Witches in Deed Page 5

  “The Halloween witches have arrived,” said Goodrun. “They’ll be here all through the exams. Do you think Mother’s included?”

  “No!” said Evilyn. “She’s not in this committee. Some of the Aunts might be though; the very old ones.”

  “Like Aunt Nettle?”

  “No, she’s retired. Didn’t Mother tell you?”

  “Perhaps. I must have forgotten. This may sound a silly question, Evilyn, but do all witches retire?”

  “Of course not. Some go on for ever, but Pickings said there’s a high casualty rate.”

  “Do you mean accidents?”

  “‘Course I do. Any spell can go wrong, can’t it? If the wind changes or there’s three Fridays in a fortnight. Just think, there must be hundreds of toads or frogs or lumps of stone about that were once witches!”

  “Oh!” Goodrun gasped. “Really?”

  “Why not? Some of them could have gone up in a puff of smoke, or turned inside out, or exploded!” Evilyn was warming to the idea. “Or disappeared and not been able to re-materialize. They could be walking about now and we wouldn’t know!”

  “How terrible!” said Goodrun.

  “Just one of those things,” said Evilyn nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t happen to witches of real quality.”

  “You mean like Mother or Madame Necro­mancy?”

  “Or me!” Evilyn admired her nails and then tried them out on the bedcovers. They made a sharp, scratchy sound like a cat’s claws on a carpet.

  “Why do you think Nettle’s been retired?” asked Goodrun.

  “Outlived her usefulness! I suppose there’s a limit to how long our powers will last. Aaaaaah!” Evilyn yawned. “I’m going to sleep now. Wake me when the bell goes!”

  How her sister could sleep when there was so little time before such important exams, Goodrun could not imagine. Murky and Greasey were also snoring loudly. Untroubled minds, thought Goodrun, knowing that hers was exactly the opposite. She was not going to wait for the bell, wake Evilyn and then be last in, so she got dressed, sneaked out of the dormitory and went downstairs to the main hall where the exams would take place.

  The hall was Madame Necromancy’s pride and joy. It was dark, damp and musty. Massive pillars, encrusted with snails and slime, supported a high, arched roof. Years of untouched cobwebs filled the corners and looped themselves from pillar to pillar like swathes of dirty netting. Madame Necromancy liked to make the hall as comfortable as possible and never repaired the broken windows or the ill-fitting doors. It was her thoughtful way of leaving somewhere for an icy draught to sneak in. Today, she had left a tap running in the sink so that the persistant drip, drip of the water could be heard by the examinees while they worked.

  Goodrun was not the first to arrive. There was already a huddle of cold, nervous witchlings outside the door in spite of the early hour. The bell, when it went, made them all twitch furiously.

  Boh-oh-oh-ong! Boh-oh-oh-ong!

  Its sonorous tone echoed round the towers and up into the dormitory where Evilyn, Greasey and Murky awoke and stretched.

  The hall doors opened at seven o’clock and the first written examination began 15 minutes later. At two o’clock that afternoon the doors opened again and the exhausted witchlings trailed out.

  At nine o’clock the following morning until six o’clock that evening, with only half an hour for lunch, they Were in the laboratory doing their potions, pills and poultices.

  On the third day, they were tested on the history and theory of spells. The written exam lasted from midday till eight o’clock. When it finally ended the witchlings, eyes bleary and fingers numb from so much writing, staggered out of the hall and went straight to bed.

  The last examination was the one they all looked forward to — “The Practical”. Evilyn was like a firecracker, popping, fizzing and hopping about with excitement. Goodrun, by contrast, felt sick with worry. She dreaded this exam. Writing and learning about witchcraft was one thing but actually putting it into practice . . .

  “Well,” she thought, as they lined up in front of Madame Necromancy to get their assignments, “I can only do my best!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Madame Necromancy gave them each a sealed, gold envelope with the word “Practical” stamped on it. “Take it away with you,” she commanded. “Read it carefully. Don’t let anybody else see it. Do what it says and then come back here, at once! Your test will be in the mortal world, so don’t hang about! Don’t get caught in trees and don’t lose the envelopes. I shall need them next year! That’s all! Dismissed!”

