Witches in Trouble

  Witches in Trouble

  Val Thame

  To Crystal Rose

  PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT

  Pollinger Limited

  9 Staple Inn

  Holborn

  LONDON

  WC1V 7QH

  www.pollingerltd.com

  First published by EPB Publishers Pte Ltd 1994 This edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007

  Copyright © Val Thame 1994 All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-905665-27-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval sys­tem, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter 1

  Madame Fustia Necromancy had once been in charge of a famous establishment for the training of young witches. She was a malevolent old harridan with an evil disposition and had, therefore, made an excellent Head Teacher. Everybody hated her at the Witches Academy. Pupils and teachers alike cowered in her awesome shadow and dreaded the sting of venom which lay on her acid tongue.

  But the Academy was no more. Fustia Necromancy was Head of nothing and nowhere. Her Witches Academy, once housed in her large un-stately home, had been ruined, ravaged, by a terrible flood. Years of research into evil had been reduced to soggy ruins. Rare potions, ancient documents, irreplaceable objects from Fustia’s foul family treasures, had been swept out to sea on the rushing tide of floodwater.

  Goodrun Badmanners, one of the final-year pupils at the Academy, watched in horror from the dormitory roof as the floodwater swirled round the courtyard below, surging into doorways and spilling out of windows, bringing with it a cascade of desks, chairs and tables. But this was no ordinary flood; this was magic, her magic, and it had all gone terribly wrong. Goodrun had never been very good at witchcraft, unlike her brilliantly wicked sister, Evilyn, but she had worked hard at the Academy and hoped that one day she would graduate from witchling to witch. She had just returned from her practical examination to find the Academy suffering from a freak storm.

  “Goodrun Badmanners?” The feared, harsh voice of Madame Necromancy made Goodrun jump.

  She looked down to see her ex-Head Teacher floating past on her upturned desk, a quivering finger pointing in her direction.

  “You little toad!” screeched Madame Necromancy. “No diploma for you. You are expelled. You are the worst pupil I’ve ever had. I know this storm was your fault. You’ve ruined my life’s work and I shall never forgive you. Nevarr! Neva-a-arr!”

  As she spoke dozens of old crones floated out of the Academy, bobbing about in the water like old black sacks. It is well known that witches hate water and their terrified screams echoed eerily round the courtyard. Goodrun shuddered. The air was so full of dark curses it made her feel ill.

  “Brilliant?” said Evilyn, who was also watching from the roof. “How did you do it? I wish I’d thought of it.”

  “It was my final exam,” said Goodrun, miserably. “It was supposed to be a spell of bad weather, but I think I overdid it a bit.”

  “A bit?” Evilyn nearly fell off the roof, laughing. “Hey, you lot!” She shouted down to the other witchlings who were hanging out of the dormitory windows. “You know what this means? No more Academy. No more school!”

  The pupil witches screeched and cackled their delight and some of the younger ones, who were still unable to cackle properly, whistled noisily as, led by Evilyn, they chanted, “No more Academy. No more school!”

  Then another cheer went up as the waters surged again and Fustia, and her flotilla of angry witches, shwooshed through the school gates.

  “I’ll be back!” cried the old hag. “I’ll be ba-a-ack!”

  But nobody thought she would, or cared if she did because they wouldn’t be there. School had ended once and for all. Madame and her horrible rules had been washed away and a whole flock of little witchlings, including the Badmanners sisters, were suddenly free.

  Chapter 2

  Fustia, and her desk, eventually arrived at the North Pole. A place of extreme cold, where wicked thoughts came very easily. She went to the North Pole every year for her annual holidays. She stayed at the bleak and uncomfortably chilly North Pole Hotel, and it did her the power of good because she always came back feeling contentedly wretched.

  The twin witches who looked after the hotel were Fustia’s friends. One was called Alice and the other was Honore. Alice was a dull and dreary witch without a single original or any other thought in her head.

  Honore had all the brains and hated her boring sister because she pinched all her best ideas. Both were affected by the extremely low temperatures. Both were shrivelled and wizened, their thoughts icy, their feelings frozen. The only thing that was not affected by the weather was their temper. That was as hot as ever.

  The twin argued constantly over who was cleverest, who was the oldest, who was the dullest (which Alice always won) or who was the ugliest. When they argued they fought and sparks flew from their teeth and their toenails, and flashes of coloured lights filled the dark northern sky.

  They were arguing when Fustia arrived. She saw the sky streaked with light and knew that Honore and Boring Alice were at it again. People living in the northern hemisphere saw the pretty lights in the sky and said to their children, “Look. Look. Honore and Boring Alice.” But they didn’t know that the fantastic Northern Lights were really a display of witchy temper.

  Fustia stayed with the frosty twins until she could stand their petty squabbling no longer and one day, in a thoroughly bad mood induced by cold and irritation, she left the North Pole and flew down to the south. Although equally cold the South Pole was largely undiscovered and witch-free. She stayed there for several weeks, smouldering and brooding and occasionally erupting into fits of burning rage. Her hot temper floated upwards into the atmosphere, and into the ozone layer, where it burned a small hole. A hole just big enough for a curious witch to poke her nose through, and then her whole head.

