by Lynne North
Ma suggested the best place for Wart would be the little stagnant pond in their back garden, near to the dandelion border.
Gertie was afraid Wart might go away if she left him there, but being a nice girl she decided he should be able to make up his own mind anyway.
She soon stopped worrying. Wart looked delighted to have a pond of his own and to be without all those horrible warts. No one would be grabbing him for spell casting now. It must have been a great weight off his back, in every way. He appeared younger and more agile each time she saw him.
Gertie came to visit him every day. ‘Wart, it’s me, Wart,’ she called, so that he came over to have his smooth back stroked. The two soon became firm friends. Secretly, Gertie began to feel quite pleased her first spell hadn’t worked as expected.
It was only when none of her attempted spells worked as they should, that she would seriously begin to worry.
Gertie’s next attempt at spells came quite by chance.
‘We’ve been invited to Grothilde’s for tea,’ Ma Grimthorpe told her. Gertie loved to go to Grothilde’s, even though she was never quite sure if Grothilde was speaking to her, or to her mother who was standing behind her (and taller). Gertie tried to politely nod in all the right places, just in case. She didn’t want to offend Grothilde because she was quite nice really, despite her wayward eyes.
The thing Gertie liked best about their visits were not so much the devil cakes (which were absolutely delicious), but Grothilde’s armchair.
‘Will the chair be there, will it?’ Gertie asked in excitement.
‘Yes, dear, you know it will,’ replied Ma patiently.
To all who entered the room, it looked like any other armchair. It was upholstered in black, with a delicate scattering of skull patterns on it, and four wooden clawed feet. No, it wasn’t the appearance of the chair that made it out of the ordinary. It was what it did.
When Grothilde had finished busying about and brought the tea and cakes she, as always, stood wherever she happened to be at the time and commanded in an authoritative voice ‘Chair.’
Immediately, up the chair rose onto its four clawed feet and scurried across to her. Grothilde began to sit even before it arrived, so sure she was of its knack of getting there before her bottom touched down.
Gertie loved it, and sometimes tried to make excuses for Grothilde to have to get up a few times so she could watch her sit all over again.
Gertie knew that Grothilde became wise to this, and rather played up to it. That meant Grothilde had grown quite fond of her which made Gertie happy.
‘Shame about your sweet face,’ Grothilde would say, ‘but you’ll make a real witch one day’.
Today, after performing her chair act three times for Gertie, Grothilde announced with a wink of her good eye, ‘It’s about time you learned another spell, Gertie, right, Ma?’
‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed Gertie, clapping her hands in glee.
‘Right, lass,’ continued Grothilde, focusing her eye on the girl. ‘About this chair.’
‘Yes?’ asked Gertie, when the older witch didn’t continue.
‘Well, I wouldn’t try to charm a chair yet, luv, but you could try something else. It’s only th’animation spells.’
‘Thanimation?’ Gertie asked, looking puzzled.
‘Animation, dear,’ her mother replied quietly. ‘A spell to make things move when they don’t really have a mind to.’
‘Like Gran when she takes her afternoon nap?’ asked Gertie, clearly hoping she was getting the hang of it.
‘Well, not exactly,’ her mother smiled, showing her pointed yellow teeth. ‘More like Grothilde’s chair and occasional table.’
Grothilde had an occasional table in the true sense of the word. The rest of the time it was a small set of steps she used to reach the top shelf of her huge oaken book case.
Whenever she needed something to put her cup of tea on however, she snapped her fingers and the steps came running and rearranged themselves next to her chair. What she did have to remember was never to snap her fingers when she was up on the steps. If they ever decided to rearrange themselves while she was up there she could easily lose her legs in a flash.
‘Or even like Mortella’s door knocker,’ Ma continued to explain.
‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed Gertie in glee.
The young witch loved Mortella’s door knocker too. It was shaped in the face of a fearsome demon, and when you knocked on the door with it, it bellowed ‘GO AWAY, I DON’T WANT ANY.’
Mortella had been greatly troubled by travelling salesmen in the past, but this seemed to do the trick. The other witches knew well enough to rap on the wooden door with their knuckles or their broomstick handles, so not to be deafened. The door knocker was particularly for uninvited strangers.
