6: Scritched

Hillary heard the footsteps. She stood, moved to the cell door and grabbed the bars. Molly Folly Sallyforth scooted back into a corner. Both girls waited. The large stone room echoed faintly with far off sounds of hard-soled boots on stone. The girls occupied the two cells in the center of a group of four that stretched across a room twice as long and wide as Hillary’s garage. She could see nearly everything from where she stood. Big blocks of slate-colored stone and thin strips of gray cement formed the walls and floor. She didn’t see any way in or out, except for the door across the room from where the sounds came. They sounded louder.

Hillary looked up at the dark wood planks and thick square beams coated in cobwebs overhead. She’d never be able to reach that high, even by standing on her dad’s shoulders. Besides, he wasn’t here to save them and Molly was shorter than Windslow. In the center of the room neatly mortared, pumpkin-sized stones formed a three-foot high circle that could be a well. A slightly shorter table sat next to it. The footsteps sounded close.

Torches set in brackets gave off more smoke than light. The smoke drifted along the ceiling like upside down fog to a hole above the well where the smoke curved upward and disappeared. Two possibilities for escape besides the door, Hillary concluded. Whatever plan Molly had, made three. The footsteps stopped and Hillary looked toward the door.

The doorframe’s mouth opened wide, filled with the shapes of two men, one standing behind the other. One man, short and pudgy, half hid behind the taller one whose skinny body spanned the frame from top to bottom. He wouldn’t win any fashion contest. Too skinny for his height, he looked like the classic villain from a late night movie where the actor’s lips and words moved out of sync. A long purple robe flowed beneath a slightly shorter and black outer cloak with silver trim. He looked like everlasting Halloween. Hillary wanted to laugh at him until she looked at his eyes. They made her feel creepy. Violet, almost red pupils stared at her.

As the men walked forward, a marshmallow face peeked out from behind the man in front. His long thin nose seemed to point like a stubby finger in the direction it wanted his squinting eyes to look. Small lips completed a set of features that looked spaced too close together for the size of his face. White buttons strained to hold his shirt closed. The yellow cloth stretched wearily across a belly that flowed up over the top of orange pants. There was too much man and not enough cloth. Even his coat sleeves gave up trying to cover him, ending halfway to his wrists.

“You must be Fistlock,” Hillary said, tipping her head slightly to the side and looking at the man with the multicolored clothes. “Why are you hiding behind your tall assistant?” She hoped Fistlock got her point. The stubby man’s head ducked out of view. Behind her Molly whimpered.

“I’m Fistlock,” violet eyes said. A bit of spittle flew from his lips and clung to his pointed beard that ended just below his chin. “Where’s my book?”

“If you mean the one we found, it’s not yours. It belongs to the US National Park Service,” Hillary said and folded her arms.

“If she’s the right one, shouldn’t it be with her?” Orange pants asked.

“It should but it’s not because that idiot Panderflip made a worse trundle-wraith than a chamberlain,” Fistlock said.

“Uncle not idiot. Him smart. Good chamberlain.”

Fistlock raised his hand. A slap sounded and Molly tipped to her side. Hillary adjusted her perspective on the situation. Fistlock had never moved his hand. Some force from his hand had slapped her friend. When Molly sat back up, Hillary could see red finger welts on Molly’s face.

“She had to be with whoever has the book,” Fistlock said and lowered his hand. He never looked at Molly. He kept his gaze focused on Hillary. “Panderflip must have stuck her by mistake. I’ll prepare a potion so when she dream-slips back home she’ll come back here with whoever does have it. It’ll take some time to prepare it. Don’t let her fall asleep, Bitterbrun or I’ll give you the same promotion I gave to Panderflip. Fetch your bag.”

Bitterbrun turned and darted out the doorway. In barely a few seconds, he backed up through the door. He dragged a large canvas bag, grunting with effort as he pulled it to the table. While Fistlock watched, Bitterbrun placed a large leather bound book on the table. He ducked down to his bag and stood back up holding two tall thick yellow candles. He set them in front of the book.

Hillary watched as Fistlock lit the candles without touching them, probably by magic she thought. He mumbled some words. She couldn’t hear them all but did hear him say “awake” and “all night.” The book opened and the pages turned themselves. When the pages stilled, both Fistlock and Bitterbrun leaned over the book.

“How about this, your Brilliancy?” Bitterbrun asked and pointed at a page. “Attaches to your TV, comes with two controllers and one game. It’s some kind of a machine.”

“No. It should be something we can feed her. Something reliable. Here,” Fistlock said. He jabbed his finger at two spots in the book. “Some of this and some of that. I’ll send a scritch.”

 Fistlock backed away from the table and walked to a shadowy corner of the room. He waited motionless like a stork fishing for frogs in the shallows of a shadow pond. After a quick snatch in the air near the floor, he returned to the table. Fistlock cupped his hands together and twisted and pressed them as if packing a ball of mud. When he opened them, a black ball the size of a plum rested on his palm. He bounced it twice on the floor, caught it and held over the book. “Lower the bell,” he said.

