The Wonkiest Witch

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “Hey, Jed,” he drawled. “Would it be okay if we put a couple of chickens in the oven, only we’re going to be building up an appetite you know?” He spotted me and nodded. “Hey, baby. Are you, Alfhild?”

  “Alf, yes. And you are?”

  “Mortimer Bowe at your service, honey. Dressed to impress and ready for action.”

  “Great!” I enthused. His choice of clothes was interesting to say the least.

  “We received word from Shadowmender and we’re happy to help, given we’re virtually neighbours.”

  “You’re from?”

  “Lostwithiel.”

  Cornwall. Very nice. “It’s good to have you here, Mortimer.”

  “Our pleasure.” Turning to Jed he repeated, “About the chickens?”

  “They’re frozen.” Jed pointed out.

  “Not to worry, buddy. We have a spell that will take care of that.” He dashed back inside and I could hear him calling someone else.

  “When he says chickens … Why not a chicken? How many guests do we have?”

  “Around a dozen,” Jed replied and my mouth dropped open.

  “That many? How will we put them up?”

  Jed made an exaggerated shrug. “I’m not the innkeeper. I just paint things,” he said deadpan. I smacked his arm. “Ow.”

  “A dozen?” I asked again. I stood on the step and peered into the main room of the inn, observing an odd assortment of eccentric beings lounged on my mismatched chairs. One unfortunate had been forced to sit on the ladder.

  I withdrew my head. “Are they all as original as Mortimer?”

  “Oh, he’s the tip of the iceberg, believe me.”

  “Interesting times,” I replied and braced myself for whatever came next.

  It transpired that Wizard Shadowmender had provided me with a motley collection of souls, but all of them useful. Mortimer, and his partner Virginia, were hedge witches, charged with the care of the woodland around Restormel Castle and the River Fowey in the neighbouring county of Cornwall. They had buddied up with Red Daltry, an Earl of the realm and warlock currently residing in the New Forest, and Rhys Talog, a wizard hailing from the Gwydir Forest in Betws-y-Coed.

  In addition to them, we welcomed a number of druids from Somerset - Rafe, Lois and Simon - and three witches from the Highlands - Bob, Tess and Andrew, and a weasel-faced witch who claimed ancestry from a leprechaun, whose name was Finbarr. He seemed to have a lot in common with Jemima, which made them an unlikely pair as Jemima stood 6 ft. 6 inches in her stockinged feet. Originating from Brighton, Jemima had brought along Bryony who sported bright green dreadlocks, and Tiger, a young goth who looked an awful lot like the late Brandon Lee. Fourteen in total.

  Over the course of the next few hours, I bustled around trying to organise sleeping arrangements, opening rooms that had been shut up for years, while Jed tried to arrange food to feed an army, which was pretty much what this brigands of odd bods amounted to.

  I have to be honest. They seemed like a decent bunch, although not exactly helpful. Red was all for creating a bonfire in the middle of the reception room for example, until Jed patiently pointed out that a fireplace existed and simply needed sweeping so there was no need to create a crater in the middle of the floor. At that point Finbarr offered to conjure up a chimney sweep and before anybody could stop him he did so in the form of a number of pixies, each less than a foot high, who exploded from a pile of wood shavings on the ground and leapt into action, scurrying up the chimney. Accompanied by the sound of a million brush strokes, centuries worth of soot, pigeon bones and bird nests crashed to the floor, and the debris billowed out around us in a thick black cloud.

  Jed’s face was a picture as I held my hands to my head, aghast at the amount of mess. Virginia laughed at me.

  “What’s a little soot?” she asked. “We’ll have a grand fire burning in that grate before you know it.”

  “So much to clean up,” I said and gestured at the piles of rubble and dust, aware from experience just how quickly the mess would be tracked through the inn.

  “So, conjure up your followers,” Finbarr said helpfully in his sing-song Irish brogue.

  “My followers?” I asked, looking about me, and hoping I wouldn’t spot more of Finbarr’s pixies.

