by Sally Rippin
She strokes Winifred’s glossy black hair. ‘Winny, I’m sorry. Don’t cry!’
Winifred jerks her head out of her hands and grins nastily at Polly. ‘Ha! Tricked you!’ she laughs. ‘You might not hate me, but I still hate you!’
And she jumps up from the bed, laughing loudly at her tremendous joke, and slams Polly’s door behind her.
Polly feels her heart bruised and heavy.
That night, Polly is drifting off to sleep when she hears a rumble at her window. She sits up, her heart racing in her chest like a wild rabbit. The window rattles again.
Then she hears a low, familiar voice.
‘ Polly?’
‘Buster!’ Polly gasps, jumping up and pulling back the curtain. ‘Is that you?’
Sure enough, Buster has pressed his goofy face against the dark glass, already leaving a smear of grease and steam.
Polly doesn’t know whether to be thrilled that he is at her window or terrified of them getting caught.
‘Buster!’ she whispers, pulling open the window. ‘What are you doing here?’
Buster squeezes through the window and tumbles onto the bed. Polly tries not to notice the trail of twigs and dirt he has left on her clean doona cover.
‘I had to see if you were OK,’ he says. ‘When you didn’t come to the tree, I got worried. Was I wrong to come?’ His face crumples.
‘Well, yes, but no,’ Polly giggles. ‘Mum would die if she saw you here, but I’m glad you came. I’ve been worried about you, too.’
‘Really?’ says Buster, grinning widely.
‘Of course!’ says Polly, wrapping her arms around his big body and sinking her face into his fur. ‘I’m OK,’ she says. ‘Especially now you’re here. How about you? I couldn’t bear seeing all those monsters teasing you. I just couldn’t bear it.’
Polly feels Buster shaking. She pulls away to see if he is crying, but Buster is shaking in silent laughter.
‘You, a little witch in front of all those great big monsters! You should see how scared they are of me – now they know I’ve got you as a friend! I walk around the playground with my chest out and they say, Don’t mess with Buster. He’s got little witch Polly on his side!’
Polly narrows her eyes. ‘Hey. You’re teasing me!’
Buster wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s just that it really is funny thinking about such a small witch doing such a big spell on all those monsters.’
‘You weren’t supposed to let on that we know each other,’ Polly frowns.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Buster grimaces. ‘I was so happy to see you that I forgot. I couldn’t pretend not to be happy to see you. And then I couldn’t pretend not to be sad that you ignored me! I messed up. Big time. I’m really sorry, Polly.’
‘Everyone knows about you now, don’t they?’ Polly says. ‘At your school?’
Buster nods and shrugs. ‘The Feelings Monster is what they’re calling me. But it’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be. In some ways it’s easier than pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve still got you, and the bullies will stop teasing me in a few weeks.’
He takes Polly’s hand in his big rough one. ‘But how about you? Are they giving you a hard time for being friends with me?’
Polly smiles. ‘I don’t think anyone knows. Malorie, the witch I was with? She thinks I did the spell to protect her!’
‘Oh.’ Buster chews his lip, considering this for a moment. ‘Aren’t you going to tell them the truth?’
Polly cringes. ‘I don’t think so. Do you mind?’
She can see that Buster is disappointed.
‘I guess I was hoping we could just tell people now,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s so tiring having to keep it a secret. I really don’t like keeping secrets.’
‘I know, Buster, but it’s worse for a witch to be friends with a monster …’ Even as Polly is saying this, she realises how horrible it sounds. She feels her cheeks burn pink and she looks down at her hands awkwardly.
Buster shrugs. ‘Whatever you want,’ he says, and he puts his arm around Polly and pulls her into his side. ‘I don’t mind,’ he assures her, but Polly notices that his hug isn’t quite as tight as usual.
‘Thank you, Buster,’ Polly says, feeling embarrassed. ‘You’re the best friend ever.’
Suddenly, Buster freezes. His eyes go blank and he stares into the distance.
‘Buster? Are you OK?’
But Buster doesn’t reply. Without a word, he clambers across the bed and quickly slips out through the window, shutting it behind him.
