‘This boy. What’s his name?’ asked Gran.
‘Jem,’ answered Ratty Annie.
‘Jem? Jem Swelter?’ said Honesty.
‘You know him? Isn’t he the handsomest boy in the world?’
‘Er … well …’ This was hard to answer without a barefaced lie. Big, mean, ugly: these were words that came to mind when Honesty thought of Swelter. Jem was the blacksmith’s son, and he could pull rusty nails out of wood with his teeth. Honesty kept out of his way as much as possible.
‘So you want this boy to fall in love with you?’ Gran was saying.
Ratty Annie nodded. ‘Can you do it?’
Gran put her head on one side. ‘Leave it to me. We’ll have him following you around like a dog.’ She turned to her other visitor. ‘And what about you, Tom Turner? Who are you in love with?’
‘Me? No one. I’m married,’ said Tom Turner. ‘I keep bees.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard.’
‘Bees is clever,’ said Tom, lowering his voice as if this was a secret. ‘Bees make honey.’ Honesty had a feeling this was going to take some time.
‘I can sell honey for three pence a pot, see? Three pence a pot,’ said Tom.
‘That’s good, but I don’t need any honey,’ replied Gran.
‘I can’t sell you any, not if you beg me on your knees.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos I don’t have any.’
Honesty groaned. They’d get more sense out of a boiled potato.
‘Listen,’ said Gran. ‘It’s late, Tom. Why do you need my help?’
‘I tried everything but they don’t come out,’ said Tom.
‘The bees?’
‘No. They stay in their hive and don’t make a sound. I tried singing to them, but I don’t know what kind of songs they like.’
‘Anything they can hum along to,’ suggested Honesty. Gran shot him a look.
Tom went on. ‘My wife says to me, “Go and see old Granny Wart. She’s clever. She’ll know what to do.” So I did. And here I am.’
Gran got to her feet suddenly, turfing Merlin on to the floor. ‘Thank you, that’s all I need to know. Now I expect you’ll both want to be getting home.’
‘But I brought you eggs!’ said Ratty Annie. ‘You haven’t said what you’re going to do!’
‘Patience, child, patience,’ said Gran. ‘I’ll send word to you both tomorrow along with something that will solve your problem. Honesty can bring it.’
‘Me? Why me?’ said Honesty.
Gran ignored him and showed her visitors out. Honesty took them downstairs and unbolted the front door. Luckily the sound of Dad’s snoring still rumbled on.
When he returned, Gran was bent over the pages of one of her ancient books.
‘Here we are. A potion for the lovesick,’ she said.
‘Anyone in love with Swelter must be sick,’ remarked Honesty.
Gran muttered to herself as she traced the words on the page with her finger. Honesty peered over her shoulder.
‘That’s not a book of spells, is it?’ he asked nervously.
‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ Gran scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. ‘These are the things I’m going to need.’
Honesty looked at the list, trying to read Gran’s scratchy handwriting.
‘ “Juice of whale”?’ he said.
‘Snail,’ said Gran. ‘Juice of snail.’
‘It sounds revolting. “Wing of bat”? Where am I going to find all this stuff?’
‘You’ll find it,’ said Gran. ‘Use your head.’
‘And what about “True Love’s Hair”? What does that mean?’
‘What it says,’ replied Gran, sitting down. ‘If you’re making a love potion, you need a hair of the beloved.’
Honesty let this sink in for a moment. ‘You don’t mean Swelter? You want me to ask him for a lock of his hair?’
‘Of course not! Asking him will only make him suspicious. You’ll have to get the hair without him knowing.’
‘But how am I going to do that?’
Gran shrugged. ‘You’ll think of something.’
Honesty stared at the scrap of paper in his hand. He didn’t think Gran realised what she was asking. Snail juice was one thing, but stealing a hair from Jem Swelter’s head? He might as well ask a bull if he could borrow the ring from its nose. And that wasn’t the only thing that worried him either.
‘What if Mum finds out?’ he asked. ‘She says magic is a bomination.’
