The Case of the Spellbound Child Read online

  But she also couldn’t shake him awake. No matter how hard she tried, he remained locked in a sleep so deep nothing got him out of it.

  She peered around, and tried the next child—Rose. The girl was in exactly the same state as Ellie’s brother.

  They’re just asleep, she reminded herself. It said they’ll wake up. She had to believe the Dark One. What else could she do?

  She swept up, changed the buckets, and since the others were still sleeping, took the dipper to the sink to wash it, because the last time she’d had a drink herself, it was getting slimy. The Dark One was having pease porridge, the last in the pot. It called her over to the table and thrust the pot at her. “Clean thet,” it ordered. “’Ee kin hev scrapin’s. Et it all. No wastin’!”

  She had absolutely no appetite, and she was pretty sure the Dark One was well aware of that. But to refuse would only get her in trouble. So she sat on the floor with a spoon and carefully scraped the sides and bottom and shoved each overcooked, half-burned spoonful into her mouth, swallowing it. The porridge she had so longed for only yesterday was dry and scorched, and it nearly choked her to swallow it. But even if it hadn’t been rendered almost inedible, it still would have choked her.

  The Dark One lounged in its chair and watched her every moment, now and then encouraging her to scrape the pot harder. “Nae wastin’ a morsel, or ’ee may be sorry,” it said ominously, and laughed.

  Finally she showed it the pot scraped down to bare metal, her mouth tasting like ashes. “There now, that’s a-reet,” it said. “Less work cleanin’ pot. Get sand an’ scrub it.”

  Fortunately she knew what it meant, since Mother had taught her to scrub pots the same way. There was a cracked and otherwise useless pot of silver sand on the floor by the table with the sink. She got a handful, and a little water, and scoured the pot with sand, a rag, and nothing else. When the bottom was perfectly smooth—and her fingers felt sanded—she rinsed it and was about to put it aside when the Dark One snatched it out of her hands and felt inside. “Tha’ll do,” it said grudgingly, and filled it with dried peas from a sack in the pantry, then water, and put it on the hearth.

  But Ellie wasn’t watching the Dark One. She was watching the fustian sack of peas. He’d taken out almost a quarter . . . and as she watched, she shuddered with fear, for she could see the sack moving as it refilled!

  The Dark One didn’t seem to pay any attention to what she was looking at, nor her reaction. Instead, it got a loaf, cut it in half, and smeared both halves thickly with mustard before reaching up to the rafters and cutting two slices of ham from the ham hanging there and laying them on the bread. Ellie watched the ham sharply—but the ham did not miraculously become whole again.

  The Dark One sat down and cocked its head in the direction of the prison room. “Feed ’em. ’Em be stirrin’.”

  She seized the basket of morning bread and ran in. The Dark One was right. The others were moving, some more than others. She knew now that each of them was to get two loaves, and if there were extras, who Robbie would give them to. “One t’ Sam, first,” he always said. “Sam keps un from sickenin’.” How Sam did that, she had no idea, but Sam had magically made her chopped-off finger heal like a miracle, so she was willing to believe Sam could keep any sickness away, too.

  The others were just about able to sit up and accept their food; she brought the water around to them and made sure they each had a dipper-full, and had just finished when the Dark One called her back into the room.

  “Leave ’em be,” it ordered. “Get ovens warm.”

  This cot had ovens like she had never seen before. In the oven in the fireplace at home, you started a fire in the oven itself, let it get hot, raked out the ashes, then put the bread and the stop in. When the bread was done, you put in a cake or a pie, which would need less heat and more time to bake. When that was done, you’d put in beans or taties or meat if you had it, which would cook slowly using the last of the heat.

  Both these ovens, one on either side of the fireplace, had additional fires under them, so you could keep the ovens as hot as you liked for as long as you liked. That meant she could get three bread bakings done—or, really, as many as she wanted. But it meant that she had to lug a lot of firewood, enough to keep the fires going all that time.

  And . . . now that she was noticing these things, she saw that the pile of firewood never seemed to get any smaller.

