Kesrick, page 12
“Now, my Pretties,” gloated the Wicked Witch, “and surely you will not be depriving a pore old woman of the pleasures of your companionship at table, for it has been long and very long indeed since pore old Mother Gothel had guests to entertain … and the cook-pot is full and capacious, with room enough for all. That is,” she giggled, “I mean large enough for food for all of you, and pore old Mother Gothel, too, not to mention her mangy old dog!”
“Thank you, Madame,” said Kesrick, “but as it happens, we have urgent matters of business to attend to on the farther side of these woods, and had best be on our way, although, of course, that will deny us the pleasures of your company and conversation, to say nothing of the tasty meal you offer, which is exceedingly kind of you.”
“Pray don’t mention it, I’m sure,” said the Wicked Witch slyly, “for the night is nearly upon us and it will be cold and damp, mayhap, and pore old Mother Gothel would be offending the rules of hospitality if she permitted you to get away—that is, hee, hee!—to venture into the forest, which can be most unfriendly o’ nights! So, young sires and tasty wench, do come in and warm yourselves at Mother Gothel’s fire, and erelong we shall sit down to the dinner table all of us together, in one way or another, to be sure!”
“I—” said Kesrick.
“But—” said Arimaspia.
“I say—” murmured Sir Mandricardo.
“I will hear no objections, mind!” cackled the Witch, and with that she dug one gaunt and clawlike hand into the wicker basket she carried on one arm, and which was filled with squeaking Mandrakes and wriggling asps, and plucked forth a pinch of yellow powder which she brandished triumphantly before their eyes, and was about to toss the uncanny stuff in their very faces, with heaven knows what untoward results, when the unexpected occurred.
In the fine tradition of such tales as this, by the way, you will ere now have discovered from your own reading that the unexpected usually occurs.
It began to rain.
The very moment the first fat raindrops began splattering against the scruffy grass, the Wicked Witch paled to the color of dirty milk, and began hopping about on her one good foot, shrilling “Hi! Ha! Hee!” in a voice that sounded like long fingernails rasping upon a blackboard. They stared at her puzzledly.
Dropping the pinch of magic powder—dropping even her full basket (which overturned, permitting the captive Mandrakes to wriggle away in the scruffy grass, and all of the asps to glide to their own little hidey-holes), the Witch began hobbling and limping as fast as ever she might after her hut, which was still aimlessly hopping about the clearing on its huge chicken legs.
“Over here, you idiot! Here, curse you! Izbushka! This way, in Hecate’s Name!” screeched the witch in tones of utter desperation, hobbling after the wandering hut, which paid utterly no attention to her, obviously not having been ever gifted with the sense of hearing.
“Whatever is bothering the Witch?” murmured Arimaspia curiously, clutching Kesrick’s arm.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, my darling,” the young knight confessed, staring as bewilderedly as was the Princess of Scythia after the yelling and furiously hobbling old Witch.
The rain was coming down fairly heavily by now, and Sir Mandricardo suggested that they take refuge from the pelting precipitation beneath the lowering boughs of a funereal cypress which stood nearby. They did so, while the witch continued to hobble frantically about the clearing after her strolling hut, and the dog howled dismally from its place by the front steps.
From under the shelter of the dripping boughs, Kesrick and Arimaspia stared out into the drizzle, marveling over the peculiar behavior of Mother Gothel; for the old woman had now fallen flat upon the muddy grasses, and was thrashing about in a marvelous frenzy, beating at the wet earth with futile fists, while yowling in a voice shrill enough to shatter mirrors.
The two young people could not imagine what on earth was the matter with her, or why she should behave in such a manner, being merely caught, in what was to them only a warm summer shower. But Sir Mandricardo, fingering his chin, was frowning thoughtfully.
“I say, you two,” he said, “but something has just occurred to me! Somewhere or other I recall having read, dash it, that Wicked Witches can only be destroyed by being soaked in fresh water, for some reason which escapes me, I mean to say.”
“Do you suppose that that is what is bothering the old hag?” asked the Scythian Princess in wondering tones. Kesrick shrugged, nonplussed, and they continued to observe the most strange and frantic behavior of the old crone.
