All of a sudden there was a deep silence, and the witches stopped moving, and fixed their green eyes on the boy; and one of ’em, who looked to be the leader of the whole pack, came over to him, with a swishing of skirts and a rattle of bones, and eyed him slap into the middle of his marrow.
Well, sir, Timothy thought his last hour had come. She’d a high steeple-hat on, and a cloak over her shoulders, and a smartish costume of some sort of tattery witch-spun material; and she’d got a monster sickle nose, with hairs upon it, and a monster sickle chin, with hairs upon it, and tufts of hair on her cheeks, and tufts of hair on her lip; and she’d got knockety hands, and clappety feet, and beadly eyes; and she was so straggle-toothed that you could see right down her gullet into the fires of hell. She made a sign to the other witches, that they should stop whispering while she spoke to the boy. ‘What do you want, young man?’ she crackled; and he told her he was on his way with a bottle of barberry juice for his uncle’s jaundice.
‘A very sweet pretty complaint,’ said the principal witch, ‘and ’twould be a sad shame to destroy it. Therefore shall I and my lady friends breathe malignant curses into your bottle of barberry juice, and sour that evil linctus, and line the bottle with the tripe of toads; and I shall drop a sediment of snake-stone within it, to lie in your uncle’s tummy until the Day of Judgment; and I shall stir the potion with a gecko’s tail, and scent it with fitchet’s breath, and I reelly don’t know what more I shall do to the linctus—but I shall fill it with bubbles to give it a zest,’ cried the principal witch, bubbling at the mouth, and patting her back hair. Whereupon she told him that her name was Gertie Macnamara.
Aye, that was her name. Timothy Weem said so. He learnt a good deal about Gertie, that night in the mill. Her father was a pig-eyed nix from Achill Isle, and her mother was a lady’s-maid out of Bayswater. When Timothy Weem was an old man, he told my father that you could hear the Atlantic Ocean thrashing through the wisps of her broom, and the Lunnon traffic rumbling in her innards. I reckon these sounds nearly scared him to death at first, for he’d never been to the sea, nor heard anything louder than Farmer Horton’s farm carts; but it warn’t very long before he discovered that the witch was her mother’s child, inside and out, and the mill nothing less than a droring-room. ‘You keep quiet, young man,’ said Gertie Macnamara, ‘and you’ll come to no ’arm.’ So Timothy Weem kept as quiet as he possibly could, watching her party manners, and sure enough, he didn’t come to no harm whatsumdever. Now and again, it’s true, there’d be a swish and a whirr in the open doorway, that made him jump on his flour-sack: but bless ye, it was only friends and relations dropping in on their besoms from beyond Sidlesham way, and Halnaker way, and Shripney way, and Chalder way—aye, and Timothy says, from Afriky way, one or two of ’em—for some small talk; and some of ’em brought their sewing, and others spell-boxes, and others insanity-bags, and others brew-books, and one of ’em brought a little friend along with her, that warn’t a witch at all, but a pigwidgeon. Sometimes, in spite of their party manners, they eyed the boy with the greatest curiosity; but it was wonderful to see the power that Gertie had over ’em. She held ’em in the holler of her hand. Gertie did most of the talking, too:
‘Bought a duck of a hat Tuesday,’ said Gertie Macnamara, ‘trimmed with toads’ eyes and froth-hoppers. One-three, at Grimalkin and Hagseed’s.’
‘You never!’
‘Wearing it Witches’ Sabbath,’ said Gertie Macnamara, ‘at evencurse. A cup of dropwort, Mrs Itch-Weed?’
‘Thankye, my dear.’
‘I forget—arsenic?’
‘Two lumps,’ said Mrs Itch-Weed.
And after that, young Timothy felt quite at home. He handed round the cups of dropwort tea, and he handed round the plates of henbane sandwiches. He went and climbed into the rafters, and watched Jane Weddle using her new stitch on the witch-clout, though she told him it warn’t the kind of garment a young boy should see; and he helped Old Mother Speltbone rinse her washing, which she’d scoured in a flour-bin. And he was perfectly friendly with the whole pack of witches when Mrs Itch-Weed and some of the other visitors got up to go.
‘Well, so long, Gertie; pleasant nightmares. I must be off now. Sweeping a cloud-bank Chalder way. Goo’ night, girls.’ She whipped up her broom, and one of her hairpins fell out, and Timothy told my father years later that when he peeped through the door he could see Mrs Itch-Weed shooting away like a black rocket and sailing above the clouds in the moonlight.