  There certainly was a pattern here. It looked to Ellie as if the Dark One was using magic to replenish things that wouldn’t trigger someone into looking for a thief—firewood, grain, flour, peas. Wasn’t that how witches were said to steal things, whisking them away, little by little, so folks would just think they were mis-measuring, or that mice or insects were eating them, or there were other natural explanations? But something that would be missed—a whole ham or a side of bacon—those must come some other way.

  Did it trade with someone to get these things, or buy them? She couldn’t imagine the Dark One strolling into a village and popping into the butcher for a ham!

  But there were folk who were said to deal with witches. Travelers, for one; most people said Travelers were witches themselves, or half witches, and everyone knew that Travelers would steal anything that wasn’t watched, and trade it back to you to boot.

  Maybe that was it. The creature was trading with Travelers for the things it couldn’t steal. Or maybe it had killed a pig in the fall, and the hams and bacon were all that was left. She could imagine it creeping up to a cottage by night, and letting the pigs out, luring one back here, and killing it. The cottager would never know what had happened, and would just lament his bad luck in not checking over the sty before he went to bed.

  As she built up the two fires under the two ovens and thought these things over, a curious thing happened. Her mind stopped scurrying around like a terrified mouse, and she found herself able to think. And she realized that, as frightening as this witchery was, and as terrifying as the Dark One could be . . . it had limits.

  It had to eat. It had to sleep. It was clearly using magic that it stole from its captives to make its life more comfortable, but “more comfortable” wasn’t a palace, it meant using magic to steal food so it didn’t have to work to buy it, using magic to steal firewood so it wouldn’t have to cut it, and to hold someone—her—in thrall so it didn’t have to do the work around the cottage. That didn’t mean that it could steal everything it needed. That didn’t mean it could do all the chores magically, or have some sort of magic servant to do them.

  So . . . it wasn’t all-powerful. Maybe it could be beaten.

  Without being prompted, she made the first batch of bread dough and set it aside for its first rise, then went out to the garden to collect vegetables for the other children.

  That was when she found the two dead hares, strangled in the nooses the thing had set out in the garden. She felt a pang as she touched the soft fur. They were both still warm.

  She stopped what she was doing, and went back in empty-handed. “There’s conies,” she said timidly from the door, before it could hiss at her.

  “Good,” it said, and went to the kitchen and selected a knife. “Tha’ll learnet t’butcher.”

  She was given no chance to object. The thing seized her by her left wrist and dragged her out into the garden again. “Show ’un!” it ordered, and so she showed the thing where they were among the beanpoles. It showed her how to get the noose off and reset the noose in the natural path the rabbit or hare would take, so that it would put its head through without thinking, then feel the noose close around its neck, panic, try to run, and pull the noose tight. It made her set the second noose after it had demonstrated with the first.

  Then it showed her how to strip the skin from the hare in one pull, how to slit the skin up the belly, and where to stretch it out to dry it. How to clean the hare, and save the good bits of offal and discard the gut
s. That wasn’t as bad as it could have been, though she didn’t like it at all. It sent her to wash up at the pump while it took the carcasses and liver and lights and kidneys and all the good things inside.

  But when she had come back in with the basket of veg, the hares were stewing in the biggest pot with onions and carrots and peas and beans, and he sent her back out again, this time with a smaller basket, and a curt order to fill it full of gooseberries, blackberries, and currants.

  “Naow feed ’em,” it said when she returned. “Wi’ fruit, too.” So she brought it all in at once, bread, veg, and berries, and Simon showed her how they’d all eat the center out of one of the loaves, fill the hollow place with berries, and bruise them a little, so the juices mingled and soaked into the bread. Gooseberries could be mouth-puckering tart, but mixed with the currants and blackberries, they were fine.

  “Dark One allus gi’s un sweetie arter Dark Sleep,” Robbie explained slowly, sounding as if he’d been chopping wood until he was exhausted. They were all that drained, even Simon, who barely spoke to Ellie and ate his food slowly and mechanically. Sam was in the best shape—Ellie wasn’t sure why.

