Don stopped speaking abruptly and Tanya lowered her eyes, unable to meet the fairy’s gaze. She had been so caught up in Don’s tale she had not noticed Turpin had slowed down to allow them to catch up.
‘Oh, nothing much,’ Don said cheerfully. ‘Just how I’m looking forward to not being a blasted toad any more.’ His tongue shot past Tanya’s ear, snaring a midge out of the air. ‘See what I mean? It really is an embarrassment.’
‘Hmm,’ Turpin said, her tone disbelieving.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Tanya, eager to change the subject. Now she knew the truth about the loss of Turpin’s magic, she could understand why the fairy was so reluctant to speak of it. ‘Look, there’s the tree.’
Up ahead, the Wishing Tree sparkled in the sunlight. Its beauty still took Tanya’s breath away. Behind it, the castle paled in comparison, just a grey shape on the horizon.
‘This is where you hid the memory?’ Tanya asked. She gazed around them into the vast area of grass and trees. Between the tree and the castle, there was nothing else. ‘Did you bury it somewhere?’
‘You’ll see when we get there,’ said Don. ‘Keep going.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence, shattered only by a fit of sneezing from Oberon as he disturbed a dandelion clock. The tree was asleep when they approached, or was pretending to be. Tanya caught sight of it peeking out of one eye before quickly snapping it shut.
‘Young lady, fetch me down, would you?’ Don said.
Tanya took the toad out of the rucksack and set him on the ground. He hopped closer to the tree and cleared his throat. The tree opened its eyes and yawned lazily, looking straight past Don and fixing Tanya with a bored look.
‘Back again to be a pest?’ it asked. ‘Or at last with a request?’
‘Um, actually,’ Tanya began, ‘it’s not me who . . .’
‘I really haven’t got all day.’ The tree looked snooty now. ‘Make your wish or go away.’
‘There’s no need to be rude,’ Tanya retorted.
‘Ahem,’ said Don. ‘I have some business to attend to, if you don’t mind.’
The tree blinked, noticing Don for the first time.
‘Wishes are for human folk,’ it said. ‘Not animals who talk and croak.’
‘I am a human,’ Don said haughtily. ‘Or at least I will be again, by tonight.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘Anyway, it’s quite obvious you don’t remember me. I was here one night, several years ago. I made a very particular wish and I’ve now come to collect.’
‘If that’s the case, then you must know a special phrase to prove it’s so,’ the tree answered.
‘Of course,’ said Don. ‘The password is forget-me-not.’
‘How curious. I don’t recall your wish or special phrase at all.’
Don stared at the tree, stricken. ‘B-but . . . that is the phrase. That’s the password! I know it is!’ He shook a fist at the tree. ‘You crook! I trusted you with my wish and you’ve lost it! Do you know what this means? What you’ve cost us?’
‘Temper, temper! Do stay calm,’ said the tree. ‘There’s really no cause for alarm. I see my little joke fell flat; I shouldn’t have attempted that.’
‘Joke?’ Don growled. ‘You mean to say—?’
‘No wish made here has been forgotten – even if it’s really rotten. Each wish that’s made, both great and small, I can immediately recall.’
Don glared at the tree. ‘I really don’t find that amusing. Now kindly give me what I asked for.’
The tree smirked and winked at Tanya. ‘No sense of humour, what a bore. Oh, well, I shan’t joke any more.’ Two of the tree’s branches spread out overhead – a little like arms, Tanya thought – sending coloured ribbons and wish bottles swaying in the air. One of the branches came lower and lower, until it was almost touching Don’s nose. Then a curious thing happened.
A knot in the end of the branch began to untwist and widen, much like the tree’s eyes and twig-toothed mouth. But this was no facial feature. Instead, the knot grew wider and larger until it was in the distinctive shape of a keyhole and about the size of a dinner plate.
‘You wished for this to stay concealed,’ the tree said, solemn now, ‘and only on your word revealed. I kept your secret hidden well, but now it’s time to break the spell. So reach inside the hidey-hole; it’s time to take back what you stole. And, once retrieved, that’s it, my friend. Your one wish is at its end.’
‘Tanya, you’ll have to do it,’ said Don. ‘It’ll be too heavy for me.’ He nodded at the nook in the tree. Tanya stepped closer and knelt down, then plunged her hand into the dark knot within the branch. Her fingers slid over something cool and smooth. Carefully, she lifted it out and, with a rustle, the branch withdrew, leaving her staring at the object in her hand.
