A Spell in the Country

by Heide Goody

  Dee stood attentively while Norma found a spot that she liked the look of and set down her capacious handbag. She started to rummage in its interior.

  “So let’s talk about the basics. We can start with the wicked witch’s well documented fear of iron. It pays to protect yourself, Dee. Do you have any items of iron about your person right now?”

  “Ooh, let’s have a look,” said Dee. She took out a large sized men’s hanky and spread it upon the ground. She upended her handbag and poked through the contents while Norma peered over her shoulder.

  “Dog biscuits? Surely you’re not wasting valuable space on such things? In the fight against evil, you must ensure that everything you’re carrying has a purpose.”

  “You never know when you might meet a dog, and where would you be if you didn’t have doggy snacks on you?” Dee held up a nail file. “Is this iron? It’s a good one, this, came out of a gift set from Boots.”

  Norma rolled her eyes and indicated Dee should keep looking.

  “I’ve got some keys, would they count?” She held up a clattering bunch of keys of all sizes, suddenly thoughtful. “I hope they don’t need to read the meter at the charity shop while I’m away. Or find the spare teabags.”

  Norma returned to her own bag and reached inside. “An insider tip for you. Get some nails from a hardware store. Very cheap and the iron content is high. Here’s a couple of mine to get you started.”

  “Brilliant!” Dee looked at the two large nails. “What do I do with them, then?”

  “You improvise! We’ll be doing some practical exercises momentarily, but a well-equipped handbag will hold everything that a witch might need if she’s to improvise.” Norma reached into her bag, producing a roll of duct tape and a multi-tool. “I shall demonstrate.”

  Caroline and Kay strolled into Stickney. It was too small to be a town but Caroline, a self-confessed city girl, felt it lacked any of the necessary charm to be called a village. It was just a string of ugly modern houses clinging to the single road running through it. It didn’t even have a village green. However, it did have a few of the essential ingredients for a teenager’s day out.

  “Here we go. First lesson. A car’s coming,” said Caroline, glancing behind them.

  “So?”

  “We walk down the middle of the road.”

  “But he’ll hit us,” said Kay.

  “Nah. He’s seen us. We walk down the middle of the road and make him wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we can. We’re teenagers Damn! We need some bubble gum. To do it properly, we wait until he’s really mad, honking his horn mad, and then we turn and blow a massive bubble. Oh, hang on.”

  Caroline drew a line down her own forehead with her thumbnail and muttered a cantrip. She felt an electrical shiver come over her.

  “Jesus, Caroline,” said Kay, startled. “Is that what you looked like as a teenager?”

  Caroline looked down at the illusory body she had given herself. Hell, she thought with a mixture of pleasure and wistfulness, I used to be so damned perky. “It’s what I think I looked like,” she conceded.

  They walked on, slowing their pace and taking up the narrow road with their exaggerated swagger. Kay grinned nervously at Caroline.

  “No smiling! Sulky duck face, like we practised.”

  Kay followed Caroline’s lead, affecting an exaggerated pout with eyes raised to the heavens. The car squeezed past them after a few minutes, the driver gesticulating and shouting.

  “Well that was fun,” said Caroline.

  “Is that what being a teenager’s about?” Kay sounded under impressed.

  “Partially.”

  “I thought it would be more about boys and booze and stuff.”

  “We’ll get to it. I think we’ve got everything we need up ahead. An offy and a chip shop.” Caroline rubbed her preternaturally young hands. “That’s a teen adventure playground, right there.”

  Jenny could see something through the trees ahead: a large brown brick building at the edge of the woods. It looked like a church; but the degree of movement surrounding it made Jenny doubtful. If a slightly lopsided Victorian church had been dropped into the middle of New Street station, it would have looked pretty much like this.

  “Can you see them too, boss?” asked Jizzimus in a whisper.

  “Yes, I can see them,” said Jenny as they drew closer. “But they’re people. I can see people without a potion.”

  “Oh yeah? Even those ones as ’ave ’ad their ’eads chopped off?”