Bitterbrun slipped his hand under the table edge. Hillary heard a small click and then the sound of chains and a squeaky wheel. A large tarnished brass bell, nearly three feet across, lowered from the hole in the ceiling. She heard another click and the bell stopped, suspended two feet above the well.

“When the scritch comes back, feed the girl and keep her awake.” Fistlock moved the ball close to his lips, said something to it and then tossed it in the well. Without another word, he turned and walked out the door. Bitterbrun hopped up on the side of the table facing Hillary. He put his hands behind him and let his feet dangle as he looked at her.

Hillary stared back for a while, then eased back away from the door, moving over to the bars that separated her cell from Molly’s. “What are they planning?” she asked in a low voice. “What’s a scritch?”

Molly scooted against the bars. “They scritchy things. Steal. Put it down and look away. All gone. Scritch take it. Move fast. Can’t see.”

“Why did Fistlock throw it in the well?”

“Do spelly, welly thing. Send scritch to your world.”

“For what?”

“Something. We find out, I betcha.”

Hillary didn’t need to wait long. She heard a “whoosh,” the bell rang, and Bitterbrun hopped off the table. Zip. Whoosh. Zip, zip. The ball bounced around the room; too fast to see except for a black blur and only if you were looking in the right place. With one final “zip-boing,” it sat still on the table next to a package of coffee and large bag of chocolates.

Bitterbrun brushed the ball off the table. A boing and zip later it disappeared.

“What are those for?” Molly asked and moved back to the front bars of her cell.

“To keep you awake. Dinnertime,” he said and opened the two packages. He sniffed the coffee grounds first, and then the chocolate. “Wish I had to stay awake.”

“Well, don’t you?” Hillary asked. “I bet Fistlock would give you that promotion he mentioned if you fall asleep. Eating just one of those little brown squares in the big bag would help you. There will be plenty left to keep me awake for a week.”

Bitterbrun’s eyes widened at the mention of a promotion and nodded as he listened. He sniffed the bag of chocolates again and picked out one square, holding it gingerly in his fingers. He sniffed it again after unwrapping it and took a tiny bite off one corner. The rest he shoved into his mouth. He unwrapped another and sent it in after the first one.

“Don’t forget me,” Hillary said as a pile of small foil wrappers began to pile up in front of Bitterbrun.

He popped one more chocolate into his mouth, grabbed both bags and walked to her. “Here,” he said and shoved the packages through the bars.

“I can’t eat this,” Molly said, holding open the bag of coffee grounds. “It’s for a drink. You need to put this stuff in hot water. It’s like tea or an herbed drink.”

Bitterbrun looked back over both shoulders, as if by looking he would somehow discover a kettle on a stove. Hillary let out an exaggerated sigh. “You better go fetch a pot for me to make this in. A cup too.”

“I’m supposed to watch you,” Bitterbrun said. He stepped back a pace and folded his arms across his chest.

“And you’re not supposed to let me fall asleep until your string-bean boss comes back. Here, I’ll help you out.” Hillary unwrapped and ate two pieces of chocolate and tossed the bag to Molly. “There, that should keep me awake. See? Don’t you feel better now? More confident?”

Bitterbrun relaxed his arms and nodded.

“The chocolate will only work for awhile, though. Then you’ll worry won’t you?”

Bitterbrun nodded again. The smile faded from his lips.

“You don’t want that, do you?”

He shook his head back and forth this time.

“You’re lucky that I’ll be wide awake long enough for you to run for some hot water. Make sure it’s really hot. Simmer it for at least ten minutes. Can you remember that?”

Bitterbrun raised his eyebrows and smiled as shook his head.

“You better get going. Quick now. You have things to do. Why are you standing here?”

Bitterbrun’s eyes widened. He pivoted around and ran for the door.

“That takes care of him, for awhile anyway,” Hillary said and glanced at Molly. “Maybe I can pick this lock.”

“Scritch key. Get scritch. He do it.”

“That ball thing? It’s gone.”

“Not gone. Always around.” Molly crawled to the front of her cell and placed a small morsel of chocolate on the floor just outside the bars. She looked away and then back. The floor was bare. She backed way from the door and held out her open palm. Another bit of chocolate rested in her hand. When she looked away she grabbed tight. “Gotcha.” She held the black ball firmly in her hand. “You want more chocla? Then go scritch cell key from Bitterbrun.” She stuck her arm through the cell bars and threw.

Hillary saw the ball fly, but it disappeared with a “zip” in midair. She watched anxiously.

“Here chocla. Good scritch,” Molly said behind her.

Hillary turned around. Molly stood at the bars between their cells. She held out a big iron ring full of skeleton keys.

“Scritch fast. Have to be. Otherwise not scritch.”

Hillary gave a little laugh and took the keys from her new friend. “Molly you’re wonderful. Let’s get out of here.”

