Aries wasn’t grinning.
Nor was his mind electrified by hope, fake or otherwise. Because as Rose was saying goodnight to the sorceress before going upstairs to her marshmallow-soft bed, he lay sprawled on the stinking floor of the stall, tears wobbling down his muzzle into the soggy straw beneath his chin. He’d been like this for the past two hours, ever since Olaf had spoken to him. Because what the Icelandic had told him was the single most terrible thing he’d heard since Drako’s rumbling snores had echoed through the trees on the night Jason crept into the Forest of Kolkis.
Overhead, the machinery droned relentlessly on, combing and spinning wool, grinding against the fitful bleats of the sheep as they slept, huddled in their stalls. Looking over the tangle of wool and limbs, through the forest of horns, he made out Olaf’s thick golden-brown pair, rippled like cockleshells. Now he understood why the Icelandic had been so unfriendly. After all, had it not been for Aries and his fleece, everyone would still be blissfully grazing in the pastures and mountains that Medea had snatched them from months ago. He stared at a tin bath lying upturned in the walkway, its sides pocked with hoof marks. Beyond it, a vicious-looking machine hung like a bad-tempered bat on the wall, crackling and spitting out flashes of green light. Aries tried to imagine the sheep’s miserable existence down here, day after day after day, as the sorceress tested her endless mixes of experiment and magic to make a new golden fleece. Then Aries saw Toby, nestled against his mother’s side, and hated Medea with all his heart.
Just wondering about what awful thing Medea had been doing with his fleece made him feel sick. He thought back over all those minutes and days and months that he’d yearned for it, longing for its softness on his back so that he could be magnificent again, only to discover that all that time she’d been twisting it through her small white hands and using it, for what?
How did you use a fleece?
He sighed, thinking back to how sure he’d been that morning in the kitchen at Rose’s house that Medea had sent a harpy to stop them from taking the fleece away from her. It seemed laughable now.
Whimpering into his forelegs, Aries realised just how stupid he’d been. Blinded by his own vanity and pride, he’d walked straight into Medea’s trap. Worse, much worse, he’d dragged Alex and Rose with him. If only he’d listened to Alex in the first place. His heart tightened as he thought back to the boy, dappled by sunlight in the Skeleton Garden, reasoning with Aries, asking him to reconsider, to see sense, not to try to come back to Earth. And of how Alex had still come with him, knowing it was stupid and dangerous, how he’d felled the harpy, saving Rose from her, and of how hard he’d fought Pandemic to try and save them all. Wonderful, practical Alex who could always see so much more clearly than Aries could, driven by his own stupid obsession. Alex, the best friend he’d ever had in life or death and who, he now realised for the first time, had never even seen Aries when he’d worn his fleece.
A teardrop rolled off his muzzle and pooled with the others. Alex hadn’t been dazzled by a golden coat or stupefied with admiration because a ram could fly. He loved Aries, for who he was on the inside and for the bald, lumpy and ridiculous-looking ram he was on the outside, too.
Only in the crystal clarity that spending a night in a sorceress’s stinking cellar with a hundred other sheep brings did Aries understand: there were some things that were more important than his fleece. (And yes, I know. I never thought I would ever see myself type those words, either.) The thought that he had been so blind to what was truly priceless right there in front of his muzzle all these years brought him out in shivery goosebumps.
If they ever returned home, he now promised himself, he’d do all of Alex’s most horrible jobs for him. He’d muck out the Minotaur, he’d drain the smelly water from Hydra’s tank, he’d even chip the rock-hard splatter off the floor of the Stymphalian birds’ aviary. And he’d never complain about sore hooves or how the smell made his nose ache again.
If they ever returned home.
The words sounded hollow and hopeless in his mind. Lying on the filthy floor he began to feel a deep ache in his belly. Swollen and sour, it hurt like the time he’d been poisoned by eating clover, when Alex had poured warm water and castor oil down his throat to save his life. Except that tonight’s pain was sharper and all the water and castor oil in the world would never cure it.
Carpet.
It’s a much worthier use of a fleece than an ingredient for Medea’s magic. Not that Alex and Hex had time to appreciate the sumptuous Turkish weave on the staircase as they sprinted and slithered towards Rose’s room on the top floor.
That’s right, Alex and Hex, because Alex’s idea, the one he’d whispered to Hex in the crypt, was for the mamba to betray Medea and help them instead. In return, Alex promised to take Hex back to the Underworld (after all, King Hades had always allowed just a few of the living to stay down there – just ask Persephone) to nest amongst Greek orchids on a diet of ghost locusts and bogey-bugs. Hex hadn’t taken much persuading and quickly made the same choice we all would, given the alternative of moving into the boa constrictor tank at London Zoo.