‘So, I can make things walk, or talk?’ asked Gertie.
‘Easy, luv,’ grimaced Grothilde. ‘All you ‘ave to do is BELIEVE it will work. Use some words if you want to, to focus the power, then point at what you want to move. A bit of rhyming helps. I’ve never found out why. Maybe it’s because you have to concentrate to think of a rhyme.’ She paused and stared at Gertie.
‘Anyway, before you start, be SURE you want it to move, mind you. It’s not that easy to stop some of the beggars once they get going. I once asked a stool to move out of the way. The front door was open at the time because I was spring cleaning by letting a good breeze blow through. The stool moved all right. It set off, through the door, and down the path. Before I had chance to notice because I was too busy trying to see what was going on across the road, it was disappearing out of sight.’ She grinned.
‘The last I saw of it,’ she explained to anyone who wondered where her favourite stool had gone, ‘it was vanishing hurriedly past th’end of the street in the direction of the woods. It’s probably still walking,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘I’ve not used a stool in a spell since. I’ve heard others say they usually prove to be pretty stupid. They’re not really cut out for much more than sitting in a corner looking wooden.’
Even though Gertie loved being at Grothilde’s, today she couldn’t wait to get home. Once there, she rushed to her room and looked around in anticipation. Frowning in concentration, she tried to spot something to experiment on. She had been advised to try something small.
‘Oh, what can I use?’ she asked, feeling frustrated. Nothing sprang to mind. Gertie sighed, sitting down heavily on her bed. There was a thump as something fell off. Leaning down, Gertie picked up her umbrella and placed it back on the bed. She had reached it out earlier to take to Grothilde’s, but the rain had stopped before they set out. Gertie stared absent-mindedly at the umbrella. It was a special one, shiny black with a wooden handle that ended in the shape of a bat’s head.
‘Oh!’ Gertie exclaimed, ‘I know, I’ll make you talk! You can chat happily to me when we go for walks in the rain. You can tell me jokes and make me laugh. Oh we’ll have such fun! You can be my friend.’
The wooden head stared blankly at her.
Chapter Three
Gertie stared hard at the umbrella. ‘Right,’ she said, pondering, her finger in her mouth. After some time, she summoned up every ounce of her concentration. She pointed intently at the umbrella handle, and began her spell.
‘Come to life and be my friend,
Talk to me, so I don’t have to pretend.’
Well, she wasn’t used to making spells yet. This was her first try at thinking up a rhyme herself. Nevertheless, though Gertie tried very hard to believe, nothing happened. She concentrated even harder, and tried again. She had no reason to wonder why it shouldn’t work, so she believed with all her heart. This time, she felt sure she saw the bat’s little nose quiver. Encouraged by this, Gertie tried again. She wasn’t one to give up easily.
‘A…a…Atishooooooooo!’ sneezed the bat’s head. ‘Gor Blimey,’ he continued, ‘I’ve got a blinking cold. No wonder mind, being out in all weathers. How would you like
it? Being upside down with cold water pouring down your ears? Never think of me do you? Oh no, you don’t take me out on nice sunny days do you?’
Gertie tried to reply, but didn’t get a chance.
‘No,’ the umbrella continued. ‘I only see light of day when it’s pouring rain. What a life. Don’t interrupt,’ he added, as Gertie tried to speak. ‘At last, I can have my say, and no one is going to stop me. I HATE rain, do you hear me? I hate it. Why I was put on this Earth to be an umbrella I don’t know. I must have done something really evil in a past life to deserve this, that’s all I can say.’
Unfortunately, it wasn’t all he could say. Because he continued.
‘Not only rain either. You take me out when it’s snowing too, and blowing a gale. My ears get blooming freezing. And what do I get when we arrive home for all my hard work? Cocoa? Hot chocolate? Kind words and a nice warm fire? No, a blooming good shake. That’s what I get.’
‘I’m sorry, I never thought,’ said Gertie in a small, ashamed, voice.
