The Daring of Della Dupree

by Natasha Lowe

  “Will they wake up again?” Mary said, still eyeing Della nervously.

  “In the morning, as usual. This will actually make them feel very well rested. Take away some of their aches and pains. It’s a good spell.”

  “And it came from the lamb cloud?”

  “It did.” Della managed a watery smile. “This is a wonderful enchantment. It gives light as well as sleep.”

  “And what’s in the pot?” Mary asked, inching closer to the fire again.

  “Lasagna. Made by a traditional Italian grandmother, or that’s what the spell claims.”

  “Lasagna? Is that like pottage?”

  “Is pottage what we had for supper?”

  “Yes. We have it most days.”

  “Then no. It definitely isn’t like pottage.” Della picked up her wand spoon and dipped it into the pot. “Try some, Mary.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. It won’t hurt you. It’s not poisonous.”

  Mary’s eyes were round with fear. “But you’re a witch.”

  “So are you.”

  “I don’t want to be.”

  “Well, try this and you might change your mind.” Della held out the spoon, and Mary shuffled closer. When she was near enough to reach, she leaned forward and took a tiny taste.

  “Oh my.” Mary opened her mouth wide, finishing off the whole spoonful. “Like warm heaven,” she whispered. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

  “Finish it,” Della said. “Go on. I’ve had plenty.”

  Mary didn’t need any coaxing, and while Della watched, she set about scraping the pot clean. When there was nothing left but a crusty edge, Mary gave a soft burp and said, “Are there good witches and bad witches, Della?”

  “Just like there are good people and bad people,” Della answered. “But most witches are good, Mary.”

  “Why doesn’t everybody think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Della replied, shaking her head. She was quiet for a minute. “I really don’t know.”

  Chapter Seven

  Things Do Not Improve

  DELLA WOKE TO ONE OF the goats trampling over her legs. Her throat was sore from breathing in smoke, but the shutters had been flung open, and light streamed into the hut. She could see Mary hooking a basket over her arm. The men had all gone, and Mary’s mother was already sitting at a spinning wheel in a corner of the hut.

  “Do you want to collect eggs?” Mary asked, smiling at Della.

  Della nodded. She patted her knotty tangle of braids, wishing she had a brush.

  “There’s a heel of bread you can have,” Mary’s mother called out gruffly. “But no more pottage. I’m saving what’s left for the boys when they come back from the fields.”

  “That’s quite okay,” Della said quickly. “Bread is fine.” And even though it tasted coarse and had the texture of a brick, smeared with honey and berries it wasn’t a bad breakfast.

  Outside, Della blinked in the sharp light. A stream of villagers hurried past lugging pails of water from the well. Some of them threw Della curious glances, and she tried to look natural, as if she belonged here. Next door to the hut stood a small shelter filled with hay.

  “The chickens love to lay eggs in here,” Mary said, skipping into the shed. She rooted around in a pile of hay and pulled out a pretty, speckled egg, balancing it on her palm for Della to see. “Still warm.” The egg suddenly spun around on Mary’s hand, floated into the air, and sailed out of the shack.

  “Quick, get it!” Della cried, but Mary had frozen in a panic, and as Della charged outside, she watched the egg zoom through the air, splattering against the side of a tree.

  “Hey, who’s throwing eggs?” a woman yelled fiercely, looking around to see where it had come from.

  Della ducked back into the shed to find Mary crouched on the floor. “It’s all right, Mary. She doesn’t know what happened. She didn’t see.”

  “I’m going to get caught,” Mary whispered. “I’ll get found out and taken away.”

  “No you won’t.” Della knelt beside her. “And your magic will start to calm down soon, I promise.”

  Mary stared at her hands as if they might betray her again. After a few minutes she got up and very carefully filled the basket with eggs. “Please don’t go to the castle just yet, Della. At least come to the woods to help me get sticks.” Her voice shook a little. “I don’t want to be by myself.”

