Rampage! (14 page)

‘Help you gain more power again?’ Rose shook her head furiously, feeling her eyes well again with tears. ‘Never!’

‘Never?’ The sorceress sprang to her feet. ‘“Never” belongs to that dream you cherish, you know the one, where you and your father walk down the aeroplane steps at Heathrow together. “Never” is leading him hand-in-hand as your mother runs towards him. “Never” is the chance of ever having him at home and being a family again! Unless you help me and change both your life and his.’

Tears now ran freely down Rose’s face.

‘This is your chance, Rose, if you’re wise enough to take it,’ said Medea. ‘You’ve done so very much already, coming out here, finding him. That’s amazing. Now you can make it all worthwhile.’ She turned and walked across the hut, pausing to turn at the doorway. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it. After all, you’ve been through an awful lot. Today must have been heartbreaking for you.
So, give me your answer in the morning. I’ll be right here waiting for you.’

Oh dear.

You’re probably wondering just how bad a bad day can get?

Well, the glummest humdingers of doozy-days stretch right through the sunshine and way into the night, which was why several hours later, Rose was hunched at the hut table, in the light of the flickering gourd, with questions still bouncing around her head like lottery balls: how could she listen to Medea? What was the matter with her father? What if he really had forgotten her? How could she get him to the doctors he needed? What was the source of magic that Medea needed, out here in the jungle? Could she actually become Medea’s partner?

Medea’s partner?

Even the words went together like slugs and custard.

Worse, what, exactly, did the sorceress want in return? What
talents
, as Medea put it, could she – ordinary, boring old Rose from London – possibly have that would make her so perfect as a sorceress?

What’s that?

You’ve been pondering that, too?

Well, maybe you do have a point as it’s not the sort of job opportunity you normally see advertised in the newspaper, tucked between vacancies for dinner ladies and postmen, is it? But if it were, it’d probably read something like this:

Which made Rose an ideal choice.

Unfortunately.

Yet, out of all the questions jostling to be heard in her mind, there was only one that she absolutely had the answer to: who could she ask about this?

Answer: nobody.

Hazel, even if she were here, would already have fled squealing from the hut. Her mother would be far too busy telling her that sorceresses didn’t exist in the first place to ever advise on dealing with the offers they made.

And her father?

If
he was well, she realised, her heart lurching, then he’d insist that she leave right now and run as far away from Medea as she could, because she absolutely couldn’t
be trusted, no matter what she said or promised. Except that as Rose now realised, if
she
were the one sitting out there under the tree, he’d do anything to help her. It was so much easier being a parent, she decided. You could run into a burning house, dive into a stormy sea, clamber down a cliff face on a piece of fraying rope – in fact, do any mad thing to protect your child and people would still think it was totally normal.

It was different for kids.

In desperation, she rummaged through her rucksack, found a pad and pencil and, turning to a blank page, drew a line down the middle.

A few minutes later, she stared at what she had written:

What an odd little saying if ever there was one. I mean, really, what would they change them for? Tartan? Green stripes? A flouncy pink number with a matching net hat? But of course, as we all know, what Rose actually
meant was that evil, real evil, never changes and it runs through the veins of murderous sorceresses like the Amazon pours out into the Atlantic Ocean. Meaning that whatever the sorceress wanted her help for, it wasn’t going to be good.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced towards the window. Daylight was tingeing the air beneath the trees a thick, musty green. Sighing, Rose screwed up the paper and tossed it on to the floor, imagining how Aries, if he were here would stamp on it furiously and snort gigantic wet raspberries so deafeningly that parrots for miles around would spin beak-first from their branches to land in feathery heaps on the ground.

To even think, imagine, joke that she would help Medea, whatever the reason.

And Alex?

He’d pale with horror and tell her – no, he’d beg her – to realise that she absolutely, without a doubt, mustn’t do anything, ever, ever, that Medea asked, no matter what wonderful thing she promised, because there would always be a terrible price to pay.

All of which made Rose glad for the first time since leaving London that they weren’t with her.

Because they were absolutely right.