  “Did you ever see a witch with more followers than this one?” Finbarr asked the company and every one of them shook their heads.

  “And I never saw this many followers in one place who were so intent on being helpful,” said Rhys. “I certainly wish mine were.”

  “What sort of followers?” I asked.

  “Ghosts,” said Tiger gravely, his black eyes following something behind me. “Dozens of them. Summon them and they will come.”

  “Ghosts?” I glanced behind my shoulder to see what Tiger was looking at, and as if for the first time I became aware of the small flashes and floating lights as they hovered in my general vicinity. But it wasn’t the first time. They were always there, weren’t they? “How do I…?” I started to ask, but I already knew the answer. Intention. Vision.

  I spun on my heel and headed for The Snug, needing to be alone to do this. I couldn’t practise my rusty magick in the face of so many seasoned practitioners. I kicked off my shoes, and paced the room for a while, feeling the cool dusty floor beneath my feet. Eventually, I marked out a circle, creating an imaginary safe space, and set myself inside it. Breathing deeply, I began to clean my mind until the blackness filled me and I was one with myself. When I was ready I allowed the voices and the faces to come.

  It was then I recognised, how all of these spirits had been with me all my life. I’d known them as a child, played with some of them, talked to many of them, right until my father disappeared. At that point, with puberty newly upon me, I had rebuffed them. I had denied their existence, their very right to exist, in me or near me. Now I set them free, bade them join me, and assist as they wished and I sensed them swirling around, touching me, the kiss of a spider’s web, the light brush of the sparrow’s wing, the disturbance in the air as a feather falls to the ground.

  With my eyes closed I could see them clearly as they darted here and there, giddy with excitement to be accepted once more. And when I opened my eyes, they were still with me, and I could see their opaque vagueness. Many of them I knew instinctively as my ancestors. I searched among them for my great grandmother, the original Alfhild, but sadly, she was nowhere to be seen. I would seek her out another day.

  The ghosts I had managed to summon fluttered around the room like moths, demanding my attention. I bowed to them. “You are welcome here,” I said. “And now we have much work to do.”

  Virginia had been right. Freeing my followers around the inn was a genius solution. They were intent on getting things done, although unfortunately not necessarily in a rational way. They were dragging beds and mattresses down from the attic, while the pixies were still scattering soot left, right and centre. Eventually I was forced to take on the role of a drill sergeant major, ordering things to be done in precisely the right order, barking at pixies, ghosts and witches. Chaos reigned.

  Once the pixies had swept the chimneys, I set my ghosts to working at sweeping, dusting and scrubbing. Why had I never thought of this before? In less than two hours the inn, while not gleaming (especially given its dire need for painting and decorating throughout) was cleaner than I had ever known it and the ghosts once more began to drag bedsteads and musty mattresses down from the attic.

  I left them to it, after instructing them to air off the mattresses and give them a good beating outside, and found my way into the kitchen where Mortimer was cooking up an amazing roast. The kitchen was a hive of activity, with the highland witches rolling out pastry for a number of sweet and savoury pies, and Bryony making a stuffing for the chicken using breadcrumbs and herbs she’d picked from the garden, and a pâté utilising mushrooms she had foraged in the woods behind the inn.

  The woods we intended to fight for.

  The plan seemed
to be to feast and make merry before sundown. Then we would gather together to create a spell of protection for the inn and the grounds, including Speckled Wood, and cleanse the entire site of negativity and bad energy.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  I found it quite amazing to witness the amount of food that sixteen people could consume. Our excitement and expectations were high, as was the tension, and our appetites it appeared. Pies, chickens, salads, roast vegetables, pate, bread and crackers – by the time 9 p.m. came around and the sun was dipping towards the horizon, we were all well and truly sated.

  I put the ghosts to work on clearing up and washing dishes. It all had to be done ‘by hand’ as the dish washer in the kitchen had not been operational since I’d moved in. I grimaced as I looked around the kitchen as every pot, pan and mismatched piece of cutlery appeared to have been put to use over the past few hours. There was a mountain of washing up.

