Witch Baby and Me

by Debi Gliori

  There’s a revolting and the Swamp Maiden turns herself inside out with a pop. And there, sitting on top of Daisy’s half-sucked cracker, is a small green frog with an unmistakably smug expression on its face.

  Mum closes the fridge door. ‘Yoghurt, darlings?’

  I look at Mum and I look at the Frog Daisy. How come Mum can’t see? Why is it only me who notices when Daisy’s doing her witchy thing? Honestly. Sometimes I really wonder if Mum’s awake or not. She never notices anything. Well . . . not unless it’s something to do with food.

  The frog flaps its webbed feet and Mum hands it a spoon and unpeels the top of the yoghurt pot.

  ‘So sweet,’ Mum sighs, ‘even if you are covered in avocado.’ She bends over the frog and plants a kiss on top of its slimy head.

  Pop! Daisy’s back.

  After Daisy has had all traces of green avocado-slime removed from her hair, I put her into her pushchair and go to deliver our invitations. Mum stands at the door waving and blowing kisses as if Daisy and I were joining an expedition to the North Pole.

  When we turn the corner at the end of our road, we can’t see Mum any more. Somewhere in the distance we can hear dogs barking. I can see a house tucked in behind some trees, so we head towards it. As we get closer, the barking grows louder. And louder. I wonder who lives here. Whoever they are, they don’t need a doorbell to let them know they’ve got visitors. They have something far louder than a bell. This is what it sounds like:

  And in the distance:

  This house is really a home for dogs and cats. I can see furry little faces pressed up against every single window, but there are no humans in sight. There’s a sign on the front door saying:

  ‘Er. Hellooooooo?’ I call.

  On the other side of the door, the dogs and cats bark and yowl loudly.

  ‘Knock-knock?’ I yell, staring at the front door as if I could make it open by the power of my eyeballs.

  ‘ANYBODY HOME?’ I shriek, stepping backwards into an impressively large milk-bottle collection.

  Great. Good start, Lily. All around, the barking becomes hysterical.

  In front of us, the door quivers as something on the other side hurls itself against it over and over and over again.

  , it goes, making the whole door shudder. ‘DOWN, Bertie! Oooooh, you bad, bad boy,’ squeals a voice.

  I have approximately half a second to guess that this voice must belong to Bertie’s owner when the door bursts open and I am hurled to the ground by a huge barking rug.

  I prepare myself for death unless Bertie’s owner can save me. Sadly, Bertie’s owner is a tiny old lady who hauls feebly on his collar with all her might, her voice quivering with effort.

  Ooooh, you naughty boy. Put her DOWN.’

  Bertie ignores this. Bertie has a glint in his eye that looks like he’s thinking about murder. Briefly, I wonder which bit of me Bertie will eat first, when Daisy, my wonderful, clever, brilliant baby sister, saves my life.

  ‘TOPPIT BAD DOG!’ she roars.

  And guess what? Bertie toppits. Somehow, Daisy has made Bertie freeze. Not really freeze like an ice cube, but ‘freeze’ as in ‘stop’.

  Bertie has stopped in mid-drool, his enormous mouth hanging open, displaying rows of yellow fangs. He looks puzzled and confused, as if he’s lost something he was really looking forward to. Almost as if someone has stolen his dinner. Bertie’s owner smiles. She doesn’t know Bertie is spell-bound.

  ‘Ahhhhhhh. What a gooood boy,’ she says, adding, ‘Such a sweet doggy, aren’t you, my petal? He’d never do you any harm. Not really.’

  I don’t believe a word of it. I think if Bertie could understand English, he wouldn’t believe it either. I hand over an invitation and flee with Daisy before the spell wears off and Bertie unfreezes. I run up the road, pushing Daisy as fast as I can, trying to put some distance between us and Bertie’s teeth. Just in case.

  We’re still running when we pass a field of sheep.

