by Sam Short
Seating her father on the comfy chair behind Millie’s desk, the woman nodded. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “He’s just a little confused. He used to be a teacher here, and every now and then he likes to come to the school fete and open day when they have one. He really wanted to come this time. He said he wanted to take a look at his old classroom. Anyway, he wandered off as I was speaking to one of the teachers, and with him not being well, I became a little worried. I could hear him in the distance yelling something about burning, so I followed his voice here. I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t apologise,” said Millie, adding a splash of milk to the mug. “There’s absolutely no need to say sorry.”
“That’s right,” said the old man. “If you keep saying sorry, you’ll sound like a whistle without a pea, or a donkey without a clock.”
“Dad,” said the woman, her voice soft. “Those don’t really make sense.” She smiled at Millie. “Don’t take what he says too seriously. He suffers from metaphorettes.”
“I’m sorry?” said Millie, crossing the room. “He suffers from what?”
The woman laughed. “We’re so used to calling it by that name in our family that we sometimes forget other people won’t know what we’re talking about!”
Placing the mug of tea and a bowl of sugar in front of the man, and pulling up a seat each for herself and the woman, Millie smiled. “What is it?” she asked. “This… metaphorettes.”
“It’s nothing! It doesn’t exist!” said the man, spooning sugar into his tea. He gave Millie a smile and a wink. “Between you and me, young lady, my family imagines that I say things which I most certainly do not say. The things they imagine I say would not be very appropriate coming from an English literature teacher, would they?”
Not wishing to offend the man, Millie agreed, not actually knowing what it was she was agreeing to. “I suppose not,” she said.
The man extended a frail hand in greeting, the skin papery thin and cold as Millie shook it. “I’m Mister Cuthbert Campion, teacher of both English literature and chemistry at Spellbinder Hall.”
“I’m Millie Thorn,” replied Millie. “Cookery teacher at Spellbinder Hall.”
“Cookery teacher? Are you sure?” asked Cuthbert. He shook his head and gave an embarrassed grin. “Of course you’re sure!” He jerked a thumb at the lady next to him. “The young woman with me is my daughter, Julia Campion.” He lowered his voice and gave Millie a knowing nod. “Not married, you see. And not so young, really. She’s forty if I remember correctly, and between you and I, I think she’ll be carrying my surname for the remainder of her days.” He lowered his voice even further, almost to a raspy whisper, and moved his face closer to Millie’s. “It’s the attitude, I think. What man is going to want a woman with such an awful attitude? No man is!”
“I can hear you, Dad,” said Julia. “I’m literally right next to you. And yes, I’m forty, and as I keep reminding you, you’re no longer a teacher. You retired a long time ago… when you became… poorly.”
“Natter, natter, natter,” said Cuthbert, his eyes flitting around the classroom. “You’re always nattering. You sound like a show jumper who has forgotten her socks!”
Julia gave Millie a smile tinged with sadness. “That’s metaphorettes,” she said. “We invented the name using the words metaphor, and Tourette’s. Dad can’t help blurting out senseless comments which he thinks are metaphors or analogies... I don’t know which. My brother and I just used the word metaphor — so we could give his illness a fun nickname. It makes it seem less scary. Less serious. You know what Tourette’s is, I presume?”
Millie nodded. “A condition which causes the sufferer to display physical and verbal ticks. They shout things out. Sometimes inappropriately.”
“You look like a horse which ate too many burgers, young lady!” shouted Cuthbert, staring at Millie.
“Often inappropriately, in my father’s case,” said Julia. She put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “That was very rude, Dad,” she said.
Expelling a grunt, Cuthbert sipped his tea. His eyes widened as he stared at the ovens lining one wall. “Burning!” he yelled. “Get it out of the oven!”
“It’s okay,” said Millie, placing a hand on the old man’s wrist. “Nothing’s burning. The smell of smoke is from some cakes that a couple of the children burned, but everything’s okay now. All the ovens are cold. Nothing is burning.”
Cuthbert relaxed in his seat, smiling at Millie. “That’s good news,” he said. He glanced towards the windows, his eyes brightening. “There’s a lovely view from those windows, isn’t there? I remember it well. This school is built on a cliff, and you can look out to sea from those windows. I was a teacher. Did you know that? I spent most of my lunch breaks in this room, enjoying the wonderful views, and the most wonderful conversations.” His face dropped, and sadness tainted his eyes. “But those days are over, aren’t they?”
“I can’t promise the conversation will be as wonderful as you remember,” said Millie, “but I can vouch for the view. It’s still beautiful. Why don’t you take a look?”
“I’d like that,” said Cuthbert, stumbling a little as he got to his feet. “I’d really like that.”
“Are you okay, Dad?” said Julia getting to her feet, too, and gently grasping her father’s elbow.
Cuthbert shook his daughter’s hand away and made his way towards the windows, gazing around the room as he walked. “I’m fine,” he said. “You worry too much, Julia. You’re like a fish which has lost its momentum.”
Julia looked at Millie and gave her head a gentle shake. “See?” she said, with a grin. “Metaphorettes. Utter nonsense.”