  Jenny halted and took a longer look. There were a great many people, but it was a strangely mismatched group. Some of them looked as if they had plundered the wardrobe of an amateur theatre company for oddly sized and hopelessly worn out garments from different historical periods. There was also, as Jizzimus pointed out, a headless torso, carrying his head under an arm in the manner approved by theatrical ghosts everywhere.

  “Ghosts?” Jenny murmured.

  Jizzimus gave a muted squeal and ran to her leg, clutching it tightly, eyes closed. “Maybe they’re jus’ really, really good cosplayers.”

  “I’ve never seen a ghost before.”

  “Come on, guv, let’s jus’ back away quietly. They’ll never know we was ’ere if we go quick.”

  “What are you frightened of, imp? I just want to have a look at them.”

  “But they could ’urt us.”

  “I don’t think so. Remember this is a Potion of Seeing. Ghosts must exist all around us; we just don’t see them the rest of the time.”

  Jizzimus let out a whimper of distress. Several of the ghosts stopped their aimless wanderings to stare at them. Jenny walked forward, Jizzimus still clinging on. The figure closest to her was a man in baggy tweed. It wasn’t like the tweed Norma favoured, but something coarser, looking as though it might have been repurposed from potato sacks.

  A troubled look creased his face. He gestured frantically to Jenny.

  “You can see me?” she asked, moving cautiously.

  He nodded.

  “You can hear me as well?”

  The man nodded, his mouth shaping silent words.

  “But I can’t hear you.” She tutted in realisation. “It was a Potion of Seeing. I guess hearing is another matter.”

  “Guv, that’s enough!” whined Jizzimus. “We don’ need to encourage ’em.”

  Jenny ignored him, concentrating on the ghost. “If you want to say something, you’ll need to act it out. Do it with sign language, or mime or something.”

  The man looked thoughtful for a moment. He nodded to Jenny. He held his hands out in front of him at waist height, in a gripping motion.

  “Gangnam style?” asked Jenny. “You want to know—”

  The man shook his head in irritation and then moved his feet under his outstretched hands.

  “Oh you’re digging!” The man nodded. “Something to do with digging. Have you buried something?” He nodded vigorously. “Right. So you’ve buried something important, and you want to tell me about it?”

  The man nodded again and changed stance. He mimed the curvaceous outlines of a woman, and pressed hands to his heart, staring dreamily at the sky.

  “Lovely woman? Your sweetheart? Your wife?” Jenny was starting to enjoy the game. Jizzimus made loud huffing noises to indicate that he didn’t approve.

  The man nodded vigorously at wife.

  “You’ve buried your wife?” The man scowled in distaste. “No. You’ve ah … buried something that you want your wife to have?”

  The man jumped with excitement and nodded again.

  “Good,” said Jenny. We’re getting somewhere. Now all you need to tell me is what it is. Tell me what you buried, and maybe I can dig it up.”

  The man beamed. He held his hands in front of him and opened his palms.

  “A book?”

  He gave a curt nod and frowned in contemplation. He held his hands to his face and splayed his fingers, so they stuck out either side
of his face. He wiggled his fingers and darted his head about.

  “You’re a prawn!” yelled Jenny. The man looked perplexed.

  “Prawn? said Jizzimus. “What you been smoking boss? That’s a bleedin’ mouse or a rat, that is.”

  The man pointed to Jizzimus at the word rat and beamed.

  “So it’s a book about rats?” said Jenny slowly. The man’s expression was unimpressed. “A rat book?”

  The man made a stretching motion with his hands.

  “Raaaat…” It hit her. “You mean a ration book?”

  The man bounced on the spot, nodding and clapping, with a huge grin on his face.

  “I think I understand,” said Jenny carefully. “I’m guessing you died in the nineteen forties or maybe fifties, and you want to get your ration book to your wife so that she can use it? Right?”

  He gave her a thumbs up.

  “Right. Just that there’s something you need to know there. I’d be happy to go and dig up your book, wherever it is, but thing is, rationing ended ages ago. Your wife can buy as much food as she wants now.”

  The man looked at her in disbelief.

  “It’s true. The shops are full of food; tons of choice. Any vegetables you’d care to name. Infinite variety of cheese.”

