“And I expect the culprit to come to my office by the end of the day.”
The head’s voice was icy with anger.
Charlie looked at her feet. She’d have to own up. As soon as everyone had gone back to class, she’d knock at the head’s door and tell him the fire alarm was her fault. She felt sick at the thought of it. And she’d need a good story about that candle: why she had it, why she’d lit it, that sort of thing. She chewed her lip and ran through options:
It was my birthday. (No. The school know my date of birth.)
It was someone else’s birthday. (Well, yes, but whose?)
It was dark and I had to light a candle to see. (Nah. That’s stupid.)
I was doing a science experiment. (No, that won’t work. I was supposed to be in art, not science.)
Come on, think! Charlie screwed up her face. She needed something good. She couldn’t just blurt out, “Well, yes I lit a candle, but it was just so I could chant a spell and save Suzy from a curse put on her by a witch!”
At once, Ms Bradley’s words floated back to her: “Draw something from an unusual viewpoint.”
Maybe that could be why she lit the candle? She could say she wanted to draw something by candlelight! Charlie felt a bit guilty using Ms Bradley’s project for her own purposes but, as she knocked at the head’s door, she knew she really had no choice.
Five minutes later Charlie was being told off by the head – “so unlike you”, “really let yourself down”, “not what I expect from students at this school”, “very disappointed”, “your parents will be notified”, and, worst of all:
“Charlotte, I cannot have anyone playing with fire in the school. The rules are quite clear on this. I’m going to have to formally exclude you for one day. Now, I’d like you to use your time tomorrow to think about what you have done. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Tomorrow was Friday! Charlie’s last day to see Suzy! Her heart sank. She had failed. She wiped a tear from her eye and the head’s voice softened slightly. “Why don’t you have a chat with Mrs Davis before you go? She’s the school counsellor. I think it might do you some good.”
Charlie nodded miserably.
“What’s wrong?” asked the counsellor in a gentle voice. “Is there anything you want to tell me about?”
Charlie fought the urge to scream:
1) I have a stammer.
2) I have no friends.
3) Witches exist.
4) There’s a curse on Suzy Evans.
5) I saw into another person’s head!!!!!!!
“Er… No, n-n-nothing,” she said.
The counsellor’s face changed. Charlie had seen that “concerned” look before. All grown-ups did it when they heard her stammer. Children tended to smirk or giggle. That was embarrassing, sometimes painful, but it was not as bad as what adults did. With their faces full of pity and their deliberately slowed-down voices, they were somehow worse.
The counsellor nodded kindly and wrote something in her notebook. Great. Now it was on record that Charlie had a stammer. Charlie swallowed hard.
“You know, Charlotte,” the counsellor said, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, “my door is always open if you want to talk.”
Charlie nodded and gave a weak smile.
“Good. Mr Clarke says you can go home now, dear. We really want you to think about what happened today. It was foolish and dangerous, and I have a feeling you’re not telling us the full story.”
Charlie bit her lip. There was a long silence.
“OK, then,” the counsellor sighed in disappointment. “Off you go, Charlotte. We’ll speak soon.”
Phew. Charlie got out of there as fast as she could. She walked down the corridor and straight through the front door, keeping her head bowed and her hair over her face.
She stamped crossly along the high street, poked her tongue out at Moonquest, and marched straight towards the woods. All the excitement she’d had about magic that morning had gone. Agatha, Suzy, spells: nothing but trouble! She’d been at school nearly two weeks and she’d been excluded. Excluded! She’d never been in so much trouble in her whole life! How was she going to explain it to Mum and Dad?
And Agatha? She was supposed to be helping Charlie. She’s my witch, Charlie muttered to herself, I found her. She should help me. Me and my stammer and my life. But no; Agatha had Charlie running around looking like a loony and getting in a whole heap of trouble. Charlie fumed as she stomped.
Hopfoot was circling above her as she shoved her way through the bushes. Charlie glared at him. “Magic!” she spat out. “Pah!” Her anger was boiling up inside her. She banged hard with her fist on the old cottage door and it flew open.
