Honesty Wart Read online

  ‘Certainly not. Help me clear away these dirty plates.’

  Honesty collected the bowls while their guest asked questions about the village. Did any of their neighbours have cats? Did any of them talk to themselves? Had anyone bought a cooking pot recently?

  ‘Where are you staying, by the way?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ replied Brood. ‘I’m a simple man with simple needs. Anywhere will do.’

  ‘There’s the tavern,’ suggested Dad. ‘But it’s sixpence a night and the beds have fleas.’

  Brood shook his head. ‘Taverns are the Devil’s lodgings. Perhaps there’s a house in the village that would take in a poor weary traveller.’

  Mum glanced at Dad. ‘Well, you could always stay here.’

  Honesty dropped one of the bowls on the table with a crash. Mum glanced at him sharply.

  ‘Why not? He could sleep in Gran’s room,’ she said.

  ‘But … but where would Gran go?’ asked Honesty.

  ‘Down here with us. It’s only for a few nights.’

  Silas Brood spread his pale hands. ‘Please, you’ve been too kind already. I’ve no wish to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. It would be an honour to have you stay, wouldn’t it, William?’

  ‘A great honour,’ agreed Dad.

  Honesty groaned. This was turning into a bad dream. A witch hunter staying in their house, sleeping in Gran’s room? Gran’s room! He hadn’t thought of that. Even if he could keep Gran out of sight, her room was cluttered with books and bottles and all the strange things she collected. They might as well hang a big sign on the door saying: ‘WITCH’S LAIR – KEEP OUT!’ He had to find an excuse to see Gran before their guest set eyes on her.

  ‘Well, you must be tired from your journey,’ Mum was saying. ‘I expect you’d like to see your room and get unpacked.’

  ‘NO!’ yelped Honesty.

  His mum looked at him. ‘What do you mean “no”?’

  ‘I mean … um … I wouldn’t go up there yet.’

  ‘Is something the matter?’ asked Brood.

  ‘It’s just … Gran might be sleeping,’ gabbled Honesty. ‘You know how old people sleep sometimes? So maybe I better go up and see if she’s awake …’

  Before they could argue he had dashed up the stairs and was knocking on the door.

  Chapter 8

  Saving Gran

  ‘Gran!’ Honesty closed the door behind him and peered into the dim, smoky room. Gran was sitting in her high-backed chair by the fire, asleep. Honesty shook her by the arm.

  ‘Gran, it’s me! Wake up!’

  Gran’s eyes snapped open. ‘What’s all the noise? Can’t I take a nap without you bothering me?’

  ‘Sorry, but we’ve got to hurry.’ Honesty was picking up armfuls of books from the floor. There was so much junk they’d need a hay-cart to shift it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Gran. ‘What’s going on?’

  Honesty hardly knew where to start. He explained about the visitor and why he had come. Gran didn’t sound in the least concerned.

  ‘Witchfinder General?’ she scoffed. ‘Don’t talk such nonsense!’

  ‘It’s true. He’s downstairs, Gran, and he wants your room.’

  ‘Tell him I’m using it.’

  ‘I can’t. Mum’s already said he can sleep here for a few nights. That’s why we’ve got to get rid of all this.’

  Honesty had found a wooden box and began to load it up with jars, pots, bottles and books.

  ‘Put those back!’ Gran was starting to lose her temper.

  ‘Gran, listen,’ begged Honesty. ‘If he sees any of this we’re in terrible trouble.’

  ‘He can mind his own business,’ snapped Gran.

  Honesty held out a jar in front of her nose. ‘Look – cobwebs! Why would anyone collect cobwebs? He’ll think you’re a witch, Gran!’

  Gran narrowed her eyes. ‘Rubbish!’

  Honesty waved a hand at the contents of the room. ‘Look at this place! You talk to toads! You’ve been selling magic potions to the neighbours!’

  ‘Nonsense! Herbal remedies, that’s all. Did you deliver them like I told you?’

  Honesty hesitated. There wasn’t time to explain now.

  ‘Of course I delivered them.’ (It wasn’t a lie – he had.)

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Honesty? What are you doing in there?’ It was his mum.

