by Debi Gliori
Oh no, oh no, oh—
Vivaldi appears round the side of the shaggy hedge between the doghouse and the road. She is alone.
Oh no, oh no, oh—
‘Sorted,’ says Vivaldi, dusting her hands together in a there-that’s-that-done kind of way.
‘Where? What did? Who?’ I manage.
‘The dogs are shut in their own house.’ Vivaldi grins, adding, ‘Well, no. In their owners’ house, really. In the kitchen. Seemed like a good idea. Actually, the dogs went there by themselves. Soon as they arrived in the kitchen, they totally lost interest in chasing your dog. Which might have something to do with them finding twenty-seven saucers full of catfood lying on the kitchen floor.’
‘Ah,’ I say.
‘Or,’ Vivaldi adds, grinning widely as she crouches down to look at Daisy, who is fast asleep, ‘perhaps it was when your dog became . . . sort of see-through and then jist kind of faded out of sight. I guess that was when all the dogs jist gave up and got bored. Kind of understandable, eh no?’
‘Ah . . .’ I manage. Now I’m beginning to blush. Vivaldi must think I’m not only deeply weird, but a total idiot, too.
She’ll never be my friend. Not now. Poisoned with crisps, gassed by WayWoof, weirded out by seeing WayWoof fade away, and finally forced to talk to me, the tonguetied, beetroot-faced misfit. Great. I’m so sunk in misery that I nearly don’t hear what she’s saying.
‘Thank goodness they didn’t eat your mum’s chocolate cake. Now that would’ve been the pits.’ Vivaldi gives a loud snort and slaps herself on her forehead. ‘Ochhh, you must think I’m just a total beast, Lily. First I throw up all over your house and now I’m talking about eating your chocolate cake. I’m really sorry.’ She dissolves into giggles. ‘Aw but’ – she gasps – ‘it was jist so funny. All those dogs going daft in the middle of all those grown-ups. And your dog’ – another gasp – ‘I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a party so much.’
I feel as if I’ve been drowning and Vivaldi’s just come along and thrown me a lifejacket. I grab hold.
‘Let’s go see if there’s any left. Chocolate cake, I mean.’ I happen to know that Mum baked two and hid one at the back of the hall cupboard. No, I don’t know why either. Mum does that sort of thing. Anyone who keeps a live lobster in the bath is quite likely to have a chocolate cake or two hidden up her sleeves. Literally. I wonder if Vivaldi has any idea what she’s letting herself in for. Being friends with the MacRaes is . . .
‘MAGIC!’ Vivaldi roars, and then immediately claps both hands over her mouth. ‘Och. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Forgot the squirt was asleep.’
‘Not seeping.’
Uh-oh. Daisy’s awake again, which means . . . any second now . . .
Ah, yes. The Unmistakable Odour. The Whiff of Whiffs. The Pong of Champions and the Stench of tonight’s Star Performer.
Welcome back, WayWoof. I think we might just steal you a slab of cake to say thank you.
Seventeen:
In a huddle with the Hisses
THOUGH THE EVENING is warm, someone has lit the fire in the study at the Old Station House, and the Sisters of Hiss are huddled around it. At the first signs of the coming dog invasion, all three Sisters made themselves scarce. The Sisters have always hated dogs, mainly because dogs are renowned for barking at nothing, or at least that’s what humans think. In fact any form of magic makes dogs feel acutely uncomfortable, and when dogs feel uncomfortable, they bark. Being barked at makes Witches feel uncomfortable, too, and when Witches feel uncomfortable . . . well, anything could happen.
Before the Sisters of Hiss feel so uncomfortable they do something rash,1 they retreat to the quietest room in the house and cause the door to lock itself shut behind them. Just in case any party guest tries to follow them, the Sisters cast a spell on the door which makes sure that anyone who comes near will instantly need to bolt to the bathroom.2 Now they sit peering into the fireplace, each of them thinking dark and gloomy thoughts.
Their plan to stop Vivaldi and Lily becoming friends is in ruins. Not only did the girls fail to eat the special crisps, but the Toad was unable to retrieve them and try again. In fact, she has just seen another party guest eating them. All five of them.
