Wilde

by Eloise Williams

  ‘You are weird. So weird. My mother knew your mother and she told me what you are.’

  I don’t answer. Hate is searing, the smell of it like singed grass.

  ‘She said that you can put curses on people.’

  There’s a vacuum of air between us, like we are stuck inside a bubble. It’s too hot. Burning from the inside out. Burning from the outside in.

  ‘That it runs in the family. That you are a witch. That your mother was a witch.’

  I wish the bubble could float me away.

  I close my eyes and imagine taking flight. Soaring up, the school tiny below me. Floating on thermals. Bursting through the clouds in glimmering sparkles. Sunlight kisses my wings, glitters, trails behind me in shimmering waves. I am a part of the air and the sky, and light as a feather.

  When I open my eyes, Jemima is gone. The school is empty. I am alone.

  7

  I’ve had a terrible night’s sleep again. When I arrive at school, I can tell things are worse. Jemima and a few of the others are whispering and lots of kids stare at me as I pass. A minibus crammed with Year Fives is departing for a day on a beach and I imagine sneaking myself in as a stowaway. I don’t think I could get away with it. Dorcas is hurtling towards me at top speed across the yard.

  ‘Have you heard? There have been lots of curses left overnight.’

  I feel cold creep over me.

  ‘Mabli Evans had one that said she would grow bunions so big that she wouldn’t be able to dance anymore, and she lives for dancing. Megan had a curse that if she took another photo of herself, she’d grow hair all over her face like a wolf, and taking selfies is literally her only hobby.’ Dorcas is out of breath but carries on. ‘There was one in Cadi’s desk and Lewis found one inside his bag, but he couldn’t read it because his baby brother had been sick in it again. I…’

  ‘Who were they signed from?’

  ‘The Witch. Have you had one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor me. There’ve been all sorts of sightings and rumours. People think that we’ve woken the witch called Winter. That she has come back from the grave. That she’s cursed us all over again, but stronger this time. That there are even more horrors to come.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’ My voice struggles to get past my lips. It doesn’t believe itself.

  As we walk to class, I can see people reading each other’s notes. I pass Ivy as she finds one white-tacked to her locker and bursts into tears. She crumples it up and refuses to show it to anyone, even to Holly, so it must be bad.

  This is terrible. Really terrible. When we get to class, it gets worse. Mr Ricketts has been taken into hospital, so we have to go straight to Gwyneth for registration.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I ask the secretary, but he doesn’t hear me because he is dealing with Branwen’s asthma inhaler. Lewis butts in.

  ‘He’s been cursed. My mam saw him being taken away in an ambulance and she said he was being sick more than my baby brother is and that is a heck of a lot, let me tell you.’

  I feel the tingle of tears at the bridge of my nose.

  The others head off to the hall in a state of high excitement. Ivy is telling everyone about her note without revealing the contents. Jemima’s nose is out of joint as she’s not getting the attention. She narrows her eyes at me and I know that our encounter yesterday is not over yet.

  I lag behind, realising too late that setting myself apart from the group probably makes me more suspicious.

  Someone human must be writing those notes. Trying to cause trouble. For me. For everyone. I know bad things happen around me, but I didn’t make anyone ill.

  Unless?

  No.I’m not cursing people. I’m not writing the curses.

  Unless, you are doing it in your sleep.

  I am not doing it in my sleep.

  The illustration of the witch called Winter in the corridor is lit by a shaft of glittering sunlight. I stop to look at it. Something still feels not right about it. Why did the Page to Stage production have to be about witches? Why couldn’t we have had a summer fayre like other schools, with fairy cakes and candy-floss and perhaps a mini Ferris wheel? Or a play based on literally anything else?

  Something moves in the glass frame, but when I peer closer I realise it’s the receptionist behind me.

  ‘Come along. Get to class.’ He holds a Witch Point folder tightly. He must have files on every pupil. I don’t like him knowing all that information about me. I wonder if he has information on my mum in his archives. Is that why he’s always watching me?

