Curse of the Dream Witch (3 page)

The next afternoon, Olivia sat at the marble table in her room, eating jam tarts with her parents. Penelope perched on the princess' shoulder, nibbling crumbs from her hand.

King Augustine had been bathed, shaved, and dressed in his military uniform. He was held upright by sturdy clips that secured his epaulettes to the back of his portable throne. Olivia tried not to notice how his cheeks and chest had shrunk, or how his mouth hung sideways.

Queen Sophia sat beside her husband, feeding him and stroking his right hand. She stroked it all the time, as if her touch might bring it back to life. The sight was hard for Olivia to bear. It drew attention to the hand's stillness, its shrunken muscles, and the thick blue veins that stood out against its pallid skin.

At least her father could still communicate. One tap of his left thumb meant ‘yes'; two, ‘no'. And, as always, his feelings flew through his eyes as quick as songbirds. The sparkle in those eyes helped Olivia to remember his laugh and the tender ‘good nights' when he'd tucked her into bed and looked at her just so.

‘I wish you'd keep that thing in a cage,' the queen said with a nod at Penelope. ‘Especially when we're eating.'

The princess glanced at Penelope. ‘You won't steal Mother's tart, will you?' Penelope sat on her haunches and scratched her ear with a back paw. ‘You see? That means: “Of course not, I'm a lady.”'

‘Hah,' her mother said, ‘I think it means, “I've got fleas.”'

Penelope sniffed and turned her back on the queen. Queen Sophia smiled despite herself. Olivia beamed. Her mother's tolerance of Penelope, especially around food, was a true sign of love.

The queen set aside her plate and tapped her lips with her napkin. ‘About tomorrow . . .  the day before your thirteenth birthday . . . we have a big surprise.'

Olivia put down the end of her tart. Her mother had never mentioned her thirteenth birthday, as if ignoring it could make the witch's curse disappear. Why mention it now?

‘You're going to have a visitor,' her mother continued. ‘Prince Leo of Pretonia. He's about your age; a year or two older, maybe. You'll like him. His father is sending him with his uncle, the Duke of Fettwurst, and a retinue of several hundred.'

‘Are they coming to reinforce the castle?'

Her mother's smile teetered, like a toddler on skates. ‘Don't be silly.'

‘I'm not. The Dream Witch said my talismans would all be gone by my thirteenth birthday. And when they are, she'll have my heart.'

King Augustine's eyes darted between his wife and daughter.

Queen Sophia stiffened. ‘We won't have that kind of talk.'

‘I'm only saying what everyone knows,' Olivia said. ‘It's why I'm locked up. Honestly, Mother, do you think pretending everything's fine will protect me? I'm not a child. Even if I were, I'm not stupid.'

The queen gripped the king's hand as if it were a cane. ‘Prince Leo and his uncle are coming as guests to your celebration. The following day, they'll take you back to Pretonia as a birthday present. A holiday. You'll have fresh air. A chance to see the world beyond this turret.'

Olivia fiddled with her spoon. There was something her mother wasn't telling her. What was it? She was afraid to ask, but the not knowing made the secret worse.

‘Your pysanka will come too, of course,' the queen continued. ‘Each of Prince Leo's soldiers will have a copy, each in its own identical silver casing. Several hundred decoys will
ensure
your safety, so please don't worry.'

‘I won't. I always feel safe when you're around.'

‘We won't be coming,' her mother said gently. ‘Your father's not well enough to travel and I'm needed here to rule the kingdom.'

‘But you have to come.'

‘Olivia. Please. A trip on your own. It's so grown up.'

‘No!'

‘I'm sorry,' the queen said. ‘It's been decided.'

‘Then un-decide it.'

‘After Prince Leo and his uncle have travelled all this way?'

Olivia banged her spoon on the table. ‘There's something you're not telling me. What?'

‘I'm sure I don't know.'

‘You do! Tell me!' But in her heart she already knew. ‘Oh Mother! You plan to marry me to that prince, don't you? You're sending me far away where I'll never see you again.'

