The Tree that Sat Down

by Beverley Nichols

  Judy made herself comfortable against the tree trunk, opened the book, and began to read. And we are going to look over her shoulder and read the book too. For really it is a very important book and you will not be able to buy it anywhere else because it is full of magic, and you cannot buy magic any more in a modern book shop. There is a law against it.

  So let us begin to read right away.

  MRS JUDY’S LESSON BOOK

  Chapter I

  Wizards and Spotted Dogs

  Next time you see a spotted dog when you go for a walk, be sure to cross your fingers, because it will not be a spotted dog at all, it will be a wizard in disguise. If you do not cross your fingers you will have a pain.

  The wizard’s real name is Mr Snooks and he changes himself into a spotted dog for two reasons – firstly because everybody likes spotted dogs, and wants to pat them, secondly because he can put a pain or a toothache into each spot, and when you pat his back, you get the pain, and the spot disappears. I once saw him run up to a group of boys and girls who all patted him with both hands. By the time they had finished they all had toothache and tummy ache, and all his spots had gone … when he ran away he was quite white.

  If you cross your fingers you have nothing to fear.

  This only applies to the next time you see a spotted dog. After that, all the spotted dogs you see really will be spotted dogs … unless, of course, they happen to be wearing peaked caps, in which case they would naturally be wizards.

  HAUNTED SHOES, THEIR CAUSE AND CURE

  Lots of children are walking about in haunted shoes without knowing it. Shoes are very easy things to haunt; in fact the very first test given to any member of the Associated College of Witches,fn1 before she can take a degree, is to haunt a pair of shoes. In America, the usual method is for the witch to disguise herself as a bootblack; she carries the spell under her tongue and spits it out into her hands and then rubs it into the shoe with the blacking … which is not blacking at all but black earth, dug up from a cemetery at midnight, and baked in the skull of a goat. In England, where there are very few bootblacks, the witch usually flies in through the keyhole of the kitchen and smears the boot-brushes with a strange, invisible fluid made from the eggs of serpents and the stings of wasps.

  As I said before, when you are wearing a pair of these shoes you may have no idea that they are haunted. But little by little you will find that your feet are carrying you into all sorts of places where they have no business to go; for instance, you may be on your way to school when you suddenly see a side-street which looks interesting, and before you know where you are, your haunted shoes are running your feet down it, with the result that you are late for school. Or you may be standing at a street-crossing, waiting for the lights like a sensible person, when without warning your shoes begin to twitch and force you to run across too soon, and risk being run over. (Many children who have had accidents in the streets have been wearing haunted shoes.) Even when you are safely in the schoolroom your shoes may start to fidget and shuffle, however hard you try to keep them still.

  All these are sure signs that they are haunted.

  There is no easy cure for haunted shoes, because the witch has usually woven the spell right into the leather; you will need lots of patience and a good deal of time. However, they can be cured, if you persevere. The first thing to do is to clean them yourself, whenever this is possible. As you brush them, recite these lines:

  Blacker, blacker, ban and banish

  Wicked Witch’s spell from leather;

  Brighter, brighter, witch will vanish,

  My two feet will stand together.

  When you have finished, put on the shoes, and stand with your heels together, looking down at your shoes. If they are very bright, it is a sign that they are no longer haunted; if they are not very bright, it is a sign that you will have to go on polishing.

  In order to keep the spell from coming back you must always see that they are clean. And when you come into the house on a muddy day you must wipe each foot three times on the mat before going inside, saying as you do so:

  As I wipe away the grime,

  So I wipe the witch’s crime,

  As I clean away the mud,

  So I’m clean of witch’s blood.

  And so Judy read and read, with eyes that were wide with wonder; and the sun mounted higher and higher in the heavens, sparkling on the scarlet oaks and opening up the cups of the autumn crocuses till they glowed like little magic lanterns.

  What a wonderful book it was! If only she could remember everything she had read, she felt that all her troubles would be over – and she had hardly read half of it yet! However, it was growing late, so she closed the book, putting a golden maple leaf between the pages to remind her where she had left off.

