by Val Thame
“Oh, shut up and go to sleep!” shouted Evilyn from the next bed. “I’m trying to read!”
“Sorry!” said Goodrun. “I didn’t know you were awake. What are you reading?”
“Advanced Mumbo Jumbo - In All Its Forms,” said Evilyn, “and I want to finish this chapter on materialization before morning.”
“Materialization? What’s that?”
Evilyn sighed impatiently. “How to disappear from one place and reappear in another in the same instant! You should know that.”
“Should I? Do you think it will be in our exams?”
“Yes, I do! That’s why I’m reading it up.”
“I don’t know anything about it at all.”
“Then you’d better learn it, otherwise you won’t pass, will you!”
“Aaah! What’s going on?” yawned Murky, who shared the four-bed dormitory with the Badmanners sisters and Greasey Pondwater. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing! Go back to sleep!” said Evilyn.
“Why?” said Murky, sniffing anixously “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing!”
“Then (sniff) why do you want me to go to sleep?”
“Because I want to read!”
“What’s happening?” Greasey was awake now and clambering over the beds. “Are we planning something?”
“No!” snapped Evilyn. “Shut up and go back to bed!”
“Don’t want to! Let’s pinch some brooms and go for a ride.”
“Oh, do what you like!” shouted Evilyn. “But keep quiet!”
“I’m not the one who’s shouting!” bellowed Greasey. “You started it!”
“Shut up, all of you!” cried Goodrun. “You’ll wake the duty witch!”
“Why should you care?” screamed Greasey, who did not like being told off, least of all by both sisters at once.
“Yeah!” said Murky. “Don’t interfere!” Murky was suspicious. She was certain something was going on and that she was not in on it. Evilyn was annoyed because she wanted to finish her reading. She intended to be the wickedest, cleverest and most feared witch in the school, and even in the world, and this silly squabbling over nothing was irritating her.
Goodrun watched as first one, two, then three tempers were lost. Murky started it by trying to grab Evilyn’s bedclothes and within seconds all three of them were tumbling round the dormitory like a thrashing, cursing, squabbling ball of bedclothes.
Goodrun tried to stop them by pulling at any loose piece of sheet that she could get hold of. Then Evilyn’s sharp fingernails dug into her arm. “Ouch!” she squealed, letting go of the sheets. Then she heard a noise which made her flesh creep all over. Footsteps in the corridor outside; the rumbles and roars of the duty witch getting ever closer. The footsteps stopped outside their door.
Goodrun wanted to jump back into bed but fear had glued her legs to the floor. Her eyes were fixed to the moving door handle. It turned full circle and the door was flung open. The tall figure of the duty witch filled the frame and the light from her lamp, held high, fell directly onto Goodrun.
“Why aren’t pusty little pimples like you in bed?” She had a voice like squeaky chalk. “Do you know what time it is?”
“We were . . .” began Goodrun.
“Weeeeee?” shrieked the duty witch. “How can one of us be we?”
“Because they . . .” began Goodrun. She turned round. Evilyn, Murky and Greasey were all back in bed and snoring loudly. “Because I couldn’t sleep,” she finished lamely.
“Do you always make so much noise when you can’t sleep?” It was a question which did not require an answer. Then her voice softened and in honeyed tones she said, “Tell me, honestly, because I’d like to know, what is your favourite lesson?”
“Broomstick Aeronautics, ma-am!”
Immediately the witch’s voice changed.
“Then your punishment,” she rasped, “is . . . no flying for a fortnight! I shall report this to Witch Pickings in the morning.”
The duty witch left, slamming the door behind her. Goodrun climbed back into bed and listened to her footsteps as she stomped back along the corridor to her room. A door slammed shut and there was silence once again. Goodrun felt thoroughly miserable. Banned from flying! The only thing she really enjoyed.
“It isn’t fair!” she said aloud. “I was only trying to help. And what happened to the rest of you? Why didn’t you own up?”
There was a series of muffled snorts from the other beds and Evilyn was practically choking under the sheets.
