The Power of Poppy Pendle

by Natasha Lowe

  Deirdre stopped and turned around. “Yeah, it worked all right. It was horrible, really horrible. We’re not allowed to talk about it, but I’ll tell you this,” Deirdre said. “It gave me nightmares for months afterward.”

  Poppy was undeniably nervous about entering her magical management class. She tapped lightly on the door and crept inside.

  “You’re late,” Miss Corns said, glancing at the clock.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Corns.”

  “Well, sit down quickly, please. I was just saying that we have some special guests visiting to talk with you all today. What you are about to hear is not to be discussed with any of the other students. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Corns,” the girls chanted.

  “If any of you ignore this order, there will be swift and severe penalties. Am I clear?”

  Before the girls could answer again, a loud knocking sounded on the door. It was immediately flung open, and a man dressed in a black guard’s uniform marched in, followed by two other similarly clad men carrying an empty iron cage. There were no smiles or cheerful greetings as the cage was slammed onto the floor. The first guard shook Miss Corns firmly by the hand, and then he turned and addressed the girls. “Any of you know what this is?” he said.

  “It’s a cage,” Megan Roberts answered.

  “That is correct. Does anyone know what it’s for?”

  “Keeping wild animals in?” Fanny Freeman whispered.

  “Close,” the guard replied. He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote the word EVIL on the blackboard. “That cage is what you’ll get carted off to Scrubs in if you misbehave. And some of our witches, like this one here,” he continued, thrusting out a large, glossy photograph of a bald-headed woman, “never ever leave their cages.” The witch’s eyes were so wild and angry that Poppy actually pushed back her chair, scraping the legs across the floor.

  “Calm down. It’s only a photograph,” the guard reminded them, propping the picture up on the blackboard next to the word EVIL. “She can’t hurt you.”

  “Oh, but it’s awful,” Fanny Freeman wailed softly. She traced a sickle moon in the air with her finger. This was a sign the girls made whenever they saw or heard something distressing.

  “Take a really good look at a very, very wicked witch,” the guard said. “If you’re ever tempted to dabble in black magic or misuse your powers, then I can promise you right now, that is how you’re going to end up. Locked away forever.”

  “No!” Megan Roberts whimpered, but the guard slowly nodded his head.

  “What you see there is a witch who went over to the dark side,” he told them. Poppy stared at the photograph. The witch was wearing a purple boilersuit with a large black number ten printed on the front. “She wasn’t always like this,” the guard said. “At one time she was just like you lot, a good Ruthersfield girl. Head girl, if I’m right?” And he looked at Miss Corns for confirmation.

  “Yes, indeed,” she acknowledged in a quiet voice. “And believe it or not, one of our finest students.”

  “What did she do?” Megan whispered.

  “Speak up,” the guard barked. “I can’t hear you.”

  Megan cleared her throat and tried again. “What did she do to end up in Scrubs?”

  “She brewed storms. Powerful storms.” The guard thumped the picture with his fist. “Whole bottom half of Italy is underwater because of her.”

  “Not Madeline Reynolds,” Poppy gasped, trying to connect the wistful, smiling girl she had seen pictures of in books with this scary-looking creature.

  “That’s right,” the guard said, striding right over to Poppy’s desk. He smelled of tinned stew. “An A plus for the correct answer. You’re a bright girl.”

  “I did a biography project on Madeline Reynolds,” Poppy mumbled, looking away from the blackboard. Even though it was just a photograph, the witch appeared to be staring straight at her, and Poppy felt her face flush with heat. “Madeline Reynolds had a beautiful voice,” Poppy said. “She loved opera, but her parents didn’t want her to have a singing career.”

  “So what?” The guard shrugged. “That’s not important. We’re here to talk about the fact that she’s evil, which is why she ended up in Scrubs Prison. No exercise allowed for this one. No freedom at all. Fed right through those bars like the wild creature she is.” Pulling a bottle of water out of his pocket, the guard unscrewed the lid, tilted back his head, and proceeded to gulp down every last drop. He burped, wiped a hand across his mouth, and carried on speaking. “All prisoners at Scrubs get two meals a day, and it’s always the same thing: water, porridge, and grapefruit.”