Agreeing to become Medea’s partner was like diving into a swimming pool filled with sharks. It was ridiculously dangerous. Worse, it was stupid, irresponsible and vile. Why, if she sat here all week, she realised, she couldn’t imagine anything more downright brainless to agree to.
But then, Alex and Aries weren’t the ones whose father had vanished in the jungle months ago, a father who even though he was sitting beneath a tree a few metres away was still as lost as ever, a father who had no idea that his own child was so close.

She walked over to the window and looked through the mosquito net, standing for a moment to gaze at the sun rising beyond the far bank of trees. A couple of giggling children ran past her, through the doorway and out, eager to play in the morning cool. Turning, she followed them and strode out beyond the circle of huts towards the creek, aware that the morning chorus of whoops and shrills and shrieks was the only thing that still felt normal around her. A few minutes later, shielded by a screen of ferns, she watched her father mutter and rock beneath the tree, and felt her breath tight in her lungs as he drew strange patterns in the air with his hands, and understood that her choice was no choice at all.

XVI

T
HE
S
ORCERESS'S
A
PPRENTICE

‘Ooh, don't do it!'

‘Come back here!'

‘Right now, Mrs!'

How I wish I could have dragged a stepladder into Tatu Village that morning, and climbed up it next to Rose as she stood watching her father drowse beneath the tree and offer just such sagely words of wisdom. A bright ‘Hellooo there!' through a handy megaphone, followed by a cheery ‘Have you forgotten something? The fact that Medea's a low-down, lying, cheating, no-good, ice-blooded, vicious sorceress, for example?'

Not that it would have made a jot of difference, I'm afraid, because when your mind is beguiled by the promise of something you so desperately want, it's a lot easier to ignore all those troublesome little things like reality and consequences. And really, can you think of anything more beguiling to Rose than the promise of rescuing her father? Of bringing him home as the same cheerful man who'd left London all those many months ago? I can't. And certainly not me hanging off a ladder
twittering into her ear-hole, that's for sure. Not now she'd steeled herself to agree to Medea's offer lock, stock and broomstick.

And yes, of course I'm shocked, too.

I mean, we all know that until today,
sensible
ran through Rose's nature like the letters down a stick of Blackpool rock, clear and unfailing, from the tips of her trainers to the neat black barrettes in her hair that stopped it flopping into her eyes when she was trying to think.

Now, turning away from her father, the
old
Rose, the Rose who'd walked into the village with Eduardo only the day before, would have been fascinated to see the line of tribesmen, their bodies striped with red plant dyes, stalking through the long grass towards the trees; or the chief's wife sitting cross-legged beneath the roof of the
molucca
, brushing a leopardskin pelt; or the sloth hanging upside-down from a nearby fig tree mumbling in his sleep.

But she didn't notice any of that.

Because all of her attention was focused on Medea, who was now leaning against the wall of the nearest hut, her arms folded against her chest, waiting to hear Rose's decision.

Feeling a cold drench of sweat, Rose began walking towards her.

And since I really don't think you need me to tell you how thrilled Medea was to hear the decision that Rose had unwillingly made, or the way that apprehension
made Rose's words tumble out in little more than a jumbled whisper, I won't.

Thank you very much.

‘Sorcery,' said Medea, leading Rose into her hut and closing the door firmly behind them, ‘is all about changing life to suit you better. Like places!'

She snapped her fingers and broke the obscurity spell inside the hut. Instantly, plumes of silver stars exploded from the floor, rising like glittering fountains about Rose, as though from lines of invisible Roman-candle fireworks, spinning and twinkling through the warm air around them. Despite her fear, Rose stared in amazement as their sparkle faded to reveal that the wall beside her, the one that only seconds before had been hung with pans, now groaned with loaded shelves. Clay pots jostled against jars brimming with greenish scales and polished stones and bones and lumps of moss that almost looked as though they were breathing. A sheaf of russet feathers bristled beside a small bundle of creamy ones whose silky fronds curled over a box of splintered wood; glass domes enclosed prickly plants and lone branches that bloomed with black flowers. At the end of the middle shelf, an oversized iron key lay on top of a sloughed-off snakeskin and, spotting it, Rose frowned, surprised by its cheerful parrot charm that looked strangely out of place.

‘And things,' added Medea, stooping down to playfully tickle the chin of a rather grumpy-looking stuffed
toad, squatting at the end of the lowest shelf and dismally acting as a bookend to several ancient and battered books.