‘Proud as dirt!’ said Gertie Macnamara suddenly, as soon as Mrs Itch-Weed’s back was turned. With that, two voices tittered in the mill; and Timothy noticed that besides Gertie, only Mother Speltbone and Jane Weddle were there now. Laying full length on his flour-sack, he listened to the three witches while they talked of their friends, and he watched Old Mother Speltbone as she hung her washing on a moonbeam; now and again a cloud passed over the moon, and the beam went in, and the washing flopped to the ground, and the sound growed so monotonous that Timothy shut his eyes and slept; and when he woke up in the morning the mill was full of daylight, and there in the road was an old cow mooing, and the miller coming to grind his corn.
Latish on in the forenoon, sir, Timothy Weem gave his uncle Gideon the bottle of barberry juice for the jaundice, and his uncle died at once in the parlour, and everybody said that Timothy’s mother had lost her skill in making medicine for jaundice out of the sweet leaves of the barberry.
***
Time and often, Timothy went along to see his new friends after that, and the boy didn’t come to no harm whatsumever. Ready to spring up at any moment to make hisself useful, he listened to the small-talk of the witches. Not but what he’d hear much gossip, mind ye, bar Saddadays. On other nights, there warn’t no witches in the mill besides the three that lived there—Gertie Macnamara, Mother Speltbone, and Jane Weddle—and they were such thick friends that time and often they’d go for a whole hour without speaking. Timothy told my father years later how he couldn’t hardly contrive to keep his eyes open, what with the silence, and the cronies lifting their skinny wrists in the air whilst they plied their needles up and down, up and down.
Then, come Saddaday, the mill was like a droring-room, Timothy said. A crowd of Gertie Macnamara’s friends would fly in upon her, and Gertie, chatting over her shoulder, would pour out the dropwort and pizon it with arsenic in the busiest manner; and although she was purty well flabbergaisted, what with looking after everybody, seeing that they’d got their henbane sandwiches and dropwort tea, and trying to remember who was for arsenic and who waun’t, yet Gertie Macnamara herself would take a hand at entertaining, whensumever there was a drop in the conversation. She’d squint into her cup of dropwort, and start to tell misfortunes. There warn’t a witch could beat her at it.
‘Tch! Tch!’ she’d click, all of a sudden, ‘bless me innards! You’re going to lose a lot of pizon one day, Mrs Itch-Weed! Well, I’ll be bound! I am sorry for ye!’ With that, she’d pat her back hair, and wink across at Mrs Wilberforce, of Gizzard Hill, for she hated every martal twig of the besom that Mrs Itch-Weed rode upon.
Them Saddaday night parties must have been rare sights, I reckon, especially when the sky was dark and scudding, for then’s the time for witches. There’d be witches on the floor of Runcton Mill, and witches up the walls; and Jane Weddle, flying aloft on her besom, would hang a witch-ball from the roof, and all the burning eyes of the witches would shine back from the witch-ball, giving the light of a centre lamp; and if so be the night was extra hot and airless, all the witches would begin to nod, and the witch-ball would grow darker, eye by eye, and even Timothy’s eyes would close and his chin would drop onto his chest. Then, seeing how ’twas, Gertie Macnamara would rap out loudly: ‘Lawk, girls! Wheer’s yer manners?’—and with that, the witch-ball would spring into flame, and Timothy would jump to his feet and set about filling the empty cups again, and maybe Mrs Esther Roadnight, the black-haired witch of Wittering, would start off, at a hem of a rate, di
vining by the dough of cakes.
***
Now, there happened to be living in the village, at that time, a rare old feller named Dudley Gimp. He was a liddle chap, turning white, neat as a cock-sparr’. His wife owned a shop a mile from the mill, and when she died she left him the shop, which is what he had married her for.
That shop sold almost everything you could think on, and a dunnamany things you’d never think on at all, yet I suppose it warn’t much bigger than a hen-coop, inside and out. ’Twas a hem miracle to all the Runcton folks how Dudley Gimp could fish up what they wanted, without he tumbled the whole stock onto the floor; and I shouldn’t wonder but what he might have made a better juggler than shopkeeper, all said and done.
Well, sir, accarding to Timothy Weem, the women were soon running after Dudley Gimp, and none of ’em runned harder than Mrs Pinkney and Mrs Rushbridger.
