Freax and Rejex. Robin Jarvis

Lucius Pandemian was the last to hear Deathknelly’s strident voice,” Haxxentrot told her. “Just as the final image is retained in the eyes after death, so the din of the great bell was locked inside his ears.”

      She waggled the tambourine experimentally and looked very pleased with herself. “To thee and me, ’tis but a harmless jingle,” she said. “But shake this timbrel when the Jockey comes a-leching and the thunderous voice of Deathknelly shalt awake and resound in his head, for it is bonded to him by blood. One shake will send him reeling and yowling from thy presence. Another will cause his own ears to gush as freely as the fountains in the Queen of Hearts’ garden. One more and his oafish head will crack like a hen’s egg and the yoke of his brains shalt bubble forth. So, child, is this not a most marvellous recompense for pie and cheese? What say thou? Art thou not most adequately repaid for thy kindness to Granny Oakwright?”

      Columbine received the instrument in amazement. She was too stunned to know what to say.

      Haxxentrot nodded with pride and rubbed her bony hands together.

      “You have saved me,” the girl cried at last. “He will never get close enough to touch me again!”

      She was so delighted she capered around, smacking the tambourine against her hips and over her head.

      “Be certain to keep the timbrel with thee always,” the witch cautioned. “Do not let it stray out of arm’s reach or thou shalt suffer the consequences.”

      Columbine swore she would carry it with her wherever she went.

      “Let me help you on with your pack,” the girl offered.

      Haxxentrot refused. “No more kindnesses!” she said. “Or I shalt be obliged to thee for another gift, ye greedy girl. Dost thou truly…”

      Her voice trailed off. She was staring into the far corner, where the salt had leaked freely over the floor.

      “Mistress Slab will be in such a rage!” Columbine cried when she saw the mess. “Its value is great! I must sweep it into another sack and hope she…”

      The witch grabbed at her arm. “Hold, child!” she snapped. “Canst thou not see? What marks are those?”

      Then Columbine noticed the shapes sunken into the spilt salt.

      “They are footprints,” she murmured in astonishment.

      “Just so,” Haxxentrot said. “Yet neither of us hath ventured thither this whole while.”

      The girl turned a frightened face to her. “Then what made them?” she asked.

      “’Twould seem the mouse I heard was no mouse. There is an eavesdropper here. A trespasser who veils himself from our eyes.”

      “But who in Mooncaster can do such a thing? Is this some new torment of the Bad Shepherd? Is he here now? Are we to be butchered and slain?”

      “That is what I shalt discover!” the witch declared. “Jub! Crik! Rott! Hak! Jump out! Hunt down the unseen spy!”

      The lid of the basket flew up and the four Bogey Boys leaped out.

      “Arm thyselves with knife and skewer!” the witch commanded. “Sniff out the shadow-wrapped sneak. Bring it down! Kill it!”

      The Bogey Boys gave frenzied yells and dashed about the kitchen, snatching up weapons. Then they began questing the air and, one by one, their yellow eyes turned towards the pantry door.

      “The skulker is cornered!” Haxxentrot shouted. “Hack it into invisible collops!”

      The four creatures shrieked shrilly and raced towards the pantry, brandishing their cleavers, pokers, slotted spoons and knives.

      A chair suddenly lifted into the air and was hurled at the attacking Bogey Boys. They yowled and dived out of the way. Then pewter dishes came sailing from the shelves and went spinning at them. One struck Jub on the forehead. He screeched and somersaulted backwards, losing his rat-tail wig. There was the sound of footsteps, running towards the kitchen door. Crik, Hak and Rott whirled around and went charging after. The door yanked itself open and the footsteps went echoing out into the courtyard.

      The Bogey Boys flung their weapons after them in frustration. Jub sat up and uttered a string of curses as he jammed the wig back on to his shiny white head. Haxxentrot rubbed her warty chin.

      “Well, now,” she said, sucking her gums. “Mooncaster hath a new terror to dread. One to make the Holy Enchanter’s head ache most grievously. Yea, and the rest of us also – it hath entered the Kingdom at last.”

      “What manner of fearsome monster is it?” Columbine murmured in dismay.

      The witch narrowed her eyes and answered gravely, “Ye shalt find out soon enough, aye – soon enough…”

      Kate Kryzewski heaved a sharp, gulping breath, as if surfacing from deep water. She stared about her in shock. The vibrancy and colour was gone. The sunlight was pale and weak and her pupils dilated to compensate. How flat and grey this world was. Already she ached to return to Mooncaster.

      “I am the Two of Hearts,” she exulted, rolling back on the grass. “I am Columbine! Praise to the Holy Enchanter and the glory of Mooncaster! I am Columbine! Blessed be this day!”

      The crowd around the SUV cheered and applauded and Sam came rushing over to help her off the ground. The reporter jumped up and hugged him. Then she turned to the Ismus and lowered her gaze respectfully as she curtsied.

      “My Lord,” she said in a worshipful whisper. “Your commands are my joys. Bid me and I will obey. The report to the network shall be just as you wish.”

      The Ismus was barely aware of her. He was gazing distractedly at the copies of Dancing Jax in everyone’s hands and for once his gaunt features looked troubled.

      “Another manifestation,” he muttered to himself. “Another trespass. It is happening ever more frequently.”

      He cast a shrewd glance back across the heath. Doubt and uncertainty moved over his face. His thin lips pressed together and the shadows deepened beneath his brows. A dark, speckling blemish appeared on his forehead.

      His devoted followers shifted uneasily. They had never seen him in this humour before. The Harlequin Priests pointed to the blue patches on their motley robes and the Black Face Dames did not know what to do. The Jacks and Jills drew close to one another. No one understood what ailed their Lord.

      Then, abruptly, the Ismus tossed his head back. The crooked smile returned and the blemish faded.

      “Why do we delay here?” he announced, casting off the disconcerting mood. “We should be giving those precious children a rousing welcome. We must make their stay here one they will never forget… for as long as they live.”

      

      JANGLER HAD WATCHED the crowd hurrying from the camp, chasing after that bothersome American reporter, with only the mildest of interest. There was still much to do on his timetable and this would be the perfect opportunity to show the newly arrived children their accommodation.

      With his clipboard under his arm and the iron hoops at his belt clinking and rattling with large keys, he marched over to both groups. The winkle-picker shoes he wore, to go with his medieval gaoler’s outfit, were new and he hadn’t had time to break them in. They pinched his toes and chafed his heels. It was spoiling his enjoyment of the day.

      “Now then, if I could have your attention,” he began, in his usual officious manner. “While His Highness, the Holy Enchanter, is otherwise engaged, I will show you where you are to be billeted.”

      The children were looking anywhere but at him. The older ones were pulling their bags from the luggage holds in the coaches while the youngest were gazing around the camp, unsure and afraid. They eyed