by James Nicol
She missed. The spell bounced into the cupboard, exploding the nest with a loud dusty whoosh. Bits of nesting material – scraps of old coats, twigs, a sock, even bits of shoe – were blown out into the hallway.
The snotlings scattered and, as fast as lightning, scrambled into the kitchen in search of their nest mates. Arianwyn was on her feet as an ear-splitting scream came from the kitchen.
The scene that greeted her would have been funny, if it had not been so terribly and seriously awful.
Caspar had abandoned his stunned snotling, but Jaspar was hugging his as though it were his most precious toy. Mrs Myddleton stood on the kitchen table with one of the snotlings dangling from her apron, snapping its angry jaws. She was screaming as if she were actually being murdered whilst the baby laughed and gurgled with obvious delight at his mother’s predicament.
The other male snotling was skipping around the kitchen emitting high-pitched shrieks and hisses.
Summoning the glyphs again, Arianwyn spelled two bursts of energy at the snotlings, but missed once more. The smell of scorched magic mingled with the damp washing and cooking odours in the kitchen.
At that moment the door swung wide open and Cyril appeared, bouncing a large ball.
‘Close the door!’ Arianwyn shouted. But it was already too late: the two male snotlings had skipped out between Cyril’s legs and through the open door as the boy gazed in amazement.
Arianwyn took a deep breath, brushing stray curls from her face. ‘This can’t possibly get any—’
She turned and froze in horror. Caspar had seen the she-snotling and had obviously decided that an awake snotling was far more exciting than the limp, clammy thing he had discarded. Arianwyn could see what would happen and she was powerless to do anything about it. If she tried to stun the snotling now, she could hit Caspar.
The she-snotling was moving forwards slowly, wary of the toddler. She was trying to get back to the nest! But Caspar lunged forwards, grasping the she-snotling around the throat with his chubby little fingers.
Shocked, the she-snotling did nothing, except give a slightly choked whimper. But, as Caspar reached out with his other hand to pet his new toy, the she-snotling’s mouth gaped wide, revealing spiny sharp teeth, which she clamped down into the pudgy flesh of the child’s hand.
He screamed at once. Thick tears tumbled down his cheeks, now pale with fear. He shook his arm, trying to throw the creature off, but she held fast.
‘My babies! MY BABIES!’ Mrs Myddleton screamed, hovering between rushing forwards to help and clambering back up on to the table.
The she-snotling was flailing about in the air, Caspar still wailing in terror and pain. In a split second, Arianwyn saw her one and only chance.
Drawing on a deposit of magic that had clustered around the kettle, Arianwyn summoned the glyphs speedily and hurled a stunning orb once again. It soared across the kitchen like a fiery comet, but something wasn’t quite right. The ball of energy was the wrong colour, far too big, far too bright and far too fast.
Thwump!
Splat!
It found its mark. But, instead of simply stunning the snotling, the spell exploded it. There was a burst of stinking, slimy green gloop that splattered and splashed across the walls, floor and Caspar’s chubby face.
Everyone froze. Everything was quiet except for the drip, drip of snotling goo.
The spell had been too strong. Arianwyn looked at Mrs Myddleton, unsure how to explain exactly what had happened. Mrs Myddleton half sat, half collapsed into a chair, the baby still happily gurgling in her arms. She raised a hand, pointing back to Caspar. ‘My b-b-baby . . .’ she whimpered.
Caspar, for all of his screaming, was recovering quite quickly and sat poking the head of the snotling (which was all that had survived the spell) as it wobbled on the kitchen floor amid puddles of green slime.
‘Blimey!’ Cyril said, a broad grin on his face. ‘That was ace, miss! Do it again!’
‘Don’t you stand there gawping,’ his mother snapped. ‘Get off with you and fetch the doctor, poor Caspar’s been bitten by one of those little beasts.’
Arianwyn was on her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Myddleton; I didn’t know there were so many of them—’ But the woman wasn’t listening, she pushed past Arianwyn, dashing to Caspar’s side. She kicked the she-snotling head and it rolled across the kitchen floor, bumping against Arianwyn’s boot.
