Izzy's River

by Holly Webb

  “Oh no, you definitely deserve a bit of a party. And now you’ve cleaned the river up the best way to see how beautiful it is, is obviously by boat.” Sally nodded. “Tell everyone, four o’clock, party on the Painted Lady! I’ll go and make sure she’s tidy!”

  Izzy sat squashed up in the bow of the narrowboat with Poppy and Maya and Emily, with a glass of lemonade in one hand, and a chocolate biscuit in the other. There was a little bench seat, and there was just about enough room for the four of them, especially as Poppy was kneeling up, and throwing chocolate bourbons to Alex and Maddy and Jake and the others, who were escorting the Painted Lady down the river in their canoes. Emily’s dad was standing on the bank taking photos, and everybody else was crammed on to the boat, drinking tea, and eating biscuits, and chatting, and generally feeling pleased with themselves.

  Poppy’s dad had even gone home to fetch more supplies, and Billy too, as he’d helped to start off the whole idea, and now the big dog was happily sitting at Izzy’s feet, edging closer and closer to a packet of chocolate bourbons, which Poppy had foolishly left almost in his reach.

  “It looks good, doesn’t it?” Poppy said proudly, as they sailed under the bridge, and everyone admired the decorated wall. “George says we should finish it in a couple more afternoons.”

  “It’s lovely. It was a fab idea,” Maya agreed.

  Izzy frowned at the long grasses growing around the edge of the bridge. “Poppy, look!” she cried. “It’s one of those butterflies!”

  The others stared out across the water.

  “There, you see? Just fluttering around those bushes. I’m sure it is one.”

  “You’re right!” Poppy looked delighted. “I know it isn’t really because of our clearing up, but it feels like it is! It has to be a good sign, doesn’t it? Yay us!”

  “Oh, Billy…” Izzy turned to follow the flight of the butterfly as it swooped across the water, and noticed the dog. He glanced up at her guiltily, shreds of biscuit wrapper trailing from between his teeth.

  “Not the whole packet?” Poppy sighed.

  “And the wrapper, I think,” Izzy said worriedly.

  “Huh. That won’t make much difference, he eats tissues on purpose. His insides are made of iron, the vet said.” Poppy shook her head. “Well, I suppose you deserve a treat, since this all started because of you. But you’re a bad dog!”

  Billy laid his ears flat and whined, and Maya and Emily and Izzy all went, “Awww…” since they weren’t as used to his sneaky ways as Poppy was.

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “Honestly, he’s a thieving horror, and you’re feeling sorry for him.”

  “It is a party,” Izzy pointed out, scratching Billy under the chin so that he groaned happily. “And it was all because of him, and his silly paws.” She giggled. “Maybe we should find some more chocolate biscuits, and throw one in the water for that rat he was chasing!”

  Billy sat up and stared at her, his bright black eyes sparkling.

  “Does he know what rat means?” Izzy asked in surprise.

  “Probably. Oh, Billy, no!” Poppy made a grab for his collar, but she was too late. Billy was already gone. He hit the water with a mighty splash, and set about paddling furiously around, clearly hunting the rat that he was convinced must be there somewhere.

  “I don’t believe it,” Poppy muttered. “He’s going to have to scramble out on the bank, I’m not going in after him.”

  “He’s a very good swimmer,” Izzy said admiringly. Then she smiled, and nudged Poppy. “And at least there can’t be any more bikes in there for him to get tangled up in. We carried bits of at least six up to Dad’s truck in the end.”

  Billy seemed to have given up on the imaginary rat now. He paddled hopefully over to Alex and Jake, and scrabbled at the edge of Alex’s canoe.

  “Poppy!” Alex yelled. “Couldn’t you look after the dumb dog for once?”

  “Sorry,” Poppy shouted back. “He got confused. He went ratting again.”

  “Typical,” Alex muttered, reaching down and hoisting Billy into the cockpit of the kayak in front of him. Billy sat up beautifully, staring ahead down the river, as though he was born to the water. Maddy was paddling along next to Alex, but maybe it didn’t matter. Jake’s canoe was right up next to the Painted Lady, and he was chatting to another girl who’d come to help out. She was lying on the roof next to the flowers, and leaning down to talk to him.

  “You know what this means?” Emily said, hopping up suddenly.

  The others looked at her in surprise.

  “We can open another packet of chocolate biscuits, without having to share them with the dog!”

  Izzy laughed, and took a bite of biscuit. The sun was definitely hot now, and it really felt like summer. It was one of the nicest parties she’d ever been to, Izzy decided. Perhaps it was because they’d been working so hard. Or maybe it was just being on a boat, with all the flags fluttering, and people on the bank waving at them as they floated slowly past. It made her feel like someone really special.

  And they were, Izzy realised suddenly, looking at Poppy and Maya and even Emily, all giggling and waving. They were special, all four of them, and she was so, so lucky!