  As the witchlings turned to go, Madame Necromancy added, “And I do not expect any failures!”

  Once outside, envelopes were hastily ripped open and the contents read. One by one the witchlings began to disappear. Some floated thoughtfully away, still reading their assignments, some disappeared on the spot, and some faded gradually. Evilyn, dramatic as ever, exploded in a cloud of pink dust, leaving behind only her torn and empty envelope.

  Goodrun read her assignment several times. It said:

  “Beware the Fates!

  The cruel fair will drown in stormy

  sorrow.

  But cast a spell, and fill the well,

  Walpurgis Night the morrow.”

  “Oh dear,” she sighed. “That doesn’t mean much to me and it isn’t Walpurgis tomorrow. Walpurgis is Halloween and that’s not till the end of October. Beware the Fates, The cruel fair . . . Oh, I don’t know!”

  Goodrun was now the only one left. She did not feel confident enough to zap herself somewhere, even if she knew where to go, so she decided to go by broomstick. Once in the air Goodrun felt happier. She repeated the assignment several times over as she flew along. “The cruel fair drown in stormy sorrow . . . but cast a spell and fill the well . . .”

  She was so deep in thought she had no idea how far she had travelled and almost flew into a huge raincloud that appeared out of nowhere. Swooping down and round the cloud, she saw a lot of activity in the field below. There were lots of people laughing and wandering about, children carrying silver balloons, some throwing balls at coconuts and old china, and others riding on brightly-painted roundabouts. She could also hear somebody calling, “Roll up! Roll up! Lots of fun at the fair!”

  A fair! That was in her assignment. A large banner was stretched over the entrance to the field and it said, “BARNSTACK VILLAGE FETE”. A fete! Goodrun was sure she was on the right track now. But what was she supposed to do? While she thought about it, she kept out of sight behind some large trees. Then the raincloud caught up with her and hovered over the field, casting a dark shadow.

  “Oh, blow over,” thought Goodrun, but it didn’t. The cloud, heavy with water, suddenly burst, spilling its contents all over the field and the fete. It was like a giant bath being emptied. Goodrun flew into a tree to keep dry. She felt sorry for all the people running for shelter and sorry for the fete. “I wonder if I could move that cloud?” she said, and she knew that was the answer. “The cloudburst is a test. My assignment said a fete will be drowned. But does that tie up with Walpurgis night? Oh!”

  She nearly fell off her broomstick in excitement. “Of course. The witches are having their Halloween rehearsal at the academy tomorrow and they’ll need bad weather. That’s it! I’ve done it!”

  But first of all she had to move the cloud. It was easy enough to send it away, but difficult to send it to a particular place. Goodrun tried hard to will the cloud away. Within seconds a strong wind blew up and the cloud rolled over the fields, taking the rain with it. She could hear it rumbling and grumbling in the distance as it built up speed.

  “Good!” she thought. “With any luck it’ll be a full-sized thunderstorm by the time it gets back. All that’s needed now is a bit of sun to dry this field and, hey presto!” It was a silly old saying, and nobody used it these days, but Goodrun felt happy enough to chance it.

  When the sun came out it was warm and strong. The villagers continued with their fete
and Goodrun, very pleased with herself, was now confident that she had successfully completed her assignment, and it was only a matter of hours before she would become a full-witch.

  Anxious to get back she urged her broomstick skywards but it refused to move. Something was holding her back. Was her cloak caught in the branches? She tugged it round her. No. Oh drat! The twigs of her broomstick had become entangled with the twigs on the branches and there was no hope of prizing them apart. The more she tried, the more they knitted together.

