Abby the Witch Read online

  One tiny snippet of the conversation, however, burned in her mind just as strongly as when the Crone had uttered it with a sideways glance at the full moon. 'One other thing, young Abby. Witches… well they… what I mean to say is, you won't be exactly popular. You see, witches are banned in Westlands, especially in Bridgestock.'

  And now, with both her feet firmly on the tessellated streets of Bridgestock, Abby was living the Witch Ban.

  Unpopular. Unpopular? Witches were hated. Her entire train carriage had emptied when she'd cheerily told them she was a witch and had offered to fix an old gentleman's snore. The man in question had actually growled at her as he'd left. Then there'd been the incident in the port town of Halit when she'd rescued that cat from the tree. The child who'd owned the cat had burst into tears and the mother had actually chased Abby down the street taking swipes at her with an, obviously non-magical, broom.

  Perhaps the scariest incident, however, had been with the guards on the ferry that had taken her to Bridgestock. A contingent of Royal Guards from the Palace had boarded on official Royal duty and had checked each passenger for 'contraband'. When the Captain of the Guard had reached her, he'd leaned down – eyes taking in her outfit, cat, and broom – and had brought his face in barely 20 centimetres from her own.

  'Are you a witch, youngin'? '

  'N-n-no.'

  'Cause if you is a witch, we'll throw you overboard.'

  That had been her first experience of the Guards, but certainly not her last. The Guards were vicious, mindless bullies who received direct orders, not from the Queen, but from the biggest bully of all – the Colonel. Abby did not know much of him, just that his hate for witches ran so deep it seemed to infect even the walls of the city.

  When she'd finally made it to Bridgestock, for one reason or another, she'd found herself in the roughest looking area she'd ever seen. Granted, she only had a particularly mean section of pine forest back home to compare it to, but this section of Bridgestock completely trumped the wolf dens and pine-needle covered cliffs she could conjure in her memory.

  It was dark and damp like the back of Ms Crowthy's laundry, and it smelt of sea air, disturbed dirt, and animal fat. The houses were all packed together with barely a space between them. Some of them were built directly into the great stonewalls that were cut into the hill of Bridgestock and which were mounted, layer by layer, up to the palace beyond.

  It was cramped and stifling. There were no plants to speak of, save a suspect green mould that covered the gutters. No animals either, despite that terrible smell, except the occasional harsh call of the gulls.

  She hadn't planned on staying. Ms Crowthy had warned her about 'the slumps'. She said they were very terrible places, and that if Abby were to find herself in one, she should definitely hit anyone who spoke to her over the head with her broom, especially boys. Abby had thought of this advice for a moment as she’d huddled next to a wall watching some of the largest, most menacing men and women she had ever seen walk past, and concluded that if she even tapped somebody with her broom around these parts, they'd reply in kind with a sledge hammer.

  She would later find out, or learn by experience rather, that the people of Bridgestock were a confused lot. It wasn't that they were not nice or friendly to each other; she had witnessed remarkable generosity between them. However they were quick to hate, quicker to judge, and quickest to shun. It was as if the license to freely despise witches had enabled other derogatory views to take root. South Islanders, Eastlanders, roamers, desert people, Elogians – each day the list would grow.

  In terms of a festering wound in the side of her city – the Witch Ban seemed to have been the initial blow. It allowed the hate to settle and disperse. And in terms of Abby fixing this, finding a way to retract the Ban and sooth the years of hatred, she didn't have a hope. She was one witch in a city of people that, if they found out she was among them, would eliminate her completely.

  So, for the most part, six years after her arrival, Abby Gail had settled into Bridgestock in the only way she could – by pretending she was not a witch at all. It always continued to be hard; every time a child whispered that word to its mother as they passed her in the street, every time an old lady or a passing fisherman looked sideways at her broomstick and black cat, and every time a Royal Guard gave her a narrowed-eyed stare, she could feel the hate and it hurt. Abby couldn't help looking like a witch, mostly of course because she was, in fact, a witch. And maybe she didn't have the traditional warts and pointy hat - but witches have an aura, and that she simply could not hide.