  I have no choice but to walk with him. When we get to the hall, Gwyneth is doing some peculiar yoga moves and grunting.

  ‘A salutation to the sun,’ she explains and continues to contort herself into surprising shapes. She loves an audience and having the receptionist there gives extra flamboyance to her moves.

  Jemima shoves past me, hurting my shoulder, and goes towards Gwyneth. ‘Did you hear, Gwyneth? The witch is back and cursing everyone.’

  Everyone gasps. We aren’t telling the teachers. Jemima is breaking the unspoken Year Six code.

  Gwyneth stops yoga-ing and puts her glasses on. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is so.’ Jemima is thoroughly pleased with herself. It makes me want to punch her. I loosen my collar and still feel as if I’m being throttled. There should be a law to close schools in this heat.

  ‘Winter has come to wreak her revenge at last.’ Gwyneth looks over her shoulder. ‘We must tread with care, my company of players, for we do not want to upset the spirits.’

  It’s clear that Gwyneth thinks Jemima is making things up to get a role in the play, but she’s happy to play along with the theatricality of it. Everyone mutters about spirits and curses. The air is bubbling with expectation, on a knife-edge of nerves. I bet none of us are sleeping in this heat.

  ‘ARGHHHHHHHHHH!’ Gwyneth screams. We all scream in response. ‘Twisted my ankle. Sorry, everyone.’

  All I can hear is people murmuring ‘curse’. One girl starts crying and dashes out of the room.

  ‘What a darling, caring so much for my pain.’ Gwyneth hobbles to sit on the edge of the stage. The class babbles with excitement and shock. ‘Fear not, for I am fine, my merry band of vagabonds.’

  More whispers. Everything is curse, curse, curse.

  ‘This is just stupid,’ I say, louder than I mean to. Everyone stares at me. ‘Everyone is just getting freaked out by the heat.’

  ‘You can, I suppose, blame our uneasiness on the heatwave, Wilde. You can blame our unsettled feelings on coincidence. But the accidents…’ Gwyneth rubs her ankle. ‘The effect it’s having on our minds – perhaps we should abandon the project, go back to class and let dead witches lie.’

  Huge moan from the others. Someone spits a paper pellet at me, which is gross. They’re worried we’ll have to do work instead. I wish we could. The sun beats through the window. My heart hammers. I think I’m going to faint, but Susan steadies me.

  ‘No!’ Gwyneth bellows. ‘We shall not give in to her archaic sorcery. We shall go into battle and use theatre as our weapon! We must show everyone the story of this evil witch to expose her and stop the everlasting curse on Witch Point now!’ She bays a battle cry, as if she is commanding an evil spectre out of the room.

  My world twirls, I stagger and I’m sent to sit alone in the shade like an outcast.

  The others rehearse even more vigorously, afraid of being struck down too. I sit with my head between my knees until I’ve managed to stem my tears.

  When I look up, faces of hate are around me. The mob are waving imaginary pitchforks and chanting ‘Hang her’ over and over. Their mouths are angry slashes and their words are filled with fire. I put my head back between my knees and press my ears shut.

  Finally, the session is over. Gwyneth tells us the school will be sending out ticket sales details and we leave. A dark cloud hangs over us, filled with fear and spite.

  The rest of the day goes by
. We have taster sessions for what next year will be like at Witch Point High with teachers visiting us from the secondary school. Everyone is nervous about moving up, even if they are pretending they aren’t. An English teacher comes in to take us for a silent walk and we have to make a list of everything we notice with our senses. Then there is a P.E. taster where I watch from the sidelines because I still feel queasy and I don’t have any kit. Then there’s a too-short History taster where we research the Tower of London and all the beheadings there. When the teacher says that history is full of gory stuff and that, in Year Seven, we are going to be looking at Vlad the Impaler and his influence on the story of Dracula, I know we would get on if I went to Witch Point High. Which is a shame because I won’t be going.

  Eventually, it’s home time and I can leave. I really like Dorcas, and some of the others in my class are nice too, but The Sleeks have been sly-eyeing me all day and I’m glad to escape.

