Hawk and hound, p.1
Hawk and Hound, page 1
HAWK AND HOUND
Marie and the Mouse King: Book Two
Irene Davis
2022
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
Hawk and Hound © 2022 Bonnie Loshbaugh
E-edition published worldwide 2022 © Bonnie Loshbaugh
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN 978-1-941633-12-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-941633-11-3 (e-book)
Editing by Sarah Pesce
Book cover and interior design by Bonnie Loshbaugh
Published by Skookum Creek Publishing
Visit the author's website at www.irenedavisbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For everyone who wants to fly.
CHAPTER ONE
I SIT UP in bed, trying to remember what pulled me from sleep back to the waking world.
Was it something in a dream? I’ve fallen into dreams, and fallen out of them, more than once. This isn’t one of those times.
The fire is out, and there’s a chill to the air in my bedchamber. The moon lays silvered shadows across the floor, making the shapes of the furnishings uncanny. My chair, my dressing table—the mirror shows something I can’t quite identify from this angle.
There’s no sound in the night. Just the strange stillness of the small hours when everyone is asleep and none of the usual noises of the city filter through the windows and walls of my family’s house.
I pull the bedclothes around me, intending to snuggle down into sleep again. When I wake, there will be the bustle of horses and wagons in the street, the murmur of voices in the house, maybe even an early spring bird singing outside my window.
Before I close my eyes, though, one of the shadows moves. I stare at it, my fingers suddenly cold against the quilted coverlet on the bed. Did I imagine it?
No, for there it is again: a shadowy form sliding over the floor.
It has the shape of a man, but no man should be in my bedchamber in the middle of the night. Dietrich Lang, maybe—but he’s far away in the winter garrison, and he won’t skulk in the shadows when he returns. He’ll stride through the front door in company with my brother.
The figure approaches my bed, gliding from shadow to shadow without taking a single step. The moonlight doesn’t illuminate its face. Maybe it doesn’t have one.
I hold myself in absolute stillness, hoping it will dissolve or simply pass me by. I could scream. My parents would come to save me from the terrors of the night, as if I were still a child. But if they come running and this thing has already gone, they’ll only add it to the long list of unbelievable stories I’ve told.
For the first time in many years, I miss the days when I shared a bedchamber with my older sister Luise. Whatever is in my room is ten thousand times worse for my being alone with it.
The shadow-shape is beside my bed now, a blur of deeper darkness beside a pool of cold silver light on the carpet. I hold my breath and try to control a shiver.
"Marie," it says, and I know that voice.
"Godfather Drosselmeier?" I whisper on an uncertain exhale. "But you’re dead."
"What of it?" the shadow asks.
"You cannot be here," I say, willing it to be true. He was turned into a mouse, and my cat Maunzi carried him away. I heard the crunch of his bones breaking—and now his ghost is here, in the house where he met his fate.
"Where is my key?" it asks.
The key—the little golden key I picked up from the floor after I banished Godfather Drosselmeier from the Kingdom of Dolls. It was the last thing he was seeking before he died.
“What use is it to you?” I ask. I can’t bring myself to say what I’m really thinking: What use are earthly objects to the dead?
"Give it to me," says the ghost.
I shake my head. “I don’t have it.” Not with me, anyway. It’s in the pocket of my winter coat, a strange talisman of all the adventure that happened at Christmas last year. Sometimes I rub it between my fingers, just to feel the solid metal shape of it and remember the existence of the nutcracker’s realm.
“It is here,” the ghost says insistently. “My key. You must have it.”
“I can’t give it to you,” I say, trying to fill the words with confidence.
The ghost shifts from side to side, as if it might flow forward onto the bed. If I don’t give up the key, what will it do? Will it grasp me, or pass through my skin and chill my blood? Even the thought of its undead touch raises goosebumps on my flesh. I try to remember any stories I’ve heard about ghosts, but nothing comes to mind—I’ve never liked such tales and rarely stayed to listen to them.
“The Mouse King,” it hisses.
“No!” I say quickly. “He doesn’t have it.”
“Then where?” the ghost asks, its dry voice cracking with anger.
I don’t want the ghost to go after Lang, or, worse, to remember that my niece Clara was there in the Kingdom of Dolls too. I have to distract it somehow.
In life, Godfather was always keen to explain how his creations worked and what his tools were for. He told my brother and me the tale of the nutcracker and the mouse king, after all, even his own part in the whole bloody affair. If I can start the ghost on an explanation of what clever clockwork device it made for the key to wind, or what arduous journey it undertook to get the key, then perhaps it will forget its thought about Lang.
“What is the key for?” I ask desperately.
A chill silence is the ghost’s only answer. The moment stretches on long enough that I yawn, then blink desperately to clear my vision. Has the ghost gone?
No, it’s still there, black and brooding. I don’t want it to search out Lang. Or Clara—I can’t let anything else frighten her. She suffered enough terror with the nutcracker and the giant Leckermaul. A minute ago, I was wishing as hard as I could that the ghost would disappear. Now I want to keep it here, discover its purpose, and make certain it won’t go frightening anyone else in its quest for the key that lies secreted in my coat in the great wardrobe downstairs.