  Fortunately, while the ghosts had ‘no hands’ as such, they didn’t seem to require them either. As they had demonstrated when they had moved the furniture down from the attic, it all seemed to be a case of mind over matter. I stood at the kitchen door, out of the way, watching as the sink filled itself with water, and copious amounts of washing up liquid created a tower of suds. First glassware, and then crockery flew through the air at break neck speed. The ghosts created something akin to a washing machine rolling action, that involved agitating the soapy water and briskly applying scourers and kitchen cloths. This sent sudsy bubbles floating through the air, rainbows twirling and dancing before popping and leaving an oily residue on the work surfaces. The whole kitchen was getting a workout, that was for sure.

  After the initial wash, the plates flew across to the adjoining sink to be dunked in clean water, before ending up on racks, where they paused briefly to drip dry and were then taken up and wiped dry by the apparitions of tea towels, before being flung into cupboards. No breakages – just the loud clang and chink of glasses cosying up to each other, or plates and bowls nestling together in their pre-assigned places.

  I found myself awe-struck, a largely hands-off conductor, orchestrating something akin to a scene from Disney’s Fantasia. Wildly excited by the possibilities my new acceptance of the craft offered, I couldn’t wait to get started. I had never seen so much magick in operation as I had done on this day.

  Virginia came up behind me, and stood watching with me, evidently enjoying my amusement.

  “I should have done this years ago,” I said with a giggle. “It would have saved me hours of dull housekeeping.”

  “You obviously have quite a knack for it,” Virginia remarked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone attract and handle as many spirits at one time as you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know a few ghost whisperers, and some mediums. Most who work with spirits can summon one or two at a time. Sometimes a few more. It is rare indeed to find someone who can work with this many at once. You have been richly blessed.”

  I studied the spirits and their various guises. Some wore clothing from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, huge collars and ornate patterns visible on their opaque and ornately decorated clothing, others wore powdered wigs or huge Victorian bustles, silk pantaloons or buckled shoes. One was a 1920s flapper, another a world war two soldier, with an arm and a leg missing, but this didn’t impede him from racing around the kitchen full of enthusiasm for the task in hand.

  “I think they’re pleased to have been set loose. They’ve been cooped up for too long.”

  Virginia nodded, then gently pulled my arm. “Come,” she said. “We are almost ready.”

  Red had busied himself throughout the course of the afternoon by creating a huge pile of wood out the back of the inn. We gathered together, forming a circle around the unlit bonfire, leaving Jed by himself inside – supervising the ghosts if he so wished - with strict instructions not to come outside until we had finished.

  We were a quiet group, each thinking our own thoughts, as the sun, burning a bright fiery orange in a pink and peach sky, sunk lower and lower, above the treeline to the west of us. I looked around at the serious faces, wondering who would take charge, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be me. I didn’t have an inkling of how we should proceed. Where my magick was concerned, I felt as though I was fumbling in the dark, occasionally striking gold. For something as important as a protection ritual which would encompass both the inn and the whole of my land, I badly needed guidance.

  I cleared my throat, about to ask what the plan was, when two figures walked with purpose around from the side of the inn and joined us. I gaped in surprise, Wizard Shadowmender in ceremonial robes and Mr Kephisto in a smart suit and dickie bow, his hair and beard freshly trimmed. Their abrupt appearance was obviously a surprise for the others too, as the sudden exclamations around me indicated.

  As he joined the circle, Shadowmender pulled a wand from his robes, uttered the word “Clauditis” and casually flicked his wrist. I distinctly heard the locks on the doors around the inn slip into place. “Caveo et adhamo,” he said and the many windows I had left ajar, in order to allow air to circulate in some of the mustier bedrooms, closed of their own accord, latches dropping into place and bolts being sent home.

  Jed had been locked inside. I gazed back, worried about him, home alone. What if there was a fire or a building collapse? I opened my mouth to let Shadowmender know about Jed, but when I turned his way, he looked directly at me and shook his head, ever so slightly.

