Witch Week

by Diana Wynne Jones

  The outsize tins did indeed make Nan and Estelle feel easier while they waited. People passing certainly looked up at them curiously, but most of them smiled when they saw the tins. And they were standing there for quite a long time, because, as well as writing very slowly, the old lady kept calling across to them.

  “Do either of you know the Portway Oaks?” she called. They shook their heads. “Pity. You have to go there to say this,” said the old lady. “It’s a ring of trees just below the forest. I’d better draw you a map then.” She drew, slowly. Then she called, “I don’t know why they’re called the Oaks. Every single tree there is a beech tree.” Later still, she called, “Now I’m writing down the way you should pronounce it.”

  The girls still stood there. Nan was beginning to wonder if the old lady was really in league with the inquisitors and keeping them there on purpose, when the old lady at last folded up the paper and shuffled back to the front door.

  “There you are, my dears. I wish I could do more for you.”

  Nan took the paper. Estelle produced a bright artificial smile. “Thanks awfully,” she said. “What does it do?”

  “I’m not sure,” said the old lady. “It’s been handed down in my family for use in emergencies, but no one has ever used it before. I’m told it’s very powerful.”

  Like many old people, the old lady spoke rather too loudly. Nan and Estelle looked nervously over their shoulders at the street below, but nobody seemed to have heard. They thanked the old lady politely and, when the front door shut, they went drearily back down the steps, lugging their huge collecting tins.

  “I suppose we’d better use it,” said Estelle. “We daren’t go back now.”

  11

  CHARLES JOGGED around the playing field towards the groundsman’s hut. He hoped anyone who saw him would think he was out running for PE. For this reason, he had changed into his small sky-blue running shorts before he slipped away. When he had time, he supposed he could transform the shorts into jeans or something. But the important thing at the moment was to get hold of that mangy old broom people had been taunting Nan Pilgrim with the other day. If he got to that before anyone noticed he was missing, he could ride away on it and no dog on earth could pick up his trail.

  He reached the hut, in its corner beside the kitchen gardens. He crept around it to its door. At the same moment, Nirupam crept around it from the opposite side, also in sky-blue shorts, and stretched out his long arm for the door too. The two of them stared at one another. All sorts of ideas for things to say streamed through Charles’s mind, from explaining he was just dodging PE, to accusing Nirupam of kidnapping Brian. In the end, he said none of these things. Nirupam had hold of the doorlatch by then.

  “Bags I the broomstick,” Charles said.

  “Only if there are two of them,” said Nirupam. His face was yellow with fear. He pulled open the door and dodged into the hut. Charles dived in after him.

  There was not even the one old broomstick. There were flowerpots, buckets, an old roller, a new roller, four rakes, two spades, a hoe, and an old wet mop propped in one of the buckets. And that was all.

  “Who took it?” Charles said wildly.

  “Nobody brought it back,” said Nirupam.

  “Oh, magic it all!” said Charles. “What shall we do?”

  “Use something else,” said Nirupam. “Or walk.” He seized the nearest spade and stood astride it, bending and stretching his great long legs. “Fly,” he told the spade. “Go on, fly, magic you!”

  Nirupam had the right idea, Charles saw. A witch surely ought to be able to make anything fly. “I should think a rake would fly better,” he said, and quickly grabbed hold of the wet mop for himself. The mop was so old that it had stuck to the bucket. Charles was forced to put one foot on the bucket and pull, before it came loose, and a lot of the head got left behind in the bucket. The result was a stick ending in a scraggly gray stump. Charles seized it and stood astride it. He jumped up and down. “Fly!” he told the mop. “Quick!”

  Nirupam threw the spade down and snatched up the hoe. Together they jumped desperately around the hut. “Fly!” they panted. “Fly!”

  In an old, soggy, dispirited way, the mop obeyed. It wallowed up about three feet into the air and wove towards the hut door. Nirupam was wailing in despair, when the hoe took off too, with a buck and a rush, as if it did not want to be left behind. Nirupam shot past Charles with his huge legs flailing. “It works!” he panted triumphantly, and went off in another kangaroo bound towards the kitchen gardens.