“What is it for?” I ask again.
"Keys are for opening locks and winding springs," the ghost says finally.
That’s hardly any information, but at least it made an answer. "Which locks does your key open?" I ask. "Which springs does it wind?"
"It’s mine," the ghost says. I recognize the peevishness in its voice, an emotion my brother Fritz and I often inspired in our godfather. Neither of us—Fritz especially—were ever grateful enough for the clockwork toys he brought us to look at. But the ghost can’t make clockworks now, nor could it use a key to wind toys or open locks.
Neither has it come any closer to me since it first spoke. Why doesn’t it just float over and make a further threat? Something holds it back, and the idea makes me bold.
Slowly, I release my tight grip on the bedclothes and sit back more comfortably. "And what would you do with your key if you had it back, Godfather?" I ask.
The ghost sways again, menacing me but still not actually approaching.
“My key,” it says, but there is a note of uncertainty in its voice.
“You don’t know, do you?” I say. “You are nothing but an echo.”
"Give it to me," the ghost says again.
"No," I say. "You haven’t answered my questions."
The more it presses, the more curious I become. Suppose the key does have a use beyond winding Godfather’s clockworks? What would he have done with it if he hadn’t met his untimely end as the cat’s plaything? Nothing good, I expect. I could get out of bed, fetch the key, and hand it over to the ghost, but I don’t think I will. Godfather lost the key in the dream world, meddling where he shouldn’t have been, and I found it. It’s mine now, and I won’t give it up to the wandering echo of a grim old man.
The tale of Godfather Drosselmeier’s life has ended, but mine hasn’t. I intend to have plenty more adventures, and perhaps I’ll find a way to make use of the key. I haven’t gone back to his workshop since that terrible cold day in midwinter, but maybe I should go and look. What other magic might I discover?
There is a small creak from my bedchamber door. I know the sound well: it means Maunzi has pushed it with his head, opening it just wide enough for the cat to slip through.
"Tell me about the key, Godfather,” I say. There must be a story behind the key, if I can only find the way to trigger its telling from the ghost. “Is it magic?"
The ghost moves agitatedly. "My key," it says. "My key."
Then Maunzi leaps up on the bed, and the ghost shrieks. The high, unearthly sound pierces through the night stillness. The cat pins his ears back and returns a full-throated feline battle cry. The ghost shrieks again as Maunzi leaps at its shadowy form—and then it’s gone.
The cat lands on the empty carpet in the pool of moonlight. He growls, but there’s nothing for him to battle against. Instead, his tail lashes the air angrily as he looks about the darkened room.
I sit frozen in bed for long minutes, peering into the shadows and waiting for the shade to return. When it doesn
His spine is stiff, and his fur stands out like a chimney brush. He meows, sounding more mournful than bloodthirsty now. I coax him back to the bed and sit with him on my lap.
Both of us continue staring into the night. I smooth the cat’s fur and think about the key, remembering its shape and feel in my hand.
The key is no bigger than my little finger. Whatever it opens must be small. Maybe it does nothing more than wind one of Godfather’s clockwork creations. But which clockwork, and what would make it so important that his ghost would return to seek it? I still can’t decide if the ghost is truly Godfather Drosselmeier, or merely an echo of his last thoughts. Either way, it has managed to convince me that the key is far more valuable than I’d guessed.
The patches of moonlight slide across the floor. Maunzi gradually relaxes into sleep. I let my fingers rest in his warm fur.
I wish Lang were here. If anyone I know would have an idea what to do about a ghost or a magical key, it would be him.
Lang promised he would return to me in the spring, and the snow is nearly gone. He and Fritz and the rest of the soldiers must come soon. They will have a last leave before the next campaign begins. Lang will come and teach me to fly, and if the ghost returns, we will face it down together, as we rescued Clara from the Kingdom of Dolls together.
Despite my unsettled thoughts, I fall asleep again sometime before dawn. When I wake, my mother stands over me.
"I don’t know how you can sleep so late,” she says, tugging the coverlet away from me and shaking her head. “Breakfast was over ages ago! Time to rise and dress. I'll not have a daughter of mine spending her days in bed."
I blink at her and rub my face. Maunzi is gone, and spring sunshine is spilling from the blue sky into the room. My body is stiff from sleeping sitting up, and my neck is sore. I consider asking my mother if she heard anything peculiar in the night—surely Maunzi’s furious yowl must have woken someone else in the house—but I discard the idea immediately.
If I try to tell her I was visited by a ghost, she’ll only shake her head and tell me to put it out of my mind. My parents have always believed that my strange adventures are only fantastic and childish dreams. I can’t convince them of the truth of my experiences. Instead, I stay silent in hopes that I can at least convince them that I am a woman grown and not a child.