Rose gasped as its crackled grey skin began to glisten. Turning from grey to brownish-green, it flicked open mustard-coloured eyes and tilted its rocky head to regard the sorceress as she stroked its brow. Then it croaked once before hunching down and becoming lifeless again.

Peering at the dead creature, Rose blinked, hardly able to believe what she'd just seen. Then, reminding herself why she was here, she turned back to the sorceress and looked into her silvery-grey eyes.

‘And people, too?'

Medea nodded.

Beyond her, Rose caught a glint of metal and noticed a deep, brass bowl that she was pretty certain hadn't been there either when she'd walked in. Balanced on a makeshift brick stand above a stack of glowing coals, it puffed up clouds of grubby grey smoke. Intrigued, Rose noticed its engravings of what appeared to be Ancient Greek soldiers and a tired-looking peacock feather drooping against the nearby wall.

‘What's that?' said Rose.

Feeling slightly bolder, she began walking towards it. Whatever it was smelled dreadful, like bad eggs and cabbage mixed together, and it made her already nervous stomach roil sickly. She wondered just what the sorceress might be boiling up but before she could reach it Medea snapped her fingers again and the smoke vanished.

‘Nothing to interest you,' she said.

Which was a great big porky, because if Rose had been quick enough to snatch a glimpse over the rim, she'd have been
extremely
interested to see Alex, Aries and a dazzlingly handsome – if horribly bitten – young man boarding a silver float-plane whilst Hazel, in big pink sunglasses, waved them off. Spotting them would also have made this book much shorter and jollier and by now we'd all be settling down to a splendid cup of tea and a Custard Cream. Except that unfortunately Rose didn't see or suspect a thing and, frankly, we're all still stuck in the middle of a horrible predicament.

Instead she was left to stare as the coals instantly darkened and turned cold and the smoke sucked back into the pot. Faintly frustrated, Rose turned back to inspect the shelves more closely. Every pot, jar and box was labelled with a scrap of parchment, written on in turquoise-blue ink, but the words themselves were little more than jumbles of capital letters, triangles and circles with lines through their middles. Rose guessed they must be in Ancient Greek and she was just about to turn around and ask Medea what they all meant when she felt the sorceress's cool hands on the top of her head.

‘First things first!' said the sorceress briskly, sliding her hands down to cup Rose's ears for a few seconds before laying her hands over the girl's eyes. Rose heard her heart thumping in her ears as the sorceress began to chant.

Rose hardly dared breathe as Medea lifted her hands from her eyes and watched the sorceress begin to turn, her head thrown back, her arms stretched towards the roof, as she repeated the spell. Around them, the air seethed with low muttering, like the voices of mean-spirited people sharing a spiteful joke. Time seemed to teeter as the sorceress continued to spin, the whispers whirling about them both. Then, just as quickly, the murmuring vanished and the hut filled with the shriek and chatter of the jungle outside again. Medea stopped turning and, meeting Rose's eyes, nodded towards the shelves. Snatching her breath, Rose turned to look at them too.

And gaped.

Now the strange symbols on each label began swimming together, the circles and triangles darting in and out of one another, swift as blue fishes, changing into English letters and twisting into streams of words that Rose could read. The box of shattered wood was marked ‘Wooden Horse of Troy – Use: Nasty Surprises'. The jar of green-tinged scales, ‘Scylla Skin – Use: Sinking Ships'. The rust-coloured feathers were from Zeus' eagle, ‘Use: Winning Battles', and the pearly ones were from Aphrodite's doves.

‘Aphrodite,' murmured Rose, spotting the word
‘romance' scrawled on the feathers' tag. ‘Wasn't she the goddess of love?'

‘Goddess of annoyance, more like,' muttered Medea sourly.

Rose glanced over her shoulder at the sorceress, who had walked over to the window and was studying a giant, blue-winged butterfly strutting over the sun-warmed sill. ‘Flouncy little madam with a brain like a Jelly Tot, if you ask me,' she continued, leaning closer to the creature and reaching for the tall glass dome from the table behind her. ‘Did a lot of damage with her romantic meddling! But then, goddesses are all the same, tripping around Olympus in their fancy sandals and cooing over the flying ponies daddy bought them. Far too important to talk to people like me and Aunt Circe.'