  “Why grapefruit?” one of the girls asked timidly.

  “So they don’t get scurvy. Nothing worse than a witch covered in scurvy. Their skin cracks and they get these awful bumps.” The guard shivered. “Can’t stand the sight of them, so we make sure they eat their grapefruit.”

  “How terrible,” Poppy whispered. Then unable to stop herself, she asked, “Doesn’t Madeline Reynolds ever get let out of her cage? Not even for a few minutes?”

  “Nope, not that one, but she’s a ten, one of our worst offenders,” the guard said, gesturing at the photograph. “You see, we have a numbering system for all of our prisoners. If you’re in for a more minor infraction like forecasting the stock market or fixing a football game, well, that makes you anything from a one to a five, depending on the severity of your crime. Those witches have more freedom. We let them out of their cages twice a day for job duty.”

  Fanny Freeman raised her hand. “What kind of jobs?” she asked.

  “Sorting out the moldy grapefruit from the good grapefruit, peeling the grapefruit, and grinding up the rinds for compost with their fingernails.”

  “Oooh.” Fanny made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Well, they’re the lucky ones,” the guard sneered. “If you’re a six or higher, then you don’t get to leave your cage, ever.”

  “What number would you get for turning someone into a toad?” a voice from the back of the class piped up.

  “Depends.” The guard cleared his throat. “We’ve got a witch in Scrubs at the moment who turned a whole family into hamsters. She’s a seven, but it’s the court’s job to decide what number to give them. Our job is to make sure they don’t escape. And in case any of you were wondering,” he added, “all of our cages are housed in long, narrow buildings with no windows. Each cage is locked inside a soundproof cell so there’s no communication at all between the prisoners. Meals are eaten in solitude, and there’s no talking on job duty. The guards make sure of that.”

  “Can they have visitors?” Megan said.

  “Absolutely not, and no letters from home, either. We don’t allow our prisoners any contact with the outside world.” The guard started to walk slowly up and down the aisles. “Our exact location is top secret, as I’m sure you all know. The only information we give out is that we’re on an island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and”—here he pulled back his shoulders, beginning to swagger a bit—“I’m proud to tell you that our little island is fully self-sufficient. We grow all our own grapefruit and harvest an enormous oat crop twice a year for porridge.”

  “Truly impressive,” Miss Corns murmured. The guard gave her a brisk smile.

  “Just so as you’re all aware,” he suddenly barked, banging Fanny Freeman’s desk and scaring some of the girls right out of their seats. “Once you’re in Scrubs, you’re in Scrubs for life. Got that?” he shouted, spitting out a spray of saliva with his words.

  There was a long, drawn-out silence in the room until finally Miss Corns said, “Well, thank you for coming, Sergeant Murphy. I think the girls have heard enough.” She looked as pale as the rest of her class.

  “Happy to oblige,” the guard replied, clicking his heels together. He strode toward the door and held it open while
the two other guards picked up the cage and marched out. “And remember, girls,” Sergeant Murphy said. “Just say no to evil. You do not want to end up in one of those.”

  As soon as the Scrubs party had left, Megan Roberts started to cry, loudly, and so did a handful of other girls. Poppy stared into space, feeling too stunned to make a sound. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen, that horrifying picture of Madeline Reynolds. She also couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit sorry for the poor witch. Nobody should be subjected to a life like that, and although there had been hatred in Madeline Reynolds’s eyes, Poppy felt certain she had glimpsed sadness in the photograph as well.

  “Magic is a gift you have all been given, girls,” Miss Corns said softly. “It’s up to each one of you to manage it wisely.”

  “But what if we don’t want to use our magic when we grow up?” Poppy questioned. “What if we want to do something else with our lives?” Miss Corns was silent for a minute, and then she gave a nervous laugh.

  “My goodness me, Poppy Pendle. You do say the strangest things. For a moment there I thought you were serious.” Poppy sighed and chewed at the end of her pencil. Even though she wasn’t trapped in a real cage with iron bars, that’s a bit how she felt right now, sitting inside Ruthersfield Academy, feeling so hot and stuffy she could scarcely breathe.