  'I thought you said we could go home!' Charlie glared at her from the base of a tree.

  'I never said anything of the sort. I have to work, Charlie – that's how we eat, in case you've forgotten.' Abby squeezed out a sponge and glanced up at the mottled-grey and navy-blue sky.

  'But, Abby, it's blowing a gale and just look at the sky! It's going to split in two any moment and drown us all.'

  'It's only mid afternoon,' Abby looked around quickly to check no one was watching, and drew a quick protective charm in the suds on the pane of glass she was working on. Just a bonus the residents who employed her to wash their windows received… not that they knew it. 'Trust me, this storm won't hit 'til at least quarter-past-seven. Once I finish up with Mrs Hunter's windows, we can head home with plenty of time to spare.'

  'Mrs Hunter? How can her windows be dirty again?'

  'They were never really dirty to start with,' Abby said quietly. Mrs Hunter was her most regular client, and if it weren't for the old dear, Abby would have starved years ago.

  'You know, I think that lady is onto something,' Charlie fitfully crossed in front of the tree, trying to find a spot out of the wind, 'she's always got you over and you always manage to do a really good job, even reaching the top windows on your broom – what if she suspects you're a witch?'

  Abby scratched at a little patch of stubborn dirt. 'Of course she doesn't. Mrs Hunter is simply a sweet old dear who needs a friend. What with her son in the Navy and her husband dead, I think she just wants company in that huge old house. And I just happen to be company that also washes the windows. And I'm always careful to use the boom only when I know no one is watching. Give me some credit, Charlie.'

  Charlie tilted his head to the side and shook it disparagingly. 'And what about that bracelet you fixed, you said it was magic? Strong magic. What do you think an old diddy is doing with something like that? Don't you think it might be a trap?'

  Abby paused and took a hurried breath. Charlie sure was making her irritable today. What with this wind and Abby's constant niggling sense that something was on the horizon – she didn't need to be distracted by Charlie's conspiracy theories. Not that Abby hadn't thought them herself, that was. 'I don't think it's a trick… I think she just thought it was a trinket…. Look I don't know, Charlie, sometimes I do think she knows I'm a witch and she doesn't care…' Abby stared despondently into the sparkling glass.

  'Oh right, of course she doesn't care – she's only a rich old lady living on Esquire street with all the other rich fascists who ruined our lives! And what about all those teas you take her – that's suicide, Abby, she's bound to be onto us.'

  'She asked for them, Charlie…. And it felt good to do something vaguely witchly for once.

  'Pleck that, Abby!' Charlie twitched his ears flat and swooshed his tail.

  'Charlie, don't swear.' Abby stood back from the glistening window and checked it from several angles. 'To be honest, I don't think it matters. Mrs Hunter… well, I've always suspected she was a little different… she told me about those dreams she's been having and they sounded almost like second sight. I couldn't just leave her without a cup of sweet basil tea, could I? They'd consume her every waking moment. I am a witch and I have to look after my people even if they don't know I'm doing it.'

  'You could look after yourself first, Abby – that sounds like a much safer policy. Leave Mrs Hunter to her dreams and windows.'

/>   'No,' Abby was surprised in the far-off quality of her voice, 'something has always told me it's important for me to know Mrs Hunter….'

  Charlie rolled his eyes. 'Oh great, there's that faulty second sight of yours again. Do you know why it's important, or when, or what you should do?'

  'No,' Abby licked her lips and sighed at Charlie, 'don't tease me like that, of course I don't. If I did, I'd save myself a whole lot of trouble….'

  'That's your problem, Abby – all you know is how to find trouble. For instance, why aren't we going home? Would you just look at those clouds?'

  'It will just be a storm, trust me, it won't be important at all.' Abby quickly looked away, she hadn't wanted to worry Charlie, but she had felt something off about this storm. Something was gathering in those clouds, something big.

  A gull cried as it circled overhead making Charlie prick up his ears and sniff wildly. 'You should hear what the birds are saying, Abby! Storm of the century that one just squawked – the century!'

