Honesty Wart

by Alan MacDonald

  ‘I left the snail in its shell,’ he explained. ‘I wasn’t sure how to get the juice.’

  Gran took the snail from him, set it on the floor and walloped it with a heavy book. CRUNCH!

  ‘Snail juice,’ she said, showing him the sticky mess stuck to the book cover. She scraped it into the pot along with the bits of shell. Honesty felt he was going to be sick.

  Gran wrinkled her nose, sniffing him.

  ‘What have you been up to? Jumping in cowpats?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ sighed Honesty. ‘I ran into a problem.’

  Gran regarded him shrewdly. ‘The blacksmith’s boy eh? You should stand up to him. Don’t let him push you around.’

  ‘I don’t!’ Honesty sat down on a three-legged stool. ‘Anyway, he’s ten times my size.’

  ‘Size isn’t what counts. It’s what you keep up here.’ Gran tapped her head.

  ‘My hair?’

  ‘Your brain, you numbskull! Your brain.’

  Honesty didn’t answer. He couldn’t see how using your brain could help against Jem Swelter. It wasn’t as if you could challenge him to a spelling contest.

  ‘How did you come by this then?’ Gran picked up the long strand of Swelter’s hair, holding it between her thumb and finger. Honesty explained how he’d spotted the hair on the collar of Swelter’s jacket.

  Gran nodded, showing her three yellow teeth. ‘See? You used your head. Maybe you’re not such a dullard.’ She dropped the hair into the cauldron and they watched it swirl round and round with the bits of snail-shell. Gran began to stir the pot, crooning some kind of weird song to herself. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Honesty’s neck.

  ‘Juice of nail and wing of bat,

  True love’s hair and tail of rat,

  He who drinks this loving potion

  Pierce his heart with sweet devotion.’

  ‘There, that should do the trick,’ said Gran.

  ‘You think it will work?’ asked Honesty. ‘He’ll actually fall in love with her?’

  ‘You’ll see. Drink this and he’ll fall down and kiss her feet.’

  ‘Eugh!’ said Honesty. Personally, he’d rather kiss a skunk’s bottom.

  ‘But Gran,’ he said, ‘aren’t you forgetting something? How are you going to make him drink it?’

  Gran gave him a look. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘You are.’

  Honesty held up his hands. ‘Oh no. I’ve done my part. I got everything you asked for. I’m not doing any more.’

  Gran scooped up Merlin from the floor and placed him in her lap.

  ‘As you wish. You won’t be wanting that present then.’

  Honesty stared. ‘What present?’

  ‘The one I was going to give you for Christmas.’

  ‘You’ve got me a present?’ Honesty hardly ever got any presents. His parents couldn’t afford them. Even on his birthday all he got was a second-hand book called Prayers and Hymns for Glad Occasions.

  ‘Well,’ said Gran, ‘it doesn’t matter anyway. There isn’t going to be any Christmas.’

  ‘But Gran, you promised!’

  ‘Only if you helped me – that was the bargain.’

  Honesty sighed heavily. ‘All right, what do I have to do?’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Gran. ‘Come over here.’ She fetched a small bottle and dipped it in the cooking pot, filling it with dark green liquid. A cork went into the top. From the pocket of her dress, she produced a second bottle of the same size. ‘Two potions,’ she said. ‘Now, listen carefully. The green one is the love potion. Take it to Ratty Annie tomorrow and tell her the boy must drink it down, every drop. Got that?’

  Honesty nodded. ‘The green one for Ratty Annie.’

  Gran held up the second bottle. The potion inside was golden brown.

  ‘This one’s for Tom Turner and his bees. Whatever you do, don’t lose them.’

  ‘I won’t, Gran,’ promised Honesty. ‘Look, I’ll keep them in different pockets so I know which is which.’

  He tucked the bottles away, one in each of his jacket pockets. Gran made him go over her instructions several times, just to be sure.

  As he was going to the door, he remembered the conversation at supper and turned back.