  When Poppy met Charlie down by the canal later on that afternoon, she was in a gloomy mood. “It was an awful day,” Poppy said, flinging her briefcase and broomstick at a patch of ferns and climbing on top of the wall. Poppy yanked the lid off the container of lemon bars and offered them to her friend. “I don’t want to talk about it, because it was so horrible.” Poppy picked up a handful of stones and threw them into the canal. She watched the circles ripple out, while Charlie sat beside her eating lemon bars. A goose waddled by, pecking at some crumbs on the ground. He gave a low honk, and Charlie giggled, throwing him a tiny corner of buttery crust.

  “These are delicious,” Charlie said softly, touching Poppy on the arm. A lump formed in Poppy’s throat.

  “I wish my parents thought so,” Poppy said. “All they care about is magic.” She scooped up another handful of stones and chucked them at the far bank. “I’m not even allowed to practice my cake decorating anymore, although using a piping bag requires just as much skill as a wand, if you ask me.” Poppy sighed and added, “There’s an interesting technique for buttercream frosting I’d like to try.”

  “Come to my house,” Charlie suggested. “You can make it there if you like, and I’d love my mum and dad to meet you.”

  “Gosh, Charlie, can I?” Poppy spun round to face her friend, almost dropping the lemon bars. “That would be so great. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It would be fun.”

  “Oh, Charlie, thank you, thank you so much, but don’t tell them I’m magic,” Poppy begged. “It always causes problems.”

  Chapter Seven

  ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

  Time to Go

  IT WAS NOT THAT DIFFICULT FOR Poppy TO PERSUADE HER MOTHER TO LET her go to tea at Charlie’s house. For one thing, Poppy didn’t mention the fact that Charlie was not a Ruthersfield girl. “I’m so glad you’re finally making friends,” Edith Pendle said happily. “Is she on the basketball team?”

  “Ah, no, she’s not exactly sporty.”

  “Is she in any of your classes?”

  “She’s the same age as me,” Poppy said truthfully.

  “I wonder if she’s the first witch in their family? Do you know?”

  “Mum, please.” Poppy gave her mother an imploring look. “We don’t talk about that kind of stuff.”

  “Well, you must invite Charlie back to our house next week,” Mrs. Pendle insisted. “We can show her our family tree.”

  Poppy had no intention of bringing Charlie anywhere near her parents, especially not after meeting Charlie’s mum and dad. They didn’t hover over the girls or badger them with questions about homework, and no one minded when Poppy sprawled on the floor next to Charlie, flipping through Mrs. Monroe’s cookbooks. Afterward Mrs. Monroe even let them practice making chocolate buttercream in the kitchen. Then the whole family, including Charlie’s mum and dad, spooned frosting straight out of the pan. This was something Poppy couldn’t imagine doing with her own parents. Whenever she took out a mixing bowl at home, her mother’s lips got all pursed. At Charlie’s, Poppy felt completely happy, just like a normal girl.

  “Please do come again,” Charlie’s mum said as Poppy reluctantly got ready to leave. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, and Charlie was right. You’re a wonderful baker. Your parents must be very proud.”

  “Oh, they are,” Poppy agreed glumly, putting on her blazer. “They think I’m amazing.”

  At that precise moment the doorbell rang, and Poppy could see her mother’s eager face peering through the glass panel. “Mum, what are you doing here?” Poppy said nervously as soon as the door opened. “I told you I’d walk home.”

  “I wanted to meet your friend’s parents,” Mrs. Pendle said, smiling so hard she looked uncomfortable. “These silly girls,” she fussed. “Imagine walking when you can ride a broomstick.” Charlie’s mum seemed puzzled, and Mrs. Pendle added, “Poppy’s top in her class at flying, you know.”

  “Flying?” Mrs. Monroe looked even more confused, and then her face cleared. “Oh, Poppy must go to Ruthersfield!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea, how exciting.”

  “And doesn’t your daughter attend the academy?” Mrs. Pendle said.