Rose winced, biting back a twinge of recognition at the sorceress's words. The way Medea talked about the Greek goddesses reminded her of some of the girls at her latest school, the ones with the most fashionable clothes, the glossiest hair, the trendiest boots, the ones who only ever glanced coolly in her direction but never actually spoke to her, boring old Rose from Camden with her too-curly hair and her too-flat shoes. She forced the thought away. After all, she absolutely didn't want to have anything in common with Medea or be like her. She just needed her help to cure her father.

She watched as Medea deftly brought the glass dome down around the butterfly and slid a wooden base beneath it. Sensing danger, the creature flapped up inside,
beating its wings against the walls of its glass prison. ‘Something small for your first spell,' said Medea lightly and set the bell jar down on the table. Rose swallowed, as the giant butterfly twisted and fluttered. The sight of it, fragile and panicked, so easily trapped by the sorceress, made her feel oddly uncomfortable and she turned away to see Medea wrestle down a big black book from the shelves. Mottled with age, its cover was decorated with a faded picture of a full moon over water, making it look like something out of a fairy tale, and Rose was surprised to feel excitement, as well as a cold rush of apprehension, as Medea laid it down on the table.

‘We'll start with a basic reversal spell,' she said, lifting the book's creaking cover to turn its gold-edged pages.

‘Reversal spell?' said Rose.

Medea looked up. ‘It's quite a simple potion really, but that makes it ideal for a trainee witch. Besides, it's the sort of magic you'll eventually use on your father. Think of it as a magical reset button.'

Rose frowned. The only reset button she'd ever used was the one on the microwave, the one she used to change from defrosting her ready-meals to cooking them on the nights when her mum was late home from the museum.

Medea smoothed the yellowed page beneath her hand. ‘Think about it, Rose. When your father left England there was nothing wrong with his mind, was there?'

Rose shook her head, thinking. ‘So the Reversal Potion will turn him back to the way he was before he came out here?'

‘Exactly,' said the sorceress, smiling. ‘I knew you'd be a quick learner.' She ran her finger down the page, reading quickly. ‘Now, according to this, we need twelve petals of Helios violets, plucked on the second day they opened, crushed with the sand from a stranger's footprint made under a new moon. Add half a goblet of Kolkis seawater taken at high tide on a New Year's Eve and heat with the tips of two phoenix feathers.'

‘It sounds more like a recipe for cooking,' said Rose, thinking out loud.

Medea looked at her curiously. ‘I suppose it does,' she shrugged. ‘So, why don't you find the ingredients?'

Rose turned back to the shelves and noticed a tall jar on the middle shelf, brimming with long, scarlet feathers, their tips curly and soot-speckled. Quickly checking the jar's label (‘Phoenix Feathers – Use: Fresh Starts')
36
she plucked out two and laid them on the table. The flagon of Kolkis Tidewater (‘Use: Washing Away the Recent Past') stood on the lowest shelf, next to a pewter goblet, and beside it a tub filled with several scoops of beach and twinkling with pink seashells was labelled ‘Trodden Sand – Use: Rewriting History'. She quickly set them all down on the table beside the feathers and, rising up on her tiptoes, spotted a small posy of violets, tied with string. These weren't labelled but, in case you're wondering, violets are famous for the way their heady scent vanishes one
minute only to return nose-zappingly stronger the next, which might, I suppose, make them ideal for reversal potions. Although obviously I am not a witchy-type person, so I could be completely wrong and it might simply be that they tint the potion a charming shade of purple.

Laying them beside the other ingredients, Rose looked up at Medea, who pushed the big, black book towards her.

‘Read the spell,' she said.

Rose watched as the ancient text swirled into English before her eyes. Then, quickly following the first step of the spell's instructions, she peeled the papery violet petals apart and counted them one by one into a small bowl. Next she added the tidewater, sprinkled in the sand and began to grind them together with a stone pestle. Close by, the butterfly continued to thump against the glass, its wings a blur of blue inside of the jar. She glanced up at it and felt her heart tighten. She was going to use that in a spell – actually, she told herself importantly, going to
reverse
it.