Polly yanks back the curtain, slides under the sheets and shuts her eyes just as Polly’s mother opens the door.
‘Polly?’ her mother says, standing in the hall light. ‘Did I hear talking?’
Polly yawns in a way she hopes sounds convincing, but her heart is racing. ‘Oh, I must have been talking in my sleep.’
‘Well, that was quite a conversation you were having,’ her mother says, coming into the room. She sits on the side of Polly’s bed and places a cool hand on her forehead. ‘Oh dear. You’re a little feverish! I think you should stay home tomorrow. I’ll take the day off work, and you can have a quiet day in bed.’
Polly closes her eyes, enjoying her mother’s attention.
‘Oh, Polly!’ says her mum, obviously noticing the trail of dirt and leaves on Polly’s doona. ‘You haven’t been letting Gumpy up on your bed, have you? You know she makes a mess.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry, Mum,’ Polly says, relieved. ‘I won’t let her up again.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ her mother says, more kindly than usual. ‘I’ll wash your sheets tomorrow.’
She gets up and leaves, closing Polly’s door softly behind her.
It was nice having her mum sit beside her, like when she was little. Polly considers calling out for her mum to read a bedtime story like she used to, but then decides she’d better check the window instead, in case Buster is still there.
Buster has gone, but written with a clumsy finger in a breath of steam are the words:
Polly smiles and wipes away the message. A warm honey feeling fills her heart when she looks at his crazy spelling, even worse than hers. With Buster in her world, Polly knows she will never truly feel alone.
The next morning, Polly’s mother brings her breakfast in bed. She and her sister are never allowed to eat in bed because of the crumbs, so Polly knows her mum must be really worried about her to give this kind of attention.
‘Hmmmmmm,’ her mother says as she places her palm on Polly’s forehead. ‘You still have a bit of a fever. If you haven’t started to pick up by this afternoon, I’ll call Doctor Firestone.’
Polly shudders. Usually the prospect of seeing Doctor Firestone is enough to cure any illness. Last time Polly had to see Doctor Firestone, it took days for the leech marks on her skin to disappear, and the house stunk of boiled herbs for weeks.
Polly looks down at the tray on her lap. ‘Chicken eggs,’ she says. ‘And toast! From wheat bread. Thanks, Mum!’
Polly’s mum shrugs and smiles. ‘I thought you might like a treat. But only because you’re sick, OK? Once you’re better, it’s back to my home-made muesli.’
Winifred appears at the door. ‘How come Polly gets chicken eggs?’
‘Your sister is still recovering,’ their mother says. ‘So I made her favourite breakfast. If you were unwell I’d do the same for you. Besides, you always say you love my muesli.’
Polly has to cover her mouth to hide her smirk.
Winifred scowls. ‘I do,’ she mumbles. ‘It’s just that we have it every day.’
‘Well, when you’re a working mother with two children, let’s hope they’re a little more grateful than you lot are!’ their mother huffs, as she stands up and brushes off her skirt. ‘Don’t spill crumbs now, Polly,’ she says as she leaves. ‘Your sheets are already messy from Gumpy.’
‘I won’t,’ says Polly.
Winifred sticks her tongue out at Polly when their mother’s back is turned, but Polly doesn’t care. She has a day at home in bed, and chicken eggs on toast for breakfast!
Polly tries to read Little Witches, the book they are studying at school, but the words swim about on the page even more than usual so she puts it on her bedside table and drifts in and out of sleep.
She is surprised at how tired she feels. Occasionally her mum comes in to take her temperature. Polly wills it to go down each time so she doesn’t have to see Doctor Firestone, but when she is still burning up after lunch, her mother makes the call.
‘Doctor Firestone is on her way,’ she says gently, poking her head in through the doorway.
‘Oh, Mum!’ whimpers Polly. ‘Did you have to?’
But her mum just rolls her eyes and closes the door again.
Polly drifts back to sleep. She wakes to the sound of whispering, and when she opens her eyes, there is Doctor Firestone in all her feathered glory.
Polly sighs.
Doctor Firestone notices Polly is awake and smiles. Her white teeth gleam against her skin.
