Bats Redux

They walked in single file through the monotonous, endless forest: Strega-Nonna, Titus, Pandora, and, some way behind, crashing through the trees, the hungry dragon.

“Are WEES no there yet?” it demanded, its voice, to Titus’s ears, growing ever more strident as the hours dragged by.

Not only was Strega-Nonna’s grip surprisingly strong for such an antique ancestor, Titus was stunned by her unstoppable energy as she dragged him behind her through the birchwood. Titus had lost track of time, but it felt as if they’d been walking for ages, and to his dismay he’d started stumbling and crashing into tree trunks, aware that the pain in his eye was growing worse. Not only that; it had spread to his other eye, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his sight was fading. Pandora was following him, and he was behind Strega-Nonna, both of them relying on the old lady to find the portal or whatever it was and take them back to their own time. However, Titus noticed that little by little it was growing dark; there was less daylight filtering down through the birch leaves, and the shadows were merging together into an endless gray fog. Even then, it hadn’t occurred to him what was really happening until Pandora stopped and turned round; at least, that’s what he assumed she’d done—he couldn’t actually see her properly—but her voice sounded like she was facing him, and she moaned something about wishing she’d brought sunglasses because the sun was too bright. Sun? Bright? He’d thought night was falling. That was when he was overcome by such a wave of fear that he walked straight into a tree, just like he was…blind.

At this point, the giant dragon bringing up the rear of their little portal-seeking procession nearly stood on him, and for a moment chaos ruled, during which time Titus learned a few very choice oaths he never thought to hear, especially not from the mouth of his sweet little great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. Then Strega-Nonna seized him by the hand and forced him to half run, half walk beside her, all the time talking nonstop and filling Titus’s terrible darkness with words. Three-quarters of what she said sounded like complete nonsense, but now and then would come a phrase or an idea that would take Titus’s breath away.

“…Of course, most of this is your younger sister’s doing. She was born with the Gift, as you know, but the Gift is a terrible thing to be given to one so young. It puts so much raw power into such a tiny, untried vessel. Like the ginger beer your great-great-grandfather tried to make when he was a boy. Decanted it into earthenware jars and sealed them up tight with corks and beeswax…two weeks later they blew apart—too much fizz in too small a space. That’s what I mean about the Gift. Is that dragon still behind us? Good. Useful creatures, dragons. We’ll be needing all our beasts about us, boy. Mark my words. Now. Back to your sister…where was I? Ah, yes. Yes. Her spells. Have you noticed that she weaves her spells out of what she knows and loves? Like a little magpie, taking shiny things to make its own. Just as she does, collecting shiny, sparkly things to weave her spells with. Except your little sister collects stories, not things. Heaven knows which story we’re in just now—in this wood, the wolves beyond, and you, with your poor frozen eyes…. It’s a mix of fairy tales, all stirred together. I think it’s ‘Red Riding Hood’ combined with ‘The Snow Queen,’ for which we must give thanks, because last summer, if you recall, thanks to her, we had ‘Thumbelina’ mixed up with ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ and that was a trial. Keep up, laddie, you’ve much to do before you rest; miles to go and promises to keep. Did I mention that you’re the spitting image of my son? It’s miraculous how the centuries can pass, the sands of time sifting over the graves of those we loved, shifting and settling until our dead become part of the land in which they lie, with their cities crumbled and forgotten, their names vanished from the Earth, and then, as if pre-ordained, a child will come, bearing the face of one whom we never thought to see…ever again.”

Strega-Nonna stopped and turned round and placed her quivering hand on Titus’s chest. Titus felt his heart leap, as if the old woman had sent a bolt of electricity through him. Abruptly, she grabbed his hands and put them on either side of her face.

“See? Or since you cannot see, feel,” she demanded. “And you took me for a dried and withered crone. Yet even from this desiccated twig comes some sap. Feel this water, Titus, son of Luciano. Know that you are the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Raphael di Clemente Borgia, and you not only carry him in your blood, you also bear his features as your birthright. Feel my old woman’s tears and, with them, melt the ice that binds your heart and mind. You are not blind, but frozen.”

