The Wayward Witch and the Feelings Monster

by Sally Rippin

  Just to be on the safe side, she takes exactly five hops to get to her wardrobe to put on her uniform. She knows it’s eleven hops from her wardrobe to the bathroom. She tells herself if she only does an odd number of hops all morning until breakfast, then this will be a one-hundred percent guarantee that nothing will go wrong. How could it, on a day as chirpy and sunny as this?

  But when she gets to the bathroom door, Winifred is in there. Polly wobbles a little in the doorway on one foot. She puts her other foot down slowly, carefully, just the toe point, so she is not exactly standing, but not exactly hopping either.

  It is too late. Winifred has seen.

  ‘Are you hopping?’ she sneers.

  ‘No,’ says Polly quickly.

  ‘Mum!’ Winifred yells. ‘Polly is doing that hopping thing again.’

  ‘Don’t do the hopping thing, Polly,’ their mum calls out in her tired-and-not-really-interested voice.

  What she is really saying is that it’s way too early for her to be dealing with their arguments.

  ‘I’m not!’ Polly yells.

  ‘She is!’ Winifred yells.

  ‘That’s enough!’ their mum yells out from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast. Right. Now.’

  ‘Why do you care anyway?’ Polly hisses.

  She turns around and tries to hop away from her sister with as much dignity as she can manage.

  ‘You’re weird!’ Winifred snarls. ‘And you’re embarrassing! How do you think it feels being sister to the weirdest witch at school?’

  ‘Three, four, five …’ Polly counts, ignoring her.

  All she has to do is make it to the top of the stairs in nine hops, then she can slide down the bannister and her made-up spell will be complete. She may not be good at real spells, but that doesn’t mean she can’t invent a few of her own.

  ‘Six, seven, eight …’

  She is almost at the stairs.

  She reaches for the bannister, but before she can touch the wood, her standing foot is knocked out from under her and she tumbles onto the carpet.

  ‘Winifred!’ she yells. ‘Why are you so mean? Now you’ve ruined everything!’

  ‘Mum said to stop,’ Winifred says, her eyes narrowing to slits.

  Then she marches back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Polly rubs at the carpet burn on her knee. Hot tears prickle her eyes. She pulls herself up with the help of the bannister but even with her last wobbly hop, she knows her happy-day spell is ruined. As if to confirm her fears, a dark cloud rolls slowly across the sky and the jolly patch of sunlight on the landing disappears.

  She slides slowly down the bannister, Gumpy galumphing beside her.

  The family sits down to breakfast. Polly picks unenthusiastically at her mother’s homemade muesli of dried lizard flakes and bark shavings, then collects her lunchbox from the kitchen bench. Even without peering inside, she knows her mother will have prepared something healthy for them like boiled snake eggs and pickled herring. Or last night’s leftover mealworms with wilted greens.

  She wishes she could just occasionally have a simple pumpkin-paste sandwich and a packet of turnip chips like the other witches in her class.

  Winifred marches ahead of Polly to the bus stop. Buster is already waiting there, his great big bottom taking up almost all of the space on the bench. When Winifred stands in front of him, her hands on her hips, Buster jumps up apologetically so that she can sit down.

  ‘Sorry about my sister,’ Polly mumbles as she sidles up beside him.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he grins kindly. ‘I was tired of sitting anyway.’

  He makes a big show of stretching out his stumpy legs. Despite Polly’s heavy heart, Buster looks so ridiculous she can’t help giggling.

  Encouraged by her laughter and hidden from view behind the bus shelter, Buster launches into a full exercise routine, complete with

  When he bends over to touch his toes he tumbles right over, and Polly snorts with delight.

  ‘Polly!’ Winifred warns from where she is seated on the other side of the shelter.

  Polly claps her hand across her mouth, her shoulders jiggling up and down with laughter.

  ‘Stop it!’ she giggles, pulling Buster to his feet and brushing dirt off his big hairy knees. ‘The bus is coming!’

  Buster gives Polly a quick hug before the bus is close enough for them to be seen. ‘In the tree?’ he asks.

  ‘At half past three,’ Polly answers.