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny!” said Goodrun. Evilyn threw back the bedclothes. “You’re so slow. You should have zapped into bed when you heard her coming. You’ll never make a proper witch!”
The last remark hurt. Goodrun pulled the covers over her head and tried to forget it and go to sleep. But she kept hearing voices saying, “What’s the matter with you? You’ll never make a proper witch! I expect you’ll be expelled. Expelled. Expelled.”
“No, I won’t! I shall be a witch. I must not feel sorry for people! I must be bad! I must be nasty!” And with this in mind she eventually drifted off into a bad dream.
The next morning, still full of bad intentions, Goodrun unmade her bed, tangled her hair and dirtied her face. She screwed up her day clothes before putting them on, and knocked a dent in her hat. Then she tried stretching her nose, which everybody said was too short, and pulling ugly faces in the mirror. She even tried one out on Evilyn.
“You look silly!” said Evilyn, pulling, in return, a face so hideous Goodrun was afraid to look at her.
The new Goodrun elbowed her way up the 84 steps leading to class, trying to ignore the painful kicks and punches she got on the way. She let doors slam on anybody who was not quick enough to get through and bit her lip when she started to say “sorry”. She copied from her neighbour’s books and poked her tongue out if somebody even slightly annoyed her.
She cheated at mud-grappling, tripping all her opponents and declaring herself the winner. Then she threatened to turn the referees into teabags and pour boiling water on them, and dared them to disqualify her, which of course they did not. She pushed her way to the front of the lunchtime queues and took the first and last pieces of cake at tea-time. She joined in baiting the new witchlings, pulling their hair and calling them names. She dragged the pond, filled a jar full of newts and found them new homes in Greasey’s bed and Murky’s socks.
This new behaviour made Goodrun very popular at the academy, almost as popular as Evilyn. The Badmanners sisters were building a reputation for themselves as a pair of horrible witchlings. One of them was as happy as any young witch could be with such an evil reputation, but the other, although she did not show it, was desperately unhappy.
Chapter Eleven
Goodrun tried for a whole year to be a regular witch. She even tried to outdo her younger sister in wickedness and Evilyn, enjoying the challenge, became more outrageous than ever. Goodrun read and memorized a new spell every night before going to sleep and even got up early to practise some of the more difficult ones, such as disappearing and materializing. Most of all she looked forward to the examinations because then she would graduate to full-witch and could do whatever she liked.
There was a marked improvement in her reports and Hayzell made a flying visit to the academy one evening just to tell Goodrun how pleased she was with her progress.
“I always knew you could do it!” she said proudly. “Just wait till I tell the Aunts.”
The examinations were always held in September, a suitably damp month, and pre-Halloween. The atmosphere at the acadamy changed dramatically now that the exam dates were known. Everyone in Goodrun’s class worked hard and hoped to graduate that year. Nobody wanted to stay on for another year with old Pickings. Even the favourite mud-grappling lessons had been abandoned so that the girls could concentrate on their academic work. They suddenly became very possessive about their books, and class no
tes were carefully guarded by arms and elbows, affording little opportunity to cheat. This would be the biggest test of their lives and every witchling was on her own.
Every year, a week or two before the finals, Madame Necromancy invited her favourite sorcerer to the academy to give a special pre-exam lecture.
As always he made a dramatic entrance, bursting into the turret room without warning, surrounded this time by a cascade of stars. The Sorcerer was an impressive sight. He was tall, had a black, curly moustache and flowing silver hair, and wore a rich, silk paisley dressing gown with wide padded shoulders, making him look even larger than he already was. He strode up to Pickings’ desk and immediately took charge, banishing the old witch to a footstool by his feet. Pickings was spitting-mad.
“Look at her face!” whispered Greasey to Evilyn.
“I’d rather not!” said Evilyn. “I’ve just eaten.”
This remark made Greasey wheeze uncontrollably.
“Who’s muttering?” cried Pickings, jumping up and glaring at Goodrun, whom she still liked to pick on from time to time. “I’ll turn whoever it was into a poisonous toadstool if she doesn’t keep quiet! See that!” Pickings poked the Sorcerer’s magnificent shoulder pads and said, “They take notice of me!”
