Witches in Deed Page 3

  “Wrong! But a fine try!”

  Goodrun’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Why didn’t Pickings tell Murky off? She hadn’t been listening. Why didn’t she make her stand at the front? Goodrun was furious. She had been honest. She had told the truth and been punished for it. It simply was not fair. She watched Pickings fondly tweaking Murky’s lank hair. Goodrun vowed she would never understand Witch Pickings if she lived to be a thousand.

  Pickings was saying, “Feverfew is a useful little herb. Anybody knows a Feverfew spell?”

  One or two girls, including Evilyn, put their hands up.

  “Alright! I only asked! Anybody know a Dock leaf recipe?”

  Evilyn stood up. “I do! Take a pound of Dock leaves, gathered at dawn and covered in dew, and boil them in . . . .”

  Pickings was beside Evilyn in one huge stride. “Did I ask you to repeat it?” she screamed. “I did not! Listen to what I am saying, Evilyn Badmanners?” She turned round to face the class. “That’s the trouble with all of you! You will not listen and that’s how mistakes are made. And mistakes in magic, mark my words, cannot always be put right!”

  The room went cold as the old crone finished speaking and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard. The girls, appre­ciating the creepy atmosphere, applauded and this pleased Pickings. Her mood changed abruptly.

  “Drat the herbs!” she cried. “It’s a day for the outdoors. Look out of the window, my witchlings.”

  Goodrun looked. The sky was dark and overcast. Flat grey clouds blocked out what little light there was. It was the sort of weather that made her feel like staying indoors, sitting in front of a fire and toast­ing crumpets.

  “Can’t you smell it?” cried the Witch, her long nose twitching from side to side. “My nose tells me it’s weather for flying. Broomsticks out, goggles on and get into line. And QUICKLY! I want everybody outside before it brightens up again.”

  There was a noisy stampede for the broom cupboard.

  Goodrun raised her hand.

  “What is it? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?” snapped Pickings.

  “Please ma’am, I haven’t got an umbrella with me!”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” snapped Pickings, “I haven’t got a bag of potatoes with me! I haven’t got a bus ticket with me! I haven’t got lots of things with me!”

  “I was only thinking it looks like rain.”

  “That’s not very clever, Badmanners. It looks like rain to all of us. You don’t need an umbrella to tell you that! Now get in line and stop whining!”

  As usual, Goodrun was the last to get to the cupboard. There were no flying goggles left and, as always, she had the worst broom. Its handle was scratched and rough and most of its twigs were missing but she did not care. She launched herself off the turret balcony and up into the damp, dreary sky.

  “Ah well,” she sighed, “I might as well enjoy the ride.”

  Chapter Eight

  Any person foolish enough to be outdoors on that dark and gloomy afternoon, with the rain threatening and the wind gusting, would have kept their heads tucked well down into their coat collars, or hidden under their umbrellas. But had they looked up, they would have seen a flock of small witchlings sailing through the sky on broomsticks and, ahead of them, pointing the way with her walking stick, Witch Pickings.

  “Follow me ! Keep in line! Wait here!”

  Pickings’ reedy voice came drifting back along the line. The witchlings hovered in the air while Pickings flew straight into a large purple cloud. When she reappeared, her clothes and hair were dripping wet but her face was aglow with excitement. She dived in again and came out the other side shaking herself dry like a dog.

  “Lesson in flying through clouds,” she said. “Who wants to be first?”

  Goodrun kept quiet. She did not want to do it at all. She was already cold and damp and the last thing she wanted to do was fly through a raincloud. She pulled her thin cloak round her and thought of warm sunshine and yellow spring flowers, and it seemed to make her feel warmer. Then she noticed that the flat, grey clouds were becoming fatter and paler, and the ugly purple one was beginning to expand, and the edges were breaking off into little puff­pieces.

  Pickings had just gone into the purple cloud for the third time when it suddenly split in two, and she dropped out, upside down, in front of the class. As she struggled to catch her broomstick, the sun burst through and everyone was doused in a bright, golden light.