‘That's not true.'

‘Why do you always pretend things aren't the way they are?' Olivia roared. ‘Why do you lie to me? To shut me up? To make me feel better? Well I don't feel better and I won't shut up.'

‘Please understand,' the queen pleaded.

‘No!'

‘There's a wizard in the Pretonian court far stronger than any in our kingdom. You'll be out of danger. Free as the wind.'

‘I don't care. I want to be with you and Father. Please! Just the three of us, forever and ever.'

‘It's not possible, my love. Why, even if you stay at home, your father and I won't always be around.'

‘But you have to be. I need you.'

Her mother's voice broke. ‘One day, Olivia, you'll be all grown up and your father and I will be but a memory.'

‘No!'

‘It's the way of the world. In the meantime – now – there are others who can take better care of you than we can. We're giving you the chance of a new life. A real life.'

‘A real life? Trapped in marriage to a stranger?'

‘You don't have to marry. We promise,' the queen insisted. ‘In Pretonia, you can see if you like Prince Leo. If you do, you have our blessing. If not, you can remain as a guest.'

Olivia didn't know where to turn or what to think. She dropped to her knees beside her father, took his left hand, kissed the palm, and pressed it to her cheek. ‘Father, is this what you want, too?'

Her father gazed at her with sorrow. He tapped her cheek gently, once.

Olivia shuddered. ‘But do you promise I won't have to marry?'

One firm tap.

‘Good. And I can come home again?'

Her father paused. Tears welled in his eyes.

At that moment, Penelope hopped from Olivia's shoulder onto the king's hand. She scampered up his arm and nuzzled her nose into his ear. For a second, he was startled. Then his eyes cleared. His mouth twitched.

‘Olivia,' the queen squirmed. ‘Your mouse. It's tickling him.'

‘No,' Olivia said in awe. ‘Father's smiling. I think Penelope's told him something.'

‘What an imagination.' Her mother swooshed the air and Penelope scurried back to Olivia's shoulder.

‘Whisper in
my
ear. Please,' Olivia begged her friend.

But Penelope just blinked as if to say:
Are you crazy? I'm just a little grey field mouse. Aren't I?

Milo roused. What time was it? The room was so dark he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he'd had the most terrible nightmare:

He'd been in the forest and the Dream Witch had caught him and brought him to her cottage. Milo shuddered at the thought of it. The outside door was a mouth. Not something that looked like a mouth, but a
real
mouth. And inside was an earthen stairway that swallowed him into her underground lair. The witch flew him through a fog filled with the howls of evil things, over vast dreamscapes of jungles and castles and lava pits, then into a terrible darkness.

Like this darkness.

Milo rolled onto his side. Strange. He should be feeling his straw mat, the one in his corner near the stove where he must have fallen asleep. Instead, he touched a floor of cold metal that seemed to be cut into sharp triangular slats. Where the slats met, he felt a thick iron pole. He ran his hands up it. Just over his head the pole went through a ceiling.

Milo's heart beat fast. Where was he? What was the last thing he could remember from yesterday? He'd been in the forest. And it was dark. And he'd turned to go home. And . . . and then what?

He tried to remember a return, his parents scolding him, eating supper. He couldn't. All that came next was his dream. His throat went dry.
Please let it not be true. Please let me still be asleep.

Milo became aware of a curious sound: Whimpers from somewhere beyond, from the left and the right, above and below. He took two steps across the metal slats and hit a wall of glass. He groped his way to the right and found himself moving in a circle. He was in a glass cage. A
bottle
. He tried to smash it with his fists but the glass was too thick.

‘Let me out! Let me out!'

At the sound of his cry, the murmuring stopped.

A girl's whisper echoed out of the silence: ‘You're awake.'

Milo pressed his face against the glass and squinted. ‘Who are you? Where am I?'

‘Don't ask,' said a boy. ‘Shh.'