  “Heavens, no. We don’t have enough magic in this family to bend a teaspoon!”

  “Really!” Edith Pendle’s lips tightened as she ushered Poppy outside, and she didn’t speak again until they were in the car, driving home.

  “What have you got all over you?” Edith finally snapped, glancing at Poppy in the rearview mirror. “You’re covered in something sticky.”

  “Chocolate,” Poppy admitted, not mentioning that it was from a batch of frosting she had been allowed to make.

  “Honestly!” Mrs. Pendle gave a succession of heavy sighs. “I’ll have to give that a good soaking tonight.”

  “Mum, she’s a nice girl,” Poppy blurted out, wanting her mother to understand. “She’s my friend.”

  “Poppy, she goes to the elementary school,” Mrs. Pendle shot back. “Lots of girls are going to want to be your friend, simply because you’re a witch.”

  “But Charlie’s not like that. She doesn’t care that I’m a witch, and she’s funny, Mum. I really like her.”

  Mrs. Pendle gave another dramatic sigh. “You should have told me she wasn’t a Ruthersfield girl. I trusted you, Poppy.”

  “Mum, if you knew she went to the elementary school, you wouldn’t have let me see her,” Poppy said, starting to cry.

  “Listen, sweetheart.” Mrs. Pendle’s voice softened. “Daddy and I know what’s best for you, and right now you really need to be concentrating on your magic.” She reached back a hand and patted Poppy on the leg. “So for your own good, Poppy, you’re not to see that girl again.”

  “But she’s nice,” Poppy said, huddling by the car window. “I like her, Mum. She’s the only friend I’ve got.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Poppy. There are plenty of nice girls at Ruthersfield. Girls just like you who are special.”

  “I don’t want to be special,” Poppy wept, kicking the back of her mother’s seat. And then she said the words that had been building up inside her for months. “I don’t want to be a witch.” It felt so good, Poppy said them again, louder this time. “I don’t want to be a witch, Mum. I hate magic.” She could see the back of her mother’s neck stiffen. “Mum, I truly don’t want to be a witch,” Poppy shouted. “Please try to understand.”

  “Now, Poppy, you’re just having a bad day,” Mrs. Pendle said at last. She switched on the
radio. “We all get those once in a while.”

  Poppy kicked her mother’s seat again in frustration. “It wasn’t a bad day. It was one of the best days ever. I loved being with Charlie.” Her mother didn’t reply, and Poppy banged her fist on the door panel, needing to be heard. “Listen to me, Mum. I don’t want to be a witch,” she said, but her mother had turned up the volume, drowning out Poppy’s words. Poppy slumped back with a sigh, sinking down in her seat. She saw her mother glance at her in the rearview mirror and turned her head away, feeling invisible.

  As soon as they got home, Poppy charged straight upstairs. “I know you don’t understand this now,” Mrs. Pendle panted, following right behind her, “but you will when you’re older, I promise. Charlie would be a distraction for you, and this is an important year, Poppy. You can’t lose your focus.”

  “She’s nice,” Poppy sobbed, flinging herself down on her bed. “And Charlie’s parents don’t mind if she reads cookbooks.”

  “Charlie’s parents don’t have a little witch in the making, do they?” Mrs. Pendle clucked. “Now, how about this weekend we all take that trip to the Museum of Magical Discoveries I promised you? They have a whole display on Great-Granny Mabel and her hair invention.”

  “Mum, please go away,” Poppy whispered, crying into her pillow. “I’d like to be alone.”

  “Well, there’s no need to be rude, Poppy. I was only trying to be nice.”

  “Mum, I really hate magic,” Poppy pleaded, lifting up her head and looking at her mother out of red, watery eyes. “I hate it. I hate it. You just never listen to me.”

  “I’m going to put the kettle on.” Edith Pendle sighed. “Really, I’m just exhausted by all of this.” She smoothed Poppy’s skirt down. “Think about my museum idea, sweetheart. We could all do with a day out.”

  Poppy turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes. Living here was unbearable. Nothing she said made a difference. Her mother would never understand how she felt.