  As she rose to her feet she noticed with surprise that in spite of the brilliant sunshine she felt cold and stiff. And surely … surely, it was rather dark for the time of day? Puzzled, she stared about her. What could it be? Nothing had happened; everything was the same … and yet, was everything the same? Were not the shadows deeper? Did not the branches weigh more heavily to the ground? Quickly, moved by a sudden instinct, she looked up. And then she caught her breath. For the Tree was slowly drooping – drooping downwards to the earth.

  Stifling a cry of alarm, Judy ran out into the sunlight. Even as she did so, the drooping ceased; the Tree was still again. It was as though a very old man, who had grown weary of standing in one position, had leaned heavily forward on his stick, sighing and muttering to himself, and then had drifted back into his dreams. Judy stared at the Tree; the fear faded from her eyes and gave place to pity – pity for the Tree that was so tired and heavy with the years, whose limbs were so gnarled and stiff and aching. The words of Mr Tortoise echoed through her head. ‘Have you ever thought,’ he had said, ‘that one day the Tree may want to sit down?’ She had paid small heed to him at the time, but now his words sounded like an urgent warning.

  She went back into the shadows, and knelt down by the great trunk, patting it and fondling it, and murmuring gentle words. ‘Please, Tree,’ she whispered, ‘please do not be so tired. Please, Tree, try to rest, and do not struggle with the wind and the rain. Please, Tree … if … if –’ and here a lump came into her throat and she had to brush away her tears – ‘if you very much want to sit down, please … please do so; you have sheltered us so long, you have given us all your life, we shall manage somehow. But please … please if you can stand up a little longer, we should be so truly grateful!’

  So she whispered, stroking the bark of the great trunk; and somehow she felt that the Tree had heard her, and had understood. For when she looked up again, all the leaves were dancing, and the branches were bathed in a golden light. A fresh breeze had risen, but the Tree no longer shrank before it, but greeted it as though it were a friend. And as the breeze blew, the voice of the Tree seemed to come down to her, firm and strong, saying, ‘Have no fear! As long as you need me, I shall stand!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  JUDY IN DANGER

  SAM WAS GROWING angrier and angrier. In spite of Miss Smith’s efforts, Judy and her grannie were still carrying on at The Shop Under the Willow Tree; and doing very good business too. Mrs Judy’s Lesson Book had proved a wonderful attraction; she had propped it up on a branch near the Nest Department, charging a penny for reading it; and there was always a long queue of animals waiting to turn the pages. In fact, the queue became so long when Mr Snail was reading that she had to lift him off the book and return his penny. It had taken him over an hour to read half a sentence, and he had left a long, moist trail behind him on the paper. ‘People like that,’ hissed Mrs Hare impatiently, ‘should not be allowed into libraries at all.’

  Sam racked his brains, trying to think of something to do. Should he write a book himself? But no – they would think him a copy-cat; besides, it would mean a lot of work, and Sam didn’t like work. He wanted quick results, without too much trouble, which was
why he had engaged Miss Smith. But what had she done? A lot of promises, a lot of talk, a lot of scurrying about with those darned toads … but it all led to nowhere. Drat the woman! Unless she could do something, and do it quickly, he’d give her the sack.

  He rose from the breakfast table, throwing an empty jam jar at Bruno, who was patiently waiting on him, and went in search of Miss Smith.

  She was sitting at her dressing-table in her cave, preparing herself for the day. She did not hear Sam approach, and Sam watched her with a mixture of wonder and disgust, for he had never yet seen her before she had made her toilet. The real Miss Smith, he now observed, was quite bald and toothless, with hardly any nose, no eyelashes, and a skin the colour of old potatoes. But the way in which she transformed herself was extraordinary – at least, so it seemed to Sam, who had not had much to do with modern girls.