‘No. No one ever does. After all, I’m only a blooming umbrella. ONLY an umbrella! But what would you do without me, eh? YOU’D get soaked. See if you would like that. And do you hear me complain? No, you don’t. Why? Because we umbrellas blooming well can’t, that’s why! Well, believe me, things are going to be very different from now on. Mark my words. Hey, what are you doing? Put me down. Hey. Where are we going?’
Gertie had reached the wardrobe by now, and carefully stood the umbrella in the corner.
‘HEY!’ the umbrella’s head exclaimed more loudly. ‘IT’S DARK IN HERE YOU KNOW. THAT’S SOMETHING ELSE I DON’T …like.’
The last word came out muffled, as the wardrobe door was closed firmly. Gertie went off to tell her mother she didn’t think she would be using the animation spell again.
The umbrella bat continued to bemoan the fate of umbrella-kind from the back of the wardrobe.
Gertie and Bat did learn to get on better together. Gertie managed to put up with some of Bat’s complaining and swearing, but she didn’t let him get away with too much. Bat learned that a gloved hand over his mouth shut him up entirely and got wool up his nose, so he knew not to push his luck too far.
Still, Gertie often got strange looks from passers-by when she nipped out in the rain. On one such day, she was calmly walking along with a little voice coming from the vicinity of her hand.
‘Oh Bat Spit! How long have we been out for? That hit me right in the left ear. I’ve gone deaf now. No! Don’t shake me. I’ve gone all dizzy too.’
‘Only trying to help,’ Gertie replied to Bat, smiling at Griselde who was passing them at the time.
‘Sorry?’ asked Griselde, pausing.
‘Oh nothing. I’m just talking to my umbrella,’ said Gertie, still smiling.
‘Oh, I see,’ replied Griselde, looking at Gertie as if she had grown another head. ‘Always knew there was something strange about that girl,’ she muttered to herself as she hurried away.
‘What’s with her? Stupid, fat, doddering old DRAGON!’ Bat commented, his voice raised, calling after Griselde.
‘BAT!’ exclaimed Gertie. ‘Don’t be so rude or I’ll cover your mouth. Just you see if I don’t.’
She looked around hurriedly to see if Griselde had heard, and perhaps thought that Gertie herself had been the name-caller. She didn’t seem to have.
‘I’ve heard enough today, Bat. Okay?’
‘Gor blimey, a guy can’t say anything around here,’ replied the umbrella. ‘Touchy, aren’t we?’
‘BAT,’ Gertie threatened.
‘Okay, okay. Not another word will pass my soaked, cold, hungry, quivering lips. OKAY!’ He exclaimed, as the glove edged closer.
All outings with Bat ran along similar lines to this. Gertie began to hope it didn’t rain very often.
The one who seemed most impressed by Bat, was Fang. Fang also lived in the village, and was a little older than Gertie. They could perhaps have been friends, but Fang had a very superior way about him. He made it clear he was too important to mix with the other little witches and warlocks. He said he was destined for much better things than any of them. He often told Gertie, one day, he would grow up to be a great warlock. Gertie believed him. You only had to look at him to be immediately convinced. Fang spoke proudly about going to the ‘Academy’ when he was older. Gertie didn’t want him to know she had no idea what he was talking about, so she simply nodded. Whatever it was, it sounded very important.
‘Even as a baby he had the biggest fangs we had ever seen,’ said Fang’s mother in pride when Gertie and Ma Grimthorpe met up with them in the street one day. ‘We had to name him after such an important feature.’
He did have the most amazing teeth. Gertie wondered how he ever closed his mouth, and then decided he probably didn’t.
‘There are so many little witches in the Vale,’ his mother continued to brag, ‘and so few young warlocks. Fang will be so bad he’ll make us very proud of him one day.’
It did seem true there were far more witches than warlocks in Vile Vale. Gertie asked Granny Grimthorpe about this later.
‘It’s just the way of witches,’ Gertie was told. ‘They always have more girls than boys.’
Gertie secretly wished she had been born a boy. At least it would have meant there was something a bit special about her.
Since that day, Gertie had been a little in awe of Fang. She was especially pleased therefore when he heard Bat spluttering and complaining, and asked to borrow him. Gertie gladly agreed.