  ‘Just you and me?’

  ‘As it’ll always be,’ Polly assures him, as always.

  Then Buster stands to one side to let the witches get on first, just as his mother has taught him. And just as his mother taught him, he is careful to pick a seat at the back with the other monsters – not in front, where the witches like to sit.

  After all, a monster must always know their place.

  Polly has her excursion first thing that morning, so after roll call the students pile excitedly into the big school bus to make their way to the National Gallery. Nobody ever chooses to sit next to Polly, but today she doesn’t mind.

  She is quite happy to sit up the front with Miss Spinnaker.

  ‘How’s your art assignment coming along?’ Miss Spinnaker asks Polly as the bus rumbles along the bumpy streets.

  They pass the Town Hall and the markets and the crumbling factories, where the lowliest monsters toil for twelve-hour days, cracking rocks and shovelling earth to uncover the gems and stones and crystals that will be ground up for witches to use in their potions.

  ‘Good!’ Polly says. ‘I love art.’

  ‘And you are very good at it,’ Miss Spinnaker says kindly.

  ‘I wish I was better at spells,’ Polly sighs. ‘I just find it so hard to follow the instructions.’

  It doesn’t occur to her to tell Miss Spinnaker about the way the words seem to dance across the page. Polly assumes it’s the same for everyone. As far as she is aware, all the other students in the class are just better at focusing. Polly finds it impossible to concentrate on her work if there is something even mildly interesting going on outside the classroom window. She so easily slips into daydreaming about climbing trees, or fishing in creeks, or picking bilberries in the woodlands with Buster.

  Only in art class can Polly truly lose herself in her work.

  ‘You’ll get there,’ Miss Spinnaker assures her. ‘With a little practice. And a little patience and cool-headedness too, perhaps?’ she says, raising her eyebrows to remind Polly of yesterday’s debacle.

  Malorie’s skin is completely clear again today, but she still shot Polly a nasty look as they boarded the bus.

  Polly grimaces. ‘I know. I just get so mad when people laugh at me. I’m trying my hardest!’

  ‘It’s OK, Polly,’ Miss Spinnaker says gently, resting her bangled hand on Polly’s arm. ‘Spell-making and potion-brewing comes naturally to some witches, so they don’t understand why others find it so difficult. Don’t let a little teasing ruffle you, Polly. I had to work very hard at school to do well at spells. It didn’t come naturally to me either.’

  ‘Really?’ says Polly. ‘But you’re so good!’

  ‘I practised every day,’ Miss Spinnaker says. ‘Harder than any other student. And in the end, I got top marks in my Witch Finals. That’s partly why I’ve made a career out of teaching spells. I worry that spell-making and potion-brewing will die out. Witches and warlocks don’t seem as interested in the traditional ways of life. It’s all motorised broomsticks and microwave potions these days. My grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew. Look! Like that!’ she says, pointing at a smart new Broomstick Stallion in silver zooming dangerously past them.

  It easily overtakes the cars and the buses and the old-fashioned wooden broomsticks putting along beside them.

  Miss Spinnaker shakes her head in disapproval, and her earrings jangle.

  Finally, the bus pulls up outside the gallery. The witches an
d warlocks squeal with the excitement of being out of school for the whole morning.

  ‘Students,’ Miss Spinnaker warns, ‘you are representing Miss Madden’s Academy at all times so your behavior must be exemplary. You know the rules. No running and no shouting in the gallery and, most importantly, no spells whatsoever outside of school grounds. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Spinnaker,’ the students chime, fidgeting in their seats, desperate to get off.

  ‘Polly, you will head the line with Malorie,’ Miss Spinnaker instructs.

  Polly flashes Miss Spinnaker a look. She is thrilled to be chosen to head the line – but with Malorie? She doesn’t have to look at Malorie to know she would be grimacing, too.

  ‘Can’t I be with Willow or Rosemary?’ says Malorie, rolling her eyes. ‘Or even Harold?’

  Malorie grabs the hand of the closest warlock to prove she would rather be paired with anyone other than Polly. Harold looks thrilled to have been singled out by Malorie, and his ruddy cheeks blush pink. Willow and Rosemary giggle.