Millie watched the old man as he came to a stop at the tall windows and put a hand on the glass. “I wouldn’t say it was utter nonsense,” she said. “I mean a fish which had lost its momentum would be a little concerned. Worried, even.”
Julia gave a snorting laugh. “You’re right! I’m so used to Dad saying silly things that I hardly listen to what he says anymore. Perhaps I should try a little harder, perhaps there is meaning behind some of the things he says.”
“This view is beautiful,” murmured Cuthbert Campion. “Like egg whites and tartar.”
“Or maybe not,” said Julia, smiling as she used a tissue taken from her bag to wipe up some tea her father had spilt. She paused what she was doing and looked Millie in the eyes. “He was a brilliant man once. He still is, of course. But you know what I mean… his mind was razor sharp. Until the accident that gave him metaphorettes.”
“An accident?” asked Millie, taking the wet tissue from Julia and dropping it in the bin beside her desk.
“People don’t just develop metaphorettes,” said Julia, smiling. “It’s not even a real illness.”
“I thought he’d naturally developed some sort of dementia,” explained Millie. “Which you’d given a nickname.”
Julia shook her head. “No. It was an accident. And if the accident hadn’t occurred, I think Dad would still be as bright as he ever was, and possibly still a teacher. An old one, but I’d bet he’d be sharper than most of the young ones who teach here.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Not you, of course! You seem very sharp.”
Millie disregarded Julia’s comment with a wave of her hand. “Oh, I’m not that sharp,” she said with a smile. She indicated Julia’s father with a nod of her head. “What sort of accident was it? What happened to him?” She instantly gave an apologetic smile. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Julia. Her face softened as she looked at her father. “As he said, he was a chemistry teacher as well as an English teacher, and as you know — being a teacher here at the hall, alongside normal non-paranormal chemistry, pupils in this school are also taught paranormal chemistry.”
“Yes,” said Millie. “How the moon-pool works, how potions work… that sort of thing.”
Julia nodded. “Dad was a dab hand at potions. Even though he�
�s a halfling, but that didn’t matter, some potions don’t even require magic, and anybody can teach kids how to make basic potions…. the magic can be added by a full witch at a later date, when the potion is needed.” She took her eyes from her father’s back and looked at Millie. “I’m led to believe that the current chemistry teacher here at the school has no magic either… he’s a werewolf, isn’t he?”
Millie nodded. “That’s right. His name’s Timothy Huggins, and the children love him.” She leaned forward across the desk. “What did you say your father is?” she asked. “A halfling? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Julia. “They’re not very common. I don’t think a halfling has been born in Spellbinder Bay for over fifty years.”
“What are they?” asked Millie. “What is a halfling?”
“A halfling is a person born to a witch and a werewolf, it doesn’t matter which parent is which,” said Julia. “A very uncommon occurrence indeed. These days, at least.”
“Why is it so uncommon?” asked Millie.
“Because of what happens to the child,” said Julia. “It seems that witch blood and werewolf blood just don’t play well together. Pick any other species for a witch or a werewolf to have a child with, and everything is fine. In the case of a child born to a vampire and a werewolf, for instance, the child will either be a vampire or a werewolf… he or she will display the qualities of the parent whose genes were the strongest. It’s a little like a child having blonde hair like its mother or black hair like its father.”
“What happens to a child born to a witch and werewolf?” asked Millie.
“Conflict happens,” said Julia, her brow furrowed. “Within the child. The child will be neither a witch or a werewolf. The wolf part of the child will fight for dominance, but so will the witch side, and that isn’t good for the child, as you can imagine. The wolf grows angry within him or her, never able to be freed, and the magic passed down by the witch bubbles away like boiling water in an airtight pot. It’s a toxic combination which often leads to problems.”
“What sort of problems?” asked Millie.
“The sort of problems my father experienced. Sometimes when he got frustrated or angry, his wolf would try and emerge. His eyes would yellow for a brief instance, or hairs would sprout on the backs of his hands. It was an unpleasant experience for him. It scared him every time it happened, and it scared the people around him. He was never able to mingle with non-paranormal people — as he had no control over it. He couldn’t trust himself. It was much the same for the witch part of him as it was for his werewolf side.”
“In what way?” asked Millie.
“He’d accidentally cast spells,” said Julia. “Especially when he was younger. It happened mostly when he was tired or poorly, and as he got older, he learned to control it with good sleeping habits and a healthy lifestyle. It was the same with his wolf, and by the time he was an adult and met my mother, he had it mostly under control. Especially by the time I was born. I witnessed a few incidents, but they were infrequent. Which was why his accident came as such a shock to us all. The accident not only caused him to develop metaphorettes, it also calmed the beast and the magic within him. Since the day of his accident, he’s not grown so much as one hair on the backs of his hands or cast even the weakest of accidental spells. The accident was a blessing and a curse, some might say.”
“What sort of accident has that sort of effect on somebody?” said Millie.
“It was a long time ago. Nobody really knows what happened,” admitted Julia. “What is known is that he had just taught an English lesson focusing on metaphors, similes and analogies, before going to the chemistry lab to teach a potion making lesson. The children who were in the chemistry class at the time said the potion he taught them in that lesson was a simple one, designed to cure headaches.