  “Hide your eyes!” cried Pickings as she fell. “Cover your faces! QUICKLY I say, before one of us shrivels up. Baa-ack to scho-oo-ool!”

  Her voice faded into the distance as she plummeted earthwards.

  When the girls got back Pickings was already there — waiting, hands on hips, flapping her bat-like sleeves. It did not take a clever witch to see she was rip-roaring, gum-gnashing angry. There were two bright spots on her wizened cheeks and steam was oozing out of her collar. Broomsticks and goggles were thrown into the cupboard and voices raised as the girls squabbled and fought for chairs.

  “That’s enough behaviour!” said Pickings, who neither said it was good or bad. “I want to know who’s been using weather spells without permission!” Her eyes were cold, like steel buttons.

  Some of the girls decided there could be a few black points to be gained by owning up, whether they were guilty or not.

  “I have!” said Murky, sniffing hard.

  “No, you haven’t!” said Pickings, “I know your sort of weather, Murky Pondwater, and this wasn’t it! Anybody else like to own up?”

  The fact that none of the girls knew what they might be owning up to made it all the more exciting. They all started shouting and waving their hands but Evilyn shouted the loudest.

  “It was me! It was me!” Evilyn did not want to miss out on any extra black marks even though she already had more than anybody else. “I did it.”

  Witch Pickings’ steely eyes narrowed to slits. “How?” she said. “How did you do it?”

  “I used the damp dungeons and dreary day spells — together!” she added.

  “Rubbish! You’re lying!” said Pickings. “But that’s not a fault. I like a witch who can tell a good lie. But it still does not answer my question . Who messed up the weather?”

  “Please ma-am, I did!” cried Greasey Puddle, who thought she must have had something to do with it if it was something messy. “I kept one of last year’s exam spells. See, I left it in a jar and it went all mouldy, see. Then it went rotten and began to smell. It was a stinking, pongy, putrid, festering . . .”

  “Sit down, Greasey!” sighed Pickings. “It wasn’t you because this was NOT a rotten spell and it did NOT stink. But you can have a black mark for imagination.”

  Witch Pickings rummaged about in her desk, found a black mark, and tossed it to Greasey, who stuck it proudly on the end of her nose which was already covered in several natural black marks of her own.

  “No,” mused Pickings, “the strange thing about this spell is that it was almost . . . fragrant!” The class gasped in horror. “Aaah!” breathed the witch, her eyes narrowing. “Now we are getting somewhere. It was either a practical joke or a mistake! Or it may have been intentional!” she muttered, smacking the wall with her stick as she hobbled round the room and then stood right behind Goodrun.

  Goodrun’s heart was pounding so loudly she was sure Pickings could hear it. Sometimes she thought the terrible old crone could read her thoughts and that made her tremble even more. She wanted to own up and tell everyone that she had made the sun come out; that she liked the sun and did not care what they thought! But the awful trouble was she did care, and she was far too frightened of what Pickings might do to her if she ever found out she was guilty.

  Goodrun longed to be like her friends. They’d own up to anything and did not give a thought to the outcome. Sometimes, to her shame, Goodrun did not want to be bad at all. It was a terrible thing to live with and she didn’t dare tell her sister, her teachers or her p
arents. She felt sure she must be the only good witch in the world.

  Chapter Nine

  After kicking the chair legs and threatening terrible punishment, Pickings eventually shuffled back to her desk and Goodrun breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Pickings by name and pickings by nature,” she thought crossly. Goodrun often felt she was being picked on by Pickings. Once the old witch told her she was her least favourite pupil and she did not like her much.

  “Well, I don’t like you much either!” thought Goodrun.

  Then she nearly jumped out of her skin. Pickings’ cane had crashed down onto her desk and her eyes, burning out of their sockets like two black coals, were staring straight at her.

  “Oh no!” Goodrun shook inside. “Sh-surely she — she didn’t read my mind!”

  “Iffffffff,” hissed Pickings, “I find out who spoiled my afternoon, and who deliberately made a fool of me by splitting the clouds and tipping me out of the sky, I shall punish them by sending them to the bathhouse!”