  ‘You and Polly will head the line,’ Miss Spinnaker repeats, ‘and to make up for the chaos you both created in yesterday’s spells class, you can work together as a pair today.’

  ‘What?’ Malorie says. ‘I didn’t do anything! Polly threw wart potion at me!’

  ‘You were being mean!’ Polly scowls.

  ‘I can pair with Polly,’ Valentine says.

  She tucks her curly black hair behind her ears and smiles shyly at Polly.

  Even though Polly knows Valentine is being kind, this only makes her feel worse. Why can’t Miss Spinnaker just let me work on my own? she thinks crossly.

  ‘Thank you, Valentine, but I think it will be good for both Polly and Malorie to work together. Who knows? You witches might be surprised at what you can learn from each other.’

  Malorie huffs, then tosses her plaits over her shoulder and pushes past Polly to be first off the bus.

  Polly steps off after her into the pale autumn sunshine, the crisp morning air on her cheeks. Dried leaves swirl at her feet like crazy dancers, and despite being teamed up with Malorie for the morning, Polly feels a sudden surge of happiness. Autumn is her favourite time of the year. And the art gallery is her favourite place to visit. Maybe things aren’t so bad after all, she tells herself.

  But when another school bus turns into the gallery carpark, Polly gets a familiar feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. The tips of her fingers tingle and she knows right down in her bones that something awful is going to happen.

  Please don’t let that bus be from Darklands, Polly thinks.

  But already she knows that it is.

  ‘That’s not monsters on that bus, is it?’ Malorie says, curling up her pretty button nose in disgust.

  Polly clutches Malorie’s arm to pull her towards the gallery, but Malorie has already turned to Willow and Rosemary, who are standing right behind them.

  ‘Ew,’ Willow grimaces. ‘It is! It is!’

  Malorie, Willow and Rosemary stop in their tracks, blocking the whole line of students behind them. Everyone is now turning to look at the old grey bus hissing and wheezing its way into the carpark.

  Polly stares straight ahead.

  Miss Spinnaker, who is still organising the stragglers into two neat lines, comes over to see what all the fuss is about.

  ‘Monsters, Miss Spinnaker,’ Malorie sneers. ‘What are they doing letting monsters visit the gallery on the same day as us?’

  ‘Monsters have every right to visit the gallery, just as witches and warlocks do,’ Miss Spinnaker says firmly. ‘Those monsters are from Darklands. They must have a gallery excursion on today, too.’

  Malorie pulls a face as the first monsters stumble their way noisily out of the bus. They spot the line of witches and sneer and guffaw.

  ‘Witches! Warlocks!’ growls the biggest monster. ‘Ew!’

  ‘Come along, students,’ Miss Spinnaker says. ‘You don’t have to associate with them, but there’s no need to be rude, either. Remember our Academy manners.’

  When Miss Spinnaker’s back is turned, Polly sees Malorie stick her tongue out at the monster who just spoke. He crosses his eyes at Malorie and snorts with laughter.

  Polly pulls Malorie forwards, her heart leaping about in her chest.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, irritably. ‘It’s cold out here. Let’s get inside!’

  There is one monster from Darklands she doesn’t want to see. Not now, anyway.

  Miss Spinnaker ushers everyone into the gallery and straight up to the second floor. Polly starts to feel her breathing return to normal, and once they are surrounded by paintings she knows and loves, she almost begins to enjoy herself again.

  Polly walks beside Malorie, their clipboards in hand, and together the two of them go through the list of questions Miss Spinnaker has set them. The exhibition is titled:

  In the first question, their teacher has asked them to list ten different humans from well-known myths and legends. Polly writes down Hedrid, the human who steals witch babies, Augustus, the leader of witch burnings, and Pyralosis, the human who hides at the bottom of swamps, waiting to suck down any unsuspecting witch, warlock or monster child who might wander by. All horrible humans indeed!

  Polly is slow at reading, which makes her slow at writing, too. In the time it has taken her to write down three human myths and agonise over her spelling, Malorie has already completed her list and is onto the next page. Malorie is always the quickest to finish her work.

