Honesty Wart

by Alan MacDonald

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Honesty. ‘Only Merlin.’

  ‘Merlin?’

  ‘Her toad. She keeps him in her pocket where she can talk to him.’

  Silas Brood turned to the packed courtroom.

  ‘Mark that. She talks to a toad. A certain proof of a witch.’

  He went on with his questions. ‘She sleeps in the upstairs room. Have you been in that room, Honesty?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Lots of times. I take her meals up to her.’

  ‘And what have you seen in there?’

  ‘My gran,’ replied Honesty.

  ‘Besides her. Are there books of spells and curses?’

  ‘I don’t know. She won’t let me read them.’

  ‘A witch’s cauldron perhaps?’

  ‘No. But she’s got a cooking pot.’

  ‘Think carefully now. Have you ever seen your grandmother making a potion?’

  ‘Um …’ Honesty wasn’t sure how to answer. If he said ‘yes’ it would confirm that Gran was a witch, but if he said ‘no’ he would be breaking his oath on the Bible. The courtroom suddenly seemed too hot. The white collar of his jacket was too tight.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Brood. ‘It’s a simple question.’

  ‘She did … make something,’ stammered Honesty.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But I’m not sure what it was. It may have been a … er … pudding.’

  Silas Brood came closer, uncomfortably close. ‘Tell me, what was in this “pudding” you saw?’

  ‘In it?’ Honesty felt his cheeks were on fire.

  ‘Yes, in it.’

  ‘Er … just the usual puddingy things.’

  ‘Name them.’

  ‘Well, ah … snail juice, a bat’s wing, a lock of hair – just ordinary things.’

  ‘Ordinary things.’ Brood nodded and turned to the Judge with a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Thank you, that will be all, Your Worship.’

  Honesty returned to his place, giving Gran a thumbs-up sign as he sat down. She had her head in her hands so she didn’t notice.

  Ratty Annie was the next to be called. She stood facing the courtroom, glaring defiantly.

  ‘Do you know this woman?’ asked the Witchfinder General.

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘She’s Granny Wart. Everyone knows her,’ said Ratty Annie.

  ‘Did she ever promise to make you a witch’s potion?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘A love potion?’

  ‘It might have been.’

  ‘Tell me, who was it for?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ replied Ratty Annie.

  ‘Remember, your oath on the Bible,’ said Brood sternly. ‘Who was this love potion for?’

  Ratty Annie bit her lip and turned a delicate pink. ‘Jem Swelter,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Jem Swelter, the blacksmith’s son. And when he drank this potion, this witch’s brew, what happened? Did he fall in love with you?’ asked Brood.

  Ratty Annie shook her head. ‘No, it sent him mad. He climbed on a roof and tried to fly.’

  ‘It almost killed him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘If he hadn’t landed in the dunghill he’d have died.’

  Silas Brood waited for the laughter to die down.

  ‘Mark that,’ he said. ‘The witch’s potion almost killed him.’

  He paced up and down a few times just for effect. ‘Tell me, Annie, in the last week has anyone brought you flowers?’

  Ratty Annie blushed an even deeper pink. ‘They might have.’

  ‘Who? Jem Swelter?’

  ‘No. Tom Turner.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Brood.

  ‘Ask him,’ snorted Annie. ‘He reckons he’s dying of love. Keeps saying he wants to marry me.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have a wife already?’

  ‘I don’t ask him to pester me!’ blazed Ratty Annie. ‘He’s mad as the moon!’

  ‘And when did this touching courtship begin?’ asked Brood.

  ‘The day after he drank that potion. The one she sent him.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Her. The witch!’ Ratty Annie pointed a finger at Gran. People shook their heads and whispered among themselves. Honesty had a feeling things weren’t going too well.

  Other witnesses were called but none of them spoke in Gran’s defence. Jem Swelter jumped on to a table, telling the court that he was a buzz-buzz-bumbly-bee. Tom Turner’s wife claimed that the witch had cast a spell over her husband. Other neighbours came forward to claim that Granny Wart had turned their milk sour or caused them to lose a tooth.

  ‘I lost a brooch,’ claimed Mary Finch. ‘The witch stole it from my room!’