The Sisters stare gloomily into the fire, ignoring the sound of Annabel being noisily sick in the downstairs bathroom.3
‘Any other suggestions?’ sighs the Chin.
‘We could just snatch the Witch Baby now,’ says the Nose. ‘Why are we waiting?’
‘Why are we waiting?’ echoes the Chin. ‘Because none of us wants to look after a real baby. Remember?’
The Sisters stare at each other in the firelight. The Chin is right.
Nappies,’ groans the Toad.
‘Cuddly teddy bears and picture books with happy endings,’ shudders the Nose.
‘Precisely,’ says the Chin. ‘Let’s not be too hasty here. Let’s wait till she’s a bit bigger, hmmm? After all, who in their right mind would believe that a baby could have such amazing powers? And for that matter, who in their right mind would believe the word of two little girls whose idea of entertainment is to eat so many crisps they make themselves sick? No, dearest Sisters, I think our secret is safe for now.’
‘Does that mean we can go back home to our lovely gloomy mountain?’ The Nose cheers up at the thought of going home.
‘No,’ says the Chin. ‘Not yet. But I have found a wonderfully gloomy house for us to stay in. It’s not too far from here, which means we can keep an eye on our Witch Baby until she’s ready. You’ll love the house. It’s got barbed wire and a high wall, but best of all, everyone thinks it’s haunted, so we won’t get any visitors.’
‘Is it dark?’ says the Nose.
‘As midnight,’ says the Chin.
‘Depressingly damp?’ says the Toad hopefully.
‘The walls ooze,’ says the Chin.
From somewhere in the darkness beyond the window comes a terrible groaning sound. The Sisters immediately fall silent and strain to hear more. The sound changes to a high-pitched wailing accompanied by a low drone.
‘Oh . . .’ breathes the Toad. ‘That’s simply hideous.’
The sound grows in volume. It sounds painful.
‘Awful,’ agrees the Nose, listening as hard as she can.
Outside, the terrible noise goes on and on and on. The Chin says nothing but closes her eyes blissfully. The sound of bagpipes continues to fill the night with its insistent blare. The Sisters love it. The Sisters think the bagpipes sound exactly like the wind shrieking down the chimney back in their house on Ben Screeeiiighe. When the study fire gives out a puff of black smoke, the Sisters smile at each other. Now they feel completely at home. It’s all going to work out perfectly, just like the Chin said.
On the other side of the door to the study, the party is in full swing. Lily’s parents are delighted by how much fun everyone is having. Lily’s dad has hardly stopped laughing all night long, and Lily’s mum is dizzy from dancing so much. The house looks as if it’s been hit by a small tornado, but who cares? It’s a perfect party, on a perfect summer’s night. The moon and the stars shine down on the guests dancing on the lawn and everyone vows that they will remember the MacRaes’ party for months to come.
It’s getting dark as Daisy, Vivaldi and I make our way back to the Old Station House. I’m very glad I’m not on my own because it’s darker here than it was in Edinburgh. I’d grown used to streetlights and shop lights and cars’ headlights. Here we’ve got the moon and the stars and a dim glow from the houses nearby.
It’s really quiet, too. I can hear an owl hoot from far, far away and something rustling in the shadows nearby. I am not going to think about what’s making that noise.
With no warning, Vivaldi stops and I nearly bang into her with Daisy’s pushchair.
‘What’s that?’ she hisses.
WayWoof has stopped in the middle of the road. WayWoof’s fur is bristling and her top lip is curling up to show her teeth.
&
nbsp; ‘It’s coming from over there,’ Vivaldi whispers, pointing in the direction of a clump of deep shadow on the other side of the road. I decide that I’m not going to notice that Vivaldi is pointing into the shadows with a very wobbly hand.
I peer into the darkness, but I can’t see a thing. The shadows are so black I can feel them pressing up against my eyeballs.
‘It’s prob-prob-ob-obably just a rab-bab-babbit, duh-duh-don’t you think?’
Gosh. What’s happened to my voice? It’s shaking like a jelly. How embarrassing. I’m going to ignore the fact that all of Vivaldi is now shaking like a jelly. And I’m going to pretend that WayWoof hasn’t started growling as if she knows there’s something bad out there.
Now WayWoof’s pointing her nose in the direction of where she thinks it is and her growling is getting even louder.