  The girls gasped. The bathhouse was worse than any dungeon. There was fresh water in the bathhouse and all witches had a morbid fear of fresh water. Murky Pondwater nearly fainted when the word “bath” was uttered, and for a few minutes there was uproar in the class as all the witchlings, now under threat of a good wash, suddenly denied having anything to do with the weather spell.

  “Wasn’t me!”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  “Nor me!”

  “Alright! Alright!” snapped Pickings. “But one of you did, and I’ve a mind to make you all carry a piece of soap till somebody owns up!”

  More gasps of horror were heard.

  “But, for the moment, I’ll pretend to forget it.”

  “Hooray!” said Greasey, rather foolishly.

  “I only said pretend!” sneered Pickings. “Don’t get excited. So! Who’s learnt a new spell? Oh! Ah! Ouch! Oh!”

  Suddenly Witch Pickings started hopping about, clutching her thin cheeks.

  “Oh! Ouch! Ah! Ooh! Aaaah!”

  Evilyn nudged her sister.

  “Poor old Pickings,” said Goodrun.

  “Poor old Pickings?” said Evilyn. “That’s a silly thing to say. What about clever Evilyn? That’s my new spell. Instant Raging Face Ache!”

  “But that’s nasty,” said Goodrun.

  “I know,” said Evilyn, gazing proudly at Witch Pickings as she lay on the floor, writhing in agony. “I only found it last night. I wanted to do Instant Raging Toothache but Pickings hasn’t got any.”

  “Hasn’t got any toothache?”

  “Hasn’t got any teeth, stupid!”

  “But she’s in pain,” cried Goodrun. “Can’t you stop it, Evilyn?”

  “Nope! Somebody had torn the page out. What’s the matter with you anyway? You don’t like her anymore than I do. Serves her right.”

  “Evilyn! That’s wicked!”

  “Well,” she sneered, “witches are wicked, aren’t they? Anybody here knows a nice witch?”

  Several of the girls nearly choked at the thought. Goodrun felt silly. But silly or not, she could not help feeling sorry for anyone in pain, even the hateful Witch Pickings! She ignored Evilyn, who tried to pull her back, and went to comfort the old witch. She remembered a healing spell that Aunt Nettle had used on her when, years ago, she’d been stung by a bee. There was a chance it might work. With her hand on Pickings’ cheek she chanted,

  “Under, over, through this spell,

  away with pain and leave thee well.”

  To Goodrun’s delight, the old witch stopped moaning immediately and sat up, rubbing her jaw.

  “That was peculiar. Really peculiar. I was sure I had toothache, but I couldn’t have because I haven’t got any teeth!”

  “It wasn’t toothache,” said Evilyn. “It was Instant Raging Face Ache from Spells Old and New (Book One). You asked us for a new spell.”

  “So I did,” said Pickings, “and it was nasty too. It felt exactly like toothache. Six black marks, Evilyn Badmanners, but don’t do it again!”

  “Thank you ma-am!” said Evilyn.

  “Are you feeling better now?” asked Goodrun.

  Pickings seemed to notice her for the first time.

  “What’s it to you? Mind your own business! And why aren’t you in your seat?”

  Goodrun could feel her anger rising. How rude! It would not have hurt her to say a “thank you for helping me” or even “thank you”. She did not deserve any kindness. Evilyn was right.

  “I was only trying to help,” mumbled Goodrun.

  “Speak up, don’t answer back and be quiet!”

  Goodrun stood up.

  “Before you go,” said Pickings, “let me have a sniff of water. I need something to revive me after that face ache!”

  Pickings always kept a bowl of water on her desk. It was green and dank and made the whole room smell of stagnant ponds. Pickings used it as a room freshener and sometimes as perfume, dabbing it behind her ears.

  Goodrun thought ordinary water would do her more good, and be nicer to look at too. She imagined the bowl filled with fresh water and a goldfish or two swimming around in it. When she handed the bowl to Pickings, she was as surprised as any to see the water change from cloudy green to cry­stal clear.

  “Ugh—Aaah!” screeched Pickings when she saw it. “What have you done? Are you trying to make me ill?”

  “No, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” stammered Goodrun. “I only thought . . .”

