Abby the Witch (3 page)

'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.

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 3
^rd
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 broom 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.

'Nonsense.'
Mrs Hunter turned towards the patio doors, 'now come in out of the
cold.'

Abby paused
and tried very hard to think quickly. Charlie was right; Abby was
best to go home and ignore this storm and bury her head in the sand
until it had whistled on by. But surely she could do that after a
cup of tea and biscuits…?

And so,
ignoring Charlie's hissed warnings that if they stopped to have tea
with the old dear they would never get home before the
storm properly hit, Abby meekly followed Mrs Hunter into her
sumptuous kitchen.

'You don't
say?' The man took a long draw from his glass and returned it to
the table with a clang. 'Run aground she has?'

'Aye – about a
half-hour up the coast. It was those winds coming off the
south.'

'Someone's
stirred up the devil and no mistake,' the man paused, seemingly to
whet his lips. 'She's going to get killed on those rocks if that
storm comes true.'

'Aye.'

Both men
turned to glance out the window at the racing clouds.

The Royal
Blue was one of the flagships of the fleet. Huge, powerful,
and fast. She had been known to outrun even the fastest of the
Samarian pirate ships. She was proven against the Elogian fleet
too, even in battle with their most powerful gunships. But power
and speed could not help her now. She had run aground on the Knife
Rocks along the winding coast of Bridgestock.

Every sailor
aboard would try their darndest to pull her free of the rocks, but
it wouldn't be enough. Something different, something dark was
stirring in those clouds, and that something had the Royal
Blue in its sights.

The Captain
yelled orders over the swirling wind, his Commander picked them up,
standing on the base of the bridge stairs, and bellowed them at the
awaiting crew. His keen, deep voice cracked through the howl of the
gale that, as it whipped ferociously above them, sounding like a
thousand wolves stuck in a cage.

The energy of
the men was frenetic. Drenched, striving against the constant tilt
of the ship, they hurled themselves across the deck to their tasks,
their loyalty and respect towards their captain forcing them
onwards even as they could see it was a lost cause.

'Captain!' The
Commander pointed at the topmast.

A massive
fracture line ran deep through the wood.