  “Oh, you fool!” she cried, hopping mad with herself. “How many times have you been told never to go into a tree on a broomstick! Oh, pook! If I don’t get back to the academy, my Practical will be counted as a failure. Oh, Goodrun! How could you be so silly!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Goodrun knew the only way to get out of the tree, and back to the academy, was to disappear and re-materialize. Unfortunately, she had not yet perfected materialization. She could disappear alright but, more often than not, would reappear in the same place. How she envied her sister who could zip and zap and materialize wher­ever she wished. But, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life in the tree, Goodrun had to do it and she had to do it properly. Closing her eyes and using every bit of her magic powers, she concentrated hard on being elsewhere.

  How long she sat in the tree with her eyes shut tight she had no idea. But when she opened them again she was back in the academy. Well, not exactly in it, but on it! She was sitting astride the dormitory roof. Not what she had intended to do but, as it happened, it was the best place to be because the Witches Academy of Black Art was flooded.

  Torrents of water gushed through the open gates and swirled round the courtyard, surging in and out of the academy’s doors and windows, taking with them bottles of potions, books of spells, jars, jugs and cauldrons as they rushed along. Assorted items of furniture bobbed along in the raging water and a flotilla of screeching, fire-spitting, pot-boiling-angry, wet witches clung on to anything they could get hold of. Goodrun stared in horror at the terrible scene below. Then Evilyn suddenly appeared on the roof beside her. “What took you so long? We’ve been back ages!”

  “I had a bit of trouble,” mumbled Goodrun, unwilling to admit she had been stuck in a tree. “But what’s happened?”

  “A deluge!” said Evilyn. “A flash storm and a cloud burst! Tremendous stuff! I saw it all.”

  “Couldn’t anybody stop it?”

  “No. Not even Madame herself. Which means it wasn’t ordinary weather. It was a spell!”

  “Oh, no!” Goodrun felt weak. She felt ill. “That was my Practical!” she gasped.

  “Yours? You mean, you did this? Hey!” Evilyn yelled down to some of the younger witchlings leaning out of the dormitory windows. “Hey! My sister did this. No more witch school! No more academy!”

  The witchlings squealed with delight.

  “I wish I’d done it!” shouted one of the older ones.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” Madame Necromancy, looking surprisingly dignified, floated into the courtyard, standing on her upturned desk. In her arms she held some books and several pieces of rolled up parchment. She looked up at Goodrun and pointed a terrible finger. “So it was you, Goodrun Badmanners. Do you realize what you have done?” Her voice echoed round the courtyard. “You have destroyed hundreds of years’ research into Evil. You have ruined my precious manu­scripts. The only copies in the world!” she wailed. “Lost for ever! There will be no Halloween celebrations this year because you, YOU, have drowned my meeting AND MOST OF MY WITCHES! I shall never forgive you for this, Goodrun Badmanners. You are not leaving this academy, what is left of it; you are EXPELLED! As of NOW! And don’t think you are getting your diploma because you’re NOT! So there!”

  The last few words were screamed back at Goodrun as the water surged again and Madame Necromancy shot through the academy gates. Goodrun and Evilyn watched her speed out into the flooded countryside, clinging to the legs of her desk.

  “Well, that’s that!” said Evilyn, when she had disappeared from sight. “I don’t care what happens now! I’ve passed! Double Black Honours!”

  “Well done!” said Goodrun faintly. “But I haven’t. And I’ve been expelled. Oh, Evilyn. What am I to do?”

  “Let’s pack up and go home,” said Evilyn. “I want to show Mother and Father my diploma!”

  There was not much to pack. Personal possessions were frowned on at the academy, although Goodrun had kept that precious brown envelope that had belonged to her father. She stuffed it, her spare clothes and a few books into her drawstring bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “I’m ready!” she said, wondering what on earth she was going to say to her mother when she saw her. And holding hands, Goodrun and Evilyn zapped themselves home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “But why did you do it?” Hayzell asked Goodrun when the girls were home again. “It’s really very serious, you know. Flooding the academy! Destroying all that research into Evil.”