"Yes, Mother," I say and get out of bed.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER MY MOTHER leaves, I dress and hurry downstairs. No one is in the front vestibule, so I open the wardrobe and feel about until I can slip my hand into the pocket of my coat. My fingers close around cool metal.
Quickly, I unclasp the golden chain I wear about my neck and thread the key on it so that it rests next to the ring Lang gave me. Then, I tuck them both beneath my bodice and head to the kitchen. Even if breakfast has been cleared away from the dining room, I know Dora will have saved me some food.
After I’ve eaten, I go out into the city. At first, I begin automatically walking toward the Wendelsterns’ home, where I’ll find my best friend Trudy. Before I’m halfway, though, I stop and move to the side of the street.
I’ve told Trudy the story of my first and second adventures in the Kingdom of Dolls, but I haven’t told anyone about the golden key. There’s a part of me that wants to have a secret just because it’s a secret, not because no one would believe it. The key is real. I could hand it to Trudy and let her hold it, but I find I want to keep it for myself a bit longer. Besides, if I go to Godfather’s workshop first, perhaps I will have more of a story to tell her.
I turn and head up a different street, then stop again. Clara. What if the ghost went from my bedchamber to the nursery where my niece lay sleeping? I should run to my sister’s house. No, I should run home, find Maunzi, and take the cat to Luise’s.
But how will I explain to my sister that I want her to keep the cat locked in the nursery? Or to Clara herself? I don’t want Clärchen to think there is anything to worry about.
And aside from scolding me for sleeping late, my mother was in good humor this morning. Luise would have sent a message to our house if there was any trouble. And I know she keeps a close eye on her daughter after the terrifying day Clara spent in the Kingdom of Dolls.
I take a deep breath and smooth my hands over the blue wool of my coat, feeling the way the fabric has warmed in the bright sunshine. I am the one who has the key. If the ghost comes for anyone, it will come for me. Or for Lang, if it remembers the grudge it holds against Lang’s family.
The key—I want to take it out and examine it, except now it is hanging around my neck, closer and yet less accessible than when it was in my coat pocket. What does the key wind? It seems too small to unlock any door or padlock. More likely it goes to one of the clockworks that Godfather left behind, but which one?
If there’s an answer, it will be in the workshop. I start walking again.
I wish I could tell myself that the ghost’s visit last night was nothing more than a dream. I’ve tried to blend my life back into the everyday cares of my family and friends and not think too much about the magic I know exists in the world—but I’ve kept the golden key in my pocket and Lang’s ring close to my heart since the end of our adventures at Christmastime. Now, it’s time to see if I can learn a few of the secrets my godfather left behind.
I try not to look into the shadows as I pass through the city. The sky above me is bright. The meltwater from the last of the snow shines molten silver-white in the sun. New plants are pushing up, bright and green against last year’s dead remnants. Lambs and chicks are preparing to come into the world.
I’m ready for Lang to return. He hasn’t written to me, but I have his ring. I can still hear his promise to teach me to fly.
Again, I look up into the sky where the spring sun is burning away a few wisps of puffy cloud. What would it be like to take to the wing and slide through the air with the spring wind? I close my eyes for a moment, calling up the memory of Lang slicing through the sky and harrying the giant away from the nutcracker’s ruined castle tower. That will be me. I will fly and swoop and go out into the world.
When I open my eyes, Godfather Drosselmeier’s workshop is before me, the building held close between its neighbors. The wooden sign, carved with the face of a clock, moves slightly in the breeze. This is where he lived and worked, repairing clocks and making the mechanical toys that both fascinated and disturbed me in my childhood. This is where the nutcracker fled after his disastrous duel with Lang, and where Clara was taken into the Kingdom of Dolls.
Other houses have everything open to let the spring air in and the staleness of winter out, but the windows of the workshop are shuttered, and the door is closed. I try to imagine what it will be inside: dark and chill, musty after being closed up for so many months. It will be full of shadows—and what will the shadows be filled with?
Maunzi frightened the ghost out of my bedchamber, but where would it have gone, except to crouch and rustle here, in the darkness of its own domain?
I hesitate in the street, looking at the remnant crust of ice on the front step. There is no sign of footprints on the slick surface. No one else has dared to come here and disturb whatever is inside the workshop. What clues will Godfather have left behind?
I step up, and the ice cracks to wet shards beneath my boots. With my heart pounding in my ears, I press the latch—and it doesn’t open.
I stand in the slush and look at the iron lock. My heart is pounding, the blood rushing loudly in my ears. At Christmastime, nothing stopped me and Fritz from entering to look for Godfather Drosselmeier, his nephew, and little Clara. Did Godfather lock the door one last time before he came to our house to ask me and Lang about his key? Did someone else close it up after he failed to return home?
I’m not sure if I feel more relieved or disappointed that I don’t know where the rest of Godfather’s keys are. He must have had others. The little golden key is far too small to even bother trying on the door. Anyone passing by would laugh at me—or demand to know where I’d gotten the key from. I want to learn more about the key, but the lingering memory of the ghost’s midnight visit makes me shiver despite the warm spring sun.