  Abby wasn't about to buy into that. Abby was a witch, after all, she knew what happened when you called a storm 'the storm of the century' – it would start getting ideas. If people kept on talking about the storm of the century – then that's what they'd get. They'd convince the clouds and rain that they could do something just horrible. If everyone called it the storm of the century, then everyone was prepared for it to be huge and life changing – and the storm would do just that, it would change lives. So if everyone in Bridgestock went around saying they were in for trouble, then the whole city would be in for trouble.

  Witches are wary of storms; storms can change destinies, after all. And if the storm was big enough, then it could change destinies all the more. It could rewrite history in a clap of thunder – for good or for worse.

  Abby shook her head one final time, her mousy-blond frizzes brushing against her face. 'Everything will be just fine. This is not the storm of the century, 'she said firmly. 'I'm the witch of Bridestock and nothing will go wrong on my watch.'

  Abby looked up at the clouds one final time. She wished something would go right for once though.

  Chapter 2

  It was strange, it was very strange indeed. Abby felt guilty and she wasn't sure why. She felt like she'd done something, something terrible, but she had no idea what, where, or when she might have committed the fell deed. All Abby knew was that something was amiss.

  So she'd walked to Mrs Hunters with her head held high, trying not to admit to herself that her overwhelming sense of guilt had anything at all to do with the storm. She knew this wasn't the storm of the century gathering over her town. She knew it wouldn't be so very powerful that it would snap the destiny of Bridgestock like a piece of rotted driftwood. Everything would be just fine….

  Still, her witchly senses were buzzing so hard it felt like a hoard of winged insects were surrounding her face, shadowing her every move with an ominous, prickling hum. What if she was wrong – after all, she could admit that in the privacy of her own head – what if she was wrong about the storm? What if it was going to be as terrible as everyone was imagining?

  She should have stayed in bed today, just like the cards had told her to. She had done several readings over breakfast and all had dealt the same: the Tower, Death, and the Fool. If that was not a portent of a dangerous new journey (and a reason to stay in bed with the covers pulled over her head), then Abby had learnt nothing from Ms Crowthy. The Tower, shrouded in thunder and set ablaze, told Abby that today something destructive would occur. That which has been allowed to build, but should not have been allowed to be – will burn to the ground. It wasn't literal – but the storm would change something, it would destroy, violently, a figurative tower of Abby's creation.

  And then there was Death, covered in black, standing over a battle field, a glinting scythe in one bony hand. Change, big change. It didn't always mean death literally, but something would die. Not a good card to have alongside The Tower – she couldn't ignore it now. Something big was going to happen.

  Worst of all there was the Fool. A new journey, a new beginning - a merry youth striking out into the distance with their belongings on their shoulder and a foolish glint in their eyes. A Fool going off to seek their fortune. This card, alongside the Tower and Death, would make this journey both very dangerous and very transformative. The Fool would simply never be the same again.

  Abby had sipped with deep dissatisfaction at her tea when she'd drawn the same cards for the 3rd time. Life changing, perilous adventures were not her cup of tea, no pun intended. The thought of being whisked away on some stupendously dangerous voyage was enough to make a witch curl her toes and die on the spot. Witches, after all, only liked to read other people's wondrous destinies – they didn't need to be reminded of their own. Gadding about and changing history, preventing wars, saving royals, and even falling in love – these were all very un-witchly things to do. Witches preferred to stay at home and stare at their tea and go 'hmm' a lot. So drawing the Tower, Death, and the Fool was a terrible portent for a witch. Some kind of adventure was afoot….

  But Abby had forced herself out of the house. She would ignore them, ignore the cards with every inch of her being. She had to earn a living, after all; staying one day in bed would likely mean several days without food, which was not a happy trade off. Plus, she was confident that, as a witch, she could head off adventure at the pass. If she saw a hero trot past on a glistening white horse, then she'd whack him over the head with her broom and leg it.

