Authors: Leo ; Julia; Hartas Wills
At around the time that Aries was complaining about the fig seeds stuck in his teeth, Rose was sitting in the sorceress’s hut admiring the six glittering vials of Levitation Potion
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she’d made that morning. Since dawn she’d been busy, grinding ash that had spiralled up from the fire-ruined city of Troy, with the down of high-flying geese that had circled the peak of Mount Olympus. To this she’d added slivers of volcanic rock – jumping when they’d suddenly morphed from grey clumps of stone into popping red lava, rising in the bowl – and doused the entire mixture with melted ice that had floated on top of the pond of
Boreas,
the god of winter’s snow garden.
Whirling, she’d recited the words from the ancient black book as she mixed the strange ingredients together, until finally Medea had produced the gold bangle, or what remained of it, snapped it in two and handed half
to Rose to supercharge the potion. Rose had been aghast at quite how thin and fragile the cuff had become since summoning Wat the day before. Of course, she’d have been even more shocked if she’d known the real reason – that most of the gold had actually been lost in Medea’s jaguar-conjuring spell later that afternoon – but she didn’t, and so she’d simply dipped it into the simmering brew. Slim as a chicken’s anklebone, the gold had dissolved in a flurry of froth.
Meaning that now, finally, the Levitation Potion was ready.
Twitchy with excitement, Rose stared along the line of vials standing in an old-fashioned test-tube rack on the table, each glowing the dusky pink of a summer sunset and fizzing with glints of green light. Tonight, you see, they were going to raise the gold of El Dorado.
Actually, I think that particular announcement needs a little fanfare.
One moment, please:
TADAAA!
That’s better.
And with a little more gusto, if you will:
TONIGHT
THEY WERE GOING
TO RAISE THE GOLD OF EL DORADO!
Feeling rather impressed with herself, Rose sat back and took a long, deep breath.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
As her mouth and nose filled with the revolting stench of what smelled like old socks and last week’s sprouts, she coughed furiously and glared at the simmering brass pot in the corner. She’d been astonished when, arriving a few hours ago, Medea hadn’t immediately snapped her fingers to extinguish the flame beneath it, and had instead let it burp and sputter and fill the hut with its stinky, grey smoke. Stranger still, the sorceress had been drawn to it over and again, lured every few minutes, as though tugged on an invisible string, to stand and stare, tearing tendrils from a saggy peacock feather to fling into the mix. All of which had made Rose positively itch with curiosity. What on earth was so special about a smelly pot and a feather? Not that there was any point in asking, of course, because despite being Medea’s partner, she was hardly an equal one, was she? To be honest, working with the sorceress left Rose feeling like a little crocodile bird, one of those African plovers that perch on the heads of Nile crocodiles and peck the decaying food trapped in the reptiles’ teeth. And crocodile birds don’t ask too many questions either. Not if they want to stay
outside
the crocodile, that is, and especially when the crocodile was in such a snappy mood as Medea.
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Eyes watering, Rose looked up at the sorceress, who
was pouting at her reflection in the mirror for what felt like the ninety-third time that morning, and watched her apply yet another coat of red lipstick. Next she fussed with her hair, today styled in an elaborate up-do, with ringlets framing her face in a way that reminded Rose of the women on Greek urns. She frowned. She’d never seen Medea so fretful about her appearance – not even back at Hazel’s concert in London, when the newspaper photographers had been flashing their cameras in a sea of white lights – and it struck her as strange. Perhaps, she reasoned, the sudden glamour was some sort of sorceress-chic, a glitzing up for your most important feats of magic, but it still felt faintly disappointing, when there were far more important things to be thinking about.
‘Finished?’ said Medea, noticing Rose watching her in the mirror.
Rose nodded and the sorceress turned, walked towards the table and plucked a vial from the stand. She held it to the window, letting the sunlight stream through it, and peered closer, like a scientist studying the results of an experiment, her eyes following the glittering green flecks as they trailed steadily upwards.