  They were forbidden to go in the kitchen gardens, but it seemed the most secret way out of school. Charles followed Nirupam through the gate and down the gravel path, both of them trying to control their mounts. The mop wallowed and wove. It was like an old, old person, feebly hobbling through the air. The hoe either went by kangaroo surges, or it slanted and trailed its metal end along the path. Nirupam had to stick his feet out in front in order not to leave a scent on the ground. His eyes rolled in agony. He kept overtaking Charles and dropping behind. When they got to the wall at the end of the garden, both implements stopped. The mop wallowed about in the air. The hoe jittered its end on the gravel.

  “They can’t go high enough to get over,” said Charles. “Now what?”

  That might have been the end of their journey, had not the caretaker’s dog been sniffing about in the kitchen gardens and suddenly caught their scent. It came racing down the long path towards them, yapping. The hoe and the mop took off like startled cats. They soared over the wall, with Charles and Nirupam hanging on anyhow, and went bucking off down the fields beyond. They raced towards the main road, the mop surging, the hoe plunging and trailing, clearing hedges by a whisker and missing trees by inches. They did not slow down until they had put three fields between them and the caretaker’s dog.

  “They must hate that dog as much as we do,” Nirupam gasped. “Was it you that did the Simon Says spell?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “Did you do the birds in music?”

  “No,” said Nirupam, much to Charles’s surprise. “I did only one thing, and that was secret, but I daren’t stay if the inquisitors are going to bring a witch-detector. They always get you with those.”

  “What did you do?” said Charles.

  “You know that night all our shoes went into the hall,” said Nirupam. “Well, we had a feast that night. Dan Smith made me get up the floorboards and get the food out. He says I have no right to be so large and so weak,” Nirupam said resentfully, “and I was hating him for it, when I took the boards up and found a pair of running shoes, with spikes, hidden there with the food. I turned those shoes into a chocolate cake. I knew Dan was so greedy that he would eat it all himself. And he did eat it. He didn’t let anyone else have any. You may have noticed that he wasn’t quite himself the next day.”

  So much had happened to Charles that particular day, that he could not remember Dan seeming anything at all. He didn’t have the heart to explain all the trouble Nirupam had caused him. “Those were my spikes,” he said sadly. He wobbled along on the mop rather awed at the thought of iron spikes passing through Dan’s stomach. “He must have a digestion like an ostrich!”

  “The spikes were turned into cherries,” said Nirupam. “The soles were the cream. The shoes as a whole became what is called a Black Forest gâteau.”

  Here they reached the main road and saw the tops of cars whipping past beyond the hedge. “We’ll have to wait for a gap in that traffic,” Charles said. “Stop!” he commanded the mop.

  “Stop!” Nirupam cried to the hoe.

  Neither implement took the slightest notice. Since Charles and Nirupam did not dare put their feet down for fear of leaving a scent for the dogs, they could find no way of stopping at all. They were carried helplessly over the hedge. Luckily, the road was down in a slight dip, and they had just enough height to clear the whizzing cars. Nirupam frantically bent his huge legs up. Charles tried not to let his legs dangle. Horns honked. He
saw faces peering up at them, outraged and grinning. Charles suddenly saw how ridiculous they must look, both in their little blue shorts: himself with the disgraceful dirty old mop head wagging behind him; Nirupam lunging through the air in bunny hops, with a look of anguish on his face.

  Horns were still sounding as they cleared the hedge on the other side of the road.

  “Oh help!” gasped Nirupam. “Make for the woods, quick, before somebody gets the police!”

  Larwood Forest was only a short hillside away and, luckily, their panic seemed to get through to the mop and the hoe. Both put on speed. The wagging and slewing of the mop nearly threw Charles off. The hoe helped itself along by digging its metal end fiercely into the ground, so that Nirupam went upwards like someone on a pogo stick, yelping at each leap. Horns were still sounding from the road as first Nirupam, then Charles reached the trees and plunged in among them. By this time, Nirupam was so far ahead that Charles thought he had lost him. Probably just as well, Charles thought. They might be safer going separate ways. But the mop had other ideas. After dithering a bit, as if it had lost the scent, it set off again at top wallow. Charles was wagged around tree trunks and swayed through prickly undergrowth. Finally he was slewed through a bed of nettles. He yelled. Nirupam yelled too, just beyond the nettles. The hoe tipped him off into a blackberry bush and darted gladly towards an old threadbare broomstick which was leaning on the other side of the brambles. At the sight, the mop threw Charles into the nettles and went bouncing flirtatiously towards the broomstick too, looking just like a granny on an outing.

