by Debi Gliori
‘What d’you reckon, Lil?’ Jack mumbles through a mouthful of toast and peanut butter. ‘D’you think there’s anyone out there?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘On a different planet?’
‘Yeah. You know. I’m not talking about some sort of cheesy alien with an aerial sticking out of its head, or a man made of green cheese. I mean an alien that looks like us, but is completely different inside.’
I’m on the verge of blurting out, What? D’you mean like Daisy? but I stop myself just in time. Jack would never believe me if I told him. He’d think I was mad. Poor Jack. He probably thinks all babies are like Witch Baby.
‘No,’ I reply eventually, swallowing my last mouthful of toast. ‘No. I’m pretty sure there’s nobody out there, because if there was, we’d have seen them when they returned to pick you up and take you back ho—’ And I’m off, running across the garden, whooping and cackling like a Witch Baby Big Sister, pursued by my poor big brother, who still, despite being much older than Daisy and me, hasn’t got a clue what’s going on.
* Not to mention a fully toilet-trained witch.
Ae last Hiss
You have to be unbelievably brave or foolhardy to make it to the summit of Ben Screeeiiighe. If by some lucky fluke you manage to avoid the gales that peel you off the ridge and hurl you like an old banana skin into the valley below, chances are, the treacherously icy path at the top will prove to be your undoing. Most mountaineers would rather suck soggy cornflakes off their crampons than attempt the summit of Ben Screeeiiighe. Most human mountaineers, that is.
However, mountaineers who used to be witches but have been permanently turned into small dogs … well, they’re different. This might explain why, despite pouring rain, hard sleet, driving snow, howling gales and an ice storm blowing straight out of the North Pole, there is a little dog with a big nose determinedly clawing its way up to the perilous peak of Ben Screeeiiighe. At times the dog disappears from sight as it tunnels through snowdrifts; at other times it nearly slithers off the edge of icy ridges, its FROZEN claws scrabbling for purchase on the slippy rocks. Finally, sides heaving with the effort, the dog reaches the door built into the top of the mountain and collapses in a heap on the doorstep.
Home. The Nose is home at last.
All she has to do now is open the door and crawl inside, out of the storm. But this is easier said than done. Push and heave as she might, she can barely open the door by more than a paw’s width. She gives yelp of disbelief. Is she to die out here in the storm, millimetres from safety? She pushes again, but the door remains obstinately stuck. What on earth is stopping the stupid thing from budging? The Nose heaves and pants and pushes against the door time and time again, but the door doesn’t move.
GRRRRRRR, the Nose goes, furious at the stubborn door that refuses to open. ‘WUFFF W0OOF, arf, yelp,’ she barks, but the door stays where it is. She makes herself as small as possible and squeezes her muzzle into the gap between the door and its frame. Ah. In the dim light, she can just make out a vast pile of envelopes jammed behind the door. Nine whole months’ worth of unopened mail for the Sisters of HiSS lie between the Nose and the shelter of home. The Nose’s tail droops. This isn’t fair, she thinks. If only she could use just a tiny little bit of magic to make the envelopes disappear … but it is a well-known fact that dogs can’t do magic. Only witches can, and the Nose isn’t a witch any more. Whatever the spell was that Witch Baby cast back in the bathroom at Mishnish Castle, it turned the Nose into a real, proper, no-nonsense, no-magical-anythings, one hundred per cent doggy dog.
‘AWOOOOOOOO,’ howls the Nose. Since she fled from Mishnish Castle, she hasn’t stopped running for two whole weeks. Two whole weeks? She’s exhausted. All she wants to do is lie by a fire on a comfortable cushion and chew something tasty. Instead, she has to squeeze her paws under this stupid door and try to extract this stupid pile of post, one stupid, stupid, stupid letter at a time. For a split second she is so furious that she spins round and bites her own tail.
‘OWWW,’ she howl. ‘AroooOoOOOO.’
The wind answers back, louder and longer: WHOOOOOOO WHOOOOOOO OO-OO-OO.
The Nose gives a little whine. Poor, poor, pitiful me, she whines. But the wind whips her fur and a flurry of snow stings her eyes. Brrrrrrr. It’s freezing up here on the top of Ben Screeeiiighe. If the Nose doesn’t get a move on, she’s going to turn to ice. Better get on with it, she thinks.
There’s only enough room to remove one envelope at a time. The Nose tugs and scrapes and teases and claws nine months of junk mail, monthly editions of WitchWit, Cauldron & Kettle and The Goblin’s Digest, two telephone directories (a few pages at a time), one office supplies catalogue (ditto), eighteen supplements to the office supplies catalogue, ninety-three begging letters, three tax returns, and countless envelopes with a variety of mis-spellings of the Toad and the Chin’s names. Sadly there appear to be no interesting envelopes for the Nose. Not one. The Nose’s tail droops lower and lower. It’s just as she always suspected. Nobody loves her.