‘Polly!’ she booms. ‘You are sick?’
‘Yes,’ says Polly weakly.
‘No matter! Doctor Firestone will make you better!’
Polly closes her eyes and hopes it will all be over soon.
Firstly, the doctor chants over Polly in a strange language that sounded like grunts mixed with the mooing of a cow. Then she pulls out some tiny crystals from a deep pocket in her feathered cape, and tosses them all over the bed. One of them hits Polly in the face. Polly sighs again. She opens her eyes and brushes a crystal off her cheek.
Doctor Firestone has lit two sticks and is now waving them up and down Polly’s body.
Polly coughs a little from the smoke.
‘Good!’ shouts the doctor. ‘Good! Cough that sickness out!’
Polly does another cough, fake this time, hoping it will speed up the process.
‘Oh, you are sick! You are very sick!’ Doctor Firestone says, her eyes rolling white and wild. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to use Samba!’
‘Samba?’ Polly winces.
Doctor Firestone nods. She reaches into yet another deep pocket and pulls out a black and yellow python. It seems to go on and on forever. Polly watches in horror until finally, its head appears, writhing and hissing.
‘You’re going to use that snake on me?’ Polly yelps. ‘What if it bites me?’
‘No, oh no!’ Doctor Firestone chuckles, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. ‘That’s not Samba. That’s just a snake. She would most certainly bite you if she could. Then you would be really sick! Probably die even!’
She laughs loudly at her own joke, then tosses the snake into a basket and flips the lid down with her bare foot.
Polly notices her long toenails and the silver rings on her toes.
‘This is Samba!’ Doctor Firestone says in an important voice. She reaches even deeper into the same pocket and pulls out a small brown toad. ‘Voila!’ she exclaims, holding the toad out on her palm.
Samba croaks obediently.
‘A toad?’ Polly says.
‘Not. Just. A. Toad!’ Doctor Firestone bellows, and the glass in Polly’s window trembles. ‘This is a healing toad. You will sleep with him on your pillow for one night. Tomorrow I will come back to get him. If he has turned green and his skin is clear, your sickness will be cleared, too. If he is even more warty than he is now, and you also have a face covered in warts, we will have to try something else.’
‘Er, really?’ says Polly. ‘Do I have to have him on my pillow? I really don’t want a face covered in warts. Can we just try something else? I’m actually feeling a bit better already.’
‘No!’ shouts Doctor Firestone. ‘The toad it is! Doctor Firestone has diagnosed a healing toad, so a healing toad it shall be!’
And with that, she drops the toad onto Polly’s pillow, gathers up her feathered robes and baskets, and swishes out the door.
‘Oh!’ she says, stopping in the doorway and spinning around. ‘And take two of these every four hours, with water.’
She tosses a packet of pills onto Polly’s bed.
Polly picks up the packet and reads the writing on the side. ‘Headache pills?’ she says.
Doctor Firestone shrugs. ‘In case the toad doesn’t work,’ she says, and then, with another swoop of her cape, she is out the door.
As soon as she’s out of sight, Polly pulls out a tissue from the box by her bed, scoops up the slimy toad, and drops it into her bedside drawer.
‘Sorry, Samba,’ Polly says, her mouth curling in disgust, ‘but you are not sleeping on my pillow. There’s no way I want to risk waking up with warts all over my face. I have enough problems as it is!’
Samba blinks twice in reply.
Whether it’s the headache pills or the toad in her drawer, Polly’s fever has subsided by the time her mother checks up on her later that afternoon.
‘Thank goodness for Doctor Firestone,’ she mutters, plumping up Polly’s pillows.
Polly says nothing.
‘Now, there’s a visitor for you downstairs,’ her mum says, smiling. ‘Do you feel up to it?’
‘A visitor?’ Polly says.
Surely Buster wouldn’t come to the front door? But she knows if Buster had turned up at their door, Polly would have heard about it from up here.
‘Who is it?’ she asks nervously.
‘Malorie Halloway. That’s nice, isn’t it? I’m so pleased you’re starting to make friends at school,’ she says.
‘Malorie?’ Polly says, her heart beginning to leap about in her chest.