  Copyright

  IZZY’S RIVER

  First published in the UK in 2014 by Nosy Crow Ltd

  The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street

  London, SE1 1QR, UK

  This ebook edition first published 2014

  Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd

  Text © Holly Webb, 2014

  Cover and interior pattern © Hannah Chapman, 2014

  The rights of Holly Webb and Hannah Chapman to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978 0 85763 121 3

  www.nosycrow.com

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at a

  spellbinding new book from Nosy Crow!

  A NOTE TO ALL WITCHKIDS

  My grandma is eighty-three – and you know what she uses to do spells? A wand. A real old-style wand.

  I know. I know. She’s probably the only witch in the whole of Witchworld who still does. It’s a long black thing, and she has to wave it about and say magic words – lots of them – to make it work. And it’s much bigger and slower than a spellstick. But Grandma will NOT be parted from it.

  Mum bought her a top-of-the-range spellstick – touchscreen, lime green and with extra-big graphics because Grandma’s eyes aren’t that good. But Grandma just snorted and turned it into a toad.

  Which is what Grandma’s like. Stubborn and grumpy and rude.

  Also bossy. VERY bossy. It was Grandma who bossed me into writing this book. Grandma said I should tell you my story. She said witchkids need to know about ghouls.

  And Grandma is right. You witchkids do need to know about ghouls. Need to know the signs to watch out for. Need to know, if you spot even a hint of a ghoul, to act – FAST.

  So here it is. The book that Grandma bossed me into writing. A book about the ghoul attack in Haggspit. Written by a witchkid who was there, part of it, from the very start.

  I’ve tried to be truthful. I’v
e tried to tell it exactly how it was. I hope you find the book useful.

  And remember, witchkids. Stay alert. At all times stay alert…

  VERY alert.

  Florence Skritchett

  I’m Florence Skritchett – known as Flo – and I live in Haggspit, the capital of South Witchenland.

  My house is in Upper Haggspit, near the top of Moaning Mountain. It’s a cave-style house, wide and low and light, and all on one floor. And it’s big, because Mum makes lots of money.

  Not long ago I lived there with just Mum and Hetty, my sister. But one morning, that all changed…

  That morning – Saturday – started like Saturdays usually do.

  I was in the kitchen, alone, eating my breakfast. Then I heard wailing from the other side of the house, which meant Hetty was awake.

  Because Hetty does the same thing most mornings. Wakes up, looks in the mirror – and starts wailing.

  I heard her feet stomp out of her bedroom and along the corridor, then – Bam! – the kitchen door burst open and in Hetty stomped. “Flo, I hate my nose,” she wailed. “It’s too small. Too neat. Not even one bump! It’s just not witchy enough.”

  Then she flung herself on to a breakfast bar stool and smoke started pouring out of her ears, like it always does when she’s upset.

  Oh. The nose…

  Hetty has just finished her witchsits, and she’s almost sixteen – and you know what she wants for her birthday?

  A nose-job potion.

  I had to say something, so I did. Because I do love my sister – well, most of the time – but she can be extremely shallow.

  “Hetty,” I said. “There are only ninety-five forest pixies left in the whole of Witchworld – and what are you worrying about? Your nose.”

  Hetty ignored me, like she nearly always does when I talk about forest pixies. She just grabbed my arm. “Flo, what can I do?” she wailed. “I’ll never EVER get a boyfriend. Not with a nose like this!”

  Just then Mum came sweeping into the kitchen.

  Now, maybe your mum would say something sensible. Something like, “Don’t worry, Hetty. Witchy noses come in lots of shapes and sizes.” Or, “You’re still growing, Hetty. There’s plenty of time for your nose to sprout lovely big bumps.” Or even, “Hetty, a nice witchboy won’t care about your nose, he’ll care about your character.”

  I do NOT have a mum like that. More’s the pity.

  “Darling,” Mum said. “I’ve found you the perfect nose.” Then she waved this week’s copy of Hocus Pocus at Hetty.

  Hocus Pocus. The weekly magazine – top seller, although I have no idea why. It’s got no actual important news at all. It’s just gossip and scandal and pictures of famous witchscreen stars on holiday, with arrows added on, pointing at their wobbling bits.

  And I’m sorry to say, my mum is boss of it.

  Now Mum was leaning over Hetty and pointing at a picture of a pouty sort of witch wearing skintight robes – very short – with a lot of cut-out bits, posing on the green carpet. “Zoe Shreek,” it said underneath. “Star of Premonition.”

  I took a look. Whoever Zoe Shreek was, she had an extremely witchy nose, long and pointy, and with three bony bumps.

  Then Mum patted Hetty on the head. “Not long to wait,” she said kindly, because – as I’m sure you know – it’s illegal to buy a nose-job potion for anyone under sixteen. “Then we’ll sort that sad little nose of yours out.”

  Which is about as mumsy as Mum gets.

  And soon after that, Mum swept Hetty out of the kitchen to get ready. They were off shopping for witchwear, because Hetty’s school Prom is in one week’s time – which means when Hetty’s not wailing about her nose, she’s wailing about having nothing to wear to her Prom.