Titus would have fallen then, collapsed on the forest floor, had it not been for Strega-Nonna’s clasping his shoulders and forcing him to stay upright to feel the full force of her words.

“Aaah,” he groaned, hit by a wave of the most unbearable sorrow, finding himself helpless to resist as he was dragged under by a riptide of grief that, in all his sheltered thirteen years on the planet, he hadn’t known existed. He was swept up in the agony suffered by countless parents who had watched their children die, the pain of lovers torn apart by death, the endless mourning of Strega-Nonna’s centuries of loneliness as, time and time again, she defied Death and, in doing so, lost everything she had ever held dear. His hands wet with her tears, her face growing wet with his own, Titus stood weeping, blinded, and dumbfounded as feelings he couldn’t even begin to define washed through him.

“What?” he managed, his voice unrecognizable.

“Don’t be ashamed of your tears, child,” Strega-Nonna whispered. “Be proud. Even the best of grown men weep. With your tears you melt the icy enchantment that binds your heart and soul.”

Titus blinked at the old lady, trying to bring her into focus through the shimmering dazzle of tears that clung to his lashes. If ever he’d wished for the privacy afforded by sunglasses, now was the time. Unaccustomed to crying, his eyes felt as if they’d shriveled up like raisins. And it was bright. Overhead, sunshine was beating down through the tree canopy, spangling him with lozenges of light, of—

“NONNA!” he roared, so loudly that the dragon tiptoeing behind him gave a startled snort and set a tree alight with its nasal flamethrowers. “Nonna! IcanseeIcanseeIcansee!” And to everyone’s surprise, especially his own, Titus wrapped his arms around Strega-Nonna and spun her round in a circle, yelling, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” before planting a smacking kiss on her pleated brow and gently returning her to the ground.

“What was all that about?” Pandora hissed as they raced through the woods after the now remarkably sprightly Strega-Nonna.

“I, um—can I explain later?” Titus gasped, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping up with the old woman’s accelerated pace. “I’m not—I’m, ah…I don’t think I understand…yet.”

The light grew brighter as the forest thinned out; then suddenly they emerged from the trees, out onto a stony path cut into the side of a hill. To their right, the land fell away, down to where a stream wound through rocks and clumps of grass and heather. Ahead, the path was intimidatingly steep, a narrow deer track, well-defined but so awash with water that it appeared to be more of a waterfall than a footpath. Undeterred, Strega-Nonna struck off up the hillside, her feet splashing through puddles and sending small rocks bouncing downhill to where the others labored breathlessly behind. Higher and higher they climbed, until they reached a coire scooped into the hillside where, mercifully, Strega-Nonna stopped, and moments later, red-faced and breathless, Titus, Pandora, and the dragon caught up. Tarantella emerged, blinking, from the depths of Pandora’s shirt and scanned her surroundings.

“Dear me,” she said, eyes swiveling disconcertingly in several directions at once.

“What now?” Pandora glared at her.

“Oh…nothing.” Tarantella sighed. “Just…well…Oh, come on, team. Is this it? This godforsaken spot is the reason we’ve been running flat out for what feels like several lifet—”

“We? Running?” Titus interrupted. “Spider, the only thing about you that’s been running are your mouthparts.”

“It’s not a godforsaken spot either, spider,” said a scratchy little voice. “It’s our blessed, heaven-sent home, actually.”

Pandora gasped out loud. Suddenly, several things fell into place. She knew where she was. Exactly where she was. Last time she’d been here, in Coire Crone—“—was last summer, when you were hiding from that dreadful little terrorist. Welcome back, child.”

“Pandora?” Titus’s voice vibrated, pitched high as if strung too tightly. “Who is that? Who’s speaking? What is this place?”

“Relative of yours, I take it?” the voice continued. “Better hope he’s not afraid of bats, hmm?” And with no warning, the sky above their heads darkened as thousands of ragged black shapes took to the air.