‘Excellent,’ she murmured.
Rose felt another flutter of pride, thrilled at how far she’d come in learning to be a sorceress. She stared at the mixture she’d made, knowing that it would bring them the gold they needed to cure her father, and smiled, the thought dazzling like a big shiny diamond in her mind. Everything was going to work out perfectly.
Just as long as she helped Wat first, she reminded herself.
‘We need to talk,’ said Medea, drawing a stool up to the table and sitting down opposite Rose. Her face was cool and serious. ‘Tonight you’re going to see some frightening things. But whatever happens, you absolutely must hold your nerve. OK? Because I can’t do this spell on my own, Rose. Do you understand? It needs both of us.’
Rose nodded, feeling a shiver of unease prickling the nape of her neck.
‘Good,’ said Medea, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a black drawstring pouch. She opened it and began sliding the vials inside. ‘You’re a brave girl and I’ve always known you were capable of the strongest magic.’
Rose watched her, the jungle noise outside seeming to fade. In the fuggy stillness of the hut, the soft chink of glass grew louder as Medea slipped the last of the vials into the pouch, drew the strings tight and set it down by Rose.
‘Don’t you need any?’ said Rose.
Medea shook her head. ‘No. You’ll take all of them when you go out over the water.’
Rose stared. ‘
Over
the water?’
‘Yes,’ said Medea. She stood up, smoothed her shorts and walked back to the pot. ‘You’ll have to be above the gold when you tip the Levitation Potion in.’
Rose felt a wave of fear ripple down her back. The lagoon had been scary enough when she’d simply been
gazing at it from the shore in the sunlight, long before Medea mentioned taking a moonlit paddle over it.
Medea tutted. ‘Well, there’s no need to look like that about it,’ she muttered. ‘If it makes you feel any better, whilst you’re pouring the elixir into the lagoon, I shall be dealing with far more unpleasant things on the shore.’
Unsurprisingly, this didn’t make Rose feel any better. Not even a teensy bit. For a moment she stared at the sorceress, wondering what could possibly be
far more unpleasant
than taking a trip over what was frankly a gigantic bowl of oil-black anaconda and caiman
gazpacho
.
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But Medea was already staring back into the pot.
The conversation was clearly over.
Around her, the smoke had changed colour, billowing in indigo curls, and as Rose watched, the sorceress’s face softened, the line of her mouth momentarily turning into a fond smile, before returning to its icy mask. When she looked up again, her eyes were as hard and grey as pebbles. Impatiently sweeping the room with a glance, she smoothed down her clothes and, primping her hair one last time, walked briskly to the door and glanced back over her shoulder.
‘Be sure you’re waiting here for me at six o’clock sharp.’
Rose opened her mouth to reply as the door slammed shut. For a few seconds she sat, bemused by the sorceress’s sudden exit, and, staring uneasily at the pouch of Levitation
Potion on the table, felt the memory of that dark water seeping back into her mind.
But, as she quickly scolded herself, this was what it had all been about and if she truly wanted her father back, then she’d have to get on with it, wouldn’t she? Do whatever she had to, however scary it seemed. Besides, why was she sitting here, wasting time and thinking about herself, when she still had Wat to find and use the Reversal Potion, tucked in her pocket, on him? Giving herself a brisk mental shake, she stood up, ready to leave.
Which was when the pot rumbled again.
Rose turned, realising that in her rush Medea had forgotten to snuff out the flames. She stood, braced for the door to fly back open, waiting for her to thump back in and put out the fire. And, when nothing happened, she walked over to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of the sorceress striding out between the huts towards the jungle.
Eager to sneak a peek before she left, Rose hurried over and peered into the pot. Inside, a thick lumpy sludge muttered like prehistoric swamp and, curious, Rose plucked up the peacock plume and tore off some tendrils, throwing them into the goo, the way Medea had.