Polly has never had a school friend over before. She skims the room with fresh eyes to check there is nothing babyish or uncool on display that might embarrass her. When her mother leaves the room to fetch Malorie, Polly quickly shoves a raggedy old doll and a fluffy black toy cat under her bed.
Then she checks her reflection in the dressing table mirror, drags a brush through her hair and hops back into bed just as her mother and Malorie appear in the doorway.
‘Well,’ her mother says, smiling more broadly than Polly has seen her smile in years, ‘I’ll leave you two little witches alone then. Malorie, send my regards to your mother, won’t you? Though I expect I’ll be seeing her at our next Committee meeting.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Polly says, awkwardly patting down the doona over her legs.
‘Shall I bring you up some nettle tea and beetle biscuits?’ Polly’s mother asks, hovering in the doorway.
‘No, thank you, Mrs Proggett,’ Malorie says politely. ‘I don’t eat anything after school. I might spoil my dinner.’
‘Oh, of course!’ Polly’s mother says, and Polly hears her muttering to herself as she drifts into the hallway. ‘Such lovely manners!’
As soon as Polly’s mum has closed the door, Malorie dashes over to Polly’s bed and pulls out a newspaper from her schoolbag.
‘Have you seen the papers, Polly?’ she giggles. ‘We’re famous!’
‘Oh!’ Polly says, taken aback. This is the last thing she was expecting to hear. ‘Um, no.’
Malorie flattens the newspaper across Polly’s knees, and turns to the second page.
‘Look!’ she says.
Polly picks up the paper with trembling hands. The first thing she sees, at the top of the page, is a big black-and-white image of her face, cropped out of last year’s class photo. It was the year she was missing a tooth and had cut her hair short, but it’s unmistakably her.
There’s a smaller photo below of Malorie, sitting on a big floral couch in a very pretty lounge room. When Polly looks closer she sees Malorie has curled her hair and could quite possibly even be wearing lipstick.
Lipstick? Polly thinks.
Then her eyes flick to the heading:
YOUNG WITCH SAVES FRIEND
Polly’s heart begins to pound. She looks up at Malorie.
‘You’r
e a hero, Polly!’ Malorie says, tapping the newspaper to encourage Polly to keep reading.
Polly looks back down at the article and begins to read slowly, her finger tracing the words.
An innocent school excursion went horribly wrong when a group of young students from Miss Madden’s Academy of Witchcraft and Spells, an elite school for witches and warlocks, was visiting the National Gallery yesterday. Believing themselves to be the only students at the gallery that day, they were horrified to discover that a group of obnoxious monsters from Darklands School for Monsters had turned up soon after they arrived.
‘We knew they were going to cause trouble,’ young Malorie Halloway, a Year Five witch from Miss Madden’s Academy, explains. ‘As soon as they got off the bus they were yelling at us and calling us names.’
‘But that’s not true,’ Polly says, looking up at Malorie.
Malorie shrugs. ‘Just keep reading!’
Poor Malorie, still in shock after the terrible incident, goes on: ‘Our teacher did what she could to keep us away from the monsters, but my best friend Polly Proggett and I had to go to the bathroom. The ones upstairs were already full so we went downstairs. That’s when we saw the monsters. They were acting wild and crazy and they didn’t have a teacher with them. I was scared they were going to hurt us. I wanted to run away, but then they saw us and started coming for us. That’s when Polly did the spell.’
‘The Spell’, as everyone is now calling it, consisted of blasting thirteen almost fully grown monsters against the far walls of the gallery, allowing Polly and Malorie to escape unharmed.
Professor Freidreich, a leading spell expert from the University of Printania, explains the unlikelihood of such a young and inexperienced witch having these capabilities.
‘It’s most uncommon,’ he says. ‘Spells of this magnitude usually take many years of training to master. Occasionally, a high degree of emotion can trigger such a force — such as a mother rescuing her baby from danger. This is the only explanation that seems reasonable. I can merely speculate on the depth of friendship between these two witches for such a powerful protector spell to have been triggered in the young witch. It’s quite a feat, really. Quite remarkable.’
