CHAPTER NINE
The Magic Broth

One morning reporting for kitchen duty, Milli and Ernest found Nonna Luna sitting at the scrubbed table with her palms upturned and her eyes shut. For the first time, there were no snacks in sight. Instead, on the table sat the prohibited knapsack from the cool room, but in place of the asps were brown cords. In front of Nonna Luna steamed a mug of a pungent-smelling brew which Milli and Ernest both thought must be the elusive Wild Butterbean Thistle.

Olive the Owl was restless. Unlike her usual composed self, she kept flying around the room and circling the children protectively before returning to her perch. She seemed to be on the alert, watching for the appearance of something or someone. As if to confirm the secret nature of what they were about to witness, the windows were shut and the curtains drawn to block out any prying eyes. Milli could have sworn she saw the silhouettes of two large ravens gliding past.

Nonna Luna wore a grave expression and was engaged in a mumbled conversation with herself.

‘What’s happening?’ the children asked in unison.

As an oracle, Nonna Luna sounded very different from the kindly grandmother they had come to know. Her accent seemed to have disappeared and she was surprisingly articulate.

‘It isn’t what has happened but what will happen that we must concern ourselves with,’ Nonna Luna said. ‘It was no coincidence that you two chanced to land in my kitchen.’

‘It wasn’t?’ In response, Nonna Luna’s eyes flew open and she looked at the children prophetically.

‘Everything happens for a reason,’ Nonna intoned. ‘I know it is my destiny to help stop Bombasta and free poor Federico from her spell. In my opinion, that clumsy ox in her feathered hat needs to be taken down a peg or two.’

The children struggled to make sense of these ramblings and wondered whether it was advisable for Nonna Luna to continue consuming the brew.

On the stove bubbled a pot of aromatic amber broth flecked with parsley. Ernest, who had skipped breakfast (ox tongue on toast), inhaled deeply.

‘That smells delicious,’ he moaned.

‘Organic chicken carcasses,’ Nonna confided. ‘Makes all the difference.’

Ernest was to be disappointed if he hoped to be offered a bowl. Instead, Nonna Luna retrieved a cat-shaped canister from a shelf, drew from it two fistfuls of alphabet noodles and tossed them rather dramatically into the pot. After a few minutes she broke an egg into a bowl, whisked it and poured it quickly into the broth. Immediately the liquid lost its clarity and turned cloudy. As she stirred, Nonna recited a powerful invocation:

Pot of Fortune

Pot of Fate

Pot with many powers great

Shed light on the future

The past let us see

Let this alphabet noodle

Your loyal scribe be

Speak to us, oh magic broth!

The liquid on the stove began to bubble more violently and the alphabet noodles rose to the surface arranging themselves into a wobbly sentence. What is it you seek to know?

The children looked at one another in confusion. What question should they ask first? But Nonna Luna, who was clearly confident about what she was dealing with, answered on their behalf.

‘Show us what lurks within the jade citadel.’

The letters instantly sank to the bottom of the pot and something even more unfathomable occurred. The broth that had looked so appetising only a few moments ago started to spin like water being sucked down a plughole.

Before Milli and Ernest had a chance to marvel at this, they found themselves staring at an image of the jade citadel glowing ethereally against a black sky. The children realised that the entire building must be carved from the precious stone. There was even a jade drawbridge lowered over a solid jade moat. The citadel itself was elongated and spindly, reminding them of a long and bony man. Its one window was gothic in design and filled with tiny panels of stained glass like you might find in a church. They could see that the glass formed a picture—it was of a hand, a skeletal hand with fingers like tentacles reaching for the sky. If they were not mistaken, it seemed the hand sought to hold the entire world within its grasp.

Abruptly, the image of the citadel faded. Now the children were unseen guests inside a lavish drawing room. Contessa Bombasta was standing in front of a large map mounted on one wall and tracing a route with a plump finger. When she reached her target (a mushroom icon), she savagely speared the image with a thumbtack and gave a maniacal laugh. This was more puzzling than ever. What could it mean, other than the Contessa’s determination to avoid vegetables of the fungi variety?

‘Just as I suspected,’ Nonna Luna murmured. ‘Federico has been lured into great danger. We have just witnessed the hatching of a terrible plot.’

‘What is the use of that unless we know what’s being plotted?’ Milli cried, but Ernest shushed her excitedly. Another image was forming in the pot.