Nothing changed.
Frustrated, she waited a few seconds more and then, thoroughly dismayed, tossed the feather back down on the floor. She didn’t have time for this. Not when she needed to find Wat. Thinking of the enormousness of the task ahead made her heart feel heavier than lead. Where was
he? Still at the lagoon? Keeping a lonely vigil at his grave? Or somewhere in between, lost and bewildered, in some patch of jungle that resembled every other patch of jungle around it? For a long moment she stood, recreating the horrified look on his face in her mind, seeing him again that last time, as he turned and stomped off into the trees in a flurry of lace and satin. Frowning, she imagined how unhappy and alone he must be and, curbing a fresh stab of guilt, turned to leave. Just as the pot let out an almighty belch.
Flinching from a flying gobbet, Rose peeped back in and was startled to see the mixture roll flat and lie completely still. Holding her breath, she stared as the surface began to sparkle with brilliant crystal colours, yellow and green and blue. Curls of purple smoke twisted from the surface as its colours merged and whirled, bouncing against the sides of the pot, before tumbling into patterns, shapes and finally a picture. Rose rubbed her eyes, at first wondering if she was imagining the familiar headstones, wonky and green with moss, basking beneath a perfect sky. But when she spied the croquet mallet, leaning against the buttress root at the edge of the clearing, she suddenly understood what the pot was for and that, somehow, thinking hard about Wat must have conjured this picture. Astonished, she stared down, knowing why the sorceress had been so obsessed by the smoking mixture. The brew must work like some sort of magical surveillance camera, she reasoned, enabling Medea to spy on whomever she wanted, and now, feeling
slightly sick, Rose forced herself to concentrate harder. She stared at the mallet again, certain that it meant Wat was somewhere close to the graveyard, and squinted about the scene for a shimmer of satin between the trees. When something golden caught her eye, twinkling at the edge of the picture, she felt her heart lift, sure that it must be a button or strip of brocade.
Except that it was bigger than either. Hard and rippled, it curled round and round like a winkle shell.
Twirling.
Glittering.
Ridged with ripples.
Feeling a strange lurch in her chest, she dragged her hair off her face and leaned closer for a better look.
‘Aries?’ she whispered, feeling utterly ridiculous.
How could he possibly be up on Earth? Here in the Amazon rainforest? And so close to Tatu? Confusion fogged her brain, muddying her mind, yet her eyes insisted that it was unmistakably and absolutely one of his horns.
A moment later, he stepped properly into view and she burst into laughter, thrilled to see the familiar curve of his jaw, his flaring black nostrils, his muzzle crumpled up in puzzlement as he stared at something on the ground.
‘Aries!’ she yelled, punching the air in delight.
Blinking, she wondered at the lop-sided harness, tied crudely around Aries’ girth. A lyre dangled over his rump. An ugly-looking statue poked out of a saddlebag. Then Alex stepped into the picture too, and Rose squealed again.
Leaning closer, she was amazed to see that he was
carrying what appeared to be a shield of living snakes. Most people, of course, would have felt alarmed at this. But not Rose, who giggled as the funny little green one dropped from the metal disc and squiggled over the earth. At least until a sudden flash of panic crossed her mind: was this what Medea had seen? The reason she’d been obsessed by the pot all morning and had left in such a hurry? Dread bristled in her chest, so hard and spiky that for a few seconds she could barely breathe, before a surge of logic lit up her brain, pointing out that the sorceress had actually headed into the jungle in the opposite direction from the graveyard.
Relieved, Rose grinned as Aries jabbed his hoof at something lying on the ground and swung his head up to talk to Alex. As they stared down, she peered closer too and felt her smile vanish. A heap of disturbed soil lay at their feet, and sliding her eyes sideways she saw that each of the Spaniards’ graves was ringed with silver stars, just like Wat’s had been when she and Medea had summoned him back
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