Vivaldi clutches my arm. ‘Luh-luh-look,’ she gasps. ‘There’s some-somethi-thing over the-the-there.’
I don’t want to luh-luh-look. Especially not over the-the-there. But I have to. And she’s right, there is something over there. I will not think about the Monster of Loch Mhaidyn. I will not. I clutch Vivaldi. What should we do? Should we make a run for it? We can’t run very far and we certainly can’t run very fast, not without tipping Daisy out of her pushchair. Oh, NO. Whatever the something that isn’t the Monster of Loch Mhaidyn is, it’s coming closer and . . .
Just as I think I’m about to scream, Daisy yells, ‘Hahahahahahaha, PEEKABOO Dack!’ and Jack leaps out of the shadows shrieking,
and we all scream our heads off:
We’re all walking home together now. Jack has brought a torch, but we decide it’s better to try and let our eyes adjust to the darkness. That way we can see the stars. All of them. There’s millions more stars here than there were in Edinburgh. Jack’s really good at naming them all, although sometimes I wonder if he’s just making some of the names up. Like now, for instance.
‘Look, Daisy, see all those stars up there? Shaped like a bear’s head?’
‘Ahhh. See it, Dack.’ She’s probably making this up, too. Daisy is looking in the wrong direction completely and waving her chubby fists at the other side of the sky.
‘Yup, that’s right. Well, that’s called Teddy Major. If you look very carefully, beside Teddy Major is a red star. D’you see that one?’
Teddy Major? He’s got to be kidding.
‘That’s called Betelgeuse. It’s named after all the beetles that flew there. Betelgeuse has a weird kind of extreme gravity that kind of sucks things into its orbit. It sucks really hard. Really hard. Like a humungous vacuum cleaner. Betelgeuse sucks so hard that any passing insect, or beetle, or even astronaut, gets hoovered in by the pull of its extreme gravity and – – gets squished flat.’
Daisy looks unimpressed, so Jack adds in just one more extra-gruesome bit of information.
‘Squished so flat, all their insides come out. All their juice . . . That’s how it got its name. Betelgeuse. And that’s why it’s red, too, from all the blood.’
Wow.
Vivaldi chips in, ‘So, what makes a blue moon blue?’
‘I was born under a blue moon,’ I say before Jack can launch into another of his gruesome stories. Then I add, ‘Dad says that if you’re born under a blue moon, that means you can see things that nobody else can . . .’ I tail off because my face is starting to glow bright red. What am I saying? Hi. I’m Lily. I see things that aren’t there. Like Daisy the Witch Baby and WayWoof the Invisible gas leak . . .
But Vivaldi grins and says, ‘SNAP! Me too. May the twenty-second. I’m nine years, two months, one week . . .’
‘. . . and four days old,’ I finish. I’m amazed. I’ve never met anyone else with the same birthday as me.
‘Er?’ Jack has stopped walking and is peering at Vivaldi and me as if we are aliens who’ve just landed on Earth. ‘Excuse me? Did I miss something? What are you two on about? Blue moons aren’t really blue. A blue moon is the second full moon in a month that has had one full moon already. Or some people believe they’re the third full moon in a season with four full moons. However, the moon has turned blue when there’s loads of dust in the atmosphere, and yadda, yadda, blah, blah . . .’
Poor Jack. He keeps on talking, telling us about blue moons and moons that turn blue. He doesn’t know that blue moons are magical, wonderful things, but he wouldn’t, would he? After all, he wasn’t born under one. I think he might go on talking for hours but we’re nearly home now. We’re so close we can hear the music coming from our party. Oh, dear. It’s a kind of waily, droney bagpipey music. Uh-oh. I’m getting a bad feeling here. As we cross the garden, I can see the piper, standing down there by the pond I nearly drowned in when I was a slug.
The piper plays on. My heart sinks. I wonder if I ask Daisy nicely, whether she’d turn me back into a slug? The piper speeds up. My heart sinks even further. He’s playing a tune I know well. It’s a tune my whole family know well. It’s—
‘I know that tune,’ says Jack, adding helpfully, ‘Mind you, he’s playing it about twenty times faster than you ever do, eh, Lil?’