  ‘Nothing! Just tidying up! I’m nearly done.’

  Honesty looked around in desperation. There was far too much junk for one person to carry. He’d just have to take what he could and hope for the best. He cleared the shelves, sweeping armfuls of bottles into the box. A stopper came out, spilling something that smelled like Swelter’s armpits on a hot day.

  ‘You could try and help!’ he grumbled.

  Gran ignored him, plumping herself down in her high-backed chair. Merlin popped his head out of the pocket of her black dress.

  ‘Don’t worry, my sweet, we’re not going anywhere,’ she cooed, stroking his fat spotted belly.

  ‘Please! We have to hurry!’

  The knocking at the door resumed. Honesty tried one last time.

  ‘Gran, you know what they do with witches. I’m trying to help you!’

  ‘Then you can start by putting everything back where it belongs.’

  Honesty gave up; he had done his best. All he could do was hide what he had in the box and hope that Gran had the sense to keep her mouth shut.

  The knocking was now a banging. Trying not to spill the box, he pulled open the door. Outside stood Silas Brood, with Mum hovering behind him anxiously. The Witchfinder’s eyes fell on the box in Honesty’s hands.

  ‘I thought I heard raised voices,’ he said. ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Honesty. ‘I was just moving some of Gran’s things downstairs.’

  ‘Helpful of you,’ said Silas, blocking his way so he couldn’t get past. He picked up one of the glass jars and examined it. Little white grubs squirmed against the glass.

  ‘Maggots,’ he said. ‘How unusual.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Honesty. ‘Gran likes to um … go fishing on a Friday.’

  ‘And what’s this?’ Silas picked up a bottle and tipped the contents into his hand. ‘The skin of a lizard, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘She collects skins,’ said Honesty. ‘You know, sheepskin – goatskin, lizard skin …’

  ‘Really?’ Silas Brood pushed past him into the darkened room. His eyes swept over the books and charts on the floor, the black cooking pot over the fire and the wrinkled, wild-haired old lady stroking a toad in her lap. Merlin let out a croak like a belch.

  ‘And who might you be?’ demanded Gran.

  ‘Forgive me, we haven’t met. Silas Brood, Witchfinder General.’ Brood swept off his black hat. ‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  The smoky room had suddenly grown hot and airless. Honesty felt dizzy. The Witchfinder and his gran seemed to be locked into some kind of staring match where neither of them would blink or look away. Whatever happened next, he thought, it wasn’t going to be good.

  Downstairs, someone banged on the front door. Moments later they came pounding up the stairs and burst into the room. It was Ratty Annie, red-faced and wild-eyed.

  ‘It’s Jem!’ she panted. ‘You’d better come quickly.’

  ‘Perhaps I can be of service. Is something the matter?’ asked Brood.

  Honesty shook his head at Annie, trying to warn her, but it was no use.

  ‘He’s on the roof,’ said Ratty Annie. ‘I think he’s gone stark raving mad!’

  Chapter 9

  A Bit of a Flap

  Word had spread quickly through the village. By the time they arrived a large crowd, two cows and a dog had gathered. Nothing much ever happened in Little Snorley so a boy on a roof was a sight not to be missed. Silas Brood had ridden over on his horse while Gran had left the h
ouse for the first time in months, hobbling along with her walking stick and grumbling all the way. They pushed their way into the middle of the crowd, where all eyes were looking up. It was growing dark by now but they could see the shape of a figure crouched on the roof.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘Nothing at the moment,’ replied Mum. ‘I think he’s deciding whether to jump.’

  Patience tugged at her dad’s jacket. ‘Lift me up, Dad! I want to see the boy jump!’

  Jem Swelter was certainly behaving strangely. He tottered to the edge of the roof and peered down at the crowd. Then he flapped his arms like a chicken attempting to take off.

  ‘Jem! Be careful – you’ll fall!’ called Ratty Annie anxiously.

  ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz!’ grinned Swelter in reply.

  ‘Jem!’ called his dad. ‘Don’t be a fool – get down off there!’

  Swelter didn’t pay any attention. He was humming a song that he’d composed himself.

  ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz, bumbly bee,

  Honey, honey, honey for my bumbly tea.’

  Silas Brood looked up. ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied Swelter’s dad. ‘He was all right at breakfast. The next thing I know, he’s climbed up there and won’t come down.’

  ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz, bumbly bee!’ chanted Swelter.

  The crowd drew back. If he kept flapping his arms like that, he was certainly going to lose his balance and fall.

  *

  Gran seized Honesty by the ear and dragged him to one side.

  ‘What have you done?’ she hissed.

  ‘Ow! Nothing!’

  ‘I thought you said you gave him the potion.’

  ‘I did!’ replied Honesty. ‘More or less.’

  ‘More or less? Either you did or you didn’t!’

  ‘I gave it to Ratty Annie. She said she’d make sure he drank it.’

  Gran released his ear. It hurt.

  ‘Which potion?’ she demanded. ‘Think carefully.’

  Honesty avoided looking at her.

  ‘The golden one. Probably.’

  ‘You dozy dollop! You mixed them up, didn’t you? He’s taken the wrong one.’

  ‘Shh, Gran! Someone will hear!’ pleaded Honesty. He’d caught sight of Silas Brood on his horse, watching them over the heads of the crowd. But Gran was too angry to take any notice.

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ she fumed.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault! It was an accident.’

  ‘Accident? He’s drunk a bottle of a potion meant for bees!’

  Honesty looked up at Swelter. That would certainly explain why he kept buzzing and flapping his arms. Swelter thought he was a bumblebee. Any moment now he might try to launch himself off the roof, aiming for the nearest clump of lavender. And there was another thing. If Swelter had drunk the potion, then Honesty must have given Tom Turner the love potion. And that meant … he didn’t even want to think what it meant. It all came of telling lies. From now on, he vowed, he would stick to the truth.

  A gasp escaped the crowd. Swelter was standing at the edge of the roof. He wobbled on one leg like a clown on a tightrope.

  ‘I told you!’ said Patience. ‘He’s going to jump!’

  Swelter jumped. Honesty covered his eyes, hardly able to watch. Swelter hurtled earthwards like a plane in a tailspin. There was a tremendous SPLAT! as he landed head-first in something soft. It was the big pile of cow dung in the yard.

  ‘URGGHH!’ People turned away in disgust.

  ‘Jem! Jem! Are you all right?’ Ratty Annie had rushed over. Swelter picked himself up. He looked like the Incredible Blob. Brown muck oozed down his face and clung to his clothes.

  ‘Runny honey, honey,’ he said, licking his face.

  The crowd backed away from him in case he needed any help. Ratty Annie was offering Swelter her hanky. She spotted Honesty.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ she shouted.

  ‘Mine?’ said Honesty.

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’ demanded Swelter’s dad.

  ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz,’ sang Swelter, flapping his arms and scattering cow poo like carpet bombs. Everyone began to talk at once, arguing and jabbing their fingers.

  ‘SILENCE!’ boomed a commanding voice.

  It was Silas Brood. The crowd obediently fell silent. They didn’t know the stranger with the severe black hair, but he was riding a horse and anyone who rode a horse was obviously important.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ Brood began, ‘many of you will know my name. It is Silas Brood.’

  The villagers looked at each other blankly.

  ‘The Witchfinder General,’ prompted Brood.

  The crowd stared at him awestruck. None of them had ever seen a real witchfinder before. They felt honoured that such a famous figure should visit their humble village. Some of the men removed their hats as if they were in church.

  ‘Perhaps you’re asking yourselves what all this means?’ said Brood.

  The villagers nodded. They hadn’t been asking, but they were now.

  ‘Consider the evidence of your own eyes. A boy who imagines he can fly. Is that normal? Is it natural?’

  Heads were shaken.

  ‘No, my friends, and I’ll tell you why – this boy has been cursed by WITCHCRAFT!’

  ‘Witchcraft!’ wailed a woman in the front row.

  ‘Witchcraft!’ the villagers murmured to each other. Silas Brood turned his attention to Ratty Annie.

  ‘You, girl. What is your part in this? Confess!’