Then, with a creak, the door flies open and the Nose tumbles inside. There are only two envelopes left on the doormat, and she almost flings them into the wind, unread. Almost, but not quite. Something about the envelopes catches her eye – she can’t read, never has been able to, but she can recognize her own name when it’s written down. That’s easy-peasy. Her name is:
N – a roof with a big tall chimney; followed by
O – a moon; then
S – a wiggly worm; and finally,
E – a fork with its handle broken off.
N-O-S-E. The last two envelopes are for her!
Immediately her tail springs upright and begins to wag. She nearly turns round and bites it again, but stops herself just in time. Picking the envelopes up in her mouth, she trots into the house and nudges the door shut behind her. The wind dies to a far-away shriek. There. Phew. Home at last.
It isn’t until much later, after she has discovered that dogs are completely useless at lighting fires, cooking supper or doing anything other than being Man’s Best Friend, that the Nose remembers her envelopes. Holding the first one in between her paws, she nibbles carefully round all four of its edges until the envelope falls apart and what’s inside tumbles out. It is a single card, made from thick creamy paper with a golden rim. The Nose sniffs. The card smells faintly of fish fingers and – she sniffs again – and chips. Not thick greasy chips, but thin ones cooked in olive oil. By now, the Nose is so hungry, she’s drooling. Whiskers quivering with anticipation, she takes a big bite out of the card, but it doesn’t taste of anything much. Her tail droops and she gives a yelp of disappointment. Peering at the half-chewed card, she can see her name written in the centre of it, but she cannot understand any of the squiggles written all round it.
The Nose cannot read. Poor Nose. She’ll never know that she was invited by
Never mind. In fact, it’s probably all for the best because the Nose might have made a nuisance of herself at the wedding – biting the bride, growling at the groom and doing all sorts of doggy things to embarrass the guests. Heaving a huge Sigh, the Nose turns her attention to the other envelope, gnawing her way through it as she did before.
Several somethings fall out of this envelope: two photographs and one paper napkin-wrapped slice of cake. Being a dog, she falls upon the cake and gobbles it up in three seconds flat, icing, marzipan, napkin and all. It isn’t until she looks at the first photograph and sees the Chin and Mr Harukashi cutting an enormous, white-iced, three-tier wedding cake that the Nose realizes what she’s just devoured.
Wedding cake? Her sister’s wedding cake? Her sister married Mr Harukashi? The Nose gives a huge ‘GRRRRROWFF’ of dismay. What kind of behaviour is that for a Sister of Hiss? Getting married? The very idea! In a blind rage, the Nose spins round and SNAPS at the first thing she can sink her teeth into, which happens to be her own tail. As her teeth close around it, it occurs to the Nose that biting one’s own bottom isn’t particularl
y good behaviour for a Hiss either.
Panting rapidly, she drops her tail and turns her attention to the second photograph. At first she has no idea why anyone would bother to take such a picture – it’s of a huge tartan cushion in front of a blazing fire … with a bowl full of bone-shaped biscuits lying beside it. A bowl with N-O-S-E written on the side. Huh? And now the Nose is howling sadly: not only does her tail hurt from where she bit it, but the sight of that tartan cushion and the blazing fire – not to mention the bowl of dog biscuits – has made her feel so homesick that she wants to HOWWWWWWL.
So she does. Very loudly, but with a lot of feeling. She misses home so much it hurts. Even though she has just spent two weeks running all the way here to Ben Screeeiiighe, she now knows that Ben Screeeiiighe will never feel in the least bit like home. No. The Nose howls once again because she realizes that home is about people, not places. Home, the Nose realizes, is anywhere that the Toad and the Chin are. And this Sister-less house on top of Ben Screeeiiighe is no home at all. AWOOOOOOOOO.
Then the Nose realizes that all this howling and tail-biting is completely unnecessary. She doesn’t have to stay on top of Ben Screeeiiighe in this cold and heartless home. She doesn’t have to be lonely and unloved. She doesn’t even have to be hungry …
The photograph is proof that she has a home. A real home. With a blazing fire, a tartan cushion and a bowl with her name on it. The photograph is a message from her family back home to tell her that she is loved, no matter what she has become. At this happy thought, the Nose’s tail begins to wag uncontrollably. And then it occurs to her that if she gets a move on and runs like the wind all the way back … she might just get home in time to share the last of the wedding cake.
My life is in ruins. Here’s why:
I have a baby sister called Daisy. she’s not a baby baby, she’s a witch baby.
Only I know this (that she’s a witch baby). Everyone else thinks she’s sweet and adorable.
Daisy’s summoned up an invisible dog called WayWoof to be her pet. People can smell WayWoof but they can’t see him – so they think the smell is me.
But worst of all is:
Mum and Dad have decided that we’re moving house. To the far, far North of scotland. Which means I’ll never see my friends again!
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My New School by Lily MacRae (aged nine)
I am the New Girl.
My only friend has got Mystery spots and might be off school for weeks.
Nobody else knows this, but Daisy is a witch. That’s witch as in, ‘casts spells’.
How on earth can I keep her witchiness a secret?
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