  “Of course I’ll come,” Della said, thinking again how much Mary reminded her of Pickle. And how much she wanted to go home.

  * * *

  Mary’s mother gave them a cloth sack to fill with kindling, the small twigs and bits of wood that were light enough for Mary to carry. Nodding at Della, she said crisply, “I wish you well looking for work,” which Della took to mean “Please don’t come back here again.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Della said, slipping her hand into her pocket and discovering that she didn’t have her magic wand. She remembered changing it back from a spoon last night and wiping it clean on the washrag, but after that… Della frowned. It had to be on the floor where she’d been sitting. Turning to the center of the room, she saw Mary’s mother toss a handful of sticks on the fire, and Della knew, as soon as the smell of burning treacle hit the air, what had happened. It was a powerful scent, sweet and spicy, like overcooked gingerbread. Silver sparks fizzed and popped in the flames, and a sick dread filled Della as she watched a long, sticklike shape glowing purple.

  “Heaven above.” Mary’s mother wrinkled up her nose. “What on earth is that wood? It reeks of scorched honey.”

  Della stared at the fire, a hot queasiness spreading over her. How could she have been so careless? There was no mistaking the smell of burning magic.

  Mary looked at Della, and Della nodded dumbly. Now she had no wand to help her survive, as well as no way of getting home.

  “Well, be off with you then,” Mary’s mother said, shooing them both outside. “And don’t go bringing me back any more of that wood, Mary. It’s making my head ache with the smell.”

  Della knew she was putting one foot in front of the other, but it was as if she were on autopilot. Her body was moving, but her mind was still back in the hut, trying to absorb the fact that she had just watched her magic wand go up in flames.

  “Is this a calamity?” Mary whispered, taking Della’s hand.

  “Well, I can’t make any more lasagna, so I suppose it’s a bit of a calamity,” Della said, trying to stay calm in front of Mary. What she wanted to do was bang her head against a tree for being so stupid.

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll help you collect firewood, and then I’m going to have to get my necklace back. So I can go home.”

  “What will I do?” Mary whispered as the girls stepped into the wood.

  “Just keep doing what I’ve taught you.” Della could hear how worried Mary sounded, and wanting to give her hope, she added, “Look, Mary, I don’t think it’s going to be too long before people realize that—that girls like us aren’t as terrible as everyone seems to think.” She didn’t want to say more, because Ms. Randal was always drumming into them how important it was when you visited the past to be there as an observer, and not to talk about the future. “Now let’s get this bag filled for you.”

  The girls walked around the wood, stuffing the cloth sack with twigs. There was something calming about it, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot and the chirping of birds. Occasionally a rabbit would hop past, and at one point Della found herself nose to nose with a deer. But this all changed as the sound of a horn cut through the peace, and somewhere in the distance came the rumble of hooves.

  “It’s Lord Hepworth.” Mary panicked. “I don’t like it when he hunts. There are too many people.” She tugged the bag over to a large oak tree. “All his knights and guests, and if he sees me, he’ll know. They say his knights can smell out witches.”

  “That’s just not true, Mary. It’s co
mplete rubbish.”

  The horn sounded again, and Mary groaned. “He’s going to stop and ask me questions. Be nice and friendly and then trap me in a witch net.” Darting behind the tree, Mary pressed herself against it. “Hide, Della, or he’ll take you, too.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Della followed. It was an ancient oak, wide enough to keep them both out of sight. Della could hear the yapping of hounds as the hunting party came closer. She could feel Mary quivering beside her, but when she glanced over, it was difficult to see her right away. Reaching out a hand, Della felt the scratchiness of Mary’s dress, but it had changed to a woody, gray-brown color. So had her skin and hair. They even had the rough look of bark. Like a chameleon, Mary blended in perfectly with her surroundings.