  ‘Me?’ said Ratty Annie. ‘I didn’t do nothing. It wasn’t me that gave it to him.’

  ‘Gave what to him?’

  ‘The potion!’

  ‘Ah, the truth is laid bare,’ said Brood dramatically. ‘What was this potion? Who gave it to you?’

  Ratty Annie and pointed.

  ‘He did!’

  Every head turned in Honesty’s direction. He gulped and cleared his throat. Maybe this was a good moment to start telling the truth – then again, maybe not.

  ‘Well?’ asked Brood. ‘What do you have to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t … er … really a potion,’ said Honesty. ‘More like a medicine – for … tummy ache.’

  ‘And who made this “medicine”?’

  Ratty Annie pointed again. ‘Her! She mixed it up in her black cauldron. Granny Wart!’

  Silas Brood’s eyes gleamed with triumph. He spread both his arms wide.

  ‘Behold the Witch!’ he cried.

  ‘Witch! Witch! Witch!’ chanted the crowd, who by now were wildly excited. This was better than the annual 75-a-side football match. Two of them seized Gran by the arms and dragged her off towards the magistrate’s house. Silas Brood went with them, leading the procession on his horse. Honesty and his family stood open-mouthed, watching them go.

  ‘Is Grandma a witch, Dad?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Dad.

  ‘But is she going to prison?’

  ‘I don’t know, love.’

  ‘If she does,’ said Mercy, ‘can me and Patience have her bedroom?’

  Chapter 10

  How to Spot a Witch

  The courtroom was packed, with every seat taken and children sitting in the aisles. News of the witch trial had spread like wildfire through the whole county. People had come from miles around, bringing their sandwiches in case the trial dragged on past twelve. Peddlers did a brisk trade outside the court, selling lace hankies embroidered with ‘I’ve seen the Witch of Snorley’.

  Honesty had a good view from his place in the front row. Gran sat only a few feet away, facing the court. A ruddy-faced man wearing riding boots and a ridiculously large wig entered the room. Everyone stood up.

  Gran turned her head and whispered, ‘Who’s the bigwig?’

  ‘Judge Gruntley,’ Honesty replied.

  ‘Is he a fair man?’

  ‘I don’t know. People call him “Gallo
ws Gruntley”.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ muttered Gran.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gran,’ said Honesty. ‘I’ll defend you. They’re calling me as a witness.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ Gran gave him a withering look.

  Judge Gruntley settled himself into his seat and banged his gavel for silence.

  ‘Is this the witch?’ he grunted. The clerk looked up from scribbling in his book.

  ‘That’s what we’re here to decide, Your Worship.’

  ‘She looks like a witch to me,’ snorted Gruntley. ‘What’s your name, Grandma?’

  Gran returned his gaze scornfully. ‘Margery Wart.’

  Judge Gruntley rose to his feet and straightened his wig. ‘Margery Wart,’ he boomed, ‘you are guilty of the crime of witchcraft. I sentence you –’

  The clerk interrupted, trying to get his attention. There was a brief whispered exchange.

  ‘What? Oh, very well, if we must,’ sighed the Judge. ‘We’ll hear the evidence before I pronounce sentence. Who speaks against the witch – er … defendant?’

  Brood got to his feet. ‘I do, Your Worship. Silas Brood. You probably know the name.’

  ‘Can’t say I do,’ snorted the Judge. ‘Keep it short. I’ve got four more cases to hear and I want my lunch.’

  Honesty was called as the first witness. He was wearing his best Sunday suit and his hair had been brushed so hard it stood on end like a pincushion. He glanced at Gran nervously. The clerk handed him a Bible and he swore to tell the whole truth.

  ‘Honesty, is this woman your grandmother?’ asked Silas Brood.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Honesty. He hoped all the questions were going to be this easy.

  ‘Has she ever confessed to you that she is a witch?’

  Honesty shook his head. ‘No, sir …’ (Gran nodded at him approvingly.) ‘Other people are always saying it but Gran doesn’t.’

  ‘Which people do you mean?’

  ‘Lots of people. Half the village.’ Gran rolled her eyes up to heaven.

  ‘Tell me, does your grandmother keep any pets? A black cat, for instance?’