Witches in Deed Read online

  Hayzell, thinking what a lovely evening she had just created, had popped out for a quick night flight on her broomstick. The stick raced along on the wind and Hayzell’s extraordinary hair floated out behind her like a bright, rippling ribbon. Blackheart had never seen such hair nor such an enchantress.

  The charming Blackheart swept the beautiful Witch Hayzell off her broomstick and away into the stormy night. When they returned the following morning, after a whirlwind journey round the world, they knew they were madly in love.

  They were married one dismal December evening in Blackheart’s enormous 140-room mansion. Everyone was invited to the huge party they gave. Cousins, sisters, brothers, uncles and, of course, the Aunts all came. It was a night never to be forgotten, with everybody in high spirits. The skeletons came out of the cupboards and danced till dawn to a demon band. There was much merrymaking, feasting and trickery, with every witch, wizard, enchantress, sorcerer and all the sorcerers’ apprentices trying to outdo one another.

  Aunt Thunder, true to her name, created one of her best thunderstorms ever. When it was over she said it had used up so much of her power she would have to lie down.

  “Rubbish!” cried Drab. “That’s indigestion. I saw you making a pig of yourself. Six helpings of Moss-Rot Pudding and Sour Cream. No wonder you’re fat! Greedy old witch!”

  “Don’t you tell tales on me, you skinny, mealy-mouthed beanstalk!”

  “Suet Pudding! Dumpling!”

  “Oh! Oh!”

  And then the two ancient sisters, casting spells left, right and centre, had a very enjoyable argument which lasted the rest of the evening.

  At midnight precisely, Blackheart took all his guests up onto the roof. To finish off a magnificent wedding celebration, he conjured up a dazzling display of forked lightning which illuminated the sky for over an hour.

  Meanwhile, in the mortal world, people were complaining about the terrible weather they were having — the freak storms, the high winds and the thunder and lightning. What on earth, they wondered, could be causing them?

  Chapter Five

  A few weeks before Goodrun’s second birthday her baby half-sister was born. And, as always, when the new witchling was six months old a naming ceremony was arranged. This time the Aunts were joyful.

  “My word, Stormkettle,” said Drab, “this baby’s uglier than your Stormina Teacup.”

  “Nobody’s as ugly as my Stormina,” said Stormkettle proudly. “She was a perfect baby.”

  “This one is very knowing,” said Drab. “See how her eyes follow us everywhere.” Drab leaned over the cot, her long nose close to the baby’s face. “Does the witchling know what Aunty is saying?” Suddenly Drab jumped back. “Oh! Look what she’s done,” she said, pointing proudly to the two red­flecked tooth marks on her nose. “She bit me!”

  The Aunts shrieked with delight.

  “I wish she’d bitten me,” said Nettle.

  “That baby shows spirit,” said Thunder approvingly. She too poked her head into the cot and the new baby’s thrashing feet struck her protuding teeth. “She’s one of us alright!” said Thunder, looking quite satisfied and not the slightest bit annoyed at being kicked in the teeth. “I remember doing that sort of thing when I was young.”

  Thunder prodded the baby affectionately. The child, in response, screwed its face up into a grisly mass of wrinkles. Its cheeks turned red, purple and then green. It looked horrible. It looked as though it was going to be sick. Then it opened its mouth and screeched with laughter. It was a very nasty sound.

  Hayzell gazed fondly at her second daughter. “She is rather evil, isn’t she? And so forward for her age. She often pulls her Daddy’s hair. He has several bald patches now, and yesterday she bit his hand for the first time. We were so pleased.”

  The Aunts were anxious to know more.

  “What about her powers?”

  “Can she fly yet?”

  “Can she cackle?”

  “No,” said Hayzell, “but she can scream so loud she shatters glass. She catches flies and hates being kissed. Blackheart and I are so proud of her.”

  The Aunts murmured their approval.

  “Little horror!”

  “Beastly child!”

  “Perfect brat!”

  “Let’s get on with it then,” boomed Thunder. “Sooner it’s done, the sooner we eat.”

