Chapter 11

A String of Jelly Beans

A large spider appeared on the wall in front of them. Fred leapt back, scrambling for his ladle. He brought it down swiftly, but the creature darted out of range. Fred's spoon bounced off the plaster of the shop wall, leaving a small dent. The spider's plump, pink lips curled upwards into a grotesque imitation of a human smile.

"Naughty, naughty!" it said.

"Lamb-kin!" cried Fred. Eight red eyes swivelled towards them. Lamb-kin opened his disgusting pink maw, shook his head and started to recite in a breathy, sing-song voice:

"Attend the tale of the Midnight Witch!

Her skin is white and her eyes leak pitch,

She's coming to get you...

Unless you can bring her a gift!

She'll sever your head and set your soul adrift.

The Midnight Witch, the Midnight Witch,

The Midnight Witch in the Farmhouse."

Lamb-kin did a strange dip with his legs, like an awkward attempt to curtsey. Fred and Joan stared.

"Everyone's a critic," it muttered. Lamb-kin blew a long, wet, raspberry at them, his lips flapping with the passage of air. He disappeared in a flurry of floating flatulent motes.

"Right," said Fred. He put the ladle back in his bag matter of factly. "I suppose that means it's time we got on with our quest to vanquish the witch. Who did we have to go and see again?"

"Gob the Weaver," said Joan.

"And what's all this "gift" nonsense?"

"Well, last time I was able to buy us time by giving her my hair and your trousers," said Joan. "After some negotiation. She said she liked presents. I have a feeling that won't cut it this time."

"Bunch of flowers? Perhaps? Cinnamon toasted frog's toes? Chocolates infused with our blood? What do cannibal witches like anyway? I'm guessing some basil for the kitchen window sill won't make her happy."

"Probably not," said Joan, pulling a face. "Hopefully Gob can give us some hints."

"I was hoping we just had to level up a bit," said Fred, mournfully, "and then hit her a bit. You know – with our shiny new weapons."

"Shiny new weapons wouldn't hurt," said Joan. "Come on."

They asked around a little, and got directions easily enough. After a short walk into the farmland surrounding Merry Plebbingtons, they located Gob's cottage. The wizened old man was seated in front of a loom, bathed in a puddle of sunshine. He looked up as they approached and beamed, toothily.

"Welcome travellers!" he said, laying down his shuttle. "Can I interest you in some cloth?"

Joan explained their quest. Gob's smile broadened and he got up, and shook both of their hands with some vigour,

"You are here about my daughter! Praise the Dungeon!"

"Your daughter?" said Joan uncertainly. "Your daughter is the Midnight Witch?"

"She always was a bit of a man-eater," Gobd said, chortling into his sleeve. He wiped away a tear. "Always one for the lads..."

"Showed cannibalistic tendencies growing up did she?" asked Fred, plonking himself down on a nearby barrel and crossing his legs as judgmentally as he knew how.

"How did...er...your daughter become a witch?" asked Joan.

"Well, she was always into witching," said Gob. "Nothing wrong with witching. Fine career for a strong-minded woman, witching! So many practical applications!" He looked appraisingly at Joan in her new robe. "I see you met Joe," he said. "Fine witch there! Does amazing things with a needle and thread! I sold her the material for that robe, and look how lovely it is now." He squinted. "Dirt repelling charms and everything woven into the seams. Beautiful!"

"Okay," said Fred, from his barrel. "But is haunting innocent travellers and threatening to eat them a fine witchy career?"

"Oh no!" Gob looked shocked. "No, she only did that after she died. Her spirit is angry! That's why it does my heart such good to see such a couple of fine adventurers! With your help, my darling Myrtha can finally find peace!"

"So how did she come to be a ghost?"

"A pants stealing ghost..." muttered Fred.

"Ah, ‘tis a long and tragic tale!" Gob sighed deeply and settled back on his stool.

"Oh, glory," said Fred.

"This is serious," said Joan, elbowing him in the side. "You won't think it's funny when we are standing in front of the witch and you've run out of things to bargain with."

"Sort of like a very unsexy game of strip poker... Oh alright, alright. Sorry, Gob, please tell us the tale."

"'Tis a long and tragic tale," repeated Gob, staring off into space as if Fred had not spoken. "Not that long ago my lovely Myrtha was engaged to Simon the Baker, down in Merry Plebbingtons. On the afternoon of their wedding they had a huge argument..." he trailed off, still gazing at nothing.

"What about?" prompted Joan.