In the distance, Milo heard the creak of a great iron door on rusty hinges. A dull light, thick as plum jelly, filtered through the room. Milo gasped. He was in an enormous cave.
Facing
him, were shelves of children, rising up into the shadows, each child in a glass jar like his own.

‘Asleep, my poppets?' a voice growled in the entranceway.

Milo froze. It was the voice from his nightmare. The voice of the Dream Witch.

‘Don't try and fool me. I know your secrets,' the Dream Witch purred. ‘Some say the walls have ears. Well, mine really
do
.'

The sorceress advanced, growing taller with each step. By the time she reached them, she towered to the top of the cavern. ‘I've come for some spice for my spell of the day.'

The children shook with terror; their jars rattled on the wooden shelves.

The Dream Witch pulled a hankie the size of a bedspread from her sleeve and smoothed it on the ground with fingernails as long as cornstalks. Then she unfurled her nose from around her waist. It rose in the air and tapped the jars on the highest shelf. ‘Hmm. A pinch of this? A pinch of that?' The trunk curled around a jar and brought it in front of the witch's eyes. ‘Hello, my sweet.'

‘Not me. Please,' came the little voice inside.

The sorceress took the jar in her hands and held it over her handkerchief. ‘Don't worry, I won't take much.' She cranked the top as if it were a pepper mill. Tiny shavings fell out onto the cloth below.

‘Ow. Ow.'

‘Hush now,' the Dream Witch laughed. ‘Why do you need toenails? Why toes? It's not as if you're going anywhere.'

She put the bottle back on its shelf, tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve, and leaned towards Milo. Her right eye filled the glass wall in front of him. He felt the heat of its red-coal gaze. ‘Last in, first out,' she smiled.

The Dream Witch lifted his jar from the shelf. In horror, Milo realised that the metal slats he was standing on were grinder blades. He clutched the pole at the centre of his jar and hiked up his feet.

‘It wants to live, does it?' The Dream Witch shook the container and he fell back to the bottom.

Milo froze as the witch sailed him down a stairway of coal into her private spell chamber, a cavernous room that seemed to rise into an inky night. All around was a jungle of clutter. Leather spell books lay scattered in heaps. Hobnailed boots, cloaks, and conical hats were tossed among baskets of herbs, bundles of chicken's feet, and boxes of beaks and rotting animal parts. Goat heads and monkey skulls peered from crevasses in the rock wall. Eyeballs stared out of pickle jars. The walls were worse, lined with terrifying murals of the witch's dreamscapes. Their monsters within prowled the canvases as if eager to leap into the room.

But worst of all was the larger-than-life mosaic of the witch on the far wall. It twitched and wriggled as if alive. In fact, Milo realised, it
was
alive. Snakes and worms, frogs and toads, newts and salamanders, and beetles and bugs of every description had been painted and pinned on a massive board of petrified oak. The creatures struggled to escape. Beetle-warts spun on their pins; moths and butterflies fluttered helplessly.

The Dream Witch rolled her eyes at the mess. ‘Order,' she commanded.

The hobnailed boots instantly lined up in formation, and clicked their heels; the dirty clothes suspended themselves, shoulders hunched, chests in; the goat heads lurched upright, and the musty spell books flew into the air like falcons. The flapping covers choked the air with soot and dust as the books rearranged themselves into stacks around the witch's spell table.

Milo gasped at the table. Carved from a massive oak stump, it was as big as the village square and lit by a candle that flared like a bonfire. The Dream Witch set Milo's grinder down between a vat of blood disguised as an inkwell and a sheaf of parchments stitched together from the wings of dried bats. Then she unscrewed his lid and spilled him onto the table. Gusts of wind swirled about the chamber. Milo shrank against the inkwell as the witch's owl descended to her shoulder.

‘Look, Doomsday,' the witch cooed to the owl. ‘We have a new visitor.'

‘Am I to be its mouse?' Milo trembled.

‘Not yet,' the sorceress grinned.

 Milo shuddered. ‘What do you want from me?'

The Dream Witch plucked a tail feather for a quill. ‘A little help.'