  News of the hole soon spread and witches began dropping in by the dozen. In no time at all the South Pole had more witches than penguins. Fustia hated it. She wanted to be alone. But these over-crowded and uncom­fortable conditions made her feel so wonderfully crabby and entirely intolerant she decided it was time to go.

  So, bitter and twisted, suffering from chilblains and riddled with revenge, she returned to her flood-damaged home. It was a grim ruin. Its windows shattered, its walls running with slime, and creatures of unbelievable ugliness nesting in every crack and crevice. But she was back and that was all that mattered. She rolled up her sleeves, put on her best pinny, her rubber gloves, and set to work. She worked night and day, hardly stopping to eat, restoring the house to its former dreadfulness. She scrabbled about in the kneedeep mud, left behind by the floodwater, searching for her lost possessions, her cauldrons, computers and coat hooks. She scrubbed and scraped the rooms most affected by the flood and then tackled the ones damaged by weather. It took weeks, and all the time Fustia had but one thought on her evil mind.

  “This is all your fault, Goodrun Badmanners. I blame you for th
is.” Her pique made her work even harder, tearing at the rotting woodwork. “And where are you now?” she wailed. “Remember, a wailing witch never forgets. I’ll have my revenge on you. See if I don’t.”

  And so she brooded and cursed and scrubbed and planned. She wasn’t going to run a school anymore. Witchlings were hard work and unpredictable. You never knew what they might do next. She had turned out hundreds of horrible little worms from her Academy and not one of them was grateful. No, Fustia was deter-mined not to do that again. Teaching was out. She was going into publishing. She was going to edit a magazine for witches.

  The Hag Mag would supply inside in­formation on what makes a witch tick or a watch tock. It would be sneaky, fun-poking and treacherous. It would give away free secrets with every issue. It would be a tell­tale, tittle-tattling, roaring good read for hags of all ages. Fustia allowed herself a satisfying smile. She might even become rich as well as powerful. But first she had to find a pack of lying, deceitful and untrustworthy witches for her team of reporters.

  She cackled merrily as she went indoors and up to her bedroom. She opened a box on her dressing table and took out a pair of gold, hoop earrings, gypsy earrings, and clipped them onto her ears. Then she covered her thick, white hair with a beaded scarf which she tied at the back of her head. Last of all, she wrapped a long, fringed shawl around her shoulders.

  Her eyes glittered as she admired herself in the mirror.

  “Well, Gypsy Dogrose,” she said, to her reflection, “as soon as my new magazine is published we must find that pest, Goodrun Badmanners.” She rubbed her gloved hands together. “And I think I know how we shall do it.”

  A brilliant and devious plan was forming in Fustia’s maggotty mind. A plan that, in her eyes, could not fail.

  Chapter 3

  After the flood the Badmanners sisters went home to Badmanners Mansion. Their mother, the beautiful witch Hayzell, though disappointed to learn that her eldest daughter had failed to become a proper witch, was delighted with the news that Evilyn had a diploma with double-black honours. Cakes were concocted, friends were invited round and parties held. Evilyn basked in the glory of her success, but nobody took any notice of Goodrun.

  “She’s useless,” sneered Evilyn. “Can’t even spell properly.”

  And everybody laughed.

  Goodrun moped about the house feeling utterly miserable. What was she going to do? She had no diploma and no friends either. She hadn’t made any at the Academy because, unlike all the other witchlings Goodrun had no fear of water and, even though it was against the rules, washed regularly. She smelled so clean none of the pupil witches wanted to sit next to her. But she didn’t care. She hated that Academy and the old crones who picked on her all the time because she was kind, generous and thoughtful – qualities which were not the slightest use to a proper witch.

  But then, one day, her mother said, “But you aren’t a proper witch. You are half mortal.”

  “What? Why? How?”

  “Well, it’s my fault I suppose for mar­rying your father. But he was so handsome. I fell in love with him while he was sawing a woman in half.”

  Goodrun was stunned. “But that’s terrible.”

  “No, it was only an illusion, but I thought it was real magic. Cornelius Smith, or Marvo the Magnificent as he. called himself on stage, was nothing more than a simple mortal. You, Goodrun, have inherited many of his mortal qualities but, sadly, only a few of mine.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Goodrun.

  “He died when you were a baby. Then I met and married your stepfather, Black-heart Badmanners, such a wicked warlock and, shortly afterwards our little Evilyn was born.”

  “I see,” said Goodrun, who now un­derstood why she and her sister were so different. Why Evilyn had done so well at the witches school, and why she had not. Her half-sister was all-witch, from the roots of her red hair down to her pointy, scratchy fingernails.