‘I’d better banish the stunned ones before the spell wears off . . .’ Arianwyn said to Mrs Myddleton’s back, desperate to be out of the cottage. There was no reply.
She moved quickly through the cottage, retrieving the stunned snotlings, and then escaped back into the yard. There was no sign of the two males that had got away – they could be anywhere by now. She took a deep breath.
The sky was growing dark, a few stars just visible. Arianwyn knelt on the cold ground, her breath misting in front of her.
L’ier, the banishing glyph. It curled like black smoke on the stones of the lane, then a tiny rift opened. Arianwyn felt the chill pull of the void. Dust swirled around the opening and disappeared inside like water down a drain.
She glanced across at the house. She could still hear Mrs Myddleton’s shrieks from within.
And that was when Arianwyn noticed a dark patch on the wall near the window. It couldn’t be, could it? Keeping a careful eye on the rift, she moved quickly back to the house.
‘No, no, no!’ she mumbled. She bent forward to peer closer. Thick ridges of black mould bloomed against the stone of the house.
But this wasn’t any ordinary mould.
She heard hurried footsteps and saw Cyril returning with the doctor, who carried a large leather bag.
‘Ah, Miss Gribble, I’m Doctor Cadbury. I gather you’ve had trouble with some snotlings,’ the old man said kindly. He was a little out of breath.
‘There were more of them than I thought.’ She gestured to the still bodies at her feet. ‘I don’t think Caspar was hurt too badly, but the she-snotling gave him a nasty bite.’ She knotted her fingers nervously.
‘Not to worry, my dear, I’m sure all will be well . . . I say, is that . . .?’ The old man stepped closer.
‘It’s hex,’ Arianwyn replied, her voice steady and certain.
‘Goodness, we’ve not seen any hex in Lull since I was a boy – nasty stuff, eh?’ Dr Cadbury asked. He stroked his chin and leant a little closer.
‘What is it?’ Cyril asked, reaching out a grubby hand towards the black patch.
‘Don’t touch it!’ Arianwyn said quickly and grabbed his hand. ‘It’s dangerous; it could make you ill . . . or worse! It’s caused by dark magic or stale spells. It’s like a fungus or a mould. Hex plagues have wiped out whole villages, you know.’
‘Wow!’ Cyril replied and gazed even more.
‘Well, best be rid of it if you can, eh?’ Dr Cadbury smiled and went in to the house after Cyril, who still craned to see the hex patch. There were more wails from Mrs Myddleton.
Arianwyn took a deep breath and summoned Årdra, the fire glyph. Quickly she pressed her palm close to the dark patch of hex. Bright red flames sparked under her fingers. She counted to twenty and then pulled her hand away.
The black patch had gone. There was only a faint ring of darkness on the wall now. She hoped there were no more. She made a mental note to tell Miss Delafield about it as soon as possible and went back to the rift.
Kneeling again on the cobbles, Arianwyn reached forwards and scooped the stunned creatures closer to the rift.
‘Return to the void. Your spirits must not linger here. Go in peace. Return to the darkness.’
She whispered the binding words, a ritual as ancient as the spell itself, and watched as the snotling bodies dissolved into light, shimmering fragments that swirled away into the air. All that remained were minuscule dark whirls of magic, their spirits, and these floated down through the rift and returned to the void.
She heard a movement from behind her, turned a
nd saw Mrs Myddleton emerge from her house. She was pulling a woollen shawl around her shoulders. She cast a filthy glance at Arianwyn and then bustled off between the lines of laundry as fast as her feet would carry her.
From the distance she heard the chattering laugh of the surviving snotlings, followed by shouts and screams.
‘Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble,’ Arianwyn groaned.
Chapter 15
THE DISAGREEMENT
rianwyn trudged slowly back to the store, replaying everything over in her mind. How had the spell gone so wrong? She wandered up and down streets, along alleys and lanes, avoiding as many people as possible.
On the corner of the town square she passed the telephone box and felt a sudden need to hear her grandmother’s voice.
Her coin dropped with a clang into the slot and she lifted the receiver, giving the operator the number of the bookstore back in Kingsport.
‘Connecting you, one moment please!’ came the operator’s bright reply. Then a click and the sound of the phone ringing.