  As the thundering came closer, Della tried not to breathe. Or move. She caught a flash of red jacket through the trees and hoped that Mary wouldn’t start floating or sending bright green distress bubbles into the air. If they were discovered now, with Mary looking like an oak tree, they would both be hauled off to a dungeon. This was what real fear felt like, and Della screwed up her eyes as the hunt came galloping past. For a brief moment she almost cried out, feeling one of the hounds sniff at her legs. She didn’t twitch a muscle until the animal, clearly not smelling a fox or deer or whatever it was they were hunting, dashed off.

  Neither of the girls moved, waiting for the sound of hooves to be absorbed into the forest. Rough bark pressed against Della’s cheek, but it wasn’t until she heard birds chirping that she let out her breath with a whoosh. She was about to peel herself away from the oak when a strong hand grabbed her by the arm and did it for her.

  Della screamed at the same moment as Mary, who was also being tugged backward.

  “You blend in very nicely, my dear,” the person holding them said, and Della looked up into a face as wrinkled and worn as a forgotten apple. It belonged to a woman who had a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders and wiry gray hair hanging loose. She was extremely old and extremely strong, her grip tight as an iron cuff.

  Della gave a low moan of terror, trying to free herself, but her legs buckled beneath her. Just when she needed all her strength to fight and get away, she thought she might collapse from the shock.

  “Please don’t tell. Don’t turn us in,” Mary begged, which made Della worry that perhaps they offered big reward money for witches.

  “Come with me,” the woman said, and Della pushed against her with her free arm, as hard as she could.

  “No, please, let us go,” Della begged.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re witches.”

  “No, we’re not,” Della insisted, while Mary started to cry.

  The woman gave a cackle of laughter. “Yes you are, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Her voice was soft but serious. “Now stop fighting me. I’m not going to hurt you, but we can’t talk out here. Woods have ears, and you never know who may be listening.”

  “Where are we going?” Della asked, not feeling quite so afraid.

  “To my cottage.” The old woman smiled, showing gaps between her teeth. “You’ll be safe there.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Cottage in the Woods

  CLEARLY MARY HAD FORGOTTEN TO center her magic, because she still resembled an oak tree as the old woman marched them along. When Della tried to ask her how far they were going, the woman made a hushing noise, repeating, “Woods have ears, remember.”

  Luckily, they hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes before they came upon a tiny cottage, tucked away in a clearing. There was a fence surrounding the property made of long, slender saplings woven between upright posts. In the middle of the fence was a wooden gate, and perched on each of the gateposts sat a huge (far bigger than Della had ever seen) eagle. One of them stared right at her as the girls walked up. The other fixed its gaze on Mary. “That’s Tambor and Bralin,” the old woman said. “Tambor has the yellow tip on his wing. They keep an eye on things for me.”

  “I can see that,” Della murmured, noticing the size and sharpness of their claws.

  “You mustn’t be scared. They won’t hurt you,” the old woman said, although Mary was clearly terrified, because she had started to turn translucent, as if trying to blend into thin air.

  The old woman pushed open the gate and led the girls inside. “Careful where you step now. Don’t go trampling on my plants.” Della recognized bean and onion plants, but there were a great many unusual shrubs she had never seen before.

  “I didn’t know anyone lived in these woods,” Mary said, looking all misty and out of focus.

  “Lived here most of my life. You stay out of the way long enough and people forget about you. Those that know me call me Dame Bessie. And you’re from Potts Bottom, I believe?”

  “Mary Dutton of Potts Bottom.”

  Dame Bessie turned toward Della. “I don’t remember seeing you here about.”

  “I’m Della Dupree,” Della said, studying the old woman carefully to see if the name seemed familiar to her, but she didn’t show any sign of recognition.

  “And where do you hail from, Della Dupree?”

  “Oh, a long way from here,” Della said, thinking this was the understatement of the century. Wanting to change the conversation, Della asked, “Why do you need to stay out of the way?”

  Dame Bessie opened the cottage door and paused a moment. She looked down at the girls. “Because I’m a witch too.”

  “You are?” Della burst out, relieved not to feel so alone in this strange place. “Thank goodness!”

  Dame Bessie gave her a sharp look. “And people don’t feel too fondly toward witches.”

