Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume II

by M. Y. Halidom

It was the only place at hand, and had it not been for the excessive inclemency of the weather, I might have thought twice before choosing such a place of refuge, for this was the abode of Madge Mandrake as she was called—a personage feared by all, far and wide, both young and old. She was renowned in the villages round about for her skill in telling fortunes, in concocting drugs of every description, from love philtres to the deadliest poisons, not less than for malice in bringing to pass all sorts of trouble upon those who had had the misfortune to offend her. If a cow died, it was Madge's doing; if the milk turned sour, or the crops were blighted, Madge was accused of it; if a person died suddenly, or an accident happened to anyone, Madge likewise had the credit of it. Her dwelling, therefore, was shunned by all, and when she ventured to walk abroad and to mix in crowded thoroughfares, she had but to lift her crutch to send the whole populace flying helter-skelter, for fear of being enchanted into unclean beasts, reptiles, and other loathsome things.

You may imagine then, gentlemen, my feelings; though naturally courageous at finding myself obliged to seek shelter near the house of so formidable a personage, I did my utmost to make no stir, so as not to betray my whereabouts.

There was a small window that looked from the cottage into the shed, but so begrimed with dirt that I should not have been able to take a peep into the house, had it not been for a pane of glass that was wanting. Through this I was enabled to see the interior of this unhallowed dwelling without being perceived. Before I ventured to peep through it I heard two voices conversing together.

I held my breath, and listened. The former was the harsh, cracked voice of the crone herself; the latter was evidently that of a man, and appeared to belong to a person of culture, for the tones were soft and modulated. I began to fancy I recognised them; nor was I mistaken, as you shall hear soon.

"Well, Master de Chevron, and how have you been progressing in your work since I saw you last?" said the crone.

"Satisfactorily enough for my purpose, my good Madge," replied the other voice. "I have brought it with me for your approval."

Here the speaker, whom I could now recognise as no other than Richard de Chevron, drew from under his cloak something carefully wrapt up in tissue paper. Having unwound the paper, he discovered a small statue of a man, about a foot in height, apparently in wax.

"Why, you have got it as like as could be!" exclaimed the crone. "Yes, that is John Archer, sure enough; there is no mistaking him."

My curiosity began to be roused, and Claribel's apprehensions for John's safety rushed across my mind. Though I was not near to the figure, I could see plainly that it was intended for a likeness of John Archer, and that it carried a gun over one arm. The hag seized the image in one hand with a sort of fiendish glee, and commenced mumbling some inarticulate sounds.

I trembled from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, for I had heard of this way of working mischief on one's enemies from afar, and I feared lest some dreadful harm should happen to poor John, so I offered up a hasty prayer for his safety.