Gran clicked her tongue. ‘You’re talking nonsense again. Who said anything about magic?’
‘You did! You’re making a love potion!’
‘I’m helping people. Isn’t that my Christian duty?’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘There you are then. Now, off you go – it’s late and I want to go to bed. Put it in your pocket and don’t lose it. And remember, not a word to anyone.’
Honesty nodded. Who would he tell anyway? Certainly not his sisters (who couldn’t keep a secret for ten seconds), and definitely not his mum (who would never believe him). He folded Gran’s list in half and put it in his pocket. It had been a strange night. Tomorrow was going to be even worse.
Chapter 4
A Hairy Moment
Honesty unwrapped his hanky and inspected the disgusting things he’d collected so far. Why couldn’t his gran be like other grandmothers? he wondered. Why did he have the kind of gran who sent you out looking for bat’s wings and frogspawn?
It hadn’t been easy finding the things on the list. He had found some snails under a rock on his way home from school and managed to coax two on to his hanky with a twig. Honesty had no idea how you extracted their ‘juice’. Gran could do that bit herself. The bat’s wing he’d found in a dark cave high above the village. It was still attached to a tiny dead bat. Ratty Annie had supplied him with the tail of a rat, although she’d had the nerve to charge him a farthing. The other things on the list he’d managed to find, but there was still one item he was putting off as long as possible: a hair from Jem Swelter’s head.
The blacksmith’s forge stood at the end of a muddy track that crossed a cow field. Honesty dawdled along it, hands in pockets, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Talking to Swelter always brought him out in a sweat. He tried to think of a clever plan, but his mind was a blank. All he could picture was Swelter’s ugly face and small, piggy eyes. He didn’t attend school like other kids his age and no one tried to make him. He preferred to work at the forge with his dad, learning how to bludgeon things with a hammer.
He had reached a muddy yard at the end of the track. A horrible smell came from a pile of steaming cow dung in the corner. From inside the forge came a sound of bashing and hammering. Swelter and his father were at work. A large painted sign over the door read: Jon Swelter and Sun – Blaksmifs (spelling wasn’t the Swelters’ strong point).
Honesty crept up to the doorway and peeped inside. Jem Swelter was bent over a red-hot brazier, holding something in the fire. Luckily there was no sign of his dad. Hanging on the walls were rows of black tools that looked like instruments of torture. Swelter was busy with his work and hadn’t heard him approach. His thick brown hair hung over the back of his collar. (Honesty’s hair was cut short because his mum said long hair was vanity.) He crept into the shadowy forge. The brazier made the room hot as a furnace. If he could only get within reach! He’d spotted a loose hair sticking up on the back of Swelter’s head.
Swelter pulled out a glowing poker from the fire and began to wallop it with a hammer. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Honesty was almost close enough to reach out and tap him on the shoulder. It was now or never. His hand was shaking as his fingers closed on the loose hair and tugged hard.
‘EEEOWW!’ It turned out it wasn’t as loose as it looked.
Swelter swung round, red-faced and snorting. Honesty thought of an angry bull about to charge.
‘You!’
‘Oh … er … hello, Swelter,’ said Honesty.
‘You pulled my hair.’
‘No, no, I didn’t,’ said Honesty. (This was a lie and Honesty tried not to tell lies but there was no time to feel guilty.)
‘Why are you skulking round here?’
‘I wasn’t. I just dropped by to … you know … see how a blacksmith works. Is that a poker?’
Swelter was advancing on him with the hammer in one hand and a poker in the other. The tip was still glowing red. Honesty pointed at it nervously.
‘You should be careful with that. It looks hot.’
‘Burning hot,’ said Swelter.
‘You could hurt someone.’ Honesty swallowed hard. He had backed out of the open door and into the bright light of the stinking yard. Swelter looked at the poker as if deciding what to do with it. A smile spread slowly across his ugly face. He cut the air with the poker as if it was a sword. Honesty had to leap backwards to avoid it.
‘Careful!’
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Swelter, jabbing the poker at his chest.