  The Aunts were, if anything, overexcited. They fought for space on the floor like a flock of giant crows, flapping and snapping at each other over a few inches, although there was enough room in Blackheart’s ballroom to seat a thousand witches.

  “I’m sitting here!”

  “No, you’re not! That’s my place!”

  “I was here first!”

  “Don’t care!”

  “Toad!”

  “Toad yourself!”

  “Shan’t!”

  Eventually, their territorial disputes settled, the assorted bundles of hags and rags sat in the customary half-circle around the cot.

  Unlike her elder sister, who had slept through most of her naming ceremony, the new baby sat up and watched everything and everybody with her dark green eyes. Once again the call was for names. But this time all the Aunts were of one mind. All had the same idea and only one name was put forward — and that was Evilyn.

  “How wonderfully wicked,” sighed Hayzell, stroking her second daughter’s thick, dark hair which had more than a hint of red in it.

  “Are we agreed?” asked Thunder.

  The Aunts’ heads bobbed on their skinny necks. “Agreed!” they cried. And so Goodrun’s baby sister was officially named.

  Blackheart, who had been waiting anxiously for the result in the next room, was called in.

  “Well done, Aunts!” he said. “An excellent choice. Evilyn Badmanners. I like it.”

  “Right! Supper time now!” said Aunt Thunder, undoing the belt of her raincoat. “Bags, I have first choice!”

  She need not have worried. There was plenty for everyone. The supper was a splendid affair, as all naming ceremonies were, but Blackheart was determined to make his Evilyn’s supper the best of all. Course upon course of the most exotic food was set before the guests. There were dishes from all over the world — American Burgers, Madras Curry, Mexican Chilli, Irish Stew — as well as their own special favourites. For dessert they had Italian ice cream, French crêpes, English puddings and Dutch cheeses. Thunder had a bad attack of hiccups after taking Mexican Chilli and had to miss some of the desserts, which put her in a very black mood.

  Baby Evilyn, the star of the evening, sat in her cot at the head of the table, her small eyes twinkling with mischief, and joined in the fun. When the Aunts laughed, Evilyn shrieked; when Blackheart roared, Evilyn screamed; and when Goodrun, who sat next to her, rocked the cot to keep the baby quiet, Evilyn bit her.

  “You are naughty!” said Goodrun, sucking the miniature tooth marks on the back of her hand.

  The baby smiled an evil smile and nodded. She seemed to understand everything.

  Chapter Six

  Evilyn grew up astonishingly quickly. By the time she was four she was almost as tall as her elder sister and almost as clever too. She was so advanced in reading and spelling Hayzell decided the sisters should start school together.

  “It’s so silly to keep our little Evilyn at home,” she said to Blackheart one day. “She is clearly ready for some formal education and will be good company for Goodrun.”

  And so the Badmanners sisters were sent to the Witches Academy of Black Art. The academy was a boarding school, as all witch schools were, because the students’ parents were hardly ever at home. Some lived in Transylvania where schools were banned altogether; some lived at the North Pole which was too cold for lessons in anything, except keeping warm; some were constantly in flight, travelling round the world chasing or making mischief; and few had regular houses, the Badmanners Mansion being an exception. So all the witchlings at the academy lived in and only saw their parents during the
summer holidays.

  The academy was run from an old country house alive with spooks and ghosts (a fact of which the Head, Madame Necromancy, was very proud), and it took in witchlings of all ages from four to fourteen. Witches, as a rule, were very quick learners and most witchlings graduated to full-witches by the time they were twelve or so. Any fourteen-year-olds still studying had to be simple or backward.

  Madame Necromancy was an immensely powerful witch who ruled her pupils and her gaggle of ghastly teachers with an iron will. Most of the time she shut herself away in her own private wing, which Was permanently shrouded in fog, and only came out for examinations and Halloween. She spent the rest of the time in her fog-bound rooms researching into all forms of Evil, and perfecting her weird and awful spells.