‘Hello, Stronelli’s Bookstore!’
The voice was not her grandmother’s.
‘Mr Lomax? Is that you?’ Arianwyn asked. Mr Lomax was their neighbour in Kingsport and had occasionally watched the shop when her grandmother was away.
‘Yes, Arianwyn, are you all right? How is it going in . . . where have they sent you again?’
‘Is my grandmother there?’ She felt a lump in her throat, sudden and unexpected.
‘No, dear . . . did you not know? She’s gone off on a trip, west coast somewhere, I think . . .’
Gone? Without mentioning it at all? How long has she been planning a trip away?
Arianwyn clumsily replaced the receiver, cutting off Mr Lomax’s words. Then she rested her head against the side of the phone box and cried.
It was entirely dark when she eventually turned into Kettle Lane and she felt a moment’s cheer as she saw the bright welcoming lights shining from the Spellorium’s huge bow window.
Salle was there, propped up against the counter and flipping idly through a magazine. The cover was filled with glamorous photographs of film stars. She turned at the sound of the door and the bell charm. She looked up, smiling. ‘How did it go?’
‘Not according to plan!’
‘What happened?’ Salle asked.
Arianwyn slumped into a chair and let the whole story tumble out.
‘I shouldn’t have let Caspar get bitten,’ she said, sliding lower into her seat.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault, Wyn,’ Salle reassured her. ‘I’ll get you some hot chocolate.’
Arianwyn leant forward and rested her head in her hands. It was only a second or two and then the bell charm sang out and she looked up quickly. Mayor Belcher and Miss Delafield stood in the doorway. Mayor Belcher looked very unhappy. Very unhappy indeed.
News clearly travelled fast. Just as well I haven’t unpacked everything, Arianwyn thought to herself.
‘You’ve had an interesting afternoon, I gather,’ the mayor said.
Arianwyn shook her head, not sure what to say for the best. Salle returned, carrying a mug of hot chocolate. She immediately came to stand beside Arianwyn and said, ‘It’s not Wyn’s fault: that stupid Mrs Myddleton didn’t pay any attention—’
Miss Delafield raised a hand, ‘Yes. Thank you, Miss Bowen. But I should like to hear Miss Gribble’s version of the events, if you don’t mind.’
Arianwyn swallowed. She saw Mayor Belcher take out his little black notebook and flip through some pages. ‘Now then,’ he began. ‘Mrs Myddleton came to see me. She seems very upset about your visit. She claims you allowed her children to be attacked by a swarm of –’ he checked the notebook – ‘snotters?’
‘Snotlings!’ Arianwyn and Miss Delafield said at the same time.
Arianwyn thought she might burst into tears again. She took a deep breath and with a faltering hushed voice she started to explain. ‘Well, first things first it wasn’t a swarm: there were seven of them . . .’
A while later, Arianwyn had recounted her story and Mayor Belcher and Miss Delafield had asked endless questions: where she had been standing? How large were the snotlings? What type of spell did she use?
There was a long pause as Mayor Belcher read back through his notes. She was careful not to mention that the last stunning spell had been too strong and she didn’t know why.
‘I think we can all see that Miss Gribble wasn’t entirely at fault here, if at all,’ Miss Delafield said gently.
‘Perhaps,’ the mayor grumbled. ‘Nonetheless I have a duty to report this to the Civil Witchcraft Authority.’
‘But—’ Arianwyn began. Something like this could end up on her record for years, and that was all she needed!
‘I don’t think that’s necessary!’ Miss Delafield protested.
‘Miss Delafield, we must follow the correct procedure. Miss Gribble’s actions have resulted in an injury to a small child.’
‘A very minor injury!’ Salle butted in. Three pairs of eyes turned on her quickly. ‘Was just saying . . .’ she mumbled.
‘That is not the point. The child has been injured, minor or otherwise, and it is a result of Miss Gribble’s carelessness . . .’
Arianwyn really could feel the tears forming as Miss Delafield and Mayor Belcher continued their argument.