  Shadowmender raised his arms to encompass us all. “Greetings good people, followers of the path, practitioners of the craft, lovers of the earth, disciples of the Goddess. Thank you for answering my call. I chose you to join with me this evening for good reasons, as you will soon realise.” Shadowmender indicated me. “We are gathered here this night, primarily to prepare a ritual that will protect Whittle Inn and our sister Alfhild as she goes about her business henceforth.”

  We all bowed in response to Shadowmender’s greeting. Taking this as his cue, Red clapped his hands three times and the wood pile we had surrounded burst into flames with a sudden shower of sparks. I watched these diminutive specks of hot light float away on the slight evening breeze, burning far longer than I would expect, fading to tiny dots of reddy-orange as they reached the edge of the woods, and even then they didn’t disappear – simply drifted among the trees to be lost from view. Once they had gone, the blackness there seemed complete and somehow solid. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I was suddenly certain that something in the woods was watching us.

  “We will walk a perimeter that is small and tightly controlled around the inn, chanting and conjuring, envisioning, blessing – whatever. As always, we are free to protect in our own individual ways, and by any means we think are fitting, and when we are certain that no harm will befall the inn, then we will spread out and incorporate the whole of the grounds and the woods beyond.”

  “Kephisto has kindly taken it upon himself to cast a temporary barrier-holding spell. You will be able to work in and around the area he has mapped out for us, but only until dawn when the barrier will naturally dissipate. It is vitally important that we lock protection in for the whole area – the barrier spell will prevent any overspill into surrounding areas, and help the more adventurous of us remain on-piste, so to speak. Move quickly—dear friends—and with purpose.”

  Kephisto nodded. “Keep a close eye on where you’re heading. You will know the barrier when you see it. Whatever you do, don’t break through it. We must keep it intact.”

  Shadowmender looked gravely around at everyone, and meet their eyes. “Friends, you could have achieved all of this without me,” he continued, his voice low, “and without my dear friend Kephisto here. But I asked him to join us as we need his experience. Both he and I suspect that we will all meet some tough resistance as we enter the woods. This is nothing to be sneezed at, I can assure you, and so I issue this warning. Watch your backs. On
this very spot in front of us, where the fire burns, a suspected member of The Mori was killed using The Curse of Madb a few weeks ago.”

  There were audible gasps around the circle.

  “Yes indeed. This is a grave situation and potentially highly dangerous. We have no way of knowing who killed him although Kephisto and I have our suspicions as to why. Beware The Mori. I urge you to take good care out there this evening. Arm yourselves,” Shadowmender took a deep breath and lifted and dropped his shoulders to relieve some of the tension gathering there, then he smiled, “with your wits if nothing else.”

  Turning to me, he said, “Alf, if you will insist on being involved, I suggest you stay close to Kephisto or I.”

  I stared at Shadowmender mutely. Insist on being involved? Did he mean I had a choice? I looked back at the inn where Jed was safely ensconced. I could wait in there with him until all of this was over. But then I looked back at Shadowmender, and as his watery eyes bore into mine, I knew that really there was no choice. I couldn’t turn my back on my brothers and sisters of the craft. The time to act to protect the inn was now.

  The first part of the ritual pretty much took the shape of the one I had enacted around the inn myself not many day ago. While the majority of the group travelled around the inn chanting and muttering prayers or blessings, invoking various deities, or wafting incense or salt around, others were more static. Bryony sat on the earth with a large silver bowl of water, scrying by the light of the moon. Close by, Shadowmender held his glass orb up to the sky and stared into it, occasionally turning and facing a different way.

  For my part, I walked around the perimeter of the inn chanting the same words I had said a few nights previously. The fire in the stables had been meant for the inn, but the inn had been spared thanks to the protection I had woven in place, I was certain of that. Now, as I trailed my hand along the outside of the building, the surface rough beneath my fingers, catching on the sensitive skin around my fingertips, I could feel how Whittle Inn vibrated with a clean and positive energy. With any luck, everything we were doing would ensure Jed remained safe inside.