Very shortly thereafter, Sir Mandricardo’s supposition was borne out by the very words of Mother Gothel herself.
For she flung back her wrinkled face and stared into the pelting heavens, her wicked red eyes filled with bottomless horror and despair. “Oh! Ah! Ai!” she wailed, “I’m melting … melting!”
And indeed she was! The puckered flesh was sloughing from her face like fresh dough in a pan, and even as they watched transfixed, she began to shrink within the cover of her cloak as if dwindling rapidly in size, until soon only a small huddled shape lay under the wet cloak.
In a tiny voice, she moaned: “Oh, all of my beautiful wickedness….”
Then the wet cloak slumped flat against the earth, and began to smoke and steam, and they heard no more.
As soon as the drizzle had fallen away to occasional raindrops, they left the shelter of the cypress and went over to examine what might remain of the Wicked Witch.
The Tartar knight plucked aside her cloak gingerly, employing the point of his sword. Only steaming wet cloth could he discover, for the entire substance of her bent and withered, ancient body had apparently been totally dissolved by the warm rain, even to the very bones.
“ ’Pon my word!” declared Sir Mandricardo, a bit nervously. “The poor old woman, what? I mean to say, dash it all, evil as she was, of course, and not for one moment forgiving …”
“Look!” exclaimed the Frankish knight, pointing.
The very moment that the Wicked Witch had met her long-overdue destruction, the wandering hut sat down promptly on its folding chicken legs, or collapsed, to put it more accurately. And now it could be seen that the cottage was disintegrating in utter decay, for it would appear that the spells of the old witch vanished as soon as she ceased to exist.
The front door came off its hinges, and fell into a mud puddle. The chimney teetered awry, slumped, and came apart in a shower of old stones. The wattled roof peeled away in patches, showing a skeletal structure of old oak beams, like the ribs of a rotting cadaver.
Then the walls collapsed inward, and the hut settled into a mound of ruin.
“Oh, my!” cried Arimaspia.
Soon after this, the front steps came apart in a clatter of loose boards, and the dog got free and slunk off whimpering into the woods with his tail between his scrawny legs.
And it was all over.
“I … say!” gasped Sir Mandricardo. “Jolly strange, what? What?”
And his companions were forced to solemnly agree with their Tartar friend; it was indeed jolly strange, but then, they knew very little of the ways of Wicked Witches.
And closely observing these latest events through her Magic Mirror, while sitting in the boudoir of her magical house beneath the Fairy Fountain of Brociliande, Kesrick’s Godmother, Dame Pirouetta, noted complacently the destruction of Mother Gothel and the safety of her godson while repairing the ravages of the day with a powder puff and rouge pot.
“Excellent work!” she sniffed to herself, with some certain satisfaction in her tones. “That little rainstorm was just what the wretched creature required, if I do say so myself!”
And on the dressing-table near her hand, Pirouetta’s magic wand flashed and flickered with rosy rays as if in mute agreement.
XIX
AT THE JOLLY FLAGON
Now that the excitement was over, Sir Mandricardo snapped his vizor up and Kesrick sheathed his enchanted blade. The magic of the spell of the Fairy Pirouetta was evidently stronger than necessary, for long after the witch had been dissolved back into her constituent elements, the downpour continued, and the boughs of the cypress really afforded less shelter than they might have wished.
Eventually, of course, the drizzle petered out and the three emerged from under the tree. While the Tartar knight poked about in the dilapidated ruins of the Witch’s cottage, curious to discover what had survived, if anything, the knight of Dragonrouge tended to his Hippogriff. The creature had been sorely affrighted by the perambulating hut on chicken-legs, but became quiet under its master’s soothing hands and calming words. Presently, it began sleeking back the shining bronze feathers of its wings with its golden beak, for it disliked getting wet.
Night was falling, and the west was a sea of crimson, while the first faint stars of evening blossomed like white flowers in the blue empurpling expanse above. They were all tired and hungry, but as nothing but shards of glass and bits of wood had survived the demolition of Mother Gothel’s cottage (as Sir Mandricardo emerged to report sadly), there was nothing to do but to search elsewhere for sustenance and for shelter against the night.