  ‘Gran, there’s a man at Crowsfoot who can tell if you’re a witch.’

  ‘And why should that matter to me?’ said Gran.

  ‘Well, Dad was telling us at supper. If they prove you’re a witch, they hang you.’

  Gran didn’t seem to be listening. Her head was tilted back in her chair and her eyes were closing. Merlin had nestled back in her lap.

  Honesty crept out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. The voice made him jump.

  ‘AND TELL YOUR MOTHER TO BRING ME SOME BROTH!’

  Chapter 6

  In the Soup

  Ratty Annie’s house sat high above the valley all by itself. The climb up the hill was one that would have tested a mountain goat. Honesty paused to sit down on a rock and catch his breath. For once he was confident nothing could go wrong. All he had to do was deliver the two potions, then life would return to normal and he could start looking forward to Christmas. He dug into his pocket and took out one of the potion bottles to examine it. In the morning sunlight the dark green liquid shone like the sea.

  He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the dark shadow fall across him. The man was mounted on a horse and gazing down at him from under a wide-brimmed hat. His hair was straight and black as a Bible, framing his sharp face like a pair of curtains. He smiled a wintry smile that was all lips and no teeth.

  ‘Good day to you, my young friend!’

  ‘Oh – good day!’ Honesty jumped up and hastily stuffed the bottle back in his pocket. It clinked loudly against something.

  ‘And what are you hiding there?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In your pocket.’

  ‘Oh, that … um … nothing. Just water.’ Honesty found the more you lied, the easier it got. At this rate he’d be an expert.

  ‘Good,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m dying of thirst. Perhaps you can spare me a drop?’

  He bent down from his horse, reaching out a hand.

  ‘To – to drink?’ stammered Honesty.

  ‘If you’d be so kind.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to drink this. It’s … um … pond water. Look, it’s all green.’

  Honesty held up the seaweed-coloured potion to show him. The man seemed curious and took the bottle to examine it. He removed the cork and sniffed the contents. For one terrible moment Honesty thought he was going to tip back the bottle and drink the potion. He wished he would give it back.

  ‘So tell me, my young friend, what’s it for?’

  ‘For?’ repeated Honesty.

  ‘This pond water you keep in your pocket.’

  ‘Oh! er well …’ Honesty racked his brains for an explanation. ‘It’s … for the ducks,’ he said.

  The man made an O shape with his mouth. ‘The ducks??!’

  ‘In the duck pond. Sometimes it dries up in winter, you see, so I always carry a little pond water in case they … um … need it.’

  The stranger had evidently decided he was dealing with the village idiot. He handed back the bottle, which Honesty gratefully tucked away out of sight.

  ‘I am Silas Brood. You’ve heard the name, no doubt?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh. And what do they call you?’

  ‘Honesty, sir.’

  ‘A good name. Are you worthy of it? Do you always tell the truth?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I try to.’ Honesty checked to see if his nose had grown like Pinocchio’s.

  ‘You live round here?’ asked Brood.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you know of a village called Little Snoring?’

  ‘Little Snorley. That’s the church down there, in the valley.’ Honesty pointed out the grey spire of St Wilfred’s peeping above the trees.

  ‘Thank y
ou, Honesty. This is for you.’

  The man took out a coin and pressed it into Honesty’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again. I hope so. Good day to you.’ Brood tipped his hat, dug in his heels and the black horse ambled off, following the zigzag track down the hill. Honesty watched him go. He inspected the coin in his hand: a penny. Silas Brood. It was a funny name, but he seemed a friendly sort.

  Ratty Annie was waiting for him at the gate with her arms folded. Four or five skinny rats hung by their tails from the fence.

  ‘Who was that?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. But he gave me a penny.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know much, do you?’ said Ratty Annie scornfully.

  Honesty grinned. ‘I know you’re in love with Jem Swelter.’

  Ratty Annie thumped him hard on the arm.

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’ said Honesty.

