The Power of Poppy Pendle

by Natasha Lowe

  “Do you think I could make him real again?” Charlie wondered, and Marie Claire shook her head.

  “Only Poppy can do that, but perhaps our Twirlies have worked, chérie? Why don’t you go and see?”

  Thank goodness it was a Saturday, so there was no school for Charlie. With a churning stomach, she headed over to the canal, anxious about what she would find. At the bottom of the grassy track that led down from the road, Charlie stopped. She stood quite still, staring in the direction of the cottage. The door was opening and she watched as Poppy appeared, blinking in the sunlight and shielding her eyes from the early morning glare. It had worked! Charlie was just about to shout something out when she noticed the plastic bag of Twirlies still lying on the grass where she’d left it the night before. So Poppy hadn’t seen them yet. Well, she would now, but Poppy paid no attention to the bag at all. She ran down to the canal and jumped in fully clothed, clutching her magic wand. Now Charlie was worried. No one went swimming in the canal. The sides were straight and steep and the water was a dark, murky green. She could see a family of ducks floating down, and Charlie watched in distress as Poppy whipped out her wand and yelled, “Consticrabihaltus.” The ducks immediately turned to stone, and Poppy picked them up, throwing them onto the bank. They landed among the reeds with a succession of dull thuds. Then, after dunking her head under the water, she climbed out again, shaking herself vigorously like a dog. Looking neither left nor right, Poppy stormed up the bank. Even her walk was filled with a fury that made Charlie nervous just to watch. With a massive leap, she vaulted over the stone wall and marched straight back to the cottage, ignoring the bag of Twirlies as she stomped inside.

  “Oh no!” Charlie groaned softly. Poppy hadn’t even tried one. For a brief instant she considered trying to talk to Poppy again, but the thought of that blank face and those dull, unseeing eyes stopped her. There was no point in going back to the cottage just yet, not unless she wanted to be turned into stone. Charlie didn’t actually believe that Poppy would use the Stop It Now Spell on her, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

  Marie Claire sighed with disappointment when she heard what had happened to the Twirlies. “And they were so good too,” she said. “I just know Poppy would have loved them.”

  “So, what next?” Charlie questioned, slumping over Marie Claire’s butcher-block worktable. “I’m so worried that Poppy’s going to turn someone else into stone, and then it’ll be too late. I’ll have to tell the police where she is, and poor Poppy will end up in jail.”

  “No, no, we cannot let that happen,” Marie Claire said, pummeling a mound of bread dough. “Last night I couldn’t sleep, and so I did a lot of thinking. Too much thinking,” she added, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving it streaked with flour. Charlie noticed that Marie Claire had dark, bluish circles under her eyes, and her skin looked puffy with tiredness. “I believe that what Poppy needs is an oven,” Marie Claire said, shaping the dough into baguettes. “Once she starts baking again, she won’t be able to stay angry for long.”

  “But that’s impossible,” Charlie said, squishing a piece of dough between her fingers. “There’s no electricity in the cottage, and how on earth would we get an oven hooked up?”

  “Yes, it won’t be easy,” Marie Claire agreed. “But it’s not impossible, either. I have a small gas oven we can use that runs from its own little canister of propane gas. I cook with it when the electricity goes out so I can still bake my breads.” Marie Claire thought for a moment, then continued. “We could deliver it at night when Poppy is sleeping. She may be a witch, but she still needs to sleep. I’ll put together a box of baking supplies, the best Normandy butter, some of my special bittersweet chocolate, flour and sugar of course, and some fresh local eggs.” Marie Claire sounded excited, and Charlie couldn’t help thinking that it just might work.

  “Let’s give her a cookie sheet and some cake pans,” Charlie added, beginning to feel enthusiastic about the plan.

  “The only problem,” Marie Claire murmured, chewing on her lip, “is how to carry it in. I couldn’t lift an oven, and neither could you.”

  “We could ask my dad,” Charlie suggested. “I’m sure he’d help. He has a pickup truck, and he’s really strong.”