  When Evilyn found out that her sister was only half a witch she taunted her mercilessly. The air was full of spitz and sparks and Hayzell quickly realized some­thing had to be done. She felt sure Goodrun would be happier in the mortal world, with other mortals, and she arranged for her to live with their ancient aunt, Nettle Patch. Nettle had long ago retired from witchcraft and had her own cottage in the village of Hook. Goodrun did not mind leaving Badmanners Mansion or the witch world and quickly settled down to her new life. She made new friends and even went to a new school. Gradually, the Witches Academy and Fustia Necromancy became blurred and fading images from another world. A world she would much rather forget.

  Chapter 4

  But the witch world had not forgotten Goodrun. Blissfully unaware that she was at that moment the object of Fustia Necromancy’s venomous plans, Goodrun was sitting in class trying to think who married this playwright person called William Shakespeare. It was a Monday and, after a rain-soaked weekend, perversely hot. The classroom was stuffy, the pupils were restless and Henry Binks could have thought of a thousand places he would rather be than cooped up with a bunch of assorted eleven and twelve-year-olds, trying to teach them something they obviously did not want to know.

  “Not once,” said Mr Binks, irritably tapping Goodrun’s exercise book, “not once have you mentioned Shakespeare’s wife. Why?”

  Goodrun did not know why. What she did know was that she was finding life at this new school surprisingly difficult.

  “Are you still with us, Smith? Or have you nodded off?”

  Mr Binks’ voice sliced through her drifting thoughts. For a brief moment she did not even realize he was talking to her because she still was not used to being called Smith. Changing her name was one of the first things she did when she came to the mortal world. She wasn’t Badmanners; she was a Smith.

  “I know it’s hot,” said Mr Binks, wearily, “but do try and pay attention. I’d like to nod off. We’d all like to nod off, but the fact is we have a lesson to get through. So, the name of Shakespeare’s wife, please.”

  “Um. Mrs. Shakespeare?” said Goodrun.

  The class groaned.

  Mr Binks said, “Very funny. Open another window, Birchett. Some of us are obviously suffering from the heat.”

  Martin Birchett, who sat at the front, obliged and more hot air wafted in.

  “You have one more chance,” said Mr Binks. “Now use your brain. Think.”

  Goodrun felt everybody was looking at her. Sniggering at her. Somebody was tugging her skirt. It was her best friend, Daisy Blazer.

  “Anathaway,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Just say it. Go on.”

  “Anathaway,” repeated Goodrun.

  “Thank you, Smith. Ann Hathaway. Next time we’ll get to the point a little quicker, shall we?” He strolled over to the window and took a few deep breaths. “Now then. Hands up, anybody. When was Shakespeare born?”

  Goodrun sat down and smiled her thanks at Daisy. The girls were first cousins (on the Smith side) and lived next door to each other. But neither Daisy nor her parents, knew anything about Goodrun’s ‘other’ family, the Badmanners; nor did they suspect for a minute that their elderly neighbour, Miz Patch, was a retired witch. And Goodrun had no intention of telling them.

  After English Form 1A had Geography. Goodrun could cope with that. She’d done Geography at the Academy, but History was a mystery as was French in the afternoon. As for the lesson on the environment, she had no idea things were so bad in the real world. Polluted rivers, mountains made of waste and holes in the ozone layer . . . What a mess. She tried to look intelligent and make sensible remarks but was awfully glad when the day finally ended.

  Walking home with Daisy she said, “You know, I feel so stupid, sometimes.”

  “So do I,” said Daisy. “Most first years do. We’ve all come from different schools and learned different things. I knew about the pollution because we did a project on rivers at junior school – and I knew about Shakespeare because we’ve got all his works
indoors.”

  “You got his works?” Goodrun looked surprised.

  Daisy nodded. “Yes. A complete set.”

  “A set? But I thought . . . do you mean Shakespeare was a robot? And you’ve got all his works?”

  Daisy laughed. “You are a fool,” she said.

  “I suppose I am,” thought Goodrun.

  “A 16th century robot,” said Daisy. “That’s a laugh. Hey. Tell you what. We’ve got a spare set, somewhere. You can have it if you like.”

  Goodrun wasn’t altogether sure she wanted a spare Shakespeare. She wasn’t altogether sure what she would be getting, but Daisy insisted. On their way home they passed the village post office and Daisy stopped to read a poster in the window advertising a fair on Hook common.

  “See Daring Delbert’s Death-defying escape. And look into the future with Gypsy Dogrose. Ooh, I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.”

  Although the sun was still hanging Goodrun felt shivery. She hoped she wasn’t getting a cold. She began to walk on, anxious to get home.

  “Wait!” Daisy wanted to read every last word on the poster. “Do you think Gypsy Dogrose will have a crystal ball?” She cupped her hands in front of her. “Aah. I see a tall and handsome young man with fair hair. He is in the second year. He wants to go out with you.”

  “Not Philip Drew? On, come on, Daisy. He’s a drip.”

  “He is not! He’s a super runner.”

  “Oh, a running drip.” Goodrun ducked as Daisy swung her school bag round. “Alright. Alright. I didn’t mean it.”