It was an hourglass, beautifully crafted into the form of two golden hands. Within the palms sat two gleaming glass globes, joined by a thin flute of glass in the middle. The lower of the two was filled with fine, gold sand. It seemed to warm in her hands, and a faint whispering sound floated up from it, reminding Tanya of the objects in Ratty’s jar.
‘This is it,’ she said. ‘The hidden memory?’
‘Yes,’ said Don. ‘It belonged . . . belongs to Solomon.’
‘All the time it’s been hidden here,’ Tanya said in wonder. ‘Within the tree itself.’
Don’s chest puffed with pride. ‘I needed a hiding place that, even if it were ever discovered, could never be breached by anyone other than me. I’d heard about the Wishing Tree several years before, but had never known whether to believe it was true. After that night, I knew I needed a hiding place and decided to take a chance. And what better way than to use my wish? Like I said before, it was a stroke of genius.’
The tree chortled. ‘Genius? That’s pushing it! Though it was clever, I’ll admit.’
Don ignored it. ‘I knew that as long as the tree remained here, the memory was safe. It was the perfect way to check without being obvious; I only had to see the tree, never the hourglass itself, to know it was safe. The magic of the wish was enough to protect it.’
‘And with the tree being such an important part of Spinney Wicket’s history there was little chance it would ever be cut down,’ Tanya said. She was finding it hard to concentrate now, for the whispering sound was growing louder and more insistent, like it
wanted
to be listened to. She remembered when she had discovered Ratty burying the jar of objects; how the memories had stirred and began whispering at her fingertips.
‘Cut down? No way, I’m a VIP!’ said the tree. ‘A superstar celebrity! I’m Spinney Wicket’s number one. The top, the best, second to none!’
‘All right, we get the picture,’ Don cut in. ‘You’re in no danger of being cut down any time soon.’
‘But there’s always lightning,’ Turpin said wickedly. ‘And gales and hurricanes that blow up and dig out trees by their roots . . .’ She grinned at the tree’s horrified face.
‘Turpin,’ Don said sternly. ‘Stop tormenting it.’
‘Well, it needed taking down a peg or two,’ said Turpin. ‘Turpin has met many trees, but never one so vain as this.’
‘Call me proud or vain or haughty,’ the tree said, ‘at least I’m not a thief who’s naughty.’
Turpin began to protest, but her voice sounded far away. The hourglass in Tanya’s hand felt warmer still, and the whispers grew into fully-fledged voices, some of which she recognised and some she didn’t. An image danced briefly before her eyes: the hourglass in someone else’s hands. A child this time, with familiar blue eyes and black hair.
Ratty
.
Unable to resist, she closed her eyes and succumbed to the memory. It came in flashes, just the way Don had described. In a darkened room, almost like a hollowed-out cave, a thin man with grey hair and thick glasses stood hunched over a huge, black cauldron, chanting frenziedly in words Tanya could not understand. She recognised him immediately as the man who had taken Ratty from the clearing. At the side of the room, Don and Turpin watched tensely, their eyes fixed upon the small boy.
Ratty’s own eyes were glazed, his expression completely blank. In his hands, he held the hourglass. Inside, the globe at the top was full, with the thinnest trickle of sand escaping into the bottom half.
The vision was interrupted by Turpin’s voice in the present, unleashing a string of insults directed at the tree. Tanya caught a few choice words, but the pull of the memory was stronger. This time, when she returned to it, half of the sand had escaped into the bottom of the hourglass and Ratty, still in his trance, was caught between two figures in a savage tug of war. Turpin fought like a feral cat, her teeth bared and her hair wild. Against the pale, melted-wax figure of Morghul, it seemed all was lost. There was a terrible scream as her wing was ripped away, floating to Don’s feet.
‘Turpin!’ he yelled, then turned to Solomon. ‘Make it stop! You
have
to stop it, he’ll kill them both!’
‘No,’ screamed Solomon. ‘I’m so close! The creature is mine!’
Don’s face drained of colour as Solomon’s intentions became clear. He wanted Morghul,
needed
him for the spell he’d spent so long working on.
‘Solomon, I beg of you . . .’ Don whispered.
Stop
, Tanya felt herself pleading.
Please, stop!
But Solomon was not listening. A wild look entered his eyes and he continued to chant. His bespectacled eyes slid over the hourglass. The sand was almost gone.