“Sit thee down, thou foul and ancient faggot!” boomed the Sorcerer. “Keep thine festering mouth closed and do not interfere!”
Pickings, nearly bursting with fury, opened her mouth to curse the Sorcerer but thought better of it. She snapped her empty gums together and, muttering under her breath, sat down on her stool.
“Stupid stool!” she cursed. “Why should I sit on a stupid stool!”
“I don’t think Pickings likes him,” whispered Good run.
“She hates him!” sniggered Evilyn. “He’s made her look ridiculous. Well, see how she likes it! She’s always doing it to us.”
“Hey! I’ve got an idea,” sniffed Murky Pondwater. “I’ve got an idea! Let’s put a spell on Pickings.”
“Like what?” said Evilyn.
“Well,’ Murky sniffed again,”this is a good one.”
“Come on then!” Evilyn lost her patience very quickly.
“A love spell, so that she falls in love with the Sorcerer even though we know she hates him!”
“Brilliant!” Evilyn liked it. “But can you do it?”
Murky nodded.
The effect of Murky’s spell was instant and dramatic. The old crone stopped cursing and gazed up at the Sorcerer with adoring eyes. She did everything he asked without questioning. She hung on to his every word, applauded every gesture he made, then clasped her bony hands to her chest and fluttered her wrinkled eyelids. It was horrific.
The witchlings could hardly control themselves. Suppressed snorts exploded all round the class.
“She’s too sensible,” whispered Evilyn. “I’ll make her forgetful too!”
The Sorcerer asked Pickings for a cauldron.
“What’s a cauldron?” said Pickings. “I can’t remember! Oh do tell me what a cauldron is, my love. I’ll fetch one for you straightaway if only I can remember what it is I’m supposed to be fetching,” she implored, clawing pathetically at his cloak.
The Sorcerer unpeeled her bony fingers from his sleeves. “Get thee gone, thou ugly witch, thou crabby hag! The sight of thee offends my sensitive eyes. Begone!”
“Begone? Where shall I begone to?” simpered Pickings.
“Anywhere. But out of my sight!”
“Yes, of course! Whatever you say!”
She ran into the store cupboard mumbling, “I know. I’ll find a cauldron. Must find a cauldron.”
Pickings looked so pathetic, mooning about, Goodrun almost felt sorry for her. Perhaps, she thought, if Pickings were beautiful instead of ugly, then maybe the Sorcerer would not mind so much, and then both would be happy — at least till the spells wore off.
When Pickings came out of the store cupboard, without the cauldron but carrying a jar of cockroaches, she was almost unrecognizable. No longer bent but tall and upright; her hair thick and dark; her skin clear and smooth and, gleaming in a perfect smile, a set of even, pearl-white teeth.
The girls were stunned into silence. They were shocked, horrified, and even frightened to see Pickings smiling at them, none more so than Goodrun because it was her spell. Then the old witch saw her smiling reflection in a mirror. For a few terrible seconds she stared at the glass, her eyes wild and angry.
“Who did this?” she cried, clawing her hair and tugging at her new teeth. “Who has spoiled my looks? Which of you miserable worms would DARE to do this to me!”
And, because she could not help it , she smiled again.
Chapter Twelve
Once the Sorcerer had gone and the spells had worn off, Pickings had no difficulty finding out who had got rid of her favourite warts and given her a mouthful of white teeth. She had no difficulty because Evilyn, Murky and Greasey, under the threat of terrible punishment, and in keeping with all nasty people, ratted on Goodrun.
“She did it!” they said.
Goodrun could not deny it. Her punishment was seven days in the dreaded bathhouse. She had to bathe every day and use soap, bath oils and talcum power. She had to wash her hair every day, clean her teeth three times a day, and make sure her fingernails were clean. During this time she was not allowed to see anybody or have any books. Life was clean but dull.
She was let out the evening before the first exam and was already in bed when Evilyn and Greasey came up to the dormitory.
“Aaargh! This place smells disgusting!” said Evilyn, turning up her long nose.
“Oh splurg! Ugh! I can hardly breathe! What a stink!” cried Greasey.