  The Academy offered the usual lessons: General Witchcraft, Spells & Potions, Science and Magic Formulae, The Mortal World and How To Be A Nuisance In It, as well as Nature Study (how to distinguish poisonous animals and plants from the boring ones), World Geography (vital for a travelling witch), Broomstick Aeronautics and the non-academic lessons, Screaming and Mud-grappling, the latter being a witch’s equivalent of Physical Education, only it was much dirtier.

  When Evilyn had been at the academy for two years she was only one class below Goodrun and by the time she was eight she was in the same one. This was not because Goodrun was slow or stupid, because she was not. Goodrun was sensible, bright and clever. Evilyn was bright and clever too but she was also cunning and sly; and Goodrun was a bit short on these qualities.

  Evilyn liked mixing with other witchlings, who were just as bad as she was, and seemed not to miss her parents at all. Goodrun, on the other hand, missed her mother a lot. Her favourite lesson, and the one she excelled in, was Broomstick Areonautics. Flying over rooftops, looking down on the world and feeling the breeze in your hair were wonderful. She longed for the day when she would have her flying certificate and her very own broomstick. Naturally, the academy was well-stocked with practice brooms but most of them were worn out and falling to bits. Some only had half their twigs where previous students had crash-landed. Some only had half their handles, which made them very difficult to steer. But none of this spoiled Goodrun’s enjoyment.

  The lesson which Goodrun liked least, and the one at which Evilyn excelled, was the MEAT lessson. MEAT was witchling slang for Mean, Evil and Atrocious Tricks. Goodrun could not understand why anybody should get pleasure from playing a mean and nasty trick on somebody else.

  “I always feel sorry for the other person,” said Goodrun one day.

  Evilyn looked horrified.

  “Have you gone batty?” she said. “What’s it matter what they think! If they don’t like it then it’s likely a very good trick. You should read this old book on practical jokes. Some of them are a scream!”

  “Yes, but for who?” thought Goodrun.

  The sisters were alike in some ways. Both had startling red hair and dark green eyes but there the likeness ended. Evilyn had freckles, pimples and a long witch’s nose. Goodrun had no freckles, no pimples and a very small nose. They were also very different in nature. Goodrun always knew where her temper was and hardly ever lost it. Evilyn, on the other hand, frequently lost hers and made no attempt to find it.

  Goodrun rarely felt like being beastly and Evilyn delighted in it. She would think up the most diabolical things to do to frighten the first-year witchlings. She had been known, for no reason at all, to pour cold water over them when they were asleep in their beds or, if they annoyed her, turn them into armchairs so she could sit on them. Evilyn was horrible, but she was very popular.

  Even though she could not compete with her sister’s high standards, Goodrun hoped that one day she too would be ugly, be able to make people’s flesh creep when they looked at her, and make their teeth chatter and their legs turn to jelly when she screamed. Then she would have no difficulty passing her exams and becoming a proper witch, like her mother and her grandmother and all the other witches.

  Pupils at the academy were graded according to their ability, so it was not unusual to have girls of different ages in the same class. The Badmanners sisters were in Witch Pickings’ class. Pickings, an ancient and toothless crone of unknown years, hated teaching. She hated silly young witchlings and hated having to explain things which, in her opinion, any nine or ten-year-old worth a speck of dust ought to know already.

  It was Pickings who wrote the personal comments on the end-of-term reports. On Evilyn’s report, Pickings said things like:

  “This child is forward for her age. Shows promise. Has a good memory for spells and a nasty, mean streak. Is extremely bad and will have no difficulty in being wicked.”

  Goodrun’s report said:

  “This child insists on using her own mind and making up her own spells. She is a nuisance. Ruins the class atmos­phere by being nice and smiling. Refuses to boil toads, or squash flies. She is a disruptive element in the class.”

  Hayzell read her eldest daughter’s report several times.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a nuisance,” she thought. “All witches are; it’s part of their nature. And what’s wrong with making up your own spells? I do it all the time.” But it was the phrase “being nice and smiling” which worried Hayzell, for being nice and smiling were definitely not “witch” qualities. She showed the report to Goodrun’s step-father. Blackheart only laughed.