They had seen no fruit trees or berry bushes during their trip through the woods, so obviously there was no reason to explore them more thoroughly. And by now they had come to the opinion that the smoke they had earlier seen had come, not from a town or village, but from the witch’s chimney.
“Let us mount up and fly on,” suggested the Princess of Scythia. “Perhaps we shall find a city or castle in which we may be invited to partake of supper, and to spend the night.”
“Very well,” said Kesrick doubtfully, “but poor Brigadore cannot carry the weight of three of us for very long without tiring. So let us hope that good fortune comes our way, for once, and it will be about time, too.”
The Tartar knight politely offered to go about his own adventures, leaving them to continue on their quest, so as not to be an added burden to the Hippogriff with his manly weight, to say nothing of his armor, but Kesrick stoutly refused to hear a word more on the subject. He and Arimaspia had, by now, become accustomed to Mandricardo’s company, and were fond of his unfailing cheerfulness and good humor.
“Very well, then, what?” said the Tartar with a flashing smile. “I will accede to your kind invitation, since you both insist. And, to tell the truth,” he chuckled, “I would very much miss the end of this adventure, never knowing what had become of my friends. What a ripping good time we will have, when we finally encounter that villainous Egyptian of yours, what?”
They mounted Brigadore and flew out of the witch’s wood, circling the darkening heavens and gazing in every direction, hoping to discover the lights of a city in the dusk, but failed to perceive one. Thereupon, they decided to direct the flight of Brigadore due west, for in that portion of the world they assumed that they would be most likely to encounter civilization.
After some while, Arimaspia clutched Sir Kesrick’s arm, pointing ahead, and exclaimed excitedly: “Oh, look! There’s a town of some size straight ahead. Thank goodness!”
And the Princess was quite correct, for as they flew nearer, they perceived a town of considerable extent, with firelight glowing through the windows of the houses and glistening on cobbled streets and tiled roofs. Not far off, a broad river ran, its clear waters sheening like silver in the luminance of the moon, which had just risen above the edges of the world.
Kesrick brought the Hippogriff to earth in the town square, hopped nimbly from the saddle, and assisted the Scythian Princess to alight from the flying steed. She looked about with interest; there was a fine bronze statue of the famous Amadis which stood in the center of the square, and chestnut trees rose from a small green park, now deserted with the coming of nightfall.
“There’s an inn,” she exclaimed, nodding across the square. “Do you suppose we might find lodgings therein?”
“We shall certainly ask,” said Kesrick briskly. It had occurred to him that there was no real need to beg guesting for the night, not with those two fat sacks of rubies the sorcerer Pteron had left with them.
He led Brigadore by his bridle across the paved square, while Sir Mandricardo escorted the Princess. Leaving the Hippogriff in charge of a freckle-faced stableboy, who was obviously impressed with the looks of them, and was struck dumb with amazement at the fabulous winged steed, they entered the inn and found a large room with a straw-strewn floor, a low, beamed ceiling, and a warm and cheery fire roaring on the hearth.
The innkeeper, a fat man with a round red face, came bustling up, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. Kesrick doffed his helm and addressed the fellow politely, asking if three rooms were to be had, and a huge supper.
“Well, now, me lord,” puffed the innkeeper, “as to supper, that’s no problem, no problem at all! We’ve got us a roast steer on the turnspit, and my Meg can hustle up some baked ’taters in no time flat … but, when it do come to three rooms, well, we’re more than a bit full up right now, as it happens—”
“Two rooms would be perfectly all right,” said Kesrick, who could share one of them with the Tartar knight. At those welcome words, the troubled features of Mine Host cleared and he ducked his bald head in a pleased nod.
“Two we can provide, me lord,” he said. “Pray take places near the fire and warm yerselves, while I send the scullery maid to put on fresh sheets and things!”
“Well, ’pon my word, but this is a bit of all right, eh?” said Mandricardo in jovial tones, spearing another steaming baked potato on the point of his poignard. “Decent beddin’ and a hearty meal, and this wine is not bad, I’ve downed a flagon of worse in my time.”