Agatha was hanging crystals.
“I’m not d-d-doing any of it any … any … any more,” Charlie announced. She folded her arms and flung herself into a chair.
Agatha didn’t say a word. She just carried on tying string around the strange-shaped gems.
“I mean what’s the p-p-p-point?” Charlie went on. “No one knows what I’m re-re-re-really doing. Everyone just thinks-thinks-thinks-thinks I’m up to no good.” She shouted at Agatha, “I l-l-look like an idiot w-w-w-ith p-p-osies and p-p-powder and d-d-dolls!” Her throat felt like it was closing up. She shut her mouth and glared at Agatha.
Agatha reached up and tied the string around the window latch. “It’s a difficult path, the one you have chosen.”
“Huh?” Charlie stamped her foot. “I d-d-didn’t ch-ch-choose anything!” she burst out. “You are supposed to help m-m-m-m-me!” She shouted the last word.
Agatha sighed, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
This was so unfair that Charlie just screamed: “Grrraaaaahhh!”
Agatha didn’t even raise her eyebrows.
Tears prickled Charlie’s eyes. She put her head in her hands and gave a sob. Still, Agatha said nothing. She just waited and waited until Charlie was calmer. When Charlie finally lifted her head, Agatha handed her a handkerchief and said, “A stammer isn’t a curse.” Charlie sniffed. “Don’t lose sight of the real problem here. It’s Suzy who needs help, not you.”
Heat filled Charlie’s face. She thought of Suzy crying in the toilets that morning. Of course she had to help her! Even if it did mean looking like an idiot, or getting in trouble. Only: “I h-h-haven’t m-m-managed a single sp-spell,” she said in a small voice.
“Magic isn’t easy, Charlie. It’s not going to happen at the drop of a wand.”
Charlie could hear it in Agatha’s voice: she was about to give up. Charlie suddenly felt her world slipping away.
“I-I-I’ll try again!” she said in a desperate rush.
Agatha breathed in for a moment, considering something. Then she shook her head.
“What?” said Charlie.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Please?”
“No,” said Agatha firmly. “You’re not ready. It would take a powerful witch.”
“Y-y-you could help me,” said Charlie. “W-we could do it together.”
“No,” Agatha snapped. “The binding would know and you’d get hurt.” She blew out hard. “I haven’t done magic for seventeen years,” she said grumpily. “I never want to use it again.”
“W-why? I d-don’t understand.”
Agatha sighed. “I stopped after Eliza died,” she said eventually. “She was my friend. I tried everything and even my best magic couldn’t help her. I couldn’t bring her back to white magic. I couldn’t stop the havoc coming. And I couldn’t break the curse. I won’t use magic again.”
A thought hit Charlie. “It-it said, ‘no witch alive’.” Her heart beat faster. Suddenly she knew what to do! “We-we-we could f-find a witch who wasn’t alive ssssseventeen years ago!”
Agatha looked at Charlie. “I have thought of that,” she said. “Over the last seventeen years I’ve hoped to find someone. But witches are very rare. Not many have the gift. And those that do don’t always want to work
on developing it.”
“G-g-gift?”
“True witches are born with talent – with a special ability.”
Wow! Charlie felt a wash of envy.
“But it’s unusual. Magic can skip many generations before it’s seen again. The problem is, a lot of witches died. There aren’t many left with the talent to pass on.”
“H-how did they d-die?”
Agatha sighed. “There used to be a whole community of witches,” she said, “hundreds of years ago. They lived out on Broom Hill, in the west of town. In those days there weren’t proper doctors, you know. People came to witches for help with everything: for love spells or healing or even just to make their crops grow better. They were part of village life … until Hopkins.” She spat the last word.
“Who?”
“Matthew Hopkins.” Agatha’s face grew dark. “The witch hunter. It was his job to find witches, you see. Find them and destroy them. He did horrible things, even to good witches. One day, many years ago, he came to this village.”
“What h-h-h-happened?” Charlie was perched on the edge of her seat.