“Hello!” said Goodrun. “I’m back!”
“That’s obvious!” said Evilyn. “You look horribly clean!”
“Yeah! Ugh! And you smell awful, too, “ said Greasey.
“It’ll wear off!” said Goodrun.
Evilyn flung the window open. “Phew! That’s better. Hey, do you know what happened when you were away?”
Goodrun shrugged. “How could I?”
“Well, after you made old Pickings beautiful, she started smiling at everybody. It was weird. Gave me the creeps.”
“But didn’t the spell wear off?” asked Goodrun.
“Oh yes, she got her warts back and lost her teeth but she couldn’t stop smiling. Did it all the time and she hated it! So did we. It just wasn’t natural.”
“So what happened?”
“She said she’d been teaching for too long. Made her funny in the head. She said she thought it might happen one day.”
“She said that?”
“Yes. Then she started being nice as well. It was horrible.”
“And all while I was in the bathhouse?”
“Yes. But, like she said, it must have been coming on for sometime.”
Goodrun was not sure. It could have been a left-over from her spell which made Pickings smile and be nice.
“Where is she now?”
“She’s been sent to a Home for Distressed Teachers. It’s a place where they go when they can’t control themselves any more and start being nice. They have intensive courses in being rotten again but some of them never make it. Whew! I can’t stand that soap smell much longer!”
“I said it would wear off! Don’t keep on!” grumbled Goodrun.
Then Murky came into the dormitory.
“Ugh! Soap! I feel sick! I hate soap. I’ve had nightmares about soap ever since I was a baby.”
“Look! There’s nothing I can do till I get dirty again!” cried Goodrun. “So just shut up, all of you!”
She could feel the hot tears prickling behind her eyes. But what good would it do if she cried? Nobody would understand and it would only make her feel worse — if that was possible. In spite of all her recent efforts, her friends still poked fun at her because her spells went wrong too often. Even when they worked they caused trouble. Why did Evil
yn’s spells work and not hers? And why did she tell on her? Goodrun would never do that to Evilyn. She felt very alone. It was no good writing to her mother; she was far too busy and probably would not understand. Nor would her stepfather. He was always saying, “Our little Evilyn is witch enough for both of you!”
“No, she’s not!” thought Goodrun. “I’m a witch too!”
She slid her hand under the pillow where she kept her treasured, old brown envelope. Inside was an elaborate certificate belonging to her father which was given to her at her naming ceremony. When Goodrun felt miserable, holding the envelope gave her some comfort. She would often go to sleep dreaming of him although she had no idea what he looked like. She only knew from Aunt Nettle that he had been a magician. Goodrun promised herself that once the exams were over, she would ask her mother all about him. Hayzell had begun to tell her once, then changed her mind and never spoke of him again.
“If Mother won’t tell me,” thought Goodrun, “I can always ask the Aunts.”
And, with her hand on the envelope, she drifted off into a deep sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Goodrun awoke sometime in the early hours of the morning, and could not get to sleep again. She tried counting the spiders on the wall and the cracks in the ceiling and when that did not work, she did some last-minute studying but her brain felt like a lump of lead. Evilyn, also awake, refused to do any more work.
“What I don’t know, I’ll make up!” she said, as she lay on her bed filing her fingernails to little, sharp points.
Then something large flew past the window. Goodrun got there just in time to see several broomsticks landing on Madame Necromancy’s roof, and a dozen or so witches sliding down the drainpipes, disappearing silently into the fog and mist below.
Madame Necromancy had let it be known months ago that because the Moon and Jupiter happened to be in the right place at the wrong time, and because depressions and strong winds were on their way up from the Azores, the pre-Halloween meeting would be held at the academy that year. Nobody in the witch world questioned such a decision. Madame Necromany had a doublefirst Honours Degree in Astrology (the star signs) and Meteorology (the weather) as well as her esteemed qualifications as a Witch of the First Order. She was also unique, as a witch, in having completed a correspondence course in shorthand. She saw the strange shorthand symbols as an excellent security code for her secret formulae and mystic research projects.