  It’s so hot. My breath catches in my throat. Some of the others went swimming together last weekend. A waterfall not far from here. Sgŵd-yr-Eira – The Falls of Snow. I felt a delicious cold shiver when I heard them talking about it, because that’s where the photo of my mum and me was taken. I realise it’s in the story of Winter, too: it’s where the seven rivers meet that are said to be the seven daughters, the waterfall where Winter is said to have trapped them. But the link between me and my mum is what calls to me. That’s where I want to go right now. Right this second.

  When I swim in Mumbles or the Gower, it always helps my worries. I front crawl them away. I can do that at the waterfall. It sounds so cold. I can imagine myself standing beneath it. The thought gets me home.

  ‘Mae, I’m going swimming.’

  There isn’t any answer. I can’t face the stairs. My swimming costume is at the top, but sweat trickles down my neck and soaks through the back of my shirt. I kick my shoes off, press the tiles with my feet and feel the cool of the house rise through me.

  ‘Mae?’ My voice echoes up the emptiness.

  I need an ice-pop. It’s so hot I can’t think of anything but that waterfall and how I’m going to pack my forever bottle with ice cubes and rub them over my face on the way there.

  As soon as I get a moment alone with the freezer, Mae dashes in from the conservatory.

  ‘Are you OK, Mae?’ She looks so worried.

  ‘They are all dying.’ Mae is close to tears. ‘All of them. The flowers. It’s the heat. We need to do something now.’

  I can’t say I was going to go swimming. The flowers are Mae’s livelihood and love. Grabbing a tray of pots, I join her in the mad dash to get all her plants into the shady spot behind the house. It hardly gets the sun because it’s surrounded by trees. There’s a pond here. Something plops into it. I wouldn’t mind getting in myself. Mae knows her flowers well, so we must be helping them by putting them here.

  As we rush back and forth, the direct sunlight drives through my head like a laser, but I press on. I need to be there for Mae.

  Eventually all the plants are in the shade and watered. I help her to spray their leaves and enjoy the mist kissing my skin. We flop down on the grass in a comfortable silence.

  ‘Wilde. Are you happy here?’

  The question comes from nowhere, so it takes me a minute to think how to answer. At this moment, I am very happy. Lying here on this sweet grass, surrounded by grateful flowers. I miss Dad but I’m due to speak to him again tomorrow and his work is very important. The stuff at school is difficult and most of the time I’m ragged from pretending to be normal but right now … ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She lifts a ladybird gently on to a fragile pink petal. ‘It’s where you belong.’

  I look up at the sky, way above us. Beyond the yellow whispering leaves, it is crystal bright. ‘Can I sleep in the treehouse tonight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sometimes things I think will be difficult are really very easy.

  I drag a few bits up the ladder with me. Mae helps. We sweep the worst of the debris away and, though it is hot work, it is nice to be with her. We even sing a song, a Welsh folk song we both know about different-coloured goats, and then a rap only I know. Mae joins in like a beatbox and, though it’s out of time and we sound awful, it’s really fun. By the time we finish, Mae is satisfied that I can sleep on the roll-down mattress she’s found. I haven’t told her about the curses, and sleepwalking, and ending up on the roof. Witch Point, for all its bad luck, is a very safe area where everyone knows everyone else so she has no worries about my safety. I have so many worries rattling about inside my head, I’m a human maraca.

  Mae goes down and I sit on the platform for a bit, watching all the animals wombling around. The flowers shine their best colours as night begins to fall and their scents get heady as they try to attract the last of the day’s insects. Hornets drone past as the sky bruises. The owls begin to call and I turn on my torch.

  I can see Dorcas’s house from here. I’m glad she lives so close. I wish she was staying over with me. Mae is reading a book in a rocking chair in her room. I signal her with the torch and she waves back. I go inside, making sure she witnesses me, and lie down on the mattress. It’s a bit lumpy but I get comfy and open a book. It’s a jolly thing with brightly-coloured illustrations and lots of bits of poems.