  “Our little Evilyn is witch enough for both of them,” he said. “Don’t worry your lovely red head, my dear.”

  But Hayzell did worry, because she knew something that Blackheart did not.

  Chapter Seven

  Witch Pickings’ class was held in a draughty, turret-room at the top of one of the academy’s towers. This meant a tiring climb up 84 large stone steps every day before lessons and, of course, 84 down again at the end of the day.

  “The sooner I can zap myself up these steps the better!” grumbled Evilyn, as she stomped from the seventy fourth to the seventy fifth.

  “If only we could use broomsticks,” said Goodrun struggling along behind her. “It would be so much quicker to fly. Why do you think she chose a room right up in the roof?”

  “Because she’s an old bat!” said Evilyn.

  “And when she’s angry,” said Goodrun, “and flaps her wings, I mean her sleeves, she even looks like one.”

  “Right!” said Evilyn. “And she’s as blind as a bat too. Can’t see a thing without her glasses.”

  “Sssh!” hissed Goodrun. “She’ll hear you!”

  “Don’t care if she does.”

  The eighty-fourth step passed at last and the girls staggered into the classroom, gasping for breath. Pickings pointed her bony finger at them.

  “Oh, look everybody,” she sneered, “the Badmanners sisters have arrived. Sit down at once, you miserable spots, and think yourself lucky I haven’t turned you both into puddings for being last in!”

  Evilyn started grumbling under her breath. “When I’ve learned how to disappear properly she won’t see me for dust.”

  Goodrun giggled. “If you are going to disappear she won’t be able to see you anyway!”

  “Silence!” Witch Pickings crept between the desks, peering into each girl’s face as she passed by, her small piggy eyes glittering through her small piggy spectacles. “If I catch the girl who was giggling . . .”

  She did not need to say more. Goodrun’s smile disappeared immediately.

  “When I was a witchling,” said Pickings, creeping back to her own desk at the front of the class, “we didn’t have mimsy-pimsy things like schools! We had to find out for ourselves! That’s the best way to learn! By your own mistakes! We had to find our own poisonous toads, mix our own rotten spells, concoct our own smelly potions . . . Look at me, Murky Pondwater, when I’m talking to you!”

  Murky, an ugly child with hair like damp moss and a complexion to match, pulled a ghoulish face. Pickings studied her closely for a second or two and then said, “
If the wind changes you’ll stay like that Murky Pondwater, which will be a pity . . . because your own face is so much uglier.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am,” said Murky, leering round at the rest of the class.

  The girls were always pulling faces; it was something all witches did. Some of the lucky ones, like Murky, were so ugly they did not have to try. Evilyn had a terrifying collection and practised for hours in the dormitory, and every time she passed a mirror she tried out a new one. Goodrun could not get used to face-pulling. She thought it was rude and silly. Once she had gone so far as to say so, and the girls in her dormitory never let her forget it.

  “Yah, Goody Goodrun, fat as a plaice,

  She’s the only witch who can’t pull a face.”

  “Goodrun Badmanners! What did I just say?”

  Witch Pickings was standing directly in front of her and the light, glinting in her spectacles, was blinding. Goodrun held up her hand to shield her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know!”

  “Don’t know? Why do I waste my time on such insects! Stand by my desk!”

  As she stood up Goodrun tripped over a large black boot attached to Witch Pickings’ large black foot. She knew Pickings had stuck it out on purpose because it was the sort of nasty thing she did, and Goodrun could hear her sniggering. She marched up to the desk and faced front. Every single girl was pulling a hideous face at her. Goodrun poked her tongue out. It was not all that clever but it was the best she could think of.

  “We shall continue our lesson on herbs,” said Pickings. “Herbs are very important and an essential ingredient in all spells. What did I say, Murky Pondwater?”

  She spun round and smacked her cane down on Murky’s desk. Murky sniffed noisily. She always did this while she was thinking of something to say and, since she thought very slowly, she did a lot of sniffing.

  “Er . . . (sniff) Witches are important (sniff), greedy and . . . (sniff, sniff) they all smell!”