  First she pulled a golden wig over her head; then she stuck an artificial nose on her face; then she opened her mouth and put in her false teeth. That was better, but she still looked a very ugly old woman. So she took two little clothes pegs, and pulled her cheeks tight on each side, to take away the wrinkles, sticking the clothes pegs under the wig so that nobody should see them. Then she took an eyebrow pencil and drew the most beautiful eyebrows on her forehead, and she cut two strips of false eyelashes – as long and as curly as a film star’s – and gummed them on to her eyelids. She was beginning to look almost pretty now, except for the colour of her cheeks, but that was an easy matter to arrange, for she smeared them all over with a rose-coloured cream, and dusted them with a pale pink powder, and when she had done that she drew a perfect Cupid’s bow where her lips would have been if she had had any. Now she was finished – but no, not quite, for she still had to dip her fingernails into a pool of scarlet lacquer, which was made from the blood of the descendants of a number of notorious pigs who had once rushed violently down a steep slope into the sea.

  Suddenly, in the cracked mirror, she saw Sam’s reflection. She was not too pleased; a girl does not like to have men prying into her secrets.

  ‘Well,’ she sniffed, ‘I do think you might have knocked. What are you staring at? Have I got a spot on my nose, or something?’

  ‘If you had a nose, you might have a spot on it,’ retorted Sam. ‘But as you ain’t got a nose, you can’t have.’

  ‘Really! That’s a nice thing for a gentleman to say!’

  ‘I didn’t come here to pay compliments. I came to talk business.’

  ‘At this hour of the morning?’

  ‘We’ve wasted too much time already,’ snarled Sam. ‘I’m sick of paying your wages for nothing. I want this job finished – see? Unless you get rid of those two witches under the Willow Tree …’

  ‘Witches?’ interrupted Miss Smith, in icy tones. ‘Did I hear the word witches?’

  ‘You did. So what?’

  Miss Smith tossed her head. ‘I was not aware,’ she said, ‘that Miss Judy and her grannie had any qualifications. A witch –’ and here she began to tap her knee with her scarlet fingernails – ‘is a very definite title. It means somebody who has passed a great many exams …’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you passed many of yours,’ sneered Sam.

  Miss Smith ignored the interruption. ‘It means somebody with a very enviable position in the Underworld,’ she went on.

  ‘Well, your position in the Underworld won’t be much to write home about, not when they read the reference I shall give you!’

  Miss Smith started; she had not thought of that.

  ‘I shall tell ’em you’re not worth your keep!’ snapped Sam. ‘I shall tell ’em you couldn’t addle an egg, let alone haunt a house. I shall tell ’em you couldn’t give anybody cross-eyes, let alone a hump. I shall tell ’em you couldn’t even ride a bicycle, let alone a broomstick …’

  ‘Oh, this is too much!’ cried Miss Smith, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief which had been cut from the shroud of a duke who had suffocated both his nephews at Eton and Harrow respectively – ‘I will not endure such insults! Where are my darlings?’ She looked around her wildly for the toads. ‘Where are my honey-pots?’

  The honey-pots, who had been watching this scene from underneath their favourite cluster of toadstools, hopped forward to the rescue.

  ‘Spit in his …’ they began.

  ‘Spit on my foot,’ retorted Sam rudely.

  ‘Oh! What language!’ cried Miss Smith.

  ‘My foot I said and my foot I meant,’ shouted Sam, stepping towards the toads.

  ‘Bite him, my angels! Spit all over him, my jewels!’ screamed Miss Smith.

  But the jewels were not so sure; Sam’s boot looked heavy, and it had a sharp point on it. They shuffled backwards, glaring at him with their wicked eyes, longing to spit at him, but not certain whether they had enough poison to make it worth their while.

  ‘Just you try!’ yelled Sam, taking another step forward, and lifting his boot. ‘Just you try!’

  The toads glared still more fiercely, but they took another step backwards – Sam’s boot looked very sharp indeed. Besides, they were bored with the whole business; they hated the wood, they hated the cave, they hated the animals. They hadn’t made a single friend since they came, except an old adder, and even he had hardly any sting left in him. They wanted to get back to the big, bad city, with its lovely gutters and its beautiful sewers, where their friends the Rats would be waiting to play all sorts of wicked games with them. They had no heart for a fight with Sam. They sat there, sulking.