"Catering," said Gob the Weaver, turning sorrowful eyes on Joan. "That's what Simon says anyway. A silly argument about puddings! So sad. All I know is she never arrived for her wedding. We found her, dead, her body cold. Her beautiful gown was stained red, I'll never forget it." He shuddered.

"Did her fiancé murder her?" asked Fred, a little shocked.

"No!" said Gob, "he says not." Fred and Joan exchanged glances.

"Seems a little convenient?" suggested Joan.

"Well, he was standing in front of a church full of people when it happened," said Gob. "So it can't have been him."

"But the argument?" said Fred.

"That was before," said Gob. "A mere disagreement. Being a Baker by profession, the quality of the tarts is important to him."

"Why wouldn't Myrtha want quality tarts?" asked Joan.

"She was always more of a pudding person," said Gob, sniffing into a handkerchief.

"So she was just ...dead? How did she die? Stabbed?"

"No," said Gob. "There was no mark on her body. She was lying there as peacefully as if she was sleeping. Like an angel! So sad! So sad! We buried her in the grounds of the church she was supposed to be married in." He stopped and blew his nose with gusto. "Then, the next morning I went to put roses on her grave." Gob paused dramatically.

"Yes?" said Joan.

"She had gone!" he said, waving his hands, his eyes stretched wide in theatrical horror. "There was nowt but a gaping hole in the earth. Muddy footsteps leading away from the churchyard...a torn scrap of lace on a bush...Shortly afterwards she appeared at the farmhouse, as a spectre! She was still clad in the tatters of her wedding gown, but her skin was cold. She killed anyone who tried to reason with her. She has been haunting that place ever since, attacking travellers and demanding gifts."

"Why does she do that?" asked Joan. "Demand gifts, I mean?"

Gob shrugged.

"Probably upset she missed opening her wedding presents," he said. "She always did get excited about things like that."

"Riiiight," said Fred.

"Any idea what she might like? The...er ... creepy spider said we were supposed to take her a gift?"

"Nope."

"No other ideas about how we can how we can make your daughter... move on from the farmhouse?" asked Joan.

"I imagine you will have to help her find peace," said Gob. He grasped Joan's hands. "Solve her murder, good adventurers! Release her spirit from whatever foul magic binds her to this mortal coil!"

"Her murder? How do you know she was murdered? I thought you said she died naturally?"

"I said there was no mark on her body. If she wasn't murdered, why would she haunt the farmhouse, accosting travellers and threatening to eat them?" said Gob, reasonably. They waited. Gob stared back at them, his eyes, tear-filled and hopeful.

"Well, thank you," said Joan, when no more information seemed to be forthcoming. "This has been...most illuminating."

"Clear as mud," said Fred.

"There's nothing else you can tell us? Who was with her before she was found? Did she have any friends?"

"Help her, good adventurers! Save her soul for eternal damnation!"

"I guess not," muttered Fred.

They said their farewells and plodded back towards the village, brows lined in thought.

"I thought he was going to tell us to pelt her with lemons or something," said Fred. "That she had a severe citrus aversion. But we have to play detective. Ug. I was hoping we could just hit her a bit and she'd die. So? Simon the Baker?"

"Yup. There's really nothing else to go on."

They trudged on. Their path took them past the very church that Myrtha had supposed to be married in. As they walked mists rolled in, making the day gloomy and not a little spooky. Moss-encrusted tombstones loomed out of the fog and Fred shivered a little.

"This reminds me a bit of a ballet," said Fred. "Giselle, actually."

"Ballet is the dancing you do," said Joan, "one of those modern things?"

"Well, it's not really mod– Yes," he said, giving up. "Anyway, in the ballet, Giselle died on her wedding night and became a ghost."

"Why did she die?"

"She found out her love, Albrecht, was a prince."

"Why did that make her die?"

"I don't know," said Fred, a little annoyed, "the story said she was very frail. But in Giselle there was a spirit called Myrtha who was the Queen of the Willis."

"I beg your pardon?" said Joan, raising an eyebrow.

"W-i-l-l-i-s," Fred spelt out, rolling his eyes. "Willis were ghosts that danced men to death. Willis."

"Right."

"Willis."

"Can you please stop saying Willis."

"I just thought there might be a connection," said Fred, drawing himself up with dignity.

"I doubt the dungeon knows much about the ballet," said Joan.

[She was wrong there. The dungeon did, in fact, know the ballet, and was at that very moment listening delightedly to Fred's theories from an ear they had grown out of a nearby yew tree.]