‘Not a bad spell, for a witch,’ Fang admitted grudgingly. ‘Especially one who doesn’t even look like one,’ he added, once the umbrella had been handed over.
It was days before Gertie managed to get Bat back. She only did then because Fang’s mother brought it to her home muttering something about it insulting ‘Great Uncle Gore’
Gertie learned to her dismay that in his absence, Bat had learned a whole new vocabulary of naughty words and insults. More than ever now, she dreaded seeing the sky cloud over. That was the last time she loaned Bat to anyone.
Ma Grimthorpe was obviously impressed by the fact Gertie had got a spell to work at all. Even though it wasn’t as she had intended. She told Gertie she was about to teach her a simple Fire Spell.
‘This takes a lot of concentration,’ Ma explained to the attentive girl. ‘But it is a very important spell. After all, how can we keep warm and cook our food without a fire?’ she added, pointing to the great cauldron hanging in the hearth.
Gertie was delighted to be trusted with another spell, especially such an important one. She gave her full attention to her mother. Once Ma had shown Gertie what to do a few times, she doused the flames again. She then left the proud girl in charge of relighting the fire. She made very sure Gertie wouldn’t go anywhere near to it once lit. That would be dangerous. Ma Grimthorpe trusted Gertie, who was a very sensible girl. She did however leave Granny Grimthorpe to keep an eye on her, all the same.
‘You light the fire under the pot, Gertie,’ Ma instructed, ‘and I’ll go to pick the toadstools and hemlock for our stew.’ Then, off she went into the garden.
Determined not to let her mother down, Gertie began concentrating with all her might on the hearth. Not a flicker. She tried even harder. Still not even a puff of smoke.
The young apprentice witch tried looking away to give her eyes a rest from staring under the black cauldron. She stared out through the window at Mortella’s haystacks, then through the open door at Grothilde’s barn. All the time, she kept the spell firmly in her mind so she couldn’t forget it.
Focusing her attention back to the cauldron eventually, try as she might, Gertie failed to make even one little spark. She would have been happy with a feeble wisp of smoke. But there was nothing. At that moment, she heard the shouts as Ma Grimthorpe rushed in, out of breath and red in the face.
‘Gertie, STOP!’ she shrieked.
The shocked girl was led to the door by her gasp
ing mother.
‘Oh dear. Did I do that?’ asked the bewildered little girl innocently. She stared across at the smoke billowing from Mortella’s hay, and the flames dancing merrily along the roof of Grothilde’s barn.
‘Well, it’s quite good that I made fire, isn’t it, Mummy?’ Gertie asked hopefully.
Gertie knew her Ma couldn’t be angry with her for long. Like everyone said, she was such a sweet child. They also said that was the problem. Ma wanted Gertie to at least behave like a little devil sometimes. It was what learning to be a witch was all about, she had been told. Gertie stared at her mother with big blue eyes beginning to brim with tears.
Ma Grimthorpe hugged the little girl to her. ‘One thing you must always remember, dear,’ she insisted in a worried voice, ‘is never to let your gaze wander when you are chanting spells. Oh yes, and one other thing,’ she added as an afterthought, looking anxiously at the lines of witches hurriedly passing buckets of water along to throw on the fires. ‘If anyone asks can you do the Fire Spell, tell them no.’
Gertie didn’t believe in telling lies. Even little white ones. This time though, she saw the sense in what Ma said. The witches were having awful trouble with Grothilde’s barn, because Grothilde herself was at the throwing end of the line. As yet, she had failed to hit the barn once. She had only succeeded in soaking the witches behind her, and an inquisitive seagull flying low to get a better look.
‘All right, Mummy,’ Gertie agreed. ‘After all, it isn’t really a lie, because I wasn’t able to light the fire under the cauldron.’
Ma Grimthorpe sighed and shook her head.
‘Maybe it’s because she tries TOO hard,’ suggested Granny as she sat rocking and knitting on that same night once Gertie had gone to bed. ‘The spell only worked when she relaxed a bit. What she needs is a familiar. That’ll help her target her spells properly.’
Ma began to think. Many witches had what they called a ‘familiar’. To most, it was a black cat. It would go everywhere with its owner, like a pet. Even on her broomstick!