  ‘Bababababa, BAKSEEP?’ Daisy says hopefully. I know she’d love me to join in, but running away from big bad dogs means I can’t stop and sing songs for her. I keep going. Now we’re running past a field with horses and cows in it. I am red-faced and going pant, pant, puff, but Daisy has her thumb in her mouth and looks as if she’s about to fall asleep. It’s hard to believe that this is the same baby who just saved me from being eaten alive. She may look small and helpless, but Daisy is really quite scary. Not only can she make fridges float, but she can freeze dangerous dogs. – Better not get on the wrong side of her. Or us. Witch Baby and me. The sisters with the extra hisses. In between gasps and puffs, I try to imagine what it might be like when I start at my new school. This is something I was feeling a bit nervous about, but not any more. Just think – if anyone is really horrible to me, I can always threaten them with my baby sister.

  On second thoughts, maybe not. Somehow, I just know that’s not going to work.

  Seven:

  Midges stuck to my eyeballs

  WE’VE LEFT THE doghouse far behind, so I slow down and push Daisy up a little side road that is signposted:

  I made that last bit up. What the sign really says is:

  I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean Daisy and me, so we carry on till we come to another sign which says:

  Loch Mhaidyn 1km

  Walkers Welcome

  Access to The Folly, Mishnish Castle,

  Arkon House and Four Winds

  There’s something fixed to the fence up ahead. It’s a bright pink letter box with a metal nameplate which reads:

  Is Hare a girl’s name or a boy’s name? I have no idea. I won’t find out today because Hare has a letter box, which means I can quickly post his/her invitation and Daisy and I can continue on our way.

  I can’t even get anywhere near the next house because it’s totally surrounded by a huge fence. There are even spikes on top of the fence to stop anyone climbing over. There’s a big gate, but it’s tied shut with chains and padlocks. I guess whoever lives there doesn’t go out much. They probably don’t have many visitors either. There’s a rusting metal sign hanging off the gate. It says:

  The sign doesn’t actually say:

  but sometimes you don’t have to say things to mean them. Peering through the fence, I can see what looks like an empty swimming pool, and in the distance there’s an enormous dark shadow which I’m hoping is Arkon House and not a Real Witch lying in wait for unwary invitation-deliverers. Brrrr. I wish I hadn’t thought about a Real Witch, even if she’s only a made-up one. Just the thought of her makes me shiver. I look around, but I can’t see a letter box anywhere. I’m not going to climb the fence and go up to the house. No way. In fact, right then, I decide I’m not even going to risk inviting whoever lives here to our party.

  ‘No way, Daisy,’ I say, to break the silence. Why is it so quiet? Where have all the birds gone? I’m getting a weird feeling, as if I’m being watched. It’s really creepy. ‘Right,’ I continue, my voice wobbling just a tiny bit. ‘They don’t get an invite, OK? I bet whoever lives up there on the other side of the fence never gets invited to parties. That’ll be why they never go out. I bet they’re the ugliest witches ever. I bet they’ve got big pointy chins, huge noses and are covered from head to toe in warts.’

  Daisy’s eyes grow wide and her bottom lip quivers.

  ‘Toe watts?’ she says in a very small voice, adding, ‘No likeit, toad.’

  Uh-oh. Any second now she’s going to burst into tears. Time to go.

  ‘BAA-BAA BLACK SHEEP!’ I bawl, and thankfully, Daisy joins in.

  ‘Havva bitta WOOOOO.’

  Then I turn round and push Daisy very quickly back the way we came.

  The Nose is staring into the fireplace in disbelief.

  Tell me we’re not going to let that rude little squirt get away with insulting us?’ she demands.

  ‘Get over it. Everyone insults us,’ the Chin says, without looking up from her knitting. ‘When did you last hear the wo
rd “witch” used as a compliment?’

  ‘Or “Toad”,’ adds the Toad, not to be outdone.

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ splutters the Nose. ‘Oh, please. Just one teeny weeny lightning bolt? Or a plague of boils? Oh, go on. She deserves some kind of punishment for being so rude.’

  ‘NO!’ booms the Chin. ‘She’s only a child. How many times do I have to say this? No one ever listens to what children say. Daisy was the only person who heard Lily insult us, so let’s just forget it.’