  ‘She stole my candlestick!’ cried a woman.

  ‘My wedding ring has vanished.’

  ‘She took my father’s snuffbox!’

  People were standing up all over the courtroom, pointing at Gran and blaming her for everything but the weather. Honesty couldn’t understand it. Gran had been locked in a prison cell for five days, so how had she managed to cause so much trouble?

  Finally Silas Brood called for the ‘witch’ herself to give evidence. Gran got to her feet and leaned on her knobbly walking stick.

  ‘You’ve heard the charges against you?’ said Brood.

  ‘Gossip and lies,’ snapped Gran.

  ‘Take care what you say.’

  ‘You take care,’ said Gran, showing her yellow teeth. ‘Maybe I’ll turn you into a spider.’ Silas Brood took a step backwards.

  ‘You don’t deny then that you meddle in witchcraft?’

  ‘I never said I did,’ replied Gran, leaning on her stick. ‘People can tell all the lies they want, but it doesn’t prove anything.’

  The Witchfinder General turned to his audience. Most of them were hanging on his every word, apart from Judge Gruntley who had dozed off to sleep.

  ‘How can you tell a witch?’ asked Brood. ‘What are the signs?’

  A woman in the third row raised her hand. ‘Ooh, I know. If you say “Good morning, Witch” and she answers you, “Good morning”.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Silas Brood. ‘But there are better ways. Perhaps some of you have heard of the Three Tests of a Witch?’

  No one had but they were eager to see them. This was more like it. Accusations were all very well but they were hoping to see the witch swivel her head back to front or turn into a monkey and run off with the Judge’s wig.

  Brood continued pacing up and down. ‘Every witch,’ he said, ‘has a certain spot or lump on their flesh which is so tender they cannot bear it to be touched. I call this place the Devil’s Spot.’

  The spectators nodded, many of them fingering their necks to check for lumps.

  Silas Brood bent over Gran to examine her. He inspected her face, arms and throat. Next he ordered her to take off her shoes and peered at her wrinkled feet.

  ‘Ah, just as I thought,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Gran.

  ‘Right there,’ said Brood. He produced a feather from his pocket and touched the sole of Gran’s foot.

  ‘HA! HAA! NO, PLEASE!’ shrieked Gran, kicking her legs violently.

  ‘Hark how she screams,’ said Silas Brood. ‘She can’t bear to be touched. A certain proof of a witch.’

  Honesty turned to his dad. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘He tickled her feet!’

  Silas Brood continued his ‘examination’.

  ‘The Second Test can be performed with a toad. I happen to have one with me.’ He reached into his bag and brought out a fat brown toad with bulging eyes, holding it up for all to see.

  ‘Merlin!’ said Gran.

  ‘A toad knows a witch by her smell,’ said Brood. ‘Watch how he goes to her.’

  He set Merlin down on the floor. The toad didn’t move. Brood gave him a sharp prod with the toe of his boot and Merlin set off, hopping across the courtroom. In three short leaps he had reached Gran’s fee
t.

  ‘There, there, my sweet, don’t you fret. I’ve got you,’ soothed Gran, picking him up.

  ‘WITCH!’ hissed someone near the front.

  ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’ The whisper passed from one to another, growing in volume. Judge Gruntley woke up with a start and banged his hammer.

  ‘Silence!’ he bellowed. ‘Margery Wart, I find you guilty of witchcraft. You will be taken to a place of execution –’

  ‘No!’ cried Honesty, leaping to his feet.

  ‘Silence!’ roared the Judge. ‘Sit down!’

  ‘But it’s not fair!’ Honesty protested. ‘He said there were three tests. What about the third?’

  Silas Brood raised a hand. ‘If you will allow me to finish, Your Worship, the boy is quite correct. The third test is my personal favourite – the Swimming Test. The witch must be tried by water. She must be bound with strong ropes and thrown into a deep pond. If she floats, it proves she is a witch and she must be hanged. If she sinks, then it proves her innocence.’

  Gran had turned pale. ‘But I – I can’t swim!’ she croaked. ‘I’ll drown!’

  ‘That,’ said Silas Brood, ‘is a risk we shall have to take.’