Kesrick, whose long legs were stretched out before the fire, so that his soggy boots might dry themselves, willingly agreed.
“Yes, and what was the name of this inn again—The Jolly Flagon, wasn’t it? Aptly named,” he said comfortably.
“Do help yourself to another slab of this delicious roast, dear,” urged Arimaspia solicitously. “How about you, Sir Mandricardo?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Madame!” said that worthy, helping himself with gusto. Kesrick, who was mopping the last remnants of hot rich gravy from his plate with a wedge of good black bread, acknowledged that he had eaten enough.
“And, by my halidom, but isn’t it good to enjoy a solid meal again,” he sighed. “I had enough nuts and fruits and berries back in the Wandering Garden to last me for years!”
Just then, the innkeeper came over to inquire if they wished for anything else.
“No thank you, host,” said the knight of Dragonrouge. “We are strangers in these parts, as you may have guessed for yourself, and wonder if you would be good enough to tell us precisely which parts of the world these are, anyway?”
“Why, nothin’ easier, me lords, me lady,” he replied. “This be the fine town of Gluckstein, and yonder river there is the famous river Gluckthal.”
“I see,” mused Kesrick, who had never heard of these places before. “We were flying due west, when we decided to land and seek lodgings in your town for the night, so let me ask you what lies west of here, so that we can determine our direction when we arise tomorrow.”
“Well, sir,” puffed the red-faced innkeeper, “on ’tother side of the river you will find yerself in a country called Orn, and a nice enough place it is, too.”
“I do believe I’ve heard of it,” mused Kesrick. “Didn’t they have a rather bothersome Demon around there, some years back? I seem to recall hearing about it.”
“Aye, and that they did, sir!” wheezed the innkeeper. “And a Ghastly Gryphon, too; but he’s enchanted now, and perfectly safe. Can’t so much as wiggle a whisker fer th’ next thousand years, me word upon it.”
“Oh, how ripping!” exclaimed Sir Mandricardo, his eyes shining excitedly. The Tartar knight delighted in nothing so much as hearing about knightly deeds of derring-do, unless perhaps it was having them himself. “Petrified the blighter, eh, what?”
“Summat of that kind of thing, I believe, sir,” agreed the innkeeper.
Just then the little scullery maid came up to announce that their rooms were ready whenever they wished, and Mandricardo bounded to his feet, stretching his arms and yawning in jaw-cracking fashion.
“Right-ho!” he said cheerfully, giving the scullery maid a pinch, which made her giggle. “Well, I’m for bed, what say? Perhaps you two lovebirds wish to sit up before the fire and whisper endearments or whatever, but I’m for turning in right now.”
Kesrick and Arimaspia were also sleepy, and rose from the table; Kesrick paid for their meal and the night’s lodgings with one of the rubies from his bulging sacks; it was as big as a walnut and the eyes of Mine Host fairly popped at the sight of it.
With the scullery maid leading the way with a candle, they ascended the wooden stairs to the second story of the Jolly Flagon, said good night, and turned in.
The bed was just a little too small for both knights to sleep in the most perfect comfort, but the sheets were fresh and clean, the mattress stuffed with goose down, and there were no fleas or lice that they could ascertain. Stripping off their surcoats and removing their mail (which, like all honest knights, they polished and oiled against rust before retiring), they turned in, blew out the candle and fell fast asleep.
Except that Kesrick soon discovered that Sir Mandricardo snored.
Next morning when the three of them awoke, it was to discover a bright and sunny sky, with many small birds chirruping happily in the treetops. The two knights scrubbed themselves briskly in the washbowl the maid had left outside their door, and were attiring themselves when the Princess Arimaspia appeared, combing her long golden hair with a tortoise-shell comb the little scullery maid had shyly loaned her.
“Well, now for some breakfast, what?” said Mandricardo cheerfully.
Over a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, rashers of crisp bacon, toasted sausages, hot biscuits with nine kinds of jam, and foaming beakers of nut-brown ale, the adventurers discussed the direction in which they should travel next.