  I think there’s a witchboy who’s going that she likes…

  Good luck to him, that’s all I can say.

  The kitchen stretches along one side of my house. It’s got curved walls, and curved doors off it. One wall is all windows, floor to ceiling, with big views out. So, sitting at the kitchen table – which I was – I could see across the garden and down the mountain to Haggspit Harbour, way way below.

  I could see something else too.

  What looked like a tiny black bird, bobbing and weaving along Skyway 121, making its way up Moaning Mountain.

  Except as it got closer and bigger, I realised it wasn’t a bird. It was a witch.

  An old witch. Riding a broomstick, an actual old-style broomstick…

  An old witch dressed in long robes, black as black, like something out of my witchhistory book…An old witch wearing a big pointy hat with stars on it…

  It could only be one old witch.

  Grandma.

  Grandma and her broomstick came lurching up the garden, so I opened the back door and Grandma swooped in. She rammed her broomstick at the floor – which is how Grandma always lands – and hopped off.

  “Hello, Flo,” she said, giving me a big smacking kiss.

  Then things started arriving behind Grandma. Things lurching through the back door and crashing on to the floor – lots and lots of them.

  Bulgy old bags, battered pots and pans, a big crate stuffed full of spell books and a whole set of cauldrons – five at least – all stacked one inside another, big to small.

  I know, I know. No one uses cauldrons any more. But try telling that to Grandma.

  All the banging and clattering brought Mum swirling back into the kitchen to see what the noise was. She took one look at Grandma, another look at the big heap of Grandma’s stuff piled up in the middle of the kitchen floor – and her mouth dropped right open.

  “Mother,” said Mum faintly, grabbing hold of a worktop for support. “Are you coming to visit?”

  “Not exactly, Kristabel,” said Grandma, giving Mum a shifty sort of look.

  Guess what? Grandma is homeless – and it’s all her own fault.

  Grandma lives on the other side of Haggspit Harbour. In a flat in a small block, full of old witches and with a twenty-four-hour caretaker. She’s been there for the last five years.

  Not any more.

  Grandma’s been thrown out.

  Mum called up the caretaker to find out what was going on – and I could hear him yelling into Mum’s skychatter about Grandma. About how she was not allowed back. Ever.

  Because the caretaker has had witchmums and witchdads queueing round the block to complain to him about Grandma. About her giving their little witchkids nightmares. About little witchkids waking up screaming and yelling. Refusing to leave the house. Refusing to go to school. All because of Grandma.

  It turns out that Grandma has been standing outside local schools and playgrounds, handing out booklets.

  About ghouls.

  Yes. Ghouls.

  On the front of Grandma’s booklet was a drawing of a ghoul. Dribbling and grinning and evil-looking. Plus this, in big jaggedy lettering:

  WITCHCHILDREN!

  STAY ALERT!

  DANGER OF GHOUL ATTACK!

  I started flicking through. Got glimpses of Grandma’s vital ghoul information – a diagram of ghoul teeth with an arrow pointing to the fatal biters. Step-by-step self-defence moves in case of ghoul attack. A height chart: ghouls at the top, goblins at the bottom. A map showing where Grandma reckoned ghouls might be lurking…

  Oh dear.

  Mum was not happy with Grandma. In fact, Mum was very unhappy.

  She snatched the booklet off me. “Mother,” she hissed. “How could you be so stupid? Ghouls are extinct. Eradicated in the Great Ghoul War!”

  “Extinct?” Grandma snorted. “Ghouls are not extinct. And, Kristabel, I have proof they’re around Haggspit. I—”

  “Not! Listening!” screeched Mum, sticking her fingers in her ears.

  “Well, you should listen,” said Grandma, eyes popping indignantly. “Ghouls are underground on Moaning Mountain, somewhere in the Forest of Fears. Digging their way to the surface right now!”

  Then G
randma hung her head and kicked at the floor. “And you’ll have to take me in, Kristabel,” she said grumpily. “I have nowhere else to go – except the gutter.”

  “I am sure the gutter will be quite comfortable!” Mum shrieked, and swirled off out of the kitchen, slamming the door.

  Mum calmed down, of course, and it didn’t take long. Because for all Mum’s faults – and believe me, she has plenty – she does love Grandma. Well …deep, deep down.

  She came back in, grabbed an ice pack out of the witchchiller and pressed it on her forehead. “All right, Mother,” she said. “You can stay but only – ONLY – until I find you another place.”

  Grandma gave Mum a high-five, which I taught Grandma last visit – to keep her busy. Because if Grandma’s not busy she gets bored. And if Grandma gets bored, she’s quite likely to give me antlers, or turn me purple.

  Which is – of course – against the law. But Grandma doesn’t take much notice of laws.

  “I’ll be NO trouble,” Grandma said, beaming. “You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

  “You will be trouble, Mother,” said Mum wearily. “You’re always trouble.”

  Mum was right.