  “No, I gathered that,” Della said.

  “Are you really a witch?” Mary whispered, halting on the doorstep and grabbing Della’s hand.

  “Got the magic when I was five,” Dame Bessie said. “Can’t ignore it. Can’t squash it down and pretend it’s not there. But I don’t go around putting hexes on people.”

  “See, Mary,” Della whispered with a grin. “I told you.”

  “So you truly don’t think witches are evil?” Mary questioned Dame Bessie.

  “Misunderstood but not evil. Do you?”

  Mary thought for a moment and shook her head. “Everyone says they are, but I don’t think so. And Della knows witches are good.”

  “Magic is a little different where I come from,” Della confessed.

  “They like witches there,” Mary said.

  “Is that so?” Dame Bessie gave Della a curious look, ushering the girls inside. “So what exactly are you doing in Potts Bottom, Della?”

  Trying to stick to at least some of the facts, Della said, “Looking for someone. I got separated from the people I came with, and I’m actually trying to get home.”

  “But Tom Foolery stole her necklace and it’s very precious and she can’t leave without it.”

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Dame Bessie said. “That jester is a magpie. He can’t resist glittery things.”

  The inside of the cottage was small and cozy. Dame Bessie picked up a smooth stick and waved it at her fireplace. The cool ashes burst into flames, and an iron kettle floated across the room, hanging itself on the hook above the fire.

  “You have a wand?” Della said in surprise.

  “Certain woods are excellent for conducting magic. This is beech,” Dame Bessie said. “Now, I thought you might like some ginger tea? It’s good for settling nerves.”

  “That’s what my ma makes when I have an upset stomach,” Mary said, and Della was relieved to see that she was back to her normal color.

  Looking around the room, Della noticed a spinning wheel in the corner, spinning away on its own, making soft clicking noises as it worked.

  “Who taught you how to do these things?” Della asked, feeling like she must be getting closer to Witch Dupree. This was magic being used as it was supposed to be, in a positive, helpful way.

  Walking over to a table
, Dame Bessie picked up a large cloth-bound book, the outside decorated in colorful vines, flowers, and winged beasts. “I was given this grimoire by my grandmother right before she died.”

  “Grimoire?” Mary said, looking puzzled.

  “It’s a book of magic, and this one was written many centuries ago by the first high priestess of magic.”

  “That’s it? The actual one? Oh my gosh! It’s in the—” Della was about to say “Royal Museum of Magic” but stopped herself in time. “I mean, I’ve heard about this book.”

  “It was written at a time when witches were allowed to practice freely, were encouraged to do what they loved.”

  “But why did it change?” Mary asked, moving closer to Della. “Why are people so scared of magic now?”

  “Well, it’s complicated, child. People felt threatened. And mostly because of one very bad witch who ruined it for the rest of us.”

  “Was that Raven Hunter?” Della said, remembering her from history class.

  Dame Bessie gave Della a shrewd look. “Indeed it was. She fell in love with the king of England, but sadly he didn’t feel the same way about her, so she changed him into a mouse. Put an invisibility spell on her castle so no one could ever find them and kept him as a pet.” Della always giggled at this part, but her smile slipped away since Dame Bessie looked so sad. It wasn’t just a story in a history book for her, and the old woman gave a heavy sigh. “That was the beginning of the end for witches. People began to hate for the sake of hating.”

  “But most witches aren’t like that,” Della said, putting an arm around Mary.

  “You’re right. They’re not. But people are scared of what they don’t understand. Magic frightens them because it can be powerful. Or because they would like to have our powers but don’t. So they treat us badly. Try to lock us away. And that makes a number of witches very angry.” Dame Bessie paused a moment, then said, “Which is the reason we have such an awful reputation.” She waved her wand again and pointed it at a mouse that was scuttling across the floor. “Back outside, please. You can come in when the weather gets cold.” The mouse lifted into the air and floated out of the window, where it was deposited gently on the grass.