  “Penis-shaped pasta,” said Jizzimus.

  “Frozen ready meals.”

  “Penis-shaped lollipops.”

  The ghost held her gaze as a change crept across his face. The troubled look evaporated and his eyes glistened with moisture. His smile was one of genuine pleasure.

  “’E’s fadin’ away. Where’s ’e goin’?”

  “I think we solved his problem,” said Jenny. “The thing that was shackling him to this earthly plane. He’s moved on.” The ghost faded to nothing. “It’s nice to think we helped a troubled soul, don’t you think, Jizz?”

  “Whatever floats yer boat, I s’pose. You might want to look who’s comin’ along next though, boss.”

  “Eh? Who?”

  “All of ’em. Every last bleedin’ one.”

  Dee watched, wide eyed, as Norma stepped back and appraised the last of her creations. She’d used a combination of natural resources, minor spells and a lot of duct tape. Around the clearing were several different stations, although Norma hadn’t yet explained what they all were.

  “I think we’re ready to begin,” said Norma. “Pay attention. I’ve created a fully immersive battleground for you to learn some valuable techniques. You’ll be pitted against the worst that a wicked witch can throw at you, so you’ll need to be prepared. Have you fashioned any defences for yourself?”

  “Well, I did what you suggested and I found a stout stick,” said Dee, holding up a length of tree branch. “But when I came to attach the nail to the end of it I dropped it in the leaves, and I can’t find it. To be honest, I was a little bit worried about tetanus.”

  Norma’s eye twitched slightly. Dee wondered if it was tiredness or a lack of patience with her student. “Very well. You can try to defeat a wicked witch with a simple stick, although I’d like to think you might equip yourself more effectively in a live environment. Let’s walk you through what we have here.”

  Dee followed Norma to the first station. To the naked eye it appeared to be a rabbit tethered to a tree stump with strands of ivy, but the rabbit sat up on its hind legs in a very unrabbitlike way.

  “Here we have a wicked witch’s imp,” said Norma.

  “Oi can smell yer mother’s fanny!” it screeched.

  Dee was taken aback. “It’s very rude. And why on earth does it have an Irish accent?”

  Norma shrugged. “Must be an Irish rabbit. Right, what do we know about imps?”

  “Um, they grow bigger if the witch is really wicked,” said Dee, stepping back as the imp snapped and lunged at her. “They are normally invisible to humans, even witches.”

  “Yes, very good. We’ll work on techniques for subduing an imp a little later.” Norma, walked on.

  “We’re not going to hurt the bunny are we?” asked Dee, her voice quavering with concern.

  Norma rounded on her. “Dee, are you taking this seriously? The war against wicked witches is not something to be entered lightly. If cute fluffy animals have to suffer to win that war then we must prepare ourselves to take whatever action is necessary. Do you understand?”

  Dee’s nod wasn’t very convincing.

  Norma deflated slightly. “No, Miss Finch. It will not be necessary to hurt this rabbit. It should come out of this exercise with nothing more than a slightly extended vocabulary.”

  They approached the next station. Dee found it profoundly disturbing. Norma had used an extraordinarily large mandrake root to mimic the form of a child. It was bound tightly, with just its face showing. It was remarkably expressive, considering its vegetable origins, and Dee’s heart went out to the poor mite.

  “A captive child,” explained Norma. “The wicked witch’s next meal unless we can intervene. The taste of a child is irresistible. They will do anything they can to sate their craving. A single witch will eat an entire child in one sitting, given the chance.”

  Dee’s stomach flipped and she swallowed uncomfortably. “Lovely. What’s next?”

  “This?” Norma walked to the next station and clapped her hands together as she admired her creation. “This is our wicked witch.”

  It was remarkable. Norma had constructed it from fallen tree branches, selecting those with fungus growing on them to add a certain warty character. It was fastened together with duct tape, herbs and creepers, and even had a crazed hairdo formed from a bird’s nest.

  “Does she have a name?” asked Dee.

  “A name?”

