Elizabeth Webster and the Portal of Doom by William Lashner

Author:William Lashner [LASHNER, WILLIAM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2020-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

THE DEVOURING

State your name for the record,” said Josiah Goodheart.

“Cassandra Moss,” said the witness in a soft, breathy voice.

“And what do you do, Ms. Moss?”

“What do I do?” I had to lean forward to hear her. “I summon the sun in the morning and the stars at night, Mr. Goodheart. I reach my hand into the earth and touch the souls of all those who walk on its surface or swim in its seas. In short, I dance beneath the light of the cosmos and the universe dances with me.”

“I meant as your profession,” said Josiah Goodheart.

“Oh, I misunderstood,” she said. “I am a dental hygienist.”

“Quite a useful occupation,” commented the judge before sucking on one of his undead molars.

“And how long have you been living next to the defendant, Topper?” said Barrister Goodheart.

“About a year,” she said in her whispery voice.

Just then the front of the judge’s great desk swung open with a bang.

Filling the space within the desk was a creature I had never seen before, huge and gray, with the face of a potato. His back was pressed against the desktop, and his legs were curled tightly beneath him. Before him was a little desk of his own with a lantern and an open ledger. In the thing’s thick-fingered hand was a feather quill.

“The witness needs to speak up,” said Potato Man in a gravelly voice rich with annoyance. “I can’t hear a word. How can I keep a record if I can’t hear a word?”

The judge turned to the witness. “You’ll need to raise your voice, Ms. Moss, so Bittman can hear what you say.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll do more than try,” said the potato-faced Bittman, “or there won’t be a record. And without a record, where would we be?”

“Indeed,” said the judge.

Bittman gave us all a glare from his potato eyes before slamming closed the front of the judge’s desk.

“So now, Ms. Moss,” said Josiah Goodheart, “tell us all, in a voice as loud as possible for the troll’s sake, the sad and terrifying story of your goat.”

And so she did.

Every year, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, Cassandra Moss celebrated the coming of spring with a bonfire and feast with friends and family. For last year’s celebration, in her new house, it was suggested she roast a goat for the holiday table, so she purchased a live goat to fatten for the feast. For a while she kept the goat in a makeshift pen outside the shed where he slept, but soon she let him run free, as free as the wind, the way goats were meant to run on this good earth. She fed him table scraps and rubbed his beard and in exchange the goat kept her yard neatly trimmed.

She grew to admire and then love the goat. It was an old soul, she believed. She called him Magwitch. As the feast approached, when she was faced with the prospect of killing and eating Magwitch, she began having second thoughts, no

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