“The kids said that my father was fine when they left the classroom, and it’s thought that after the lesson was over my father may have used a little of the potion on himself. Teaching is a stressful job, as you know… perhaps he had a headache. And he did suffer from them sometimes, as a consequence of the wolf and witch fighting within him.”
“You think a headache potion affected him so badly that he developed his… condition?” asked Millie.
“No,” said Julia, smiling at her father as he stepped away from the window and turned to face them. “It’s thought that some of his halfling witch magic was accidentally released as he mixed the potion. Who knows what the magic did to that concoction? It seems to have muddled his brain… or crossed a few wires. Imagine taking a headache potion infused with who knows what sort of magic, just an hour after teaching a lesson on metaphors. It seems something got stuck, and he’s never been the same since. I was ten when it happened. He went to work that morning a bright, clever man, and came home a confused man who told my mother over dinner that she resembled a Doberman dog which had got its life together. It isn’t just the metaphors and analogies either, he gets very confused, too, as you’ve already witnessed.”
“How sad,” said Millie.
“Very sad,” agreed Julia, “and I think Dad’s illness led indirectly to my mother’s death. The stress got to her, and she passed a few years later. Myself and my brother have been caring for him ever since.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” said Millie. She watched Cuthbert staring blankly around the room as if he wasn’t certain of where he was. “And your father.”
“Thank you,” said Julia. She gave a smile and her eyes brightened. “Anyway — that’s why halflings are so rare. Because most witches and werewolves who fall in love with one another refuse to have children together.”
Leaving his position at the window, Cuthbert hurried unsteadily across the classroom, prompting Julia to stand up and approach him. “Slow down, Dad,” she said. “You’ll fall.”
Cuthbert looked around at his surroundings. “I know this room!” he said. He smiled at Millie. “And who are you, young lady? Are you new here? I’m Cuthbert Campion, English Literature and chemistry teacher, here at Spellbinder Hall. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, Dad,” said Julia, taking her father by his arm. “You’ve already met her. Come on, we’ve taken up enough of her time already. Let’s go outside into the sunshine and have a look round the fete. You’ll like that.”
As the father and daughter left the room, a cold breeze blew across Millie’s face, and she gave a quiet cry of surprise as the tall black-robed ghost appeared before her, heading for the door, flickering in and out of existence as if it were a hologram projected by a machine with a faulty circuit.
She shuddered as the apparition slid through the doorway, appearing too weak to hold its form as it faded and vanished before it could reach the corridor.
Millie’s spine tingled as she glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ghosts, parents, and an abusive bully,” she whispered to the empty room. “I do believe that after today, wine o’clock has come early.”
Chapter 5
“How was it?” asked Judith, her sparkling blue eyes matching the stone in the necklace she wore. “I told you you’d be fine. Did you feel out of your depth like you thought you would, or did you manage it like a pro, like I knew you would?”
Millie sipped her drink, her stress levels dropping immediately as the cold liquid hit her stomach and the alcohol reached her brain. “Thanks to the interruptions of a tall ghost dressed in black, an old school bully, and a confused elderly man, the attention was not really on me at all.” She gave Judith a smile and placed her wine glass on the little round wooden table between them. “I did fine. You were right, speaking to a room full of adults wasn’t much different than speaking to a class of children. In fact, I’d say that some of the kids came across as being more mature than some of the adults.”
“Just look around you,” said Judith, her hair shining gold in the sunlight. “Adults are just big kids at heart.”
/> The table which Millie and her best friend sat at, situated outside the refreshments tent, afforded Millie the perfect position from which to observe people enjoying the school fete.
Judith was correct, Millie realised, smiling as two men tossed their shoes aside and joined the laughing children already having fun on the large red and yellow bouncy castle. Adults were just big kids at heart.
She watched on as another man performed a victorious air-punch, proud that the little wooden ball he’d thrown had knocked a coconut from its perch. Choosing a stuffed toy pig as a reward for his marksmanship skills, the man handed the prize to his young daughter, who gazed up at him with admiration evident on her face.
Millie took another sip of her drink. It was nice to see so many smiling faces enjoying the sunlight and the community feeling that events like the school fete were designed to foster.
She gazed out over the clifftop which Spellbinder Hall and its grounds occupied, and allowed her eyes to wander across the calm sea, smiling as she made out the white walls of her cottage in the distance, cradled by golden sand dunes on the opposite side of the horseshoe-shaped bay.
How her life had changed in the last year. Gone were the days of not being able to pay the rent on a hovel of a flat in London, exchanged for carefree days, a beautiful seafront cottage with a magical cavern below it, an inherited financial fortune, and the surprising knowledge that she was a witch and a member of a sizeable paranormal community.
Add in the almost miraculous fact that she’d been able to magic the ghost of her dead mother into existence, then found out that she had a father, and she considered herself very fortunate indeed.
She glanced over at the stall which had been set up to sell the cakes which the pupils in her class had baked, happy that three of her pupils were mature and eager enough to be trusted with running the stall, freeing up Millie’s time to enjoy a few glasses of sparkling white wine with her best friend.