  “Mmmm.” Marie Claire pondered this for a moment. “He’d have to know about Poppy,” she said at last. “We couldn’t lie to him about that. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Oh, he won’t mind. I know he won’t. Not if it means helping my friend.”

  “Then we shall ask him together,” Marie Claire said, taking Charlie’s hand and giving it an optimistic pat. “Come on. No time to waste. But you must tell your father everything that has happened.”

  After listening to the full story from Charlie and Marie Claire, Mr. Monroe sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t think I can do this. It’s a police matter now, by the sound of things.”

  “Dad, you’ve always taught me to trust my instincts,” Charlie said, “and Poppy is a good, kind girl. I can’t abandon her.”

  “Mr. Monroe,” Marie Claire said quietly. “Your daughter is right about Poppy. And everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

  “Please?” Charlie pleaded, pressing her hands together hard.

  Mr. Monroe looked at his daughter for a long moment. Then he smiled and said, “Very well, Charlie. If your mother agrees, I’ll help you move the oven. Poppy Pendle can have her second chance.”

  Mrs. Monroe took a little more convincing. “I’ve heard about witches who cross over to the dark side,” she worried aloud. “I know Poppy was your friend, honey—”

  “Is my friend,” Charlie corrected.

  “Is your friend, but this makes me nervous. Getting an oven into that cottage without disturbing her will be like trying to step over a sleeping dragon. What if she wakes up and turns you all to stone?”

  “Mum, we have to do this,” Charlie begged. “It’s our only chance. When Poppy sees the little oven and all the wonderful ingredients, she won’t be able to stop herself from making cookies. I know her so well, Mum, and once Poppy starts baking, she’ll stop being angry. It’s the only way we can reverse the spell and get her back.”

  “Do you really think so?” Mrs. Monroe looked skeptical.

  “She’s my friend,” Charlie stated. “Poppy helped me the first day I met her. She rescued my sneakers from a tree. That’s what friends do. They help each other.”

  “Well, this is a little more risky than rescuing a pair of sneakers,” Charlie’s mum pointed out, but she couldn’t help thinking it would be nice for her daughter to have a real friend again. As far as she was concerned, Charlie was spending far too much time talking to a stone goose.

  So later on that afternoon Charlie’s dad drove his truck down to the patisserie. He maneuvered Marie Claire’s small white oven and a canister of propane gas onto a handcart and pushed them outside. Then, with the help of Charlie and Marie Claire, he loaded the things into the back of his truck. Charlie had helped Marie Claire assemble an enormous box of baking supplies. There were fat, moist vanilla beans from Madagascar, powdered sugar with which to make frosting, juicy organic lemons, as well as bags of flour and sugar and pots of local cream. Marie Claire had also put in two cookie sheets, three cake pans, a cupcake tin, and mini brioche molds. She even remembered a mixing bowl, wooden spoons, measuring cups, and a wire whisk. “There!” Marie Claire said with a nod of satisfaction. “How can Poppy resist when she sees all these wonderful goodies.”

  They planned to wait until early the following morning for delivery. Around three a.m., Mr. Monroe decided, when it would still be dark and Poppy should be sleeping. Mrs. Monroe had sent Charlie to bed early that night, insisting she get some rest. “You still need your sleep, Charlie,” she had said. “Especially if you plan to go chasing around Potts Bottom later on.”

  “But I’m not the
least bit tired, Mum,” Charlie had grumbled as she climbed into bed. She was sure she would never get to sleep, but at some point Charlie did doze off because the next thing she knew her father was gently shaking her awake, whispering for her to get dressed.

  Marie Claire stood waiting outside the patisserie for them, wearing a long black cloak and a black wool hat. “I know this will work,” Charlie said as they bounced along in the truck. There were no other cars on the road, and it felt strange to be out at such an early hour. As they turned toward the canal, Mr. Monroe cut the truck’s engine.

  “We can coast down here,” he said. “No need to make unnecessary noise.” They rolled down the bumpy pathway and came to a stop at the bottom. “Now, you two can wait in the truck.”

  “No, Dad, I’m coming,” Charlie whispered. “You need help.”