  ‘Want to go home,’ they croaked.

  ‘So you shall, my poppets,’ cried Miss Smith. ‘This very instant!’

  She snatched her bag, and opened it for the toads to jump in.

  ‘Just a minute!’ Sam put his hand on her arm. ‘If you go now, you get no wages.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ sniffed Miss Smith.

  But the toads cared. ‘No wages?’ they croaked. ‘No rake-off?’

  ‘You said it,’ snapped Sam.

  ‘Then what about our pocket money?’

  ‘You’ll get it some other time, my sweets,’ exclaimed Miss Smith. ‘Come now! Hop into the bag!’

  The toads drew back. ‘Nothing doing,’ they croaked, shaking their heads.

  ‘But darlings, you said you wanted to go home.’ The toads were silent. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Dough,’ croaked the toads.

  In spite of her irritation, Miss Smith could not help glowing with pride at the wickedness of her darlings. How terrible they were! How they scowled and frowned and sulked, the little angels! She could have hugged them. All the same, they were being very trying.

  ‘I really don’t know what I ought to do,’ she sighed.

  ‘We know what you ought to do,’ croaked the toads. ‘Get our dough!’

  With which they hopped angrily back to their toadstools, and prepared to go to sleep.

  Miss Smith sat down on a log and fanned herself, for she was feeling quite hot after this angry scene. ‘This is the most unpleasant job I’ve ever undertaken,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Then why don’t you finish it?’ retorted Sam. ‘All you’ve got to do is to get rid of those two and then you can go.’

  Miss Smith snorted. ‘That may seem very simple to you, but you don’t understand. They’re good, those two – and good people are very difficult to hurt, let alone destroy. Every time they say their prayers, they make it harder to get near them. I honestly think I shall have to give it up. Unless …’ she paused, and an extra wicked glint came into her eye.

  ‘Unless what?’ demanded Sam.

  Miss Smith looked over her shoulder to see that nobody could overhear her. Then she tiptoed across to the toads to see if they were really asleep. Yes – they were snoring, making the most beautiful noises, like muddy water being sucked into a drain.

  She went back to Sam, and began to whisper in his ear.

  ‘Do you really want to finish them off?’ hissed Miss Smith.

  Sam shuff
led uneasily on his seat. ‘Well …’ he muttered, ‘it depends on what you mean by “finish off”.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  And, indeed, he did. She meant – murder. It was an ugly word and Sam, who was a coward, did not like to face up to it.

  ‘I want ’em … I want ’em … out of the wood,’ he growled.

  Miss Smith chuckled and rubbed her hands together. ‘Then there’s only one person who can do it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Miss Smith clutched his hand and stared into his eyes. Her fingers were like icicles, but her eyes were like burning coals.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ she whispered. ‘We want somebody good, don’t we? Well – who’s good in this dump? Who’s kind and truthful and honest – and all the rest of it?’ She lifted her arm and pointed towards the farthest cave.

  ‘Bruno!’ gasped Sam.

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘Bruno’s the one to do it!’ he cried.

  ‘Bruno’s the one!’ she echoed.

  Sam leapt to his feet, put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Out of his cave lumbered Bruno, and stood before them, waiting for his orders.

  *

  A poisoned kettle, a bottle of poisoned acid drops, and a pair of magic gloves, embroidered on the back with grinning skulls – these were the terrible objects which were spread on the floor of Bruno’s cave, and for three whole days and nights he had been staring at them.

  When they had told him what he was to do, he had refused point-blank.

  At first they had tried to coax him.

  ‘You don’t have to give them to her,’ crooned Miss Smith, in the sweetest of tones. ‘You just have to leave them in the shop when she is out, so that she finds them when she comes back.’

  Bruno shook his head.

  ‘Be a sport, Bruno!’ chaffed Sam, trying to twist his scowling face into a smile. ‘It’s only a joke.’

  Bruno shook his head again. He knew very well that it was no joke. Those hideous gloves, with their grinning skulls, were enough to tell him that.