  “Yes. If we’re immersing ourselves in things, we could give her a wicked witch name like Elphaba or Bellatrix or—”

  “Lesley-Ann Faulkner.”

  “Um. Or Lesley-Ann Faulkner. It’s a name, I suppose. It’s definitely a name.”

  Norma cast a brief spell to animate the dummy. Its head snapped up and dead eyes locked onto Dee. Lesley-Ann Faulkner was a frightful vision indeed.

  “Right, Dee,” shouted Norma, “it’s time to pit your wits against the wicked witch. Make no mistake, she’s coming for you!”

  Dee whimpered slightly and gripped her stick. Norma was fiddling around in her handbag. She pulled out a can of hairspray and a butane lighter.

  “We mustn’t forget the witchfire,” she said, igniting her makeshift flamethrower. “Come on Dee, how good is your firefighting?”

  Caroline and Kay went into Peek-a-booze and surveyed the shelves.

  “We’re looking for the cheapest cider,” hissed Caroline. “If it mentions apples or has a name like a folk band then it’s no good. We want industrial strength chemical fizz.” She tried to suppress the memory of her cider-based adventures with George. “Ah – this one’s for us!” She picked up a can. “Liquid Lightning. Eight percent.”

  “Don’t we want a bigger number than eight?” asked Kay, unimpressed.

  “Eight’s a big enough number, trust me,” said Caroline, and thumped down a pair of cans on the counter.

  “You got ID?” asked the shopkeeper, hands flat on the counter as he regarded them.

  “I’m eighteen,” said Caroline.

  “Date of birth?” he asked.

  Caroline added seventeen years onto her actual birth date and reeled it off smugly.

  “What day of the week was that then?” he asked, tapping on the screen of his phone and fixing Caroline with a challenging stare.

  “Monday.”

  “This app says Thursday. Sorry, can’t let you buy that.” The shopkeeper stood upright, hands on hips.

  Caroline huffed and rolled her eyes. “Right. Fine. We’ll just take some fags then.”

  “No, you’re not having fags. Now hop it, the pair of you.”

  “Oh, what?” whined Caroline. “But we really are old enough!”

  “Yeah!” said Kay. “One day we’ll eve
n be as old as you, old man!”

  “Yeah!” agreed Caroline, pleased her young colleague was getting into the swing of it. “You’re so old that your birthday candles caused global warming.”

  “Hey!”

  “Yeah,” said Kay. “You’re so old, you have to scroll down to find the year you were born.”

  “Yeah. You’re so old, if you acted your age, you’d be dead.”

  “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this!”

  “We could fetch you a chair if you like,” said Kay.

  The shopkeeper threw them out and it was brilliant.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting on a low wall outside the chip shop, eating from a packet of chips placed between them.

  “So, teenagers always have words they use to be different to all adults,” said Caroline. “There’ll be a word that means ‘good’ and a word that means ‘bad’. It doesn’t matter what word, but it must sound like complete nonsense to anyone over twenty.”

  “It made learning English very difficult,” said Kay. “Since when did ‘bad’ mean ‘good’?”

  “Well, you had ‘wicked’, which went from meaning bad to good. Then ‘bad’ became good. Then things were ‘sick’ if you liked them. Then ‘ill’ became better than ‘sick’. Not sure whether ‘dank’ is the new ‘bad’ or is just bad. And good things might be ‘deadly’, or I might just be making that up.”

  “So what are the words to be using now?” asked Kay, raising a fat squishy chip and dropping it into her mouth.

  “Christ, I dunno. Stuff used to be ‘wicked’ in my day. We’re best off inventing our own and pretending that it’s normal. So these chips, they’re like … stinking.”

  “Oh, I thought they were quite nice.”

  “No, I mean we take the word stinking and use it to mean really good, see?”

  “Right,” said Kay. “So the guy in the shop, he was a bit of a biscuit, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” agreed Caroline. “Complete biscuit.”

  Caroline spotted three youths coming along the road towards them. They made no indication they had seen the girls which meant, Caroline knew, they were acutely aware of their presence. They all wore similar clothes, made from sagging polyester and emblazoned with sportswear brands.