They cut across the churchyard, and up onto the cobbled street. Simon's bakery backed right onto the churchyard, Fred noticed. A woman dressed in a peasants smock was handing out flyers on the corner and she called to them as they passed.

"Sir and madam!" she cried, pressing a flyer into Joan's hand. "Please! My son is missing! I'm worried sick! Please can you keep an eye out for him!"

"Of course," said Fred.

[Ding! New Quest! Find the Missing Child!]

Joan looked down at the flyer. On it was a rough woodcut of a little boy, perhaps five or six years of age.

"Please find my Thomas!" said the woman, "I would be so grateful!"

"We'll do our best," said Joan, looking down at the child's face before tucking it in her bag. They turned through the crowds to the bakery.

"I don't see a lot of children around, come to mention it," said Fred, frowning. He couldn't recall a single one. Betty did not count. Notwithstanding the fact that she was supposed to be an NPC. He jumped back as two little girls scampered across the path in front of them chasing a hoop. A small dog ran after them barking.

"You were saying?" said Joan, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay," said Fred. "I know I haven't seen any children before this. I feel like I'm going mad. What?" Joan was laughing.

"There are no children in the dungeon," she said, "no real children, I mean. Haven't you wondered? So the only children you see will be NPCs. I assume they have become plot relevant."

"But children die," Fred said. "I mean in real life. What happens to them?"

"I don't know," said Joan. "I assume they have their own dungeon? Probably a nicer place than this?" Fred thought about Lamb-kin and the Midnight Witch.

"I hope so," he said. He pushed open the door to the bakery and the smell of warm bread rolled over them. Simon the Baker was standing behind his counter rolling out pastry. His arms and faces were coated in flour. He looked up with a smile as they came in. To Fred's relief, he seemed to have forgotten their involvement with the bread thief earlier.

"Greetings, adventurers. Joan," he said. "What can I do for you today? Can I interest you in some fresh meat pies? Baked only this morning? Or perhaps a cottage loaf? Or are you here to help me find more ingredients?"

"Thank you, but no," said Joan. "We are here to ask you about Myrtha?"

The smile slid off Simon's face like runny icing off a doughnut. Tears welled in his eyes. He turned away.

"My poor love," he said. When he looked back at them tears were trickling down his face. "Oh, how I wish things had been different! Oh, how I miss her!"

"Who do you think killed her?"

"Killed her?" gulped, the distraught baker. His eyes flashed, and he dropped the pastry with a thump and a cloud of flour poofed into the air. "She died a natural death! So very sad! The talk of the town...I waited and I waited! Everyone saw me! The guests had all arrived and she just ...didn't arrive. At last, her father went to find her and found her lying in a puddle of blood..."

"Why do you think it was natural if she was lying in a puddle of blood?"

Simon looked a little taken aback, but then he sniffed and blew his nose on a fresh white handkerchief. When he pulled it out of his pocket several boiled sweets fell to the ground. He scrambled to pick them up, stuffing them back in his pockets.

"I have no idea - but there was not a mark on her. I know that. I assumed – some kind of heart complaint? Perhaps she was too frail to withstand the excitement of the day? Ladies can be delicate!"

Joan snorted.

"Is that all?" said Simon. "I need to check on my old mother, she might need me."

"Just one last thing," said Fred. "Who were Myrtha's friends? Who was with her before the wedding? Surely someone must have been helping her get ready?"

"Doris at the teashop was her bridesmaid. Not that she can tell you anything I can't. Rosie at the Beer and Loathing was a friend too."

"We know Rosie," said Joan, nodding. "And what did she like? Myrtha? What sort of gifts did she like?"

"Oh," said Simon. "She always liked my pies. Very fond of my pies. And gingerbread too, those little iced gingerbread men with the jelly bean buttons. She loved those, couldn't get enough. Will that be all?"

"Thank you," said Fred. The Baker nodded, and watched, unsmiling as they left.

"Do you get the feeling," Joan said, as they stood outside, looking up at the bakery. "That we need to sneak into the bakery and look for... I dunno–"

"Incriminating evidence?" asked Fred. "Weird stuff in the basement? Absolutely."

They walked away from the bakery, towards the tea shop. Looking over his shoulder Fred could see Simon watching them through the window.

"Neither of us have any levels in sneaking, or stealth or anything. We don't want to get caught by the watch at this point."

"What happens if the watch catches us?" asked Fred curiously.

"Sometimes they take your money if you have any."

"Rude."

"But worse, they lock you up for a few days. We can't afford to lose any progress, not when we are at such a disadvantage."

"Hmmm," said Fred. "If only we knew someone who was a thief."