  But that didn't explain the guilt, the overwhelming sense that she'd done something she shouldn't have. That she'd gone and met a future that should never have been. All she'd done was walk out the front door – but somehow that had sealed her fate. Abby felt inexplicably pulled towards something huge, life changing, and active. Bubbling away like a volcano in the back of her mind, whipping around like a cyclone on the wind-

  'Are you going to just sit there and hover all day, or are you going to hurry up and finish with Mrs Hunter's windows so we can go home already?' Charlie's voice cut through the air like a whining motor.

  Abby startled and had to grip the broom with both hands or fall off. She'd slipped into her thoughts, and had hardly noticed as she'd shined the same piece of glass over and over again.

  'You were thinking about this storm, weren't you? Don't you shake your head at me – you were.' Charlie twitched his tail irritably and stared up at her with narrowed golden eyes. 'I know you too well, Abby. You can't hide this kind of thing from me – this storm has got you wired and fitful, it's a surprise you haven't thundered off home to hide under the covers,' Charlie finished with a flick of his whiskers.

  Abby paused to look around the garden. The wind was still howling, chasing errant leaves across the patio stones, pushing the branches of the birch together until they grated like fire sticks. The laden heads of the lavender crashed against each other as it whipped around the small enclosed garden, but the ivy, securely flush with the old redbrick wall of the house, hardly noticed as it howled on by.

  Everything looked fairly innocuous. This didn't look like the prelude to the greatest storm of the century or, Abby swallowed, the first cracks in the foundation of her Tower. 'Look,' she said thoughtfully, 'everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine I mean. This isn't going to be such a big storm really….'

  Charlie shook his head in big, wide, obvious sweeps – left right, left right. 'You are the worst liar that ever lived, Abby Gail. Now stop playing games and let's get the hell home already.'

  'Not until I've finished these windows…' she let her voice trail off and sighed deeply. Why was she letting this feeling get to her? Why couldn't she stop thinking about those cards? Why couldn't she put this storm out of her head? Why wasn't she heading off adventure at the pass like she'd told herself she would? Surely all these ill feelings and ominous signs were portents of some fantastic danger-

  'Abby! Snap out of it, girl!'

  Abby swerved her bro
om and crashed into the brick wall not hard enough to fall off, but hard enough to curse tersely at the unyielding stone.

  'Oh, Abby, just get down from there before you do yourself an injury. And sheesh, girl, give me some credit. I saw the way you were looking at those cards this morning – I know something big is afoot. I am a witch's cat, after all. I'm attuned to you, I know what you're feeling, and I can sense you are scared silly, so can't we just go home already?'

  'I am not scared silly,' Abby tried to be defiant as she landed the broom and straightened up.

  'Ha! You're a witch, why wouldn't you be scared? Three identical readings all predicting a perilous journey and the storm of the century brewing over head – I can't think of a more ominous set of circumstances, can you?'

  Abby looked sideways at him, but didn't answer.

  'I know you, Abby, you hate adventure. You hate stories with heroes and heroines, danger and intrigue, romance and true love. So please, in the name of all that is witchly – please can we go home?'

  Abby opened her mouth to protest, to tell Charlie that everything would be just fine and that she wasn't afraid of a thing, thank you very much. But the sound of the front gate grinding open cut through her thought.

  Within moments Mrs Hunter shuffled around the side of the house. Dressed in an embroidered white cloak and a thick cream, woollen dress, the old lady smiled at Abby as she approached. Mrs Hunter held a woven basket in her hand, its goodies concealed by a bright, flowery tea towel.

  'Oh, have you finished already, dear?' Mrs Hunter asked, her tone rich and sweet.

  Abby shrugged her shoulders slightly. 'I'm afraid the wind is a bit of a bother, Mrs Hunter-'

  'Oh my, of course! You must be chilled through and through!' The old lady exclaimed. 'Come in for a cup of tea. I'll get your money too.'

  'Oh no, Mrs Hunter, I couldn't – I haven't finished the job!' Abby pointed out. She may need that money to buy food but she could hardly charge an old lady for a job only half done, especially such a nice one.