  ‘Well, excuse me,’ squeaks the Nose. ‘Forget it? I’d rather inhale jellyfish.’

  The Chin lays her knitting on the floor and stands up. ‘Right. If you insist,’ she sighs. ‘But let the punishment fit the crime. What the child said wasn’t that bad. You’re only mildly irritated. After all, steam isn’t coming out of your ears, is it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ mutters the Nose. ‘All our mirrors are broken, so I can’t check,’ but she rolls her eyes and nods in agreement.

  ‘Right. Here’s the perfect punishment,’ says the Chin, sprinkling a pinch of dust into the fire.

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ asks the Toad, who hasn’t been paying attention.

  ‘Just a little bit of mild irritation where it’s needed.’ The Chin smiles, then sits down and resumes her knitting.

  Daisy has fallen fast asleep, the lucky thing. Sometimes I wish we could swap places and Daisy could push me in the pushchair. I wish we could do that right now because I’m tired, it’s hot and millions of midges have appeared from nowhere. Midges are like vampires; they land on you, chew a hole in your skin, roll their mouth parts up into a tube and sip your blood. I don’t want to think about this because I’m walking through a thick cloud of them. Millions and billions of them. I’ve never seen midges like this before. Soon I’ll be breathing midges, eating midges and just before I start screaming, there will be midges stuck to my eyeballs. I am about to give up and run for home when I hear voices up ahead.

  Eight:

  Midges drink my blood

  ‘YOU’RE A GREAT big lying CHEATER!’ yells a voice.

  ‘You’re just a bad loser,’ says another.

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are too.’

  Daisy and I have stopped beside a stone pillar that says MISHNISH CASTLE, but I can’t see anything that looks like a castle. I can see two small figures in a garden. Actually, it’s hard to see if it’s one figure or two, because they’re rolling around on the grass, kicking and punching each other and screaming their heads off.

  ‘I HATE you. I hope your head explodes and your eyes go and, and— !’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Annabel, you big baby.’

  ‘Horrible, snotty big CHEATER, why don’t you pick on someone your own siZE—!’

  I still can’t make out a castle but now I’m close enough to see that the voices belong to a boy and a girl. They aren’t much bigger than I am, but they are a lot crosser.

  ‘You’re a big BULLY, Jamie. I’m going to tell Nanny.’

  ‘She won’t believe you.’

  Annabel is bright red with rage and Jamie is pale and furious. For some reason they’ve stopped fighting. They’re picking themselves up and . . . uh-oh. They’ve spotted Daisy and me.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ the girl says politely. ‘Sorry. We didn’t hear you arrive.’

  The boy sounds a lot grumpier. ‘Do we know you?’ he demands.

  I manage because I have just swallowed a mouthful of midges. In between coughs and splutters and choking sounds, I hand them an invitation. This is so embarrassing. I’m bright red, my eyes are streaming, and in between wheezes I am picking midges out of my mouth. The girl glances at her watch and the boy stares at me, frowning slightly. I guess they want Daisy and me to disappear so that they can get on with their fight.

  By the time Daisy and I are back on the road, I’ve been proved right.

  ‘Don’t CARE. You ARE a poo-head. Go and TELL Nanny.’

  ‘I will too. And then you’ll be in BIIIIIG trouble . . .’

  Their voices fade away. Daisy has woken up and is gazing at me with big green eyes. I notice that there isn’t a single midge anywhere near her. So unfair.

  ‘Tubble tubble, big tubble,’ she mutters, frowning balefully at me. Just as I wonder what I’ve done now, Daisy takes a deep breath and blows hard.

  Instantly, my hair streams backwards from my head and the trees overhead thrash around as if there’s a storm brewing. Dust fills the air so I have to shut my eyes, but then, just as quickly as it appeared, the wind drops. When I open my eyes, the midges have all gone.

  Huh? I peer at Daisy, but she’s sucking her thumb as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I’m about to say something when four enormous windmills suddenly loom up from behind the trees. Gasp. Even Daisy is impressed.

  ‘Oooh,’ she says, and I have to agree.