  Chapter 11

  That Sinking Feeling

  Morning sunlight streamed through the front window, falling on Honesty’s face. He blinked and yawned. He was sure there was something important he had to do today, some reason why he wanted to be up early. Slowly it came back to him. This morning was Gran’s trial by water and he had to be there to save her.

  Honesty struggled into his grey breeches, hopping around on one leg. Where were his shoes? Where were the rest of his family? Normally Mercy and Patience were up by now, laying the table for breakfast.

  There was no sign of them. Dirty plates and cups littered the table as if someone had left in a hurry. Honesty spotted a scrap of paper left under a bowl and snatched it up. It was a note written in his sister’s childish scrawl.

  Bye lazybones. Gone to see Gran get wet.

  Mercy and Patience

  P.S. Your turn to wash up!

  Unbelievable. They’d gone without him! He must have overslept and missed breakfast altogether.

  Outside, the main street was deserted. Everyone seemed to have gone to watch Gran’s ordeal. People had talked of nothing else for the past few days and no one wanted to miss the final act of the drama. Honesty glanced up at the church clock. Ten minutes to nine. If he ran all the way he could still get there in time. They would be at the pond at Flaxton Mill – the duck-pond in the village wasn’t deep enough to drown a rat. He set off at a run, taking a short cut across the fields. Please let me be in time, he thought. Please, please, please.

  Passing Tom Turner’s house, he almost ran straight into a beehive. No buzzing came from the bell-shaped hive. When he peered through the hole, the bees didn’t seem to be moving. They were either dead or asleep. Of course! thought Honesty. They were hibernating until the spring. No wonder old Tom Turner hadn’t had any honey for months. An idea began to take shape in Honesty’s head. It wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had but it was his only chance. Maybe the bees would help to prove Gran’s innocence.

  Meanwhile, at the millpond, Silas Brood was making final preparations. What he loved about the swimming test was the way it never failed. He had used it to test scores of witches and not one of them had survived. In his experience people wanted to see witches die a gruesome death. If there was lots of struggling, splashing and begging for mercy, so much the better.

  A good crowd had turned out, gathered in a semicircle round one edge of the millpond. Brood had supervised the binding with ropes himself. The witch’s right thumb was tied to her left big toe and her left thumb to her right big toe. It left her curled in a ball like a hedgehog – which guaranteed a good splash when they threw her in.

  ‘Well then, witch, have you any last request?’ asked Brood, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  ‘The water looks nice. Perhaps you’d care to join me?’ replied Gran.

  ‘Very funny,’ replied Brood. ‘Pick her up.’

  Two burly men stepped forward and carried Gran towards the water like a boat about to be launched. She turned her head to say a last word to her family.

  ‘Tell Honesty I want him to look after Merlin. It’s a pity he couldn’t come to see me off.’

  ‘He’s still in bed,’ said Mercy. ‘But we’re here, Gran.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have missed it for anything,’ said Patience.

  The men paused at the water’s edge, waiting for the signal. The millpond looked deep and green and icy-cold.

  ‘On the count of three, throw her in,’ instructed Brood.

  ‘Couldn’t you make it a count of one?’ pleaded one of the men. ‘She’s heavy!’

  The villagers stood waiting. Gran was mumbling something under her breath that might have been a prayer or a spell. The Witchfinder General began the count.

  ‘One, two, thr–’

  ‘STOP!’ yelled a voice. The crowd turned to see a boy tearing down the hill towards them, carrying a large beehive in his arms.

  ‘Oh no!’ groaned Mum. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Wait!’ panted Honesty. ‘I’ve got something to…’ He was about to explain about the sleeping bees but he was running so fast he didn’t notice the millstone in his path. He tripped and went sprawling headlong in the mud, the beehive flying out of his arms. It somersaulted through the air like an out-of-control spacecraft and landed with a thud at the feet of Silas Brood.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the Witchfinder General, unwisely prodding the beehive with his toe. An angry drone came from inside, growing louder.

  ‘Bzzz! Bzzzzzz! BZZZZZZZZ!’

  ‘Watch out!’ cried Dad. ‘BEES!’

  The villagers scattered in every direction as the swarm rose from the hive in a black cloud. The two men holding Gran dumped her on the grass and took to their heels. Only Silas Brood was too slow to grasp the danger. The bees swarmed round him, buzzing in his ears.