A blinding flash of light lit the cavern. Solomon was thrown back. He hit the wall with a horrid crack, then lay motionless, his spectacles shattered. Morghul let out a roar, releasing Ratty from his clutches. A gilded cage sprung up around him and he gripped the bars, howling with rage. At the same moment, a golden key appeared on a chain around Ratty’s neck. Turpin clung to him, sobbing and shaking. Glittering, fiery embers ebbed away from her, vanishing into the darkness. Her magic, Tanya realised.
Ratty blinked, as if awaking from a deep sleep. ‘What happened?’ He stared at the hourglass in confusion, then at Solomon. ‘That man . . . he took something from me.’
Don rushed to his side. ‘Yes. You . . . you were sick, remember? The man made you better.’
‘Is he all right?’ Ratty asked. ‘He looks hurt.’
Don did not answer. He cast a glance at the cage, where Morghul’s howls had faded into confused whimpers.
‘What’s in the cage?’ Ratty asked.
‘Nothing,’ Don muttered. ‘It used to be a monster, but it can’t hurt anyone now.’ He drew Ratty into his arms. ‘We have to leave,’ he told Turpin urgently. ‘Before Solomon wakes. And we . . . we have to take Morghul with us. We can’t leave him here, not for Solomon to use.’
‘What will we do with it?’ Turpin said weakly.
‘I don’t know,’ Don muttered. ‘But I’ll think of something.’
‘We’re taking the monster with us?’ Ratty asked. ‘Why?’
‘Because . . . because the man wants to do a spell on him,’ said Don. ‘A bad spell. And we can’t let that happen. But you don’t need to be afraid. The monster won’t be with us for long.’
‘Solomon will come after us,’ Turpin hissed. ‘He will never rest until he finds what he’s looking for!’
‘He’ll have to find us first, though, won’t he?’ said Don. ‘Anyway, what other choice do we have?’
‘What if I make him forget?’ said Ratty.
‘Don’t be silly, Henry,’ Don began.
‘I’m not,’ Ratty said solemnly. ‘I can make people forget things now.’
Don stared. ‘What do you mean?’
Ratty rubbed his eyes with one hand, still clutching the hourglass with the other. ‘I don’t know. I just know that I can.’
Turpin and Don looked at each other.
‘The spell,’ Turpin whispered. ‘When Solomon made him forget, it must have done something . . .’ She gave a slight nod.
‘You think you can make the man forget all about the monster?’ Don placed his hands on Ratty’s shoulders, searching his eyes. ‘It’s very important that he mustn’t remember anything about it at all.’
Ratty nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right then,’ Don said.
Ratty turned the hourglass, releasing the sand. He closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. His lips moved soundlessly. Behind them, Solomon stirred and muttered, but did not wake.
‘Turpin,’ Don whispered. ‘Gather Solomon’s books, notes . . . everything you can find. He must never find out that Morghul is the missing ingredient to his spell. Quickly now, before he wakes.’
Turpin scurried around the room, collecting armfuls of books and scraps of paper.
Don reached out and took the key from around Ratty’s neck. Warily, he approached the cage. Morghul stared through the bars, his expression unreadable.
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this place and never return,’ Don warned. ‘You’ll go somewhere you can’t be found, the fairy realm perhaps.’ He jerked his head towards Solomon. ‘Just be sure of this: if he ever finds you, finds out what you are, you’ll cease to exist. He’ll destroy you. And finally, wherever you go, you don’t come anywhere near Henry ever again. Understand?’
Morghul bowed his head and nodded in defeat.
‘Very well.’ Don unlocked the cage and Morghul lumbered out of it, still sluggish from the effects of the ritual. ‘Turpin, do you have everything? All the notes you can find on the spell?’
‘All that can be found,’ said Turpin, armed with books and papers. She stood over her wing, staring at it sadly. It was torn and trampled on the ground.
Don caught sight of her face. ‘Perhaps we could save it. If we can get some Spidertwine—’
But Turpin shook her head. ‘No. Is done now. Beyond repair.’
Don nodded and moved to Solomon’s side. ‘Now we just need to take care of Solomon to give ourselves a head start.’ He stooped and lifted the sorcerer under the arms. ‘Hold the cage door open for me . . .’
Slowly, and as Solomon began to stir, Don dragged him across the floor and bundled him into the cage, then locked it and pocketed the key.
‘What . . .?’ Solomon’s eyes opened behind his shattered spectacles. ‘What are you doing? Don? Why am I in this cage?’
Don didn’t answer. Instead, he scooped Ratty into his arms. ‘Put that down,’ he said, trying to prise the hourglass from the little boy’s hands, but Ratty held on.