The children now saw a vast field of sunflowers turning their heads to the sun and waving in the breeze. The sight was so calming that Milli and Ernest sighed with relief and almost felt the weight of the past few days lift from their minds. But a shadow was creeping across the field, a black and angry mass of clouds like bruises on the sky, and soon the entire expanse was in shade. All at once the sunflowers burst into flame. A fire swept through the field with devastating speed, consuming everything in its path and leaving only mounds of ashes in its wake.

The vision shocked the children but they had no choice other than to watch with mounting trepidation as a final image began to take shape.

This time it was of a narrow room with a low ceiling. Something told them it must be the apex of the jade citadel as a small window looked directly onto a sliver of sky. The room had the coldness of a crypt as everything was made of polished black stone. The walls were covered with swirling inscriptions in an ancient tongue that Ernest thought might be Latin, although he couldn’t make out enough of the letters to be absolutely sure. There was no furniture, only a stone font like the ones used in christening ceremonies. A figure was bent over it. He had his back to them so they could not see his face but he wore crimson robes that spilled onto the floor like a wine stain. His hands and neck were startlingly white in the dimly lit surroundings. His milky blue hair was twisted into dozens of tiny braids, each one fastened with a silver bell and pulled away from his head. His skin was crinkly like tissue paper after you have eagerly unwrapped a present, and equally translucent.

When the man turned from his work and drifted across the room, the children jumped back in alarm. They had caught a glimpse of his eyes—distinctive eyes that even in the watery image before them did not stop shifting colour. The face of Lord Aldor seemed to be moving towards them. The veins in his forehead throbbed with the effort of concentration and the sharpness of his features reminded them of a locust.

The broth began to give off the cloying odour of decomposition such as one might smell on a forest floor, and the scene shifted to show Lord Aldor glaring at Federico Lampo who was kneeling on the stone floor beside him.

‘Everything is progressing as Your Lordship planned,’ Lampo said in an obvious state of agitation.

Lord Aldor arched a thin eyebrow. ‘And the brats?’

‘Shaping up into fine young warriors,’ Lampo bragged.

A depraved smile crept over Lord Aldor’s face. His eyes were as bright as candles and he licked his lips.

‘Victory is within reach. We must prepare.’

The image faded and Milli and Ernest reeled backwards and collapsed into chairs to recover. The sight of Lord Aldor, the villain who haunted their dreams to that day, brought back a rush of memories so chilling it was like diving into an ice-cold lake. Milli recalled the tiny body of a singed hedgehog lying on a gravel path. She saw the shadow of her father about to disappear into the hollow, gaping pit that was Lord Aldor’s mouth. She remembered her mother a prisoner in rags and chains, labouring to the point of exhaustion.

Ernest’s memories turned to the tormented flamingo and Nettle, her eyes rolling back in her head and her body going limp as Lord Aldor towered over her. Visions of Christmas beetles run through with wire and writhing larvae danced through his head.

Both children had trouble catching their breath and gripped one other for support. The cold-blooded criminal who had caused so much misery was but a short distance away! For weeks after their last escape from Aldor, the children had felt yoked by his presence wherever they went. The feeling had faded slowly as their parents and teachers ensured their time was taken up with more convivial activities. How could they not have sensed evil when it was so near? The children suddenly felt very vulnerable. What did Lord Aldor have in store for them this time? Had they the nerve to outsmart him now that they knew what he was truly capable of?

‘Recognise someone?’ Nonna Luna asked when she saw their white faces.

Milli looked up at her. ‘We know who Lord Aldor is. We’ve met before.’

‘Though not in his world,’ added Ernest anxiously.

‘Can you make sense of what we just saw?’ Milli asked Nonna Luna.

‘I think it’s time you two were given a brief history of the Realm,’ Nonna sighed.

She prepared two mugs of cocoa laced with a thimbleful of brandy because they had had a shock and settled the two children by the fire. She lugged the pot outside, poured its contents—which had turned to a black sludge—onto a patch of earth away from the vegetables and performed the stomping routine Ernest had witnessed before.