  ‘Argh! Yow! Heeeeeelp!’ he howled, hopping and jigging around like a Morris Dancer. He staggered back blindly towards the millpond. For a moment he wobbled on the edge, then toppled backwards with a mighty SPLASH!

  ‘Whoops!’ said Honesty as the cloud of bees buzzed off into the grey sky.

  The Witchfinder was thrashing around in the icy water.

  ‘Blub, glub … I can’t … glug!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be all right,’ said Dad. ‘If he isn’t a witch, he’ll float.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘No, you daft donkey, it’s the other way round. ‘If he is a witch he’ll float. If he isn’t, he’ll sink.’

  They watched Silas Brood’s head bob up once more, then disappear from sight.

  ‘HEEELP! … UGGLE GLUG!’

  ‘You’re right, he is sinking,’ said Dad.

  Six or seven bubbles rose to the surface and burst one by one.

  ‘Shouldn’t someone dive in and save him or something?’ asked Honesty.

  Dad turned to the crowd and cleared his throat. ‘Anyone here know how to swim?’

  A minute later Silas Brood lay on the bank. His face was pale, his lips were blue and he was wearing a crown of pondweed. It was the blacksmith, John Swelter, who had dived into the pond and dragged him out by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Honesty.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Gran, untying the ropes round her ankles. ‘But if he doesn’t change out of those wet clothes, he’ll catch his death.’

  Mum helped Brood struggle out of his wet clothes, trying not to look for the sake of decency. The Witchfinder huddled in a blanket, wearing only his undershirt and pants.

  Honesty picked up his soggy coat, which made a jingling noise and was extremely heavy.

  ‘What’s he got in here?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ cried Silas Brood – but it was too late. Honesty had thrust his hand into the
inside pocket and brought out a handful of shiny objects. He stared at them in astonishment.

  ‘That’s my great-grandmother’s spoon!’ said Mum indignantly.

  ‘And my wedding ring!’ said the woman next to her.

  ‘My candlestick! My necklace!’ cried others, crowding round.

  Gran folded her arms and looked at them all. ‘Well, I hope you’re all proud of yourselves,’ she scolded. ‘Blaming a poor innocent old woman! As for this one,’ she pointed at the wretched Brood. ‘Witchfinder General? He wouldn’t know a witch if one poked him in the eye with a wand! Ask him how he got all this.’

  Brood confessed in sobs and gulps. It turned out that over the past week he had visited a dozen houses in the village. While he ate their bread and told them stories of his success, he kept an eye out for anything worth stealing.

  ‘Want me to throw him back in?’ offered the blacksmith.

  ‘No,’ said Gran. ‘I think I’ve got a better idea.’

  Ten minutes later Silas Brood was saddled on his black horse, wearing only his soggy underclothes and a pointed black hat on his head. A sign was pinned to his back which read: ‘CHARLATAN’ in big letters. The villagers of Little Snorley pursued him down the street, jeering and throwing rotten eggs.

  ‘What does “charlatan” mean?’ asked Patience as they tagged along at the back of the procession.

  ‘It means big fat liar,’ replied Mercy.

  ‘Oh,’ said Patience. ‘We don’t tell lies, do we, Mercy?’

  ‘No, never,’ said Mercy, smiling. ‘Come on, let’s run home. There might be some biscuits in the pot.’

  Chapter 12

  Gloomy Christmas!

  Honesty watched the snowflakes splat on the windowpane and slide down. Two weeks had passed and it was finally here: 25th December, Christmas morning. He should have been jumping out of bed wild with excitement, but apart from the snow, there was nothing to look forward to. It was going to be the gloomiest Christmas ever. There would be no presents to open, no logs crackling in the fire, no carols to sing or visitors to welcome. Worst of all, they wouldn’t be sitting down to Christmas dinner – his favourite meal of the whole year. Christmas was cancelled. Forbidden. Ever since Silas Brood had been chased from the village, Honesty had been hoping his gran might perform the miracle she’d promised. But, despite everything he’d done for her, she seemed to have forgotten. Today would be just like any other day of the year – deadly dull.