  Rose was in the worst. She could scarcely keep her eyes open, and Robbie moved over to her mattress to keep prodding her to eat. When she’d finished, long after the rest were done, she drank water and laid back down to sleep again, under Robbie’s worried gaze.

  But he wouldn’t tell Ellie what had him so concerned when she asked, just told her she needed to get back to her work before the Dark One got angry.

  Today was different, though, she sensed it. The Dark One seemed restless, and kept looking out the window impatiently. It started the eggs boiling early, and set the stewing rabbit to cook as slowly as possible. The moment she took out the last of the three batches of bread, it got to its feet.

  “’Ee knows what t’do,” it said. “Do’t an’ don’ shirk.” And without waiting for her response, it pulled a couple of leather bags connected by a strap down off the wall, and stalked out the door, closing the door tightly behind it.

  She couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d wanted to—she rushed to the window in time to see it standing outside the gate, its hands raised to shoulder height—and it was glowing.

  She rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there, but sure enough, when she looked again, the Dark One was surrounded by a sullen, gray-gold glow. It was enough to freeze her where she stood. This was magic, real, and in front of her! And it was every bit as terrifying as she could imagine.

  It stood there for some time—long enough to have baked a round of bread at least—until at last, a chestnut moor pony with a black mane and tail came toward it, picking its way out of the trees of the combe.

  The poor thing’s shaggy coat was dark with sweat, its eyes rolled nervously, and every step it took seemed against its will.

  Oh . . . the Dark One’s caught it with magic! This was a confirmation of how she’d thought it might have lured a pig to the cot. Her heart surged with sympathy for the poor beast, and she thought she knew exactly how it felt.

  When it finally reached the Dark One, the creature flung the bags over the pony’s shoulders, put a rough sort of bitless bridle on it, and threw itself onto the pony’s back. They poor pony didn’t even try to buck. With stiff legs moving in a trot, it headed down the path she and Simon had taken to get here. Before long they were both gone into the trees.

  Somehow she managed to do the rest of the chores, but when she came to feed the others and told Robbie what had just happened, his eyes went wide.

  “So tha’s whut it do!” the boy exclaimed. “It made nary soun’ arter a Dark Sleep, an’ we ne’er knowed why!”

  “Liz didn’ tell ’un?” she asked.

  He shook his head. She bit her lip, trying to think of something she could offer that might give him—and the others—a little comfort. “It bain’t ’ere naow, un c’n do as we like. Do ’ee wanter wash-ep?” she asked, finally.

  His eyes lit up.

  There was plenty of heat in the fire, and no fear of going short of wood. So she heated up a pail of water, dragged in the tin tub, and brought in some rags and soap, and everyone that wanted to got a turn at washing themselves. After so long in captivity, they had no more shame than a bunch of apes, stripping themselves naked. Then each of them took turns scrubbing down. The floor in here was not waterproof, but at least it didn’t turn to mud as she brought in more pails of warm water. When they were all clean, the ones that felt up to it lent her a hand, giving their clothing a quick wash. Then they spread the clothing and clean “blankets” out on the mattresses as she emptied the tub out as best she could with the pail, then dragged it out and dumped the rest of it. Then they relaxed, sitting there naked until their clothing was dry enough to put back on. Not everyone did this—Rose was back asleep again—but most of them seemed happier for being clean. It was the first time Ellie had seen Robbie’s features under all the tear-streaked dirt. It wasn’t a revelation. He actually didn’t look much different from the boys at Sheepstor, the nearest village to their cottage. Brown, untidy longish hair, round face, round eyes, pug nose. He didn’t look anything like her or Simon, who took after their mother, with her raven-black hair and angular face. And the rest of the children were a lot like him, true Dartmoor children.

  All this had made extra work for her, but she didn’t care, because it made the rest of them so happy to be clean again.

  Well, it made her happy to feel clean again too.

  “’Ow long’ll tha crature be gone?” she asked.

  Robbie shook his head. “Dunno,” he replied. “Door was allus tine.”