‘I think we have made a very grave mistake in taking on such an inexperienced young witch.’ Mayor Belcher paced the floor. ‘I don’t think this is going to work!’ His voice was low and threatening.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Miss Delafield said. ‘She’s been here five minutes; you’ve given her no chance to settle in.’
‘I have to think of the safety of the town and the people who live here! I think it would be best if Miss Gribble returns to Kingsport as soon as possible and we ask for a replacement. And a fully trained witch this time. No more accommodating the demands of the C.W.A.,’ the mayor muttered, glaring at Miss Delafield.
Arianwyn glanced down at her moon brooch. Snotling goo had dried on it.
‘No!’ Miss Delafield said, her voice raised. ‘You’re not being fair, Josiah. Arianwyn has explained and Mrs Myddleton should accept the responsibility for this. She was warned about the snotlings and did nothing to help herself. Dr Cadbury said it was little more than a nip to the child’s skin and there are no lasting effects.’ Miss Delafield moved forwards, placing herself slightly between the mayor and Arianwyn. ‘We’re not sending Miss Gribble back to Kingsport. She is our witch and she stays here in Lull! It’s my responsibility, Josiah. My responsibility as district supervisor, thank you very much indeed! And we will offer her our full support in the future.’
They glared at each other.
‘Excuse me?’ A soft voice called. Arianwyn, Mayor Belcher and Miss Delafield turned to see a small elderly gentleman standing by the open door, nervously twisting his cap in his hands.
‘Oh, Mr Turvy, is everything all right? Come in out of the cold,’ Salle said, scowling at Mayor Belcher as she passed and leading the little man to the counter.
‘Now, what can we do for you?’ she asked gently.
The old man raised his head. He had kind, bright blue eyes and a soft warm face. ‘I heard the new witch had arrived and I wondered if she could repair a charm for me.’ He looked at Arianwyn. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble. You must be very busy.’
Arianwyn looked at Miss Delafield, who glared at Mayor Belcher.
After a second or two he nodded.
Chapter 16
A CHARM FOR MR TURVY
ould I see the charm, Mr Turvy?’ Arianwyn asked.
He held out his hand. Half a silver chain, a small, cracked glass orb and a collection of beads, metal rings and a silver locket rested in his palm. It looked to Arianwyn like a standard personal protection charm to ward off dark spirit creatures.
‘Such times we live in. Every day the newspapers are full of sad tales from the Uris
and now all these things in the Great Wood . . . I’m not ashamed to tell you, it scares me.’
Are things in the Great Wood so bad? She glanced at Mayor Belcher and Miss Delafield briefly, then reached out a hand of reassurance. It shook just a little. ‘I know. Of course I’ll help.’
‘Mr Turvy lives in Orchard Cottage, on the edge of the Great Wood,’ Salle said quietly to Arianwyn.
He gave a shy little smile and emptied the remains of the charm on to the counter top, which Arianwyn noticed had been polished to a high shine – Salle must’ve been hard at work. He laid the locket down carefully and it flicked open. Two bright faces stared up at her, a man and woman captured for ever in the faded sepia portraits. The young woman’s hair was braided and coiled atop her head and she wore a high lace collar. The man wore a military uniform, his cap displaying a regimental badge. There was no mistaking the gentle look of Mr Turvy in the young man.
‘My beautiful Rose,’ he said, stroking the locket gently with a fingertip. ‘Married fifty-three years, we were, before she passed away.’
Arianwyn wasn’t sure what to say so she patted the man’s hand gently. ‘You look like you were very happy.’
‘We were.’ Mr Turvy sniffed.
Arianwyn quickly pulled open several drawers under the counter, fishing out the components she would need to repair the charm.
She saw Mayor Belcher and Miss Delafield studying her carefully and realized this might be more than just a reworking of a charm. It might be a test! She felt a moment’s hesitation, worried she might muddle the charm spell or explode Mr Turvy’s precious locket.
Just concentrate and stay calm, she told herself.
She pulled a fine silver chain from a low drawer and gracefully but quickly began to thread on the correct items for a personal charm. One gold hoop and two silver and a bead of amber. Next came the small glass container, which held a few dried lavender flowers and daisy petals. Lastly the open locket. She smiled again at the photograph.