  Charles and Nirupam picked themselves bad-temperedly up. They listened. The motorists on the road seemed to have got tired of sounding their horns. They looked. Beyond the jumping hoe and the nuzzling mop, there was a well-made campfire. Behind the fire, concealed by more brambles, was a small orange tent. Brian Wentworth was standing by the tent, glowering at them.

  “I thought I’d got at least one of you arrested,” Brian said. “Get lost, can’t you! Or are you trying to get me caught?”

  “No, we are not!” Charles said angrily. “We’re— Hey, listen!”

  Somewhere uphill, in the thick part of the wood, a dog gave one whirring, excited bark, and stopped suddenly. Birds were clapping up out of the trees. And Charles’s straining ears could also hear a rhythmic swishing, as of heavy feet marching through undergrowth.

  “That’s the police,” he said.

  “You fools! You’ve brought them down on me!” Brian said in a screaming whisper. He grabbed the old broom from between the mop and the hoe and, in one practiced jump, he was on the broom and gliding away across the brambles.

  “He did the birds in music,” Nirupam said, and snatched the hoe. Charles seized the mop and both of them set off after Brian, wavering and hopping across the brambles and in among low trees. Charles kept his head down, because branches were raking at his hair, and thought that Nirupam must be right. Those birds had appeared promptly in time to save Brian’s having to sing. And a parrot shouting “Cuckoo!” was exactly Brian’s kind of thing.

  They were catching up with the broom, not because they wanted to, but because the mop and the hoe were plainly determined to stay with the broom. They must have spent years together in the groundsman’s hut and, Charles supposed irritably, they had got touchingly fond of one another. Nothing he or Nirupam could do would make either implement go a different way. Shortly, Brian was gliding among the trees only a few yards ahead of them.

  He turned and glared at them. “Leave me alone! You’ve spoiled my escape and made me lose my tent. Go away!”

  “It was the mop and the hoe,” said Charles.

  “The police are looking for you, not us,” Nirupam panted. “What did you expect? You were missing.”

  “I didn’t expect two great idiots crashing about the forest and bringing the police after me,” Brian snarled. “Why couldn’t you stay in school?”

  “If you didn’t want us, you shouldn’t have written all that rubbish about a witch putting a spell on you,” said Charles. “There’s an inquisitor coming today because of you.”

  “Well, you advised me to do it,” Brian said.

  Charles opened his mouth and shut it again, quite unable to speak for indignation. They were coming to the edge of the woods now. He could see green fields through a mass of yellow hazel leaves, and he tried to turn the mop aside yet again. If they came out of the woods, they would be seen at once. But the mop obstinately followed the broom.

  As they forced their way among whippy hazel boughs, Nirupam panted severely, “You ought to be glad to have some friends with you, Brian.”

  Brian laughed hysterically. “Friends! I wouldn’t be friends with either of you if you paid me! Everyone in 6B laughs at you!”

  As Brian said this, there was a sudden clamor of dog noises behind them in the wood. A voice shouted something about a tent. It was plain that the police had found Brian’s camp. Brian and the broomstick put on speed and surged out into the field beyond. Charles and Nirupam found themselves being dragged anyhow through the hazel boughs as the mop and the hoe tried to keep up.

  Scratched and breathless, they were whirled out into the field on the side of the woods that faced the town. Brian was some way ahead, flying low and fast downhill, towards a clump of trees in the middle of the field. The mop and the hoe surged after him.

  “I know Brian is nasty, but I had always thought it was his situation before this,” Nirupam remarked, in jerks, as the hoe kangaroo-hopped down the field.