  “Best figger any time, then,” she said wisely, and although she was ready to drop, she made sure to put everything to rights before going to bed. She’d have liked to have stayed up to see exactly when it returned, but . . . that was not even remotely possible, as tired as she was.

  And so the first she knew of the Dark One’s return was when it toed her awake the next morning.

  The savory smell of stewed rabbit permeated even back here, wafting in through the open door. She scrambled to her feet as ever, and staggered into the outer room to seize the basket of bread.

  But the thing stopped her. “Bide,” it ordered, and took out one of the loaves, cutting it in half and hollowing it out a bit and putting one half in each of her hands. Then it dipped out some broth and a bit of rabbit meat and stewed veg and ladled the stuff into each half. “Git,” it said curtly, nodding at the prison room.

  By this time the others were awake, and when she handed Robbie his bread and meat, his eyes widened with excitement, and he went at it regardless of burned fingers. So did they all, and even Rose roused up enough to eat without prodding. Ellie brought them all a second helping, then the rest of the loaves, then at last she got to sit down and enjoy her first taste of meat in a very long time. The Dark One got the lion’s share, of course. Mostly what they got was broth soaked into the bread, small bones stewed until they were soft, a bit of veg, and what meat came off the bones, and chopped up bits of liver, kidney, lungs, or heart. But it tasted so good she almost cried, and she crunched up her tiny rib bones with a rare spark of pleasure.

  Then it was the usual sort of day, except she had to scrub the stew-pot, which scarcely needed scrubbing since the Dark One had mopped up every bit of broth left with his own bread.

  The usual sort of day—except the Dark One went out again.

  He left at the same time as he had yesterday, and by the same means. She stood at the window and watched him go, this time on a mottled brown and white pony that acted the same as the chestnut had.

  The palpable atmosphere of relief that came over the room when she reported the creature was gone seemed to make them all relax as much as a lot of prisoners ever could relax. Robbie in particular seemed as if he was ready to have qu
estions asked of him.

  In fact, when Ellie sat down at the foot of his bed with her bread and egg, he cautioned her. “Don’ reck on meat agin,” he told her solemnly. “Us’n on’y gets un arter Dark Sleep an’ if Dark One catches conies. It don’ gi’ us’n no pig nor mutton.”

  “Why?” she asked simply.

  “Brung un’ strenth up. An’ coney don’ keep.”

  She nodded wisely, because of course it didn’t. The meat went to tasteless nothing if it was stewed too long, and while you could smoke rabbit to make it keep longer, unless you had a lot of them to smoke at once, it was a great deal of work for little reward.

  Not like smoking a pig, for instance.

  And there was potted rabbit, but you had to know how to make it. The Dark One didn’t strike her as the kind of creature that knew anything about preserving outside of smoking and brining, if that. Not that Ellie knew how, but she did know how much work Mother had gone through to make potted rabbit the one year Papa had been invited to the warren clear-out.

  “Wut’s Dark Sleep like?” she asked.

  Robbie shuddered. “Ain’t like sleep. Tis like—’ee be lyin’ a bier, but ’ee knows ’ee be lyin’ a bier. Cain’t move, cain’t see, cain’t ’ear, but ’ee feel. An’ ’ee feels, like blood drainin’ oot, ’cept t’ain’t blood, ’tis somethin’ else ’ee needs like blood. ’Ee gets tireder an’ tireder an’ then ’ee wakes oop, still a-weary.”

  “Tha’s t’ crathure stealin’ our witchery,” Ben said wearily, as some of the others who had been listening shivered at Robbie’s explanation and nodded in agreement. “’S part uv us’n. If’t take too much or too fast, ’ee don’ wake oop.”

  She gulped. “Tha’ ’appen?” she whispered.

  The others nodded.

  “An what’d t’ Dark One do?” She really didn’t want to know the answer, but felt she needed to hear it. She had to know what she was protecting her brother against.

  “Dunno,” Ben admitted, after a very long pause. “Dark One picks ’em oop, takes ’em oot, us’n niver see ’em no more.”