It was the old Nonna who returned and sat on a low stool to begin her story. Before she did, she picked up the lace antimacassar she was working on for the new sofa she had on order. (Both Nonna Luna and my own grandmother happened to share a preoccupation with ensuring that costly items outlived them. In order to achieve this, the items must be well protected. My grandmother had a habit of leaving furniture in the plastic wrapping it was delivered in, and liked to keep a plastic runner on the carpeted hallway to avoid soiling. Visitors tended to stick to the furniture in summer and nearly broke a limb tripping over the runner, but both items remained in mint condition—even if they were embarrassingly outdated by half a century. Nonna Luna would have traded her remaining teeth to get her hands on something as useful as plastic.)

When Nonna spoke again, the children were relieved to hear her familiar voice.

‘You bambini have cumma here by magic,’ she began. ‘Thisa place, everyting you see, is ruled by Lord Aldor.’ When she made mention of Lord Aldor, Nonna shuddered and then crossed herself as if he were the devil incarnate and might suddenly materialise. ‘It has been dissa way for a very longa time.’

It would be strenuous to reproduce here Nonna Luna’s unique intonation as she spun her story, so let me make both our lives easier by offering a summary using conventional diction.

From Nonna Luna the children learned that the Conjurors’ Realm was not one territory as they had first supposed, but instead made up of five provinces. All save one had bowed to the might of Lord Aldor. It was rumoured that he would not rest until he had overcome the last.

The closest province to Battalion Minor was Gobbo, the domain of the goblins who lived in burrows underground. Their passageways wound for miles right beneath the children’s feet. Goblins (perhaps because they were so unprepossessing themselves) valued beautiful things above all else. Were you to venture into their tunnels you would find rock ledges cluttered with priceless antiquities: marble busts of famous composers, French mantel clocks, Grecian urns and Ming vases.

Goblins spent most of their time mining for diamonds and hardly ever saw the light of day. Fresh air smelled like fumes to them so they preferred to scuttle about in their underground world. In the event of extreme boredom, they might be tempted to the surface to play mischievous tricks on passers-by. Their sense of humour was known to be twisted and what they found amusing might prove fatal to an inexperienced traveller. For this reason alone it was best to turn and run the other way should you ever come face to face with a goblin. Nonna said they could be recognised by the tufts of blue fur sprouting from their ears. Their fingers were webbed and rubbery from climbing rocks and they hated clothing so wore as little as they could get away with and remain within the bounds of decency. They would most likely be dressed in sacks and would under no circumstances be wearing shoes. Lord Aldor and the goblins had been striking bargains for as long as Nonna Luna could remember. She believed that in return for their allegiance and stockpiles of diamonds, Aldor had promised the goblins Fada brides. How he planned to procure them was anyone’s guess.

‘Who are the Fada?’ Milli interrupted, but Nonna Luna made a clicking sound.

‘Aspetta,’ she admonished in her native tongue. ‘Donta kill da story.’

The next province Nonna spoke of was known as Hagdad. Hagdad as it turned out was the province of the witches, and a more flat or desolate wasteland you would never see. There wasn’t a single living bush or plant to be found there. The only thing you might see was a clump of dead trees under which the witches convened their fortnightly meetings. Here they swapped gruesome recipes and lodged complaints about one another. The hags were friendless and shunned. They lived alone in caves with their pet boulders with which they conversed at length. Were you to walk past, you might hear them screeching and cackling to themselves for they were sometimes not of sound mind. At night, the Hagdad sky was thick with broomsticks, each rider going off to hunt for her dinner or seek out some rare item for her brew. If the witches were ever fortunate enough to ensnare a human, they kept it as a domestic servant. According to Nonna these were lonely women rather than monsters but bad press over time had led to them being misunderstood. Lord Aldor had offered the hags an unlimited supply of magical ingredients as well as a lifetime’s worth of depilatory creams in return for their allegiance. This meant that if a witch needed the fingertip of a goblin for a potion, nobody was going to stop her taking it.

‘How did Lord Aldor get the goblins to agree to that?’ Ernest asked, for he liked stories to add up.

‘He didn’t. He keepa that deal secret from them,’ Nonna Luna explained. ‘And that bringa me to the province of Fumpalot.’

