Another brilliant short story from the Alpha Steering Group’s supremely talented Evie Pearman
If you were to look up in the sky during the witching hour (a time no-one but witches are quite sure of, for it moves depending on the day), you would be very surprised if you did not believe in witches. For high up in the sky, you would see half a dozen or so witches circling above you like birds, practicing their broom prowess. Most of these witches travelled together, geese in formation, swan in elegance if as menacing as vultures.
They often travelled together to witches’ festivals at several times in the year. These festivals of course, were secret to all but the witches and wizards and warlocks. But this little witch was flying alone. Accompanied only by her prim familiar - the black cat Dusk, she was flying hectically, for she was late to the Christmas Yule Festival. She had also finally been given special permission to fly alone and she knew that if she were late she would be forced to go home with her strict family. Her father had eventually relented on her flying solo after being reminded of her travel sickness at the last festival - Halloween. Not wanting to scrub his own broom clean of the goo and spew again, her Dad eventually declared that flying alone would be good for his daughter’s independence. She had been thrilled, because it allowed her to sneak off and dye her hair the most revolting colour she could imagine - a pale lime green. Indeed, she felt it was a smart idea to streak her violet hair with a vivid lime green. And fly alone, which no witch ever does- especially one that struggles to fly like she did.
Her untied shoelaces flapped in the howling wind; her cauldron jolted from the handles - and her dark hat with a red sash threatened to fly off. She had added a jaunty sprig of faux ivy but that was in danger of falling out. Still, Raven Black didn’t care that much. She was too busy thinking about her growling stomach. And the only food she had was rotten mushrooms for her potions and cat food for huffy old Dusk. “Slow down!” croaked Dusk feebly for the tenth time, clinging to broom with his claws. “And be late for the Festival?” Raven sniffed, unimpressed. “I don’t think so!” She accelerated. “We’re already late as it is.” sniffed the familiar. “All because you had to dye your hair that dismal colour!” “Well, then, as my familiar, you should have guided me in the right direction and stopped me. You’re supposed to be about consciousness and morality, aren’t you?” Raven chastised back. “Besides, I like it.” but her voice shook. “You’re father won’t be impressed. You’ll embarrass him in front of the other warlocks.” Dusk hissed unkindly. Raven trembled, but not because of the very un-Christmassy downpour and gale. Raven’s father was chief of the wizard - kind in their county and all of his co -workers would be there tonight. Raven also knew that she disappointed her father. She was small and scrawny and silly. And constantly peckish. Her older sisters: Fern, Holly and Ivy were much better daughters. They were all well-read, well-spoken and well beyond the years of childishness.
Raven was not. But she didn’t like to be reminded of it, for all she acted liked she loved being the oddball. One day, she thought to herself, I would like to give Dusk a good kick. “Well then, perhaps it’s best we don’t go at all.” Raven bluffed, although she was very hungry, and the festivals always had food. “We could say we fell ill!” “There’s no need for that!” said the cat hastily, for he loved the festivals too. “But do slow down, and be careful. I heard there’s all sorts on the prowl tonight. Demons, dragons and witchfinders!” “You worry far too much, Dusk.” Raven said, having to shout over the roar of the wind. “Half those things don’t even exist anymore, if ever.” “Correction.” the cat said snidely. “Demons never existed, so I suppose I am being a tad excitable- and there are few witchfinders nowadays... but dragons do exist. And most are a nasty bunch that enjoy young witches with familiar sauce.” His voice wavered now, no longer smug with knowledge. “And what are the chances we’ll bump into one?” retorted Raven, reassuring herself more than Dusk. “Very low, I imagine.”
Now, as any true narrator should add: Raven was wrong. The odds were very, very high. Inevitable, in fact. Here comes one now! There was a growing rumble, gurgling up from the heavens above. A shiver ran down Raven’s spine. Thunder, she thought. And suddenly, in spirals of dark grey, came the smoke. And then the fire - thick, scarlet and amber fire - tumbling down towards her. Raven screamed and so did the cat. It was impossible to know who screamed louder. Whoosh! Went the broom and Raven surged forwards, like a bullet fired from a gun. She tried to remember her flying lessons with the stern Ms Skull. The cauldron went hurtling off the broom’s handles with a clang, but Raven didn’t care, too busy rushing away from the towering mass behind them. Dusk, who was more preoccupied with watching rather than trying to escape, did. “My cat food!” he whimpered piteously like a kitten. On any other occasion, Raven would’ve giggled at the cat - a irresistible, irrepressible giggle that would have made her father stiffen and her sisters roll their eyes.
But