  When day is spent, and bright sun’s song is done,

  The fair folk whirl the sky by gold moonlight.

  As the dark grows, I think about The Witch. I imagine myself writing those letters in a trance. I couldn’t have, could I? I don’t know enough about the other pupils. Remembering this makes me feel a whole lot better. I try not to worry about what might happen if I fall asleep. What if I sleepwalk out of the treehouse and straight off the platform edge? Perhaps I should have asked to sleep in the conservatory. No, too hot. A tent in the garden? At least then I’d be on ground level.

  Spell little ones with lullabies sweetly sung,

  And everything is given to the night.

  8

  ‘Help!’ I am way above the ground. My face is crushed into stone. Get a grip. It takes me a minute to believe where I am. The windmill on the edge of town? How did I get here? Sweat makes my hands slippery. My breathing is harsh, clawing. The night sky above me seems to want to lift me up. I cling to the solid comfort of stone.

  What is happening? I can’t have sleepwalked all the way here? What other explanation is there?

  I’m going to have to tell someone about this. It’s getting too dangerous. I don’t want to tell Mae. She’d tell Dad and he’d worry.

  I’ll tell Dorcas. She’ll know what to do.

  The thought of Dorcas, my new friend, gives me the courage to sit up and look around. There’s no one here. That’s a relief.

  I am so high. The windmill watches over the town from the top of Witch Point Hill. They said in class it’s where they used to roll the witches in those spike-and-nail-filled barrels. Horrid. I look down and imagine how frightening it must have been.

  Far away, I see my beloved sea glimmering in the distance. A spellbinding line of ‘wish you were here’. Closer, the town wheezes irritably. I’m high up but I’m safe. I can sit here until I feel less shaky. I close my eyes and try to think why and how I could have got here. It makes no sense, but then I suppose, nothing makes much sense when you really look at it. Pearls disappear in vinegar. Elephants can’t walk backwards. Sheep always turn uphill. Dorcas told me all these things.

  This has got to stop happening. It’s getting seriously, seriously weird.

  Grasping onto the stone, I swing my legs inside the open-topped windmill. The missing roof means the steps down are easy to see and there is a doorway I can get out through. I don’t need to rush now; I’m safe.

  Dad told me once my mum spent days carving her initials into this ruin. Is that what brought me here? I wonder how hard it would be to find them. As I think this, I put my hand down to steady myself and feel something under my fingertips.

/>   It can’t be.

  Roughly chiselled into the stone: Mum’s initials. Mae would say it was fate.

  My mum used to sit here. Play here. I feel such a strong connection to her. I know it sounds silly, but it’s like she’s trying to tell me something. I look about me. What is it? Something. Tugging at my memory. Like water slipping through my fingers. I’m sorry, Mum. I just can’t catch it.

  I trace the indents in the stone, concentrating on the rough, dusty patterns. I swallow hard and stay practical. Whatever I’m trying to pinpoint ghosts itself away.

  I shuffle towards the steps. I need to make plans. Stop this sleepwalking before it stops me.

  I cautiously make my way down the steps. It wouldn’t be good to fall here – there are jagged points of glass where people have left broken bottles. Disgusting. I promise that I will clean this up soon, but in daylight. I reach the bottom safely and celebrate freedom.

  In the baked darkness, the town slumbers in shadow pockets beneath the stars. Mae says it has been getting hotter and hotter since I arrived. There hasn’t been a drop of rain in Witch Point for ages and everyone has had enough. Including me, even though I haven’t been here that long. I remember rain. It was glorious. This might be a curse or it might be the climate crisis brought on by stupid humans.

  The ground is warm beneath my bare feet. It has to be the weather causing the sleepwalking. It’s never happened to me before. I stop to let a critter cross the path ahead of me. A rat or a weasel. It’s probably searching for water, poor thing.

  Attempting to ignore my sore soles, I descend the steps to the sliding cemetery and hobble past a tilted grave. It is on the outside of the wall, turned to face the wrong way. A witch maybe?