Middle-aged they were, them widders, in a manner of speaking. Dudley thought a rare lot of hisself, I can tell ye, and one day he would let on to Mrs Pinkey how she was the light of his eye, and another day he would let on to Mrs Rushbridger how she was the song of his heart; so it warn’t to be wondered at that when these two widders woke up of a sunshiny marnun, each of ’em would say to herself—letting on that a customer had jest come into her shop, and was giving her the time of day—‘Goo’ marnun, Mrs Dudley Gimp. How’s business?’
Well of course the liddle feller hadn’t no more thought of marrying eether of ’em than he had of asking the Queen of Perjure to come and fiddle about with his bacon and firewood. Don’t you make no mistake about that.
Now then. Timothy Weem used to go purty often to Dudley Gimp’s, of a Sunday, and sit with the old chap in the parlour behind the shop, and one day he told Dudley all about the witches in the mill.
‘You don’t say?’ cried Dudley, thumping his knee. And so it came to pass that on the follering Saddaday the shopkeeper and the boy set out for Gertie Macnamara’s. ’Twas dark and raining, and in the lanes there warn’t a human critter but theirselves. As soon as the black mill hove in sight at the far end of the village, Timothy Weem could see witches riding across the patches between the clouds, and swooping down to the mill, and circling round it, afore they went in; but to Dudley Gimp they warn’t no more than shadders shifting against the sky, and Timothy told my father years later that folks can never see witches out o’ doors, without they’ve seen ’em fust between walls.
Well, sir, to git back to my story. In they went, and Timothy done the honours. ‘Ye’ve brought us sweetly purty weather, Mr Gimp,’ said Gertie, arching her wrist and smiling as she shook the shopkeeper’s hand; and then she told him wheer the hatstand was. Well accardingly, Dudley whisked off his hat with the air of a markis borned and bred; and afore he’d lived another moment he was sitting on a flour-sack in the corner, near wheer the besoms were stacked to drain.
The mill was crowded that summer night, and all the best witches had flown over. Mrs Wilberforce, of Gizzard Hill, was there, and Mrs Darlington, in all her finery, divining by shadders, by a suspended ring, by a balanced sieve; and Mrs Itch-Weed’s cousin, Nellie Nightpiece, she was there, and Harriet Cowheel, the liddle pippin, and so was Mrs Esther Roadnight, writing in ashes, and forecasting death and disaster by sperrits seen in a magic lens. They all had summat curdling to do, new bits of gossip to thresh to atoms, newfangled pizons to consider . . . but to tell ye the truth, sir, Dudley Gimp didn’t think very much of these women, he said to Timothy they were gollops.
Howsumever, the upshot of it all was that the old feller became a chemist, which is near enough to being a juggler, I reckon. He took to making pills and boluses, knock-me-downs, pick-me-ups, potions, plaisters, pizons, and tinctums.
Mind ye, nobody had any idea he was making these things. Leastways, not for some time, they hadn’t. He didn’t even tell Timothy Weem he was making ’em. He must have been months and months experimenting with his pizons and boluses, and the fust time Runcton heerd about it was one spring marnun when Mrs Pinkney and Mrs Rushbridger happened to be in the shop together. It seemed to Dudley Gimp an opportunity too good to be lost. ‘Lookee my purties!’ he said, all of a sudden, winking back over his shoulder. With that, he showed ’em a lovely bottle of syrup, and a lovely bottle of pizon.
‘Twas all over Runcton in five minutes how Dudley Gimp was a maker of syrups and pizons.
He had emptied two bottles of boiled barley-drops, and had washed ’em out, and in one of ’em he’d got the syrup, and in t’other he’d got the pizon; and he’d labelled the bottles accardingly, and as soon as the women were out of the shop he went and stood the syrup and the pizon on the manklepiece in his parlour, pizon to the right, syrup to the left; and next day, being a Sunday, he showed um to Timothy Weem, and told the boy he warn’t in no hurry to let um go. ‘I be too much of an artis’,’ said he. ‘Why, it took me nigh on a couple o’ months to concoct they,’ said Dudley Gimp; and with that, he stepped back on the hearth-rug and looked at the bottles like he was a mother looking at twins.
Well, sir, what did Mrs Pinkney do but read a message in them two bottles? She reckoned that Dudley Gimp was trying to tell her how she was the syrup of his heart, while Mrs Rushbridger was the pizon of his dreams.
Mind ye, I don’t say but what Dudley didn’t take a stronger fancy to Mrs Pinkney than to Mrs Rushbridger.
She was better looking, in comparison. Don’t you make no mistake about that.