  Polly skips a few myths to catch up with her.

  ‘Oh no,’ Malorie grumbles. ‘We have to draw a picture of a human from one of these paintings. I hate drawing.’

  She flops down onto the long padded lounge in the middle of the brightly lit room. Other witches and warlocks wander around in pairs, studying the paintings and jotting down notes on their clipboards.

  Polly perches on the lounge next to her and studies the painting in front of them. It is of a group of monsters having a picnic in a beautiful forest. But when Polly looks closely, she sees it’s not just monsters at the picnic. There are witches in the group, too!

  The witches are laughing and sharing food, as though it’s perfectly normal to have a picnic with monsters. Polly knows that this was the Olden Days, but it makes her happy to see them all sitting together. She wishes it was still like that today.

  Polly begins by sketching some monsters, then the witches. She feels Malorie watching over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re good,’ Malorie says.

  Polly feels happy butterflies bloom in her chest. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I love drawing.’

  Malorie watches her for a little longer. ‘You’re really good. I’m terrible at drawing. I can’t even draw a stick figure.’

  She shows Polly her drawing. Polly is surprised to see that Malorie isn’t lying. It really isn’t very good. And Polly thought Malorie was good at everything!

  ‘I can help, if you like?’ Polly suggests shyly.

  ‘Really?’ Malorie says. ‘Thanks! Hey, maybe I can answer your questions and you can do my drawings?’

  ‘That’s a great idea!’ says Polly.

  She smiles at Malorie, and Malorie smiles back. Polly is surprised at how pretty Malorie looks when she smiles.

  Polly finishes her drawing and then starts work on Malorie’s.

  ‘Gosh,’ Malorie says, enviously, ‘do you think you could you teach me how to draw one day?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Polly, unable to hide how thrilled she feels.

  ‘Great!’ says Malorie. Then she stands and wanders over to look more closely at the other paintings in front of them. ‘Humans look pretty spooky, don’t they? Do you think they really exist?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Polly shrugs. ‘There are lots of stories about them.’

  ‘My mum says they are just made up to scare little children,’ Malorie says, twirling a plait in her fingers. ‘She doesn’t believe in humans.’

 
‘Neither does mine,’ Polly says. ‘But my dad did.’

  ‘Really?’ says Malorie. Then she pauses. ‘Did? You mean, he doesn’t believe in them anymore?’

  ‘No,’ says Polly, looking back down at her drawing, ‘I mean, he died. Five years ago. In the mine accident.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ Malorie says, coming back over to Polly and sitting down next to her. ‘I didn’t know. My uncle did, too. My mum’s brother. She still misses him. Sorry about your dad, though. That must be awful.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Polly says.

  She wants to change the subject now. Talking about her dad makes her uncomfortable. She doesn’t like the thought of anyone feeling sorry for her because she doesn’t have a dad. Lots of witches, warlocks and monsters lost their parents in the accident, not just her.

  ‘Here, I’ve finished our drawings,’ she says, standing up and handing Malorie back her clipboard. ‘Let’s go into the next room.’

  The two witches continue wandering through the gallery, chatting about ordinary things: clothes, cute warlocks from school, and whether they’ll earn their witch hats at the end of the year.

  Polly is pretty sure she won’t.

  ‘Yes, you will,’ Malorie assures her. ‘You just need to practise your spells. Maybe I can help you? In return for you helping me with my drawing?’

  ‘Really?’ Polly asks.

  ‘As long as you promise not to throw any more potions at me,’ says Malorie, smiling.

  ‘OK!’ Polly giggles, and she feels a warm ball of happiness heat her up from the inside. Her cheeks burn pink with delight.

  ‘All right, students,’ Miss Spinnaker calls, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. ‘I hope you’ve all brought a snack with you? You have twenty minutes to eat something and go to the toilet. We will then meet at the front entrance to catch the bus back to school. Is everyone clear on what we are doing?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Spinnaker,’ the students chorus, dashing off in different directions to make the most of this last moment of freedom.