Thanks, Jack. Please, stop right there. But no. Jack goes on.
‘Bet you wish you could play that fast?’
Shut up, Jack.
‘Never mind, Lil. At least now we’ve moved here you won’t have to go down to the bus stop to practise. No more grumpy neighbours complaining about the din, huh?’
Vivaldi is staring at me. Oh, dear. I look away, pretending to check that Daisy’s OK. She is. She’s perfectly fine, but I knew that already. Oh, heck. Come on, Daisy, I silently will her. Come ON. Turn me back into a slug. PLEASE. Before Vivaldi asks me The Question. Befo—
‘D’you actually play the bagpipes?’ Vivaldi looks stunned.
Question is, is she stunned with horror? Terror? Disgust?
Will she ever speak to me again? Or, more likely, will she ignore me and tell everyone she meets that the new kid in the Old Station House is a weird, beetroot-faced, tongue-tied bagpipe-player?
‘Really?’ she demands. ‘The pipes?’
I look her straight in the eye. Get it over with, Lily.
‘Yeah,’ I mumble. ‘My grandad gave me his pipes just after I was born. Apparently he said I’d the biggest and best set of lungs he’d ever known . . .’ I tail off.
Vivaldi is smiling. ‘That’s so cool,’ she says. ‘I’ve always wished I could play the pipes. I think they’re amazing. I love how they sound.’
Huh?
Is she mad? I’ve been learning the pipes for two whole years and I still sound like a strangled stag. Every time I tuck them under my arm, all the wildlife for miles around runs for cover. Every time I put the chanter to my lips, all my family runs for cover. How can that possibly be cool? I stare at Vivaldi in complete confusion.
Jack’s gone, run off to demolish whatever’s left of the party food. Daisy’s gone to sleep and WayWoof has faded away. Now that Vivaldi’s found out my awful secret, she’ll probably vanish, too. I mean, it was nice of her to say my pipes are cool and that she wished she could play. But I’m pretty sure she’s just being polite. She’s still smiling, though. Her smile, if anything, is even wider. She’s waiting for me to say something.
‘Er,’ I manage, ‘I can show you how to play, if you like.’
Vivaldi tucks her arm into mine. ‘That,’ she says, ‘would be cooler than cool. That would be magic.’ She sighs with what sounds very much like happiness and adds, ‘And can we have chocolate cake afterwards?’
I look up at the millions of stars up above. Far, far off, on the other side of the solar system, millions of miles out there in deepest space, a shooting star falls away into the darkness. For once, I let it go. For once, I don’t need to make a wish.
* * *
1 ‘Rash’ like causing a hurricane to swallow Lily’s house and drop it in a neighbouring country like, say, New Zealand. Or perhaps ‘rash’ as in causing all the dogs to come running back to Lily’s
house, where they would turn into sheep, stampede upstairs, drop sheep-poo all over the rugs and try to eat the curtains.
2 For reasons which do not require spelling out, this kind of spell is foolproof, but can be messy.
3 After eating the special crisps, Annabel was instantly sick in the kitchen sink, then gave a repeat performance halfway up the stairs, an encore outside the upstairs bathroom (engaged) a second chance to hear her repeat herself, halfway down the stairs, and finally claimed the downstairs bathroom as her own vomitorium. Sadly it is very hard to feel too sorry for her.
Ae last Hiss
THE NOSE’S VOICE echoes eerily round the empty rooms of Arkon House.
‘Oh, do shut up,’ hisses the Toad from deep inside a crate full of battered cauldrons. She is trying to scrape together something for supper, but since they’ve just moved in, this is proving to be harder than she’d thought. Mice and rats are in short supply, and even the nettles outside are weedy little things, not fit to grace a Hiss’s plate.
The Nose pretends not to hear. The Nose gazes at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and winks. Not bad, she decides, patting a silvery tendril of her wig back into place. Not bad at all.
she hisses. ‘Never a Jussst when you thought it was when you thought it was when we’ll —’
‘Oh, do SHUT UP,’ snaps the Chin, irritated beyond reason. ‘You’re supposed to be painting the bathroom black, not hissing at yourself in the mirror like a lovelorn snake.’
The Nose pulls a hideous face, and the mirror immediately shatters into a thousand pieces.