“The witches hid. Some headed for the caves, some to other towns. Some were caught. Others came here, to the woods.” She looked around. “This used to be a witch’s cottage back in the seventeenth century. It’s been handed down from witch to witch through generations.” Agatha’s voice dropped low. “Sometimes, when I look at the fire, I picture what it must have been like to be a witch in those days, hiding here, in fear for your life.”
Charlie swallowed.
“Eliza’s cottage was ancient, too. It used to be the Akelarre – the meeting place for the coven. After Hopkins, the remaining witches gathered there in secret to celebrate the sun and moon days.”
Charlie nodded, transfixed.
“In time, many of the witches died. They had no children to pass their gift on to. Years later, Eliza and I carried on the coven traditions in her cottage, in the Akelarre, on our own. But then one day, a long time ago, Eliza found an old journal bricked up inside a secret hole. It described the witch trials and the escape of the few sisters who made it out. It … it was…” Agatha searched for the word. “Graphic.” She cleared her throat. “It really affected Eliza. She read the diary over and over, and it made her angrier and angrier. Along with the journal was an ancient book: a grimoire.”
Charlie looked confused.
“Grimoire,” Agatha said again. “It’s a witch’s book of spells. This is my one.” She waved her hand at the big red book behind her. “Eliza wouldn’t show me the grimoire she found. But it must’ve been written by someone who practised dark magic.” Agatha’s face twisted. “Eliza became obsessed with it. It drew her in. Dark magic can do that. It’s very powerful and it feeds on anger and hate. Over the following years Eliza changed. She withdrew from everyone. She grew paranoid. She was sure people were going to track her down and hurt her. She changed her name over and over again, just in case. Near the end she wouldn’t even see me.”
Agatha stared into the fire. Her thoughts were far away. “I tried to help her. But she was so angry: angry about how witches had been treated, angry about the modern world. She wouldn’t answer the door to me; she wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t use the cottage as a meeting place any more and she hid herself away in the cellar, making dark potions and spells, each one more dangerous than the last. And then, when I saw her at the christening, I knew something was really wrong. The havoc was already starting to show.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“She was thin and old. She looked shrivelled, like the hate was taking hold of her. Poor Eliza. Once she’d gone that far it was hard to come back. The curse she put on Suzy was the last spell she ever cast.” Agatha sighed.
“So are th-there any new w-witches? One that was b-b-born after the curse?”
“The trouble is, being a witch is about more than just having the gift. You have to practise. It takes patience and care and time. Even if I found someone with the gift now, there wouldn’t be time to train her up. I’d be putting her in danger. No. The most we can do is try to hold the curse off for as long as possible.” Agatha looked glum. “Tcha!” She waved her hand. “Maybe it’s for the best. Being a witch is dangerous. People don’t like us. Like I told you: make sure you’re never seen with magic.”
Charlie thought of Kat seeing her with the candle, and she squirmed. “Um…” She hesitated.
“Someone has spotted you with a spell, haven’t they?”
Charlie winced in answer. Then she nodded. “It’s that g-girl – Kat. She saw me with the p-p-powder. And with the c-c-candle.”
Agatha pursed her lips.
“It gets worse,” Charlie admitted. “She ssssays she knows there’s something wrong with Suzy. She sssssays Suzy has a funny g-g-glow.”
“Does she, now?” Agatha stared closely at Charlie.
“And…” Charlie blurted before she could help herself, “when she touched my hand sssomething funny happened.” The words were tumbling out of her now, falling over themselves to get out. “I could ssssee inside her head!” Charlie cried.
Agatha stood up sharply. “I need to meet her,” she said. Her voice was urgent. “When can you get her here?”
Charlie breathed fast. She’d never heard Agatha sound so desperate. Kat. Kat must have the gift. She’s a witch! That’s why she could make Charlie see inside her head! Charlie felt a stab in her heart. Lucky, lucky Kat!
“When?” Agatha asked again.
Charlie winced. If only she hadn’t been suspended! Now she was banned from going to school tomorrow! She didn’t have Kat’s phone number. Where did she live? How could she find her?