Alex dived onto the landing behind Hex, skidded around the corner and into the hallway that led to Rose’s room. And froze.
Mannequins lined the walls.
Stationed like some creepy guard of honour, they stood in two rows, facing each across the hall, positioned between the doorways. Alex felt his skin prickle as he walked past them, shuddering at their hard pink-white faces, their blank glass eyes. Each one was dressed in a unique outfit: a fluttery white dress, a cream gown with a neckline of velvet roses, a Roman soldier’s uniform draped by a purple cloak, a dark blue uniform piped with gold with one sleeve tucked into its jacket.
Hex stopped at the far end of the hall and looked back at Alex.
“They’re copiesss of the clothesss the mistressss herssself made for her ssspecial clientsss,” he hissed. “Marilyn Monroe, Marie Antoinette, Juliusss Caesssar and Nelssson. There are ssseveral more downssstairs, in the mistress’sss locked roomsss.”
Even though the names didn’t mean anything to Alex, the mannequins’ eerie stares made him feel horribly uncomfortable. He took a step closer to the last one for a better look. Dressed in a long blue naval coat with a gold starburst medal on its chest, gold epaulettes and buttons, and wearing a white pigtailed wig, the figure looked faintly displeased by the boy’s interest and for a fleeting moment Alex experienced the weird sensation that it was staring back. Scolding himself for being so foolish, he reached out and gingerly touched the cloth of the old coat. Dusty with age, it smelled of must and seawater.
“That’sss a copy of the Admiral’sss coat,” said Hex, sliding up the glossy white door of Rose’s room. “Wore it to lead the Britisssh Navy in the Battle of Trafalgar, two hundred yearsss ago.”
“And the original?” said Alex.
“On disssplay at the naval mussseum in Greenwich with a bullet hole through itsss chessst.”
Shocked, Alex snatched back his hand and hurried after Hex’s tail as it vanished into Rose’s room.
Rose was sound asleep. In the buttery glow of night lights dotted around her room, she lay as serene as a princess in a fairy tale, her face creamy, her hair fanned out in waves across the pillow. How lovely, you might think, for our two heroes to discover her safe and enjoy a moment of calm before waking her and leading her to safety. However, don’t. Remember that this is a book of gloom and ghastly happenings. It doesn’t do five minutes peace and a nice sit down, muffins or cups of tea, for that matter.
Hex quickly arranged himself like a draught excluder, quivering his tongue under the door to pick up any scent of danger, while Alex tried to wake Rose. And I mean tried. He whispered, cajoled and pinched. He pulled the duvet up, down, off, on. He thumped the bedsprings and the headboard and pummelled the pillows. Finally, seizing a nearby bunch of roses from their vase he was just about to upend its cold water on her when Hex shot through his legs and vanished out onto the balcony. Straining to listen, Alex heard muffled footsteps approaching. He dropped down and tried to roll under the bed, but it was too low. The wardrobe was too full and the dresser was pushed flat up against the wall, which left only one choice. He threw himself over the balcony rail and hung down over the garden just as the bedroom door clicked open.
Hanging on by his fingers, Alex saw Pandemic’s shiny black shoes walk around Rose’s bed and stop. There was a goaty grunt and he lifted the foot of the bed off the floor and dropped it again.
Rose didn’t wake up.
“Sound asleep, Mistress,” said Pandemic.
Small feet in grey boots appeared around the bed and clicked over to the balcony doors at which Hex shot over the edge and dropped inside Alex’s T-shirt in terror. Biting his lip, Alex willed himself not to cry out, which, as anyone who’s had a ticklish snake squirm down his or her shirt will know, is really rather hard. He watched Medea’s feet, willing her not to see his fingers, white in the moonlight, clutching the sill. Luckily for Hex and him she didn’t. Unluckily she closed the balcony doors and bolted them.
“Now what?” whispered Hex, sticking his head out of the boy’s collar.
Beneath them Fred crashed through the shrubbery, a butterfly net slung over one shoulder, a wicker basket in his other hand, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Snakey snakey!”
Hex tucked his head back in.
“I won’t let him get you,” Alex whispered down his now trembling T-shirt.
He watched as Fred stubbed his toe on a statue of a rather mean-looking dolphin, used lots of rude Cyclops words that won’t be repeated here and finally disappeared around the corner of the villa. Then, gingerly, turning his attention to the drainpipe that ran down the side of the building, Alex began stretching his arm out towards it.
And, I know. After all this horridness you probably wanted this chapter to end on a note of triumph. Well, I’m sorry about that.