  “I didn’t mean to do it. My assignment said, ‘Beware the Fates, The cruel fair will drown in stormy sorrow. But cast a spell and fill the well, Walpurgis Night the morrow!’”

  “Well?” said Hayzell.

  “Well, I found a fete which was in danger of being washed out. I thought that must be the sorrow bit. I wasn’t sure about filling the well, but it obviously had something to do with water. Then I thought Madame Necromancy would want bad weather for the Halloween Rehearsal. So . . . well, you know the rest.”

  “That’s the trouble with people who can’t spell and people who can’t SPELL!” crackled Evilyn. “It was ‘Fate’ with an ‘a’, not ‘Fete’ with an ‘e’ — so you had that wrong. The cruel fair referred to those irritating people who are fair-minded; ‘cast a spell and fill the well’ simply means making a wish. You were supposed to find a few fair-minded people, make them do something nasty, then collect up all the evil atmosphere you’d created, and use it on a Walpurgis night. Easy­peasy.”

  “I would never have thought of that,” said Goodrun. “I’m sorry, Mother. Are you very disappointed with me?”

  “Evilyn,” said Hayzell, “go and talk to your father, will you? He’s in the attic with the bats. I want to have a private word with your sister.”

  When they were alone, Hayzell put her arm around Goodrun.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “You see, dear, I half-expected something like this would happen but you were getting on so well. This last year you really have been rather horrible and Blackheart and I were so pleased with you.”

  “I know,” sighed Goodrun. “But it wasn’t easy.”

  “No, but there is a simple explanation to that and I should have told you before. You see, Goodrun dear, you are only half-witch.”

  Goodrun’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? What is the rest of me if it’s not witch?”

  Hayzell swallowed hard. “Nobody knows this, not even the Aunts, although I think Thunder suspected . . .”

  “Suspected what?”

  “That you are half-witch and half . . . mortal.”

  Goodrun gasped. “But how? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh it’s not my fault. Your ancestry on my side of the family is impeccable — pure witch — going back forever.”

  “Then . . . it’s my father.”

  “Yes.”

  “My father is a mortal?”

  “Was a mortal.”

  “Was? Is he dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. He was killed just before you were born, by a particularly heavy chest of drawers which fell on top of him one day.”

  “Chest-of-drawers?”

  “He was a furniture salesman,” said Hayzell, “but a magician in his spare time. Only an amateur, but I didn’t know that when I met him. He was performing at a concert and it was love at first sight. He could make birds appear from nowhere. Swallow swords and eat fire. Saw people in half and put them together again. He was a charmi
ng man and very handsome. Well, I thought so, though some didn’t. I’ve tried to give you a good witch’s education but I’m afraid there is too much of your father in you. I’ve suspected for some time that you inherited his kindness, his compassion, and such mortal feelings have no place in a witch’s make-up!”

  “What was his name?” asked Goodrun.

  “His professional name was Marvo the Magnificent but his real name was Cornelius Smith.”

  “Smith? You mean my name isn’t Badmanners?”

  “No.Your real name is Goodrun Smith. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not!” said Goodrun. “I hated being called Badmanners! But how does this help? I’m not a witch and I am a witch! What am I to do?”

  “I’ve thought about that and it’s been all arranged,” said Hayzell. “You’re going to live with Aunt Nettle!”

  “Where? I thought she’s retired!”

  “Indeed she has, and lives in a little cottage in the mortal world. She has so few powers left nobody suspects she is a witch. But she is getting old and forgetful and needs help. I wouldn’t be happy if you were living on your own and Nettle will appreciate your company.”

  “Will I be able to come back and visit?” asked Goodrun.

  “Of course! You’re still part-witch. Although, sadly, it’s the smaller part, and you’ll always have the powers you inherited from me, and all the spells you’ve learnt too. It’ll be strange at first but I think you’ll feel more at home in the mortal world.

  “Mother, that envelope you gave me, the one you said belonged to my father. What is it?”