  Charles could not answer at once, because he was not sure that a person’s character could be separated from his situation in quite this way. While he was wondering how you said this kind of thing aboard a speeding, wallowing mop, when you were hanging on with one hand and holding your glasses with the other, Brian reached the clump of trees and disappeared among them. They heard his voice again, shrill and annoyed, echoing out of the trees.

  “Is Brian trying to bring the police after us?” Nirupam panted.

  Both of them looked over their shoulders, expecting men and dogs to come charging out through the edge of the woods. There was nothing. Next moment, they were swishing through low branches covered with carroty beech leaves. The mop and the hoe jolted to a stop. Charles put his nettled legs down and stood up in a windy rustling space surrounded by pewter-colored tree trunks. He stared at Estelle Green, looking as if she had mislaid a horse. He stared at Nan Pilgrim in ragged pink silk, with the broomstick hopping and sidling affectionately around her.

  Brian was standing angrily beside them. “Look at this!” he said to Charles and Nirupam. “The place is alive with you lot! Why can’t you let a person run away in peace?”

  “Will one of you please shut Brian up?” Estelle said, with great dignity. “We are just about to say a spell that will rescue us all.”

  “These trees are called the Portway Oaks,” Nan explained, and bit the inside of her cheek in order not to laugh. Nirupam riding a hoe was one of the funniest things she had ever seen. And Charles Morgan’s mop looked as if he had slain an old-age pensioner. But she knew she and Estelle looked equally silly, and the boys had not laughed at them.

  Brian was still talking angrily. Nirupam let the hoe loose to jump delightedly around the broom and clapped one long brown hand firmly over Brian’s mouth. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “And make it quick,” said Charles.

  Nan and Estelle bent over their fluttering piece of paper again. The old lady had written just one strange word three times at the top of the paper. Under that, as she had told them, she had written, in shaky capitals, how to say this word: KREST-OH-MAN-SEE. After that she had put, Go to Portway Oaks and say word three times. The rest of the paper was full of a very wobbly map.

  Estelle and Nan pronounced the word together, three times. “Chrestomanci, Chrestomanci, Chrestomanci.”

  “Is that all?” asked Nirupam. He took his hand from Brian’s face.

  “Somebody swindled you!
” Brian said. “That’s no spell!”

  It seemed as if a great gust of wind hit the clump of trees. The branches all around them lashed, and creaked with the strain, so that the air was full of the rushing of leaves. The dead orange leaves from the ground leaped in the air and swirled around them all, around and around, as if the inside of the clump were the center of a whirlwind. This was followed by a sudden stillness. Leaves stayed where they were, in the air, surrounding everyone. No one could see anything but leaves, and there was not a sound to be heard from anywhere. Then, very slowly, sound began again. There was a gentle rustling as the suspended leaves dropped back to the ground. Where they had been, there was a man standing.

  He seemed utterly bewildered. His first act was to put his hands up and smooth his hair, which was a thing that hardly needed doing, since the wind had not disturbed even the merest wisp of it. It was smooth and black and shiny as new tar. Having smoothed his hair, this man rearranged his starched white shirt cuffs and straightened his already straight pale gray cravat. After that, he carefully pulled down his dove-mauve waistcoat and, equally carefully, brushed some imaginary dust off his beautiful dove-gray suit. All the while he was doing this, he was looking from one to the other of the five of them in increasing perplexity. His eyebrows rose higher with everything he saw.

  They were all thoroughly embarrassed. Nirupam tried to hide behind Charles as the man looked at his little blue shorts. Charles tried to slither behind Brian. Brian tried to knock the mud off the knees of his jeans without looking as if he was. The man’s eyes turned to Nan. They were bright black eyes, which did not seem quite as bewildered as the rest of the man’s face, and they made Nan feel that she would rather have had no clothes on at all than a ragged pink balldress. The man looked on towards Estelle, as if Nan were too painful a sight. Nan looked at Estelle too. Estelle, as she set her hard hat straight, was gazing adoringly up into the man’s handsome face.

  That was all we needed! Nan thought. Evidently this was the kind of man that Estelle fell instantly in love with. So, not only had they somehow summoned up an over-elegant stranger, but they were no nearer being safe and, to crown it all, there would probably be no sense to be had from Estelle from now on.