  “I’ll be fine, Charlie. You and Marie Claire are to stay in the truck. This isn’t a game.”

  “But how will you get the oven over the wall without Poppy hearing?” Charlie questioned softly. “You can’t go through the gate, Dad. It’s surrounded by nettles.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Mr. Monroe said, and they all sat in the truck for a moment, staring at the shadowy cottage. It wasn’t as dark as they had hoped for. The sky was beautifully clear, lit up by the silvery glow from a full moon.

  “What’s that?” Charlie suddenly whispered, pointing at a dark shape that had swooped out of the cottage window. “It looks like an enormous bat.”

  “It’s Poppy!” Marie Claire gasped as the silhouette of a girl on a broomstick flew overhead. They could see her long, tangled hair flying out behind her, but she didn’t look down or appear to notice the truck. Her hands gripped the broomstick, and the determined set of her jaw was clearly visible in the queer silvery light.

  “She looks like she knows where she’s going,” Charlie’s dad said as they watched her disappear in the direction of Potts Bottom.

  “I wonder where,” Charlie whispered, holding tight to her father’s arm.

  “No time to worry about that now. Come on, let’s shift this oven inside. Who knows how long she’ll be gone.”

  Since Poppy had clearly left the cottage, Marie Claire and Charlie helped out by carrying the supplies. In fact, they all agreed it would probably have been impossible to move the oven into the cottage without Poppy hearing. Charlie’s dad had on long, thick work gloves and tall rubber boots. He kicked open the gate and wheeled the oven through on the handcart, plowing down nettles and bumping his way over the tall grass. There were so many stone creatures in the garden it was difficult to find a clear path. So Charlie walked ahead, carefully moving the animals and birds aside. She tried not to think about PC Flower, still crouched out of sight behind the holly bush. When they got to the front door, Charlie felt her legs go weak and a sick feeling lurched in her stomach. Even though they had seen Poppy leave on her broomstick, and she wanted to help her friend, she was still nervous about going in.

  It was Marie Claire who opened the door and entered first, followed by Mr. Monroe and the oven, and then Charlie. Luckily, Charlie’s dad had remembered to bring a flashlight with him, and he switched it on. “Mon Dieu!” Marie Claire murmured as the powerful beam picked up empty cans of stew, Twirlie wrappers, and Fudge Monkey boxes scattered across the floor.

  “I did tell you,” Charlie whispered.

  “Poor thing,” Marie Claire sighed. “What are these Fudge Monkeys?” she asked, picking up an empty box and peering at the ingredients list. “This is not food.” Marie Claire sounded horrified as she read the back of the packet. “There is nothing in here but chemicals! Additives! Preservatives!”

  “They have a shelf life of forever,” Charlie’s dad said. “Twirlies never go bad, and, besides, I loved them as a kid,” he confessed quietly. “Still do every once in a while.”

  “Disgusting!” Marie Claire shuddered. “Poppy must be out of her mind. Let us set up the oven at once. This eating of Fudge Monkeys cannot go on.”

  They cleared out a corner of the room to make space for the stove to stand. Mr. Monroe made sure the gas tank was hooked up, and Charlie carefully arranged all the supplies on one of the empty packing cases. Then they stood back to admire the effect. It looked ridiculously out of place with its white enamel door and shiny chrome burners. “Oh, it’s perfect!” Charlie said, skipping about in excitement. She gave her father a hug. “Thank you for helping,” she whispered into his shirt.

  Mr. Monroe ruffled Charlie’s curls. “Let’s hope Poppy Pendle makes the most of her second chance, eh!”