  “Well, don’t!” Pickings rushed across to the sink and tipped the water away. “I’ve got my eye on you, Badmanners. You’ve been behaving strangely lately. You’d better pull your boots up, otherwise . . .”

  She did not say what the “otherwise” might be but Goodrun knew that, whatever it was, it would not be pleasant.

  “You’ll probably get expelled,” said Evilyn cheerfully when Goodrun got back to her seat.

  “Don’t say that! I don’t know why these things always happen to me. I can be nasty if I really want to. I’ll have to try harder, that’s all.”

  Evilyn laughed her awful creaky laugh. “You’ll have to try a lot harder!” she said.

  But, as it happened, Goodrun did not have to try at all that day.

  Pickings started droning on again about herbs. Lists of herbs to remember and lists of herbs to forget. It was the dullest lesson ever and some of the girls fell asleep on their desks. Then Pickings herself began to yawn and, at that moment, Evilyn perked up. She nudged Goodrun.

  “As soon as she falls asleep, I’m going.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere!” hissed Evilyn. “You coming or not?”

  “I’m coming!” sniffed Murky.

  “Me too!” said Greasey.

  They all knew that once out of the classroom they could make themselves invisible and Pickings would not be able to find them. She would not report them missing either, because if Madame Necromancy found out that one of her teachers had fallen asleep in class, she would be dismissed from her post quicker than you could say “mouse-droppings”.

  Sensing something was about to happen, as witches do, those who had fallen asleep suddenly woke up. The whole class watched and waited in silence as the old witch’s eyelids began to flutter and her scraggy body began to sway to and fro over the desk.

  “So, beware of angelica . . . Aaaaah!” Pickings yawned loudly, “Because it is a very . . . Aaaaah!”

  Then Pickings flopped forward onto her desk, her long nose bent sideways and her hands dropping limply by her sides. She began snoring immediately, a signal for the girls to get out as quickly as possible. But Evilyn stopped them.

  “Wait! We can’t miss a chance like this!”

  So while Pickings snored, they put itching powder in her hat, blocked the spout of her teapot with an old sock and put salt in her sugar bowl. They tied her hands to the chairlegs and tied her bootlaces together. That done, nobody wanted to be there when Pickings woke up and they all scrambl
ed to get out. They made so much noise clattering down the stairs Goodrun, who was the last again, could almost feel Pickings’ cold fingers on her collar.

  “Ssssh! Up front!” she hissed. “Give us a chance to get out!”

  And so, in an unusually quiet and orderly fashion, the fourteen witchlings silently glided down the 84 steps to the courtyard below. Once outside, they ran about in all directions, whooping and shrieking and some actually exploding with excitement. Every pupil at the Witches Academy liked to trick a teacher, especially without wasting any magic powers. Even Goodrun had to admit that, this time, she had enjoyed it too.

  Chapter Ten

  But that night Goodrun could not sleep. She kept thinking of Evilyn’s careless remark that she might be expelled. That, by itself, was bad enough but it would also mean that without her Diploma in Magic, she would never graduate from witchling to witch and would have to leave the academy in disgrace!

  She tossed and turned as these worrying thoughts rushed though her mind. Then another even more alarming thought pushed the others aside. She jerked upright in bed, heart pounding and eyes staring. If she were expelled from the academy, where would she go? Was there a terrible, dark place for failed witches? Or would she be zapped into oblivion? Goodrun began to tremble and pulled the covers up tighter round her neck.

  “Don’t be silly,” she told herself, “Mother would look after me. Well, I think she would.”

  Witch Hayzell wrote to both her daughters from time to time and, from these letters, they learnt that their mother had become a most important witch. She had her own coven now, and that meant meetings and conferences nearly every night. Sometimes she and Blackheart were away so much they shut up the mansion altogether.

  “If I lived at home,” thought Goodrun, “I’d be on my own most of the time, and it’s such a big place! One hundred and forty empty rooms.” The thought sent shivers down her spine. “All those suits of armour and old paintings, and hundreds of skeletons in the cupboards. No! I couldn’t. Not on my own!” Goodrun moaned and shivered again.