  ‘I felt like it,’ replied Ratty Annie. ‘Anyway, have you got it? She promised you’d bring it today.’

  Honesty glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching them from the house. He dug in his right pocket. It was empty. For one horrible moment he thought he’d lost the potion altogether. Then he checked in his other pocket and remembered he must have put it in there when he was talking to Silas Brood. He brought out both the potion bottles and showed them to Ratty Annie.

  ‘Two?’ she frowned. ‘Why are there two?’

  ‘One of them’s for Tom Turner. I’m going on there next.’

  ‘Which one is mine then?’

  Honesty looked at the two bottles of potion in his hand. It dawned on him that he couldn’t remember. Hadn’t Gran said the green potion was for Ratty Annie? Or was it the golden-brown one? The more he thought about it, the less he was sure.

  Ratty Annie pushed her face into his impatiently. ‘I said which one is mine?’

  ‘Oh! It’s … ah …’ Honesty dithered. ‘This one!’ He plumped for the golden one and handed it over.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course!’ He was certain. Almost certain.

  ‘What am I meant to do with it?’ asked Ratty Annie.

  ‘Just make sure Swelter drinks it – every drop or it won’t work.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Ratty Annie with a smile. She was already imagining Jem following her around with a lovestruck expression. Honesty left her by the gate, glad that at least he didn’t have to face Swelter a second time.

  By the time he reached old Tom Turner’s cottage, the church clock had struck twelve. Turner was crouched over his beehive, looking through the hole where the bees came in and out. He was dressed in his beekeeping outfit – an ancient straw hat with a piece of netting hanging over his face.

  ‘Mr Turner?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Tom Turner peeled back the net and peered at him.

  ‘It’s me, sir. Honesty.’

  ‘If it’s honey you want, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t got any.’

  ‘It’s all right. My gran sent me,’ said Honesty. ‘She asked me to give you this.’ He reached into his pocket and handed over the bottle.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Tom Turner.

  ‘The potion you asked for.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘For the bees. Remember?’

  Tom Turner beckoned him closer. ‘I know they’re in there, but they don’t come out. I think they’re hiding from me.’ He pulled out the cork and sniffed the potion. ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Honesty. ‘They’re supposed to drink it, I imagine.’

  ‘Drink it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tom Turner shrugged, put the bottle to his lips and gulped it down in one go before Honesty could stop him.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘Could do with a little honey to sweeten it.’

  Honesty stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘Um, Mr Turner?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think it was meant for the bees.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The potion you just drank. It was for the bees.’

  Tom Turner frowned. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I did. You weren’t listening.’

  This wasn’t going to plan. He watched Tom Turner closely for any signs of change in him. He half expected him to sprout a tiny pair of wings and zoom off into the air.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’ The old man frowned at Honesty. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Honesty.’

  ‘Well, if it’s honey you’ve come for, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t got any.’

  Honesty decided it was time to go home. After all, Gran had asked him to deliver two potions and that’s exactly what he’d done. If things hadn’t gone quite to plan, it couldn’t be helped. In any case, it might be wiser not to say anything to Gran, he decided. At least if the potion did its work, Swelter would soon be hopelessly in love with Ratty Annie. That would be a sight worth seeing. Honesty climbed over a stile and back on to the main street, jumping over a muddy puddle. Coming in sight of his house, he stopped in his tracks. Standing in the yard was a large black horse.

  Chapter 7

  Witchfinder

  Honesty found his family sitting around the table. His mum, dad and sisters were there along with the tall, sharp-faced stranger he’d encountered that morning. Silas Brood turned his head as he came in. His raven hair was swept back from his high forehead.

  ‘You’re late,’ whispered Mercy.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for hours,’ added Patience.

  ‘And the soup’s getting cold,’ said Mercy, sticking out her tongue at him.

  Honesty slid into the seat next to Dad, aware of Brood watching him closely. He wondered what the man was doing here.