  “I really think this will work. I really do,” Charlie said, and she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what Poppy would bake first.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

  A Bag of Almond Cakes

  ON THE DRIVE BACK HOME CHARLIE STUCK HER HEAD out the window, staring up at the sky. She was trying to spot Poppy flying around on her broomstick. “I do wonder where she went,” Charlie said, but it wasn’t until the next morning that the answer became clear. Mr. Monroe almost choked on his toast and marmalade as he read aloud from the front page of the Potts Bottom Gazette. “‘Early this morning at around three thirty a.m., a robbery took place at the Super Savers Market. Several canned goods and Twirlie bars were taken from the shop. Police did respond to the alarm call, but no one was arrested. Unfortunately, two officers and a stock boy were discovered at the scene of the crime, all of them having been turned to stone. It is thought that this break-in is connected to an incident last Wednesday, when a Mr. Darren Smegs, the manager of Super Savers, was also turned to stone. Police are still searching for a young girl on a broomstick, whom the Gazette can now report is believed to be Poppy Pendle of Ten Pudding Lane. Miss Pendle’s parents have also been turned to stone, and if anyone has information on the whereabouts of Poppy Pendle, please contact the police station immediately. Constable Flower, who was working on the case, is still reported missing. The endangerment of a police officer is punishable by life imprisonment. At this point, the inquiry has been handed over to higher authorities.’”

  “Oh no!” Charlie wailed, pushing aside her Rice Krispies. She had suddenly lost her appetite. “This is awful. I must go and tell Marie Claire at once.”

  As soon as she opened the patisserie door, Charlie knew Marie Claire had read the headlines. There was no one else in the shop, and poor Marie Claire was hunched over the counter, staring at a copy of the Potts Bottom Gazette. When she looked up, her face was drained of color. “We must go down to the canal at once,” Marie Claire said. “I only hope it is not too late and Poppy hasn’t been discovered.”

  Not even bothering to lock the patisserie door, Marie Claire and Charlie hurried through the village. As they started down the canal path Charlie sniffed the air and said hopefully, “I think I can smell cookies.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Marie Claire muttered, but the answer quickly became obvious. Whatever Charlie had smelled, it certainly wasn’t cookies baked in the little gas oven, because blocking the middle of the track was the stove. Only it wasn’t shiny white enamel anymore. It was smooth gray stone, and scattered around it were stone bags of sugar, stone eggs, a stone whisk, and even a stone bar of chocolate. Marie Claire and Charlie stared at the carnage in horror. “Oh my, oh my.” Marie Claire sank down on the grass. “This is awful, really awful.” She buried her face in her hands. Then after a moment she whispered, “How do you think she got it out here?”

  “Threw it,” Charlie said in a dull voice. “You forget how strong Poppy is. She could lift anything.” Sinking down on the grass beside Marie Claire, Charlie began to cry. Not great heaving sobs, but quietly, as if the hope was leaking out of her. “They’re going to take Poppy away now, aren’t they? Ms. Roach will make me tell the police where she is, and they’ll lock her up
in Scrubs. Oh, it’s just not fair,” Charlie sobbed, beginning to sound angry. “I thought this would work, I really did.”

  “I did too, chérie.” Marie Claire sighed. “I did too.”

  Charlie sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “Poppy wanted to have a bakery just like yours when she grew up. That was her dream, you know, to own a bakery.” Marie Claire was staring into space and she didn’t answer. She had picked up a little stone bottle of almond essence and was rubbing it between her fingers.

  “Maybe,” Marie Claire murmured to herself. “If I can remember what went into them. It just might work. Like Proust and his madeleine.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlie said, not that she really cared. It was too late now.

  “I believe I have one last idea we could try,” Marie Claire said softly. “It is a special kind of cake and—”

  “We’ve tried making her things to eat,” Charlie cried out. “And it doesn’t work. Poppy won’t touch anything we give her.”

  “So that is why,” Marie Claire said slowly. “That is why we must give these little cakes to her ourselves. Hand them over, face-to-face, and if she tries one, I believe it just might—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Charlie exclaimed, cutting Marie Claire off in midsentence. “She’s like a mad person, a crazy girl.”

  “I know, but what choice do we have?” Marie Claire shrugged. “If we don’t try this, then yes, you are right, child, the police will come and take her off to jail.”

  Back at the patisserie Charlie didn’t say a word as she watched Marie Claire mix sugar and almond paste together in her favorite china bowl. She beat in eggs, sifted over flour, and gently stirred in melted butter and a dash of real almond extract. A pinch of salt and then the batter went into the little greased molds shaped like shells.