growing inside of him like a raging forest fire. “It’s my favourite one, Beatrix? You’re a witch, can’t you just witchy magic it out of me? Beatrix, dear girl, what ho?”
Beatrix swallowed. “There is a spell.”
“Oh, thank the goddesses. I thought you were going to tell me magic didn’t work that way.” Sir Richard smiled gratefully; to him, a winter’s storm had arrived and put out the forest fire. “Well, I’m ready when you are. Torren, be a good squire and hold my hand. I may squeeze it rather hard, and I know because you are just a squire, and because of my manley strength you may scream and cry and beg Beatrix to get my mother, but be a man about it and don’t cry when you see me dealing with any pain in a very manly and knightly fashion.”
Clearing her throat, the young witch continued to clarify, “Yes, but it’s not a spell that’s used very often. In fact, I’d say it’s hardly ever used at all.” Beatrix looked around, hoping someone would say, ‘Oh well, looks like that’s the end of that then.’
Sangre’s coffin lid flew off and landed a few meters ahead of the cart, startling the horse once more. A loud and commanding, “Be still!” echoed around the small clearing, instantly reducing the panicking horses to statue-like beings.
Sangre flew from his coffin with the setting sun only slightly singeing his skin. “I smelt your blood and felt your pain, Sir Richard. It woke me early from my slumber.”
Torren relinquished his position to the vampire who now gently held Sir Richard, looking deeply into the knight’s blue eyes. “You will feel no pain!”
“Bloody hell, the pain’s gone! That’s a fine party trick that is!” Sir Richard smiled broadly. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to die after all, what ho. Beatrix, whenever you’re ready, bibbidy boppity boo away.”
“No, Richard, you don’t understand. It’s a dark magic spell,” Beatrix battled her nerves and the horror of the situation to get out what she needed to say, “which, yes if it goes right, you’ll recover from your wounds… but… if it goes wrong… just ever so slightly wrong, you’ll become one of the living dead.”
Sir Richard looked at the witch’s pale face, “What, like a vampire?”
“No, they’re alive.”
“What, like a werewolf?”
“No, they’re alive.”
“Like a tax collector?”
“No, they’re …well, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure about them. But Richard, you’ll become a zombie who craves brains to sustain your endless tormented life.” Beatrix looked around her friends whilst her eyes rested on Torren. “I don’t think I’m good enough to do it without making a mistake!”
Torren reached out and brushed a dark, stray curl from her forehead, “Then just do what you’re good at. Be a good medical witch. We’ll get the arrow out, and you can then tend to his wounds with herbs and whatever we can find in the forest until we can come across a chemist and ask them to give you what you need. You’re the best chance Richy has, even if you don’t think you are, Beatrix. I have faith in you, and I know you can do it.”
A small youthful voice came from the cart. “There’s another option.” Everyone looked up to Nigel, who, with his sister, had sat up from their coffins.
Mrs Tipsy held her breath. The tipping point had arrived. The world would go one way or another.
“You could become a vampire.”
Sir Richard looked at Sangre as terror and regret rolled across his features.
“I have forsaken blood. I have not touched a drop since I fled from my parents’ home all those years ago. I… I…”
Sir Richard reached up and gently brushed his fingertips lovingly across the vampire’s cool skin. “I don’t mind… In fact, I think it would be rather nice to spend eternity with you, what ho.”
Sangre gasped as a realisation swept through his heart. “My darling Sir Richard, there is nothing more in this world than I want than to spend the rest of our lives together. But, I… I… don’t think I could stop if I tasted blood. I would drain you and kill you, then turn like a wild and desperate vengeful hungry crazed demon on all my friends, ending their lives. I… I…” Sangre burst into heart-rending tears as he held tight the love of his life, who in return softly whispered. “It’s okay, I understand. I’d better tell you that I love you then before I die.”
“Oh, my goodness, you’re all so damn dramatic and old. Nigel, go and bite Richard and be done with it. If you want me to do the fun part and rip the arrow out, I’m more than happy to do so. Where’s Zorro?” Dementa floated down from the carriage with her brother, who was unceremoniously pushed forward into the group.”
“Yes, Dementa, that’s what I was going to suggest. Stop acting like you’re so much older than me, we’re the same age if you’d forgotten!” Nigel straightened his black gothic waistcoat and patted down his bed hair. He didn’t realise his smudged eyeliner made him look like a baby panda, but in the current situation, it seemed somehow quite fitting.
Mrs Tipsy smiled and squeezed Mr Geezer’s hand. After he’d looked at her smile, the old pensioner commented. “Hurry up with it then, my haemorrhoids is acting up, and I needs Beatrix to put some cream on ‘em.”
Beatrix stood up and began crying, “I’m such a useless witch. I’m so sorry. I should know what to do.”
Nigel patted her on the shoulder, “It’s okay, you’re just a girl, don’t worry about it.”
Which immediately and effectively turned Beatrix’s self-pity tap off and turned her ‘you little smart-mouthed, misogynistic, stupid little twirp’ tap on.
“Oh dear… Breathe, Beatrix, just breathe.” Torren reached into his pocket for the notes he’d written from a book he’d read in the Library at Sangre’s parents’ castle. “Remember the breathing exercises I told you about. No turning into a dragon and sizzling the silly boy vampire into a pile of ash. I’m sure at some point he will get a girlfriend and learn not to be such a stupid git.”
“Nah, shut up dung boy, let her do her thing!” laughed Mr Geezer.
“Will you hold my hand whilst your brother turns me?” Asked Sir Richard of Sangre, who quietly replied, “I plan on never letting it go.”
“Aww how lovely, old people and their soppy ways are. Hang on, Nige.” Dementa lent in and ripped the arrow out of Sir Richard’s chest, inducing him to scream in a quite manly manner. Nigel pounced upon the knight’s neck and bit him, sucking in Sir Richard’s warm blood.
Sangre held tight his love’s hand but had to turn his face and think of a nice roasted turnip glazed with ginger and garlic-honey paired with a beetroot pickled relish, in case being so close to the ‘event’ made him give up and cave into his despicable nature.
Nigel then ended the ritual by biting into his own wrist and dripping his blood into Sir Richard’s mouth and wound.
“Oh, my goodness,” commented Sir Richard as he swallowed down the rich ruby liqueur. “That’s just like a lovely 100-year-old port, what ho!”
Nigel stood up, licking his wound as he watched the hole in Sir Richard’s chest mend itself. “Oh, good, it worked. Now for the downside to being a vampire.”
“What the bloody hell, what ho?” squawked Sir Richard. “Nobody said anything to me about there being a downside to being saved. Why didn’t you mention this before you bit me?”
Sangre smiled, “It’s alright, my love, you will simply be filled with longing hunger for the rest of your life and have to work on your 12-step program every day for the rest of your life to ensure you do not turn into a monster.”
“Or you can just eat blood.” Nigel smiled with a ruby red grin.
The dietary restrictions of Sir Richard’s future would have continued unabated if it weren’t for the blood-curdling scream that broke free from Dementa. In a panic, she screamed – “It’s silver, it’s a silver arrowhead.”
Jo stood and bellowed into the dark forest, “ZORRO, IT’S A TRAP!”
P.G. Wodehouse is editing your writing from beyond the grave, what ho?