‘Nothing. I told you, I just dropped by!’
‘Liar!’
‘I can explain …’
They had come to a stop. Honesty tried to think. His mum was always warning him to tell the truth. The truth never hurt anyone.
‘I just wanted … I needed … um … a lock of your hair.’
‘A what?’
Swelter narrowed his piggy eyes, trying to work out if Honesty was mocking him.
‘Just one hair. A small one. If you could spare it. Please.’
‘Think you’re funny, do you?’
‘No! I just need a hair. Not for me, for someone else. She … er … collects hair, especially nice brown hair like yours.’ He was gabbling but for a moment it seemed to be working because Swelter dropped the poker in the dust. His hands balled into big fists. Honesty backed across the yard, trying to get away. His boots were sinking in some kind of mound, forcing him to stumble backwards uphill. Swelter gave a crooked grin and suddenly shoved him violently in the chest. Honesty fell backwards, landing on the hill with a damp squelch. It was the dung heap.
‘HUR! HUR! HUR!’ Swelter stood over him, braying like a donkey.
Honesty sat up with a sucking noise. His trousers clung to his bottom damply. There was something cold and wet stuck to his hair. He wiped it off and saw the brown mess on his fingers. Swelter was still doubled up with laughter.
‘Hur! Hur! You fell in the dung heap! Hur hur!’
‘JEM!’ His father’s voice rang out from the forge. ‘Jem! Where in blazes are you?’
Jem’s grin melted instantly and he scuttled back inside.
Honesty got to his feet, shaking the muck off his boots. It was time to go home.
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The door at the side of the forge was open and hanging from it was a jacket grimy with dirt and grease. Inside the forge he could hear Swelter getting a lecture from his dad. Slowly and without a sound, Honesty lifted down the jacket. Two or three hairs were stuck to the collar – brown hairs like Swelter’s. Honesty picked one off and carefully wrapped it inside his hanky. Then he splodged off across the field, running as fast as he could. He prayed that he could make it home without bumping into anyone from school.
Chapter 5
The Whiff of Trouble
Naturally his mum went up the wall. She went on and on, asking him the pointless questions parents always ask. What was he thinking of? How did he manage it? Hadn’t she told him a hundred times? Honesty had to stand in the yard shivering, while she threw buckets of freezing cold water over him. After that, she scrubbed him down with soap and a scrubbing brush that was sharp as needles. Even then the smell didn’t go, it lingered on him like wood smoke. It would be months before anyone sat next to him at school again.
Mum thumped down a pot on the table and began to dish out supper.
‘Your favourite. Turnip stew,’ she said, pushing a bowl at Honesty.
The stew was heavily laced with salt in order to take away the taste of the turnips. Now it tasted mainly salty. Still, he knew better than to grumble.
‘Well, you’ll never guess what happened today,’ said Dad, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Don’t slurp, Honesty,’ scolded Mum.
‘I didn’t!’
‘You did,’ said Mercy. ‘I heard you. Slurp, slurp, slurp.’
‘It’s rude to slurp,’ said Patience.
Dad tried again. ‘So anyway, coming home I ran into Ned Lumsden. He’d just got back from the market at Crowsfoot –’ He broke off and sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell something?’
‘It’s Honesty,’ said Mercy.
‘He smells,’ said Patience, holding her nose.
Dad leaned closer and sniffed. ‘Phooo! What happened to you?’
Honesty rolled his eyes. ‘It’s nothing. I had an accident.’
‘He fell in a pile of cow’s …’ Mum couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
‘A pile of cows?’ said Dad. ‘What were they doing in a pile?’
‘No! Cow’s you-know-what.’
Dad still looked baffled. Honesty sank his head in his hands.
‘Cow poo, all right? I fell in a pile of cow poo.’
His mum looked shocked. ‘I won’t have such language at the table!’
‘Sorry! I only said cow –’
‘Say that word again and you’ll be going without supper!’
Honesty chased the stew around his bowl with a hunk of stale brown bread.