  OOOOH. The windmills are HUGE. The stalk of each one is as tall as our house, and the spinny bits that stick out from the middle are each as long as our car. There are four of them, one at each corner of the garden of Four Winds, standing like silent giants s . . . l . . . o . . . w . . . l . . . y waving their arms. Daisy is clapping her hands as if the windmills have just done something very clever and she’s applauding them. At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing. A little voice in my head reminds me that sometimes Daisy claps her hands to make things float through the air towards her, but surely she wouldn’t do that to a windmill?

  Then I become aware that Daisy and I are not alone. I get a sort of prickly feeling, as if a small hedgehog is tiptoeing round the back of my neck, and I spin round to find I’m being stared at by a small boy with his finger firmly wedged up his nose.

  Small boys can be so revolting. This one smells like he might have done something horrible in his nappy as well.

  The small child slowly takes his finger out of his nose and gapes at me. To my dismay, he keeps on opening his mouth. Wider. Wider and wider until his face becomes a giant mouth surrounded by a rim of small boy. Once he has turned his entire face inside out, he lets rip:

  Wow. That’s loud. This little boy is probably Four Winds’ doorbell.

  ‘Erm,’ I say, ‘is your mum in?’

  The waaahs grow louder. Maybe he misheard me. Maybe he thought I’d said,

  Or even,

  Whatever he thought I’d said, he is now roaring so loudly you could moor him offshore and use him as a foghorn.

  As a doorbell, though, he works perfectly.

  Nine:

  The Hiss strikes back

  THE CHIN WAKES out of a dream. She must have fallen asleep by the fire, she decides, rubbing her eyes and peering into the flames to work out if she’s been asleep for long. What she sees makes her nearly scream out loud. There, appearing in the smoke, is a young girl with long red hair, a young girl who is staring straight at her as if she can read the Chin exactly like you would read a book.

  Inside the Chin’s brain, alarm bells sound and sirens go off. This red-haired girl spells trouble. Instinctively, the Chin knows that this girl is another one of those pesky, weird children. Just like the Witch Baby’s sister, here is another one who can see. Something has to be done, the Chin decides. There’s no time to think. Only time to act. Right now, before it’s too late.

  The door of Four Winds flies open and a girl runs out, heading for the Human Foghorn.

  ‘Wheesht, Mull,’ the girl says.

  At least, I think that’s what she said. I’m just wondering what language she was speaking when she turns to me and says, ‘Don’t worry. He’s always wailing his head off.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mull,’ the girl says glumly. ‘My mum’s mad about Scottish islands. Mull’s twin is called Skye.’

  Ah. This rings a bell. I know a little bit about mums and their fondness for mad names. Dad once told me that I was nearly called Tuberose Lupin MacRae. I smile at the girl and say, ‘My mum’s mad about flowers, so I’m called Lily and this is m
y little blister, Daisy.’ As I speak, my mind is whizzing off in another direction entirely. What on earth could her name be? The only Scottish islands I can think of have names like Rum, Eigg and . . . Muck. Surely her mum couldn’t be that cruel. Could she? Then she tells me.

  ‘Aye, but I’m called Vivaldi.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I gasp, before I can gag myself.

  ‘I know. That’s not a Scottish island. It’s a dead famous, dead composer. My dad’s got some pretty weird ideas for names too. Still, Vivaldi’s not that bad. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse. My wee sister’s called Mozart.’

  ‘Wow,’ is about as much as I can say. I’d love to say, Oh, poor you. Are your parents mad? but I know that would be very rude, so I don’t. In the huge silence that follows, Vivaldi frowns and begins to root around frantically in her pockets. I can’t help noticing that she does have rather a lot of pockets: two at the front and two at the back of her jeans, one on the outside of both legs, two on her shirt and at least eight on her jacket. I also can’t help noticing that Vivaldi’s search through her pockets is growing more and more desperate.

  ‘Er . . .’ I begin, just as she tears off her jacket. For a second I am utterly confused. What is she doing? Vivaldi looks up and her face is red with the effort. Off comes her shirt, then her T-shirt.