She was plump and dreamy-eyed and the biggest lay-abed in Runcton, and what’s more she was parfectly content as long as she could speak alone with Dudley once in the day. Mrs Rushbridger was the ezact opposite. She’d a bit of a wart on her nose, and mayhap that had summat to do with it. Howsumever, wart or nor wart, Mrs Rushbridger reckoned that she’d stand a better chance of happiness if it warn’t for Mrs Pinkney, so one day she thought how she’d give Mrs Pinkney some of Dudley’s pizon. Not much, mind ye, but enough.
Question was, how could she git hold of the pizon?
Well, of course, we can’t look into a lady’s head. But I reckon she figured it out how she’d go and have a talk with Timothy Weem, knowing that the old man and the boy were such thick friends. So off she started for Timothy Weem’s; but on the way she found herself at Dudley Gimp’s instead, with the shop empty, except for the old chap behind the counter.
‘It queers me why you don’t put that syrup in yer winder,’ said Mrs Rushbridger, blurting it out. ‘And the pizon, too, come to that. Don’t ye want to sell um?’
‘All in good time! All in good time, Pollie!’ Wheerupon, the little feller turned to a door behind him—the door of the parlour at the back of the shop. You couldn’t tell door from wall. ’Twas hanging with brushes and eggwhisks and pots and pans, and even the door-handle looked as if it was up for sale.
When he opened the door, she got a peep of the bottles on the manklepiece in the parlour beyond. ‘There they be, and there they be as long as I want um to be!’ he hollered out. With that, the little feller shut the door again, turned round, laid his finger alongside his nose, and winked at Mrs Rushbridger across the counter. ‘Matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I’ve a mind to give um to my smart, fashnable friend, Gertie.’
‘What’s that ye said?’ cried Mrs Rushbridger. ‘Who did ye say, Dudley? Gertie who?’ But Dudley Gimp warn’t going to let out anything further, so off she went, and who did she meet but Timothy Weem, picking sloes in the hedges.
‘Mus Gimp has jest been telling me all about his ol’, fashnable friend, Gertie,’ said she.
‘Is that what he called her? Ol’ fashnable friend? Why, he’s onny bin to the mill once,’ said Timothy, ‘and then he said she was a gollop.’
‘She’s a gollop sure enough, I reckon!’
‘Oh, but she beän’t!’ cried Timothy, ‘she’s Queen of the Witches! That’s what Gertie Macnamara be!’
‘I don’t believe there’s sich a thing as witches in the mill,’ said Mrs Rushbridger, scratching her nose.
‘Oh, but there be, ma’am—a tidy lot of um, I can tell ye! And Gertie Macnamara’s the Queen of um. Don’t you make no mistake about that!’
Well, sir, Mrs Rushbridger warn’t the kind of pusson to let the grass grow under her feet. All day Saddaday and Sunday she thought it out, and on the Monday night she put on her best hat, and hurried off to call on Gertie Macnamara. The whole of the Runcton sky was under clouds, and there’s never been a better night for secrecy, I shouldn’t wonder. There warn’t no witches in the mill besides its reglar occipants. Jane Weddle was darning Gertie’s stockings, and Mother Speltbone was washing cloaks in a flour-bin.
‘Miss Macnamara? Good evenun, ma’am,’ said Mrs Rushbridger, coming to the point at once, ‘I’m Mrs Rushbridger, and I’m trying to git some pizon for a friend.’
‘Sartainly, ma’am,’ said Gertie Macnamara. ‘Swift, meejum, or slow?’
Well, sir, Gertie Macnamara warn’t too pleased when she heerd what pizon it was that Mrs Rushbridger wanted. ‘I’ve a chice of pizons meself, ma’am, and they all work,’ said she, droring herself up, and patting her back hair.
‘O’ course they do, ma’am,’ said Mrs Rushbridger, ‘but how could I screw out of it if I was to use one of um to pizon my friend Mrs Pinkney? Ev’ry martal pusson in the place would want to know how she come by it. If I was to use one of your pizons, ’twould have to be given in secret, and there’s dangers in secrets. No, ma’am, it’s got to be as open and honist as the daylight. It’s got to be all above board and shipshape, so as the whole of Runcton shall know how the pizon got into my friend Mrs Pinkney. And the onny way to do that,’ said Mrs Rushbridger, ‘is to git a holt of this pizon from the shop of my friend Mr Gimp. Besides,’ said she, ‘I reckon ’twould look better, coming from a gen’leman, than from a woman.’
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