‘Anyway,’ said Dad, giving him a friendly nudge, ‘what was I saying?’
‘Something about Ned Lumsden,’ said Mum.
‘Oh, that’s right. Ned Lumsden. You’ll never guess what.’
‘Just tell us,’ groaned Mum.
‘Well, they caught …’ Dad paused dramatically.
‘They caught a witch.’
‘No!’ said Mum.
‘Yes.’
‘In Crowsfoot?’
‘That’s what Ned told me.’
Honesty laid down his spoon, suddenly losing his appetite. ‘Who is she?’
‘Well, I didn’t catch a name but she’s a witch, right enough. The Witchfinder says so.’
‘Witchfinder?’ said Mum. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Witchfinder General. Didn’t you hear? He rides from village to village on a black horse, finding witches. That’s why they call him –’
‘Yes, yes, the Witchfinder General,’ said Mum. She sat back in her chair and clicked her tongue. ‘It’s an evil world we live in, a wicked, evil world. I hope you’re listening to this, young Honesty.’
‘Me? Why me?’
‘Look at you. Stinking of cow’s … business. Who knows what you’ve been up to?’
‘I haven’t done anything!’ said Honesty. ‘I just went for a walk.’
His cheeks were glowing. Once you got started, lying wasn’t so difficult. Soon he wouldn’t be able to stop. He stared at his bowl, stirring the lumps in his stew.
Mercy and Patience were full of questions. They wanted to know what the witch was like and whether she wore a black hat and rode in a pumpkin coach with rats for coachmen. Honesty thought they were getting confused with Cinderella.
‘But what’ll happen to her?’ asked Honesty.
Dad wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘She’ll be hanged, I expect,’ he replied. ‘That’s what they do with witches.’
‘Serves her right,’ scowled Mum. ‘Wicked old hag.’
Honesty suddenly pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
‘Where are you off to now?’ Mum demanded.
‘I thought I’d – um – just go and see Gran.’
‘Sit down! You haven’t finished your meal.’
Honesty sat down. All of a sudden he didn’t feel well. It was almost too much to take in. A witch in Crowsfoot! Worse than that, a man on a black horse who could look into your s
oul and tell if you were a witch.
‘Dad,’ he said, ‘this witch-catcher, he won’t come here, will he?’
‘I don’t see why. He’d be wasting his time. There’s no witches round here.’
‘No,’ said Honesty, glancing at the stairs.
‘Why?’ demanded Mum.
‘No reason. I was just thinking … of Gran.’
His parents both stared at him.
‘Gran? What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Nothing. Just … haven’t you ever thought she’s a bit strange?’
‘Bless you, boy, she’s old,’ chuckled Dad. ‘Of course she’s got a few odd habits!’
‘But all those things she keeps in her room,’ said Honesty.
‘Old people are like that,’ said Mum. ‘They get fond of things.’
‘Toads,’ said Mercy unexpectedly.
‘Pardon?’
‘Gran’s fond of toads. She keeps one in her pocket. He’s called Merlin.’
Patience nodded. ‘I’ve heard her talking to him.’
‘Anyway,’ said Mum, clearing away the bowls, ‘she’s very good for her age. You’d be surprised what she knows. Now, if you’ve finished you can take up her supper.’
Honesty sighed and did as he was told. He wondered what his parents would say if he told them his Gran had visitors after midnight and was busy mixing a love potion for Ratty Annie. They probably wouldn’t believe him.
‘Shut the door!’ snapped Gran when Honesty went up to see her.
‘I’ve brought your supper, Gran.’
‘Is it more of that turnip muck?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can feed it to the pigs.’ She was sitting with her back towards him, stirring a black cooking pot that was warming over the fire. Steam rose up the narrow chimney. Honesty went closer to look. Inside the pot a dark liquid the colour of seaweed was swirling and bubbling like a swamp.
‘Did you get everything I told you?’ demanded Gran.
Honesty set down the bowl of stew and fished out his hanky. He unfolded it, showing her all the ingredients he’d collected.
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