Hillary knelt in front of the lock. When she held up the key ring, she noticed the keys were identical, except for symbols stamped into the end of each one. They all had the same words along their pencil thick shafts. ‘Forge-Twiddler Key Works.’ “They’re all the same,” she said to Molly.

“Not same. Different key, different lock. Look end to pick right one. Same wordy on lock.”

Hillary shrugged and sorted through the keys to find the one with matching symbols. She fumbled and the key ring clanged to the floor; the sound they made followed by a zip-wiff. When she looked down, they were gone. “Shoot,” Hillary said. “They were scritched. Molly, give me a piece of chocolate.” Hillary turned her head.

Molly held the empty bag upside down. A chocolate smudge ringed her lips.

***

“It’s no use,” Haggerwolf said. “The book just isn’t going to close unless you use it or figure out how to do it.”

“We could…” Fernbark said, his words trailing off. “Well, someone could. I wouldn’t.”

“What? Kill him and be just like Fistlock. No. I think… Well… Well, just no.”

“Take the book the way it is,” Windslow said and held it out to them. “I don’t want it. Really!”

“I wish we knew how it worked,” Haggerwolf said. He grabbed the edge of the book and gently guided it back into Windslow’s lap.

“What?” Windslow said. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s true,” Larkstone said. “Biffendear was the only one besides Fistlock who figured out how the book works. He was the one who scritched it from Fistlock.”

“Then why not… yawn… ask… Biffendear?” Windslow asked and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand.

“He got eaten,” Larkstone said and shrugged his shoulders.

Haggerwolf opened a steel banded oak chest at the side of the room. He rummaged around, tossing several things on the floor as he muttered to himself.

“What are you looking for?” Fernbark asked.

“A dream snatch stopper. That magic bracelet you made kept Fistlock from snatching him on this dream, but it won’t work for the next. The boy’s getting sleepy. He’ll be dream-slipping home any minute.”

“I’ve got one,” Larkstone said. He moved his wand up and down in the air, and stuffed the stick back inside a pocket in his robe. In the air where he had waved his stick, a large shiny zipper, two feet long and six inches wide, hovered in the air. The sight made Windslow sit up straight in his chair. There was no cloth, only metal that looked like chrome. The wide triangular pull had words painted in gold. ‘Forge-Twiddler Storage, Inc.’

“Bet you’d like one of these… ah… What’s your name, son,” Larkstone asked.

“Windslow Summerfield, and what is that thing?”

“Ever get tired of cleaning up your room? You know. You mother hollers at you and you shove everything in the closet?”

“Yeah. My real mom was that way. Trish, she’s my step-mom, doesn’t get on me too much any more because--”

“Because you quit walking?”

“No! Because I can’t walk.”

“If you say so,” Larkstone said. He grabbed the zipper pull and drew it down. The two sides of the zipper parted. He shoved his arm through, up to his elbow, moving and twisting as he felt inside.

Windslow opened his eyes wide. He expected to see Larkstone’s arm stick out the back side, but it didn’t.

While Larkstone fished inside his zipper, he looked back over his shoulder at Windslow. “My mother made this for me. It’s like that closet you dump everything into. But this one never fills up, you always have it with you and everything is within reach just inside. “Got it,” he said and took his arm out. With his other hand, he zipped up the opening, gave the pull a flip and the whole thing disappeared. A rubber band dangled on the end of his finger.

“I’m surprised you had one,” Haggerwolf said and took the rubber band. “I wish they weren’t so rare. I’d give you one for your sister if I had another one.”

“Windslow?” Fernbark said softly. No one paid any attention to him.

“Wear this when you go to sleep,” Haggerwolf said as he slipped the quarter inch wide rubber band over Windslow’s hand. “It’s made from a rare plant. No one can dream snatch you if you’re wearing one.”

“Winds low?” Fernbark whispered again.

“You’re… yawn… kidding, right?” Windslow asked and gave the band a tiny snap. “In my… yawn… world… yawn…

“Windslow,” Fernbark asked loudly, this time. “You wouldn’t happen to have a sister, would you?”

“Oh… yeah, I… do…” Windslow’s eyelids fluttered and closed. He began to fade.

Fernbark grabbed the can of pink paint they had used for the chair and set it in Windslow’s lap. “What’s her name!” he yelled as loud as he could.

“Hill… Hillary Windgate-Summerfield…” He was gone.

“Fernbark?” Haggerwolf asked. His friend stood in front of the empty chair, staring at the seat. “Fernbark!”

“Hm… Oh, sorry.”

“What was that all about?”

“His name,” Fernbark answered. He tested the paint to see if it was dry and sat down in the chair. “That’s why he could open the book. He and his sister were supposed to.”

“I don’t understand,” Larkstone and Haggerwolf both said at the same time.

“Windslow Summerfield. Winds low, summer field. Hillary Windgate-Summerfield. Hill airy, wind gate, summer field. Hillary and Windslow, son of the summer storm and daughter of the mountain breeze; the children named by the oracle.”