Thumpalot (Nonna had difficulty reproducing ‘th’ sounds), as perspicacious readers may have guessed, was the home of the giants. Before continuing, Nonna Luna clarified that by ‘home’ she really meant a wide open space. The witches and the giants often feuded over where the borders should be drawn between their respective provinces. The giants claimed the narrow stretch of desert between the two was theirs, as its weather conditions were designed for their survival. The witches argued that it had been given to them in a treaty made after The Great Sandy Battle of 1022, but everyone suspected they just wanted it for flight practice. The giants didn’t need roofs over their heads as they were unaffected by the vagaries of weather. Giants, unless they were recluses, almost always travelled in pairs. Each lady giant found herself a male and they formed a sort of partnership. Pairs were always wrestling each other for power as strength was all that mattered in Thumpalot. The strongest couple ruled the province. The giants didn’t use language as we know it, but communicated via a series of grunts, which eliminated the need for romantic courtship rituals and saved a good deal of time. They were routinely employed by Lord Aldor as labourers to erect statues and monuments commemorating his latest deeds. They were generally too dimwitted, not to mention too tired to ask for anything in return.

The fourth province was Rune, which Nonna Luna described as a melting pot of odd bods who didn’t really fit in anywhere else. The province included the city centre of Runis, where folks from all over the Realm flocked to sell goods, seek work or be entertained. It was the city of the conjurors, said Nonna, and conjurors were known for being greedy and self-serving as well as having a superiority complex. From their experience of conjurors, Milli and Ernest had to agree. The conjurors were Aldor’s closest allies. They had the power to create wonderful things, but more often than not used their talents for less than noble purposes. Conjurors, according to Nonna, were the least trustworthy of all the inhabitants of the Realm as they would lie, cheat or steal to get what they wanted. At least the witches, giants and goblins made no effort to conceal their vicious natures, but the conjurors of Runis hid behind sweet smiles and veneers of courtesy. Lord Aldor had played on their weaknesses and promised each one their heart’s desire. Needless to say, he was a popular leader.

The final and most mysterious province was called Mirth. This was home to the Fada but no one knew much about it as access was barred. The Fada were a race evolved from encounters between men and fairies. Though this interbreeding had left the Fada wingless, they retained great wisdom and many other gifts. Unlike the rest of the Realm, the Fada could not abide the idea of violence. The daisy was their national emblem. The people were self-governing and presided over by a queen who was said to be the gentlest soul that ever lived. Her people loved to sing and dance and they celebrated the smallest occasions, such as the rising of the sun or the harvesting of the biggest pumpkin. Ugliness did not exist in the province of Mirth. The Fada did not know the meaning of hate or unkindness. Their province was protected by a primeval magic so powerful that entry was by invitation only.

How a place like Mirth could continue to exist, Nonna Luna explained, was simply due to the fact that Lord Aldor’s influence had not managed to infiltrate it. But, Nonna concluded her narrative by reminding them, that the magic broth had given them a warning it was advisable not to ignore. Mirth was at risk.

Entertained though they had been by the stories, Milli and Ernest felt overloaded with information, as if they had eaten too much birthday cake at a party. They sat silent for some moments as they tried to absorb all they had been told.

‘I can’t understand how Lord Aldor can still be up to his old tricks,’ Milli said finally.

‘Donta try to understand a monster like Aldor,’ Nonna said. ‘Just avoid him. Many of dem who disagree wit him have disappeared.’ She made a gesture to indicate something going up in a puff of smoke.

Lord Aldor was assisted by a cabinet of nine ministers, she explained, who spent their days seeking out dissidents. The Realm was not without its rebels—but they did not last long. The ministers regularly held what they called purges, where they hunted down any who spoke an ill word against their master. This was how Lord Aldor had remained in power for so long. Many did not agree with his polices but they were too afraid to voice their opinions lest they be overheard by one of his many spies—who were not all in human form and difficult to detect.

Ernest brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. ‘If the pot is issuing a warning, what does it suggest we do?’

‘Dis I can not say.’

‘Perhaps,’ Milli said thoughtfully, ‘the Fada need to be warned. Could we not get word to them?’

‘Good idea,’ Ernest agreed. ‘When can Olive leave?’

‘Thissa no job for Olive,’ Nonna said. ‘She is too weak and too old and would neva find her way back.’

‘Then it’s up to us,’ said Milli with conviction.

‘Up to us?’ repeated a dumbfounded Ernest. ‘How are we going to get out of here, let alone get in there?’

‘Perhaps the pot will tell us?’ Milli suggested, as she could think of nothing else.

Nonna shook her head regretfully. ‘The magic broth tell only what we needa to do, notta how to do it.’