  Mum ladled watery turnip soup into six bowls. Honesty noticed that she’d set out the best cutlery, which usually only appeared on special occasions.

  ‘This is Mr Brood,’ she said. ‘He’s staying for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve met before,’ said Silas Brood, eyeing Honesty. ‘The boy who looks after ducks.’

  Honesty ignored his sisters’ puzzled looks. It would take too long to explain.

  ‘Turnip soup, Mr Brood?’ offered Mum.

  ‘You are kindness itself,’ smiled Silas Brood.

  ‘Patience, pass the salt to our guest.’

  Brood held up a hand. ‘Thank you, but I never take salt. Salt is the Devil’s invention.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I am a plain, simple man with simple tastes,’ said Brood. ‘A little soup, a morsel of bread – that is all I ask.’ He smiled his wintry smile.

  Mum quickly removed the salt and fetched the speckled brown loaf she’d baked for breakfast. Honesty watched hungrily as the guest cut himself a fat slice, leaving the crust to one side.

  ‘Butter?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Thank you. I never take butter.’

  Mum hastily removed the butter and hid it away in the cupboard. For a while there was only the sound of spoons scraping bowls. Honesty noticed that the guest had been given Mum’s silver spoon, which normally no one was allowed to touch. It had belonged to her great-grandmother. Silas Brood helped himself to a second slice of bread and mopped up his soup. He seemed to have a good appetite.

  ‘So what brings you to Little Snorley?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Ah, the Lord’s work, brother.’

  ‘You’re in the church then? A parson?’

  Brood’s tongue located a crumb at the corner of his mouth. ‘My calling is to seek the lost,’ he said.

  ‘Oh well, we all get lost,’ said Dad. ‘Only last week one of my pigs –’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ Brood interrupted. ‘I mean lost souls. Witches.’

  Honesty dropped his spoon in his bowl, splatt
ering his face with soup.

  ‘Witches?’ echoed Dad.

  ‘Lord have mercy on us!’ gasped Mum.

  ‘Then you’re that fellow everyone’s talking about? The Witchfinder Corporal?’ said Dad.

  ‘Witchfinder General,’ corrected Silas Brood. ‘I had hoped to keep my identity a secret but I see my fame goes before me.’

  Honesty could see his family were impressed. They’d never met anyone important before and a Witchfinder General sounded extremely important. Mum stood up and bobbed a curtsey as if she was meeting the Queen. Dad’s eyes were bulging like a bullfrog’s. Mercy and Patience were staring at the visitor as if he’d grown an extra head. Honesty, meanwhile, had turned pale and was trying not to panic. If the stranger sitting opposite him was the Witch-finder General, they were in major trouble. Gran was upstairs and the moment Brood set eyes on her he’d be able to tell she was a witch.

  ‘Have you seen one?’ asked Patience.

  ‘A witch? Many times. Alas, in these evil times witches are everywhere.’

  ‘But what do they look like?’ asked Mercy.

  Silas Brood raised a long pale finger. ‘Ah, my child, that’s their cunning. You might sit next to a witch at church on Sunday and never know it. Many of them look quite harmless, like your aunt or sister or grandmother. There might be one living in your village right now. Perhaps across the street. Even in this house where we are sitting this very moment, a witch could be listening.’

  There was a silence so still you could have heard a cockroach breathing. Silas Brood sat back and smiled. ‘The soup is delicious, by the way. Tell me, would this spoon be silver?’

  ‘It was my great-grandmother’s,’ said Mum proudly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But if witches look like anybody else,’ said Dad, anxious to get back to the subject, ‘how do you know which is a witch and which isn’t?’

  Silas Brood clasped his bloodless hands together and lowered his voice. ‘Believe me, brother, if there are witches in your village I will find them out. I will hunt them down like vermin.’

  ‘Plugh!’ Honesty spat a stringy lump of turnip into his bowl. Mum rolled her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, it got stuck,’ he croaked. ‘Could I get down now, please?’