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When one's mentor is unceremoniously slain by one's nemesis, attending said mentor's funeral takes on an added dimension. The added dimension isn't necessarily pleasant, either: he's got to be on guard. The only reason the Witch killed Mrs. Pentstemmon, after all, was to get to him; she's never going to forgive him, even though what he did to her wasn't even that bad. Still he's clad all in solemn black as he steps through the Porthaven door, then drops to the ground outside, ending up as a dog.
A very serious dog.
It's a long trot to Mrs Pentstemmon's estate and, as he predicted, a bitter wind blows. He's glad for his red setter's fur and also for the fact he's down only to the occasional sneeze. The goal is to pay his respects but not attract attention, particularly not from the Witch of the Waste.
The funeral itself proves to be an incredibly depressing affair; despite his outer posturing, he's always been extremely fond of Mrs. Pentstemmon and is genuinely sad she's gone. At the service he stays respectfully back, suppressing the canine urge to run amongst the gravestones. (Mrs. Pentstemmon liked one to think of all the details.) People from all over Ingary -- not just Porthaven, which she called home -- are there, and he can't help but remember the day he met her. It feels like a lifetime ago; he was in Wales running for his life as he often had to do after chatting up the wrong girl. The girl in question had four very big, strong, mean, ugly brothers and as Howl rounded the corner to Megan's house and uttered a spell and opened the door, he found himself suddenly on the floor of Mrs. Pentstemmon's foyer. He looked up at her and she looked down at him, and she took him as a student on the spot. He'd never been to Ingary before. In fact, he didn't even know there was such a place but as luck would have it, his small dabbling in arcane magic texts brought him there. Years later she told him that he was the first person she'd met who'd found Ingary without magical training of any sort, and given that, how could she unleash him on an unsuspecting world? She'd had no choice but to take him on as a pupil.
He's always been very proud of that story, though he's never told it to a soul. It hasn't been anyone else's business, simple as that. There's power in moving back and forth between worlds, and it's a bit of a well-kept secret. Imagine if the Witch of the Waste could do it on her own... but no, she's got to follow a scent. And there are so many scents here; this dog nose makes some of them absolutely irresistible. It also makes some of them so much more disgusting than they would be if he'd been able to attend Mrs. Pentstemmon's service as himself, but he can't. The Witch is here. Even if he couldn't smell her, he'd be able to see her. She and her entourage are off to one side; she seems to have stolen youth from someone and looks young and sleek and as beautiful as ever, with her long red curls snaking down her body by her hips. She was breathtaking once and still might be, but for different reasons these days.
Less... charitable ones, actually. He hangs back behind a rather impressive gravestone, peeking round it only to catch glimpses of the mourners and onlookers. In Porthaven, the death of a witch is an occasion worth marking. People will like to tell tales about Mrs. Pentstemmon; they'll like to tell their children they were here to pay their final respects. As the coffin containing the shell of her body is lowered into the ground, the Witch of the Waste turns round and fixes her eyes on his. Casually, he lays down on a nearby grave, head resting on one paw, tail barely wagging.
He'll give her till the count of three before he bolts.
One. One canine eye opens: the Witch is still watching him.
Two. He may look like a napping red setter, but every muscle is ready, every sense on the highest alert. The Witch takes a rather too large step towards him: in a heartbeat she'll be at his side.
Three! In a flash of fur he's gone, moving more quickly than if he were wearing those seven-league boots Sophie likes to borrow, transformed into the wind itself. Before he knows it he's back at the castle, wrapped round the chimney: he's got to get Calcifer's attention. It's difficult when one's currently in the form of a cloud but he rattles the castle, his voice hoarse and distant but as loud as he can make it given the current circumstances.
"Brace yourself, Calcifer. She's found me!"
A very serious dog.
It's a long trot to Mrs Pentstemmon's estate and, as he predicted, a bitter wind blows. He's glad for his red setter's fur and also for the fact he's down only to the occasional sneeze. The goal is to pay his respects but not attract attention, particularly not from the Witch of the Waste.
The funeral itself proves to be an incredibly depressing affair; despite his outer posturing, he's always been extremely fond of Mrs. Pentstemmon and is genuinely sad she's gone. At the service he stays respectfully back, suppressing the canine urge to run amongst the gravestones. (Mrs. Pentstemmon liked one to think of all the details.) People from all over Ingary -- not just Porthaven, which she called home -- are there, and he can't help but remember the day he met her. It feels like a lifetime ago; he was in Wales running for his life as he often had to do after chatting up the wrong girl. The girl in question had four very big, strong, mean, ugly brothers and as Howl rounded the corner to Megan's house and uttered a spell and opened the door, he found himself suddenly on the floor of Mrs. Pentstemmon's foyer. He looked up at her and she looked down at him, and she took him as a student on the spot. He'd never been to Ingary before. In fact, he didn't even know there was such a place but as luck would have it, his small dabbling in arcane magic texts brought him there. Years later she told him that he was the first person she'd met who'd found Ingary without magical training of any sort, and given that, how could she unleash him on an unsuspecting world? She'd had no choice but to take him on as a pupil.
He's always been very proud of that story, though he's never told it to a soul. It hasn't been anyone else's business, simple as that. There's power in moving back and forth between worlds, and it's a bit of a well-kept secret. Imagine if the Witch of the Waste could do it on her own... but no, she's got to follow a scent. And there are so many scents here; this dog nose makes some of them absolutely irresistible. It also makes some of them so much more disgusting than they would be if he'd been able to attend Mrs. Pentstemmon's service as himself, but he can't. The Witch is here. Even if he couldn't smell her, he'd be able to see her. She and her entourage are off to one side; she seems to have stolen youth from someone and looks young and sleek and as beautiful as ever, with her long red curls snaking down her body by her hips. She was breathtaking once and still might be, but for different reasons these days.
Less... charitable ones, actually. He hangs back behind a rather impressive gravestone, peeking round it only to catch glimpses of the mourners and onlookers. In Porthaven, the death of a witch is an occasion worth marking. People will like to tell tales about Mrs. Pentstemmon; they'll like to tell their children they were here to pay their final respects. As the coffin containing the shell of her body is lowered into the ground, the Witch of the Waste turns round and fixes her eyes on his. Casually, he lays down on a nearby grave, head resting on one paw, tail barely wagging.
He'll give her till the count of three before he bolts.
One. One canine eye opens: the Witch is still watching him.
Two. He may look like a napping red setter, but every muscle is ready, every sense on the highest alert. The Witch takes a rather too large step towards him: in a heartbeat she'll be at his side.
Three! In a flash of fur he's gone, moving more quickly than if he were wearing those seven-league boots Sophie likes to borrow, transformed into the wind itself. Before he knows it he's back at the castle, wrapped round the chimney: he's got to get Calcifer's attention. It's difficult when one's currently in the form of a cloud but he rattles the castle, his voice hoarse and distant but as loud as he can make it given the current circumstances.
"Brace yourself, Calcifer. She's found me!"