“Matt!” Charlie cried in a flash of inspiration. Her brother knew everyone. He could find her at school tomorrow and send her a message from Charlie.
“I think I can b-bring her tomorrow,” said Charlie.
“Good.” Agatha nodded. “Then we might have a chance at stopping this curse.”
Charlie frowned. Hadn’t Agatha just said there was no time to train a new witch? It didn’t make sense … or maybe … maybe Kat was some kind of super-powerful witch? Charlie swallowed down another stab of envy.
Mum and Dad were furious.
They shouted for ages about the candle and the fire alarm and the exclusion.
Charlie apologized so many times she felt like a performing parrot.
Then Mum hugged her and Dad hugged her and Annie hugged her, and everything felt a bit better.
After dinner she knocked on Matt’s door. “Can you do me a f-favour?”
Matt raised his eyebrows, immediately suspicious.
“P-p-please? I’ll help you w-w-with science.” That project was now well overdue and Matt still had loads to do on it.
He grinned. “Yes! Thank you!” He rummaged around and handed her a piece of paper with drawings of faces. “Can you colour in some eyes?”
“OK!”
“Some of the eyes need to be brown, some blue, some green. I’ve marked the colours.”
“I’ll do it t-tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Charlie.” Matt rubbed his hands. “Right. What do you need?”
“I’m trying to find ssssomeone. She’s small, with short red hair and big g-g-g-glasses like this.” Charlie sketched the frames with her hands.
“Kat?” said Matt, and Charlie sighed with relief. Matt really did know everyone!
“Can you g-g-give her a note?”
“Sure.”
“Th-thanks.”
The next day dragged for Charlie. Who knew there could be soooo many hours between eight a.m. and four p.m.?
She helped Dad paint the last bits of the lounge. It was looking really good now! Dad was so happy with it. “Only the hallway left to do now!” he told Charlie. “I reckon, by tomorrow night, we can have our first proper meal at the kitchen table!”
“That’s great, Dad.”
“Yep,” said Dad, looking round the room.
“I’m going to miss doing all this when I go back to work.” For a moment he stared at his hammer wistfully, and then he said, “Shall we do the bannisters, Charlie?”
Charlie sanded down the bannister rail. She listened to Dad’s boring Radio Four programme. But all the time her mind was whirring and her stomach was churning.
Kat was a witch. Did she know? Well, she’d find out soon enough. Charlie pictured the walk to Agatha’s cottage. She imagined Agatha leaning in to tell Kat that she was a witch. Charlie threw down her sandpaper. She couldn’t bear it! She only knew two people in this stupid village, Kat and Agatha, and now – now they would be in a little club of their own. It would be Kat who got to learn about all the spells and Charlie who … what? What would she get to do? Pick herbs? Grind stuff up? She felt hollow inside, like a part of her was missing. For a second she hated Kat.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
The clock was moving so slowly Charlie could have screamed.
She coloured in Matt’s homework, filling the brown and blue and green eyes in the faces where Matt had marked them up. Eye colour was genetic, Charlie learned. She made a face as she remembered Agatha saying witch ability sometimes skipped generations. Kat was a very unusual person indeed, Charlie mused, as she coloured.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Out of sheer boredom she tidied her room. Her stuff had been in boxes in the wardrobe since they moved in. She upended every box and put her things away: the books on the bookshelf, the ornaments on the chest of drawers. There. Charlie wiped her hands on her jeans; it looked much better.
The clock finally moved round to four p.m. Charlie danced from foot to foot in the hall. Matt would be home any second. Hopefully he’d bring Kat’s phone number.
Charlie heard the noise of the garden gate. Matt! And he’d brought something better than Kat’s number: he’d brought Kat herself. Charlie’s stomach dropped. This was it. Kat was about to find out the most amazing thing in the world about herself.
“It’s this way.” Charlie pointed through the branches.
Kat’s glasses wobbled as she nodded. She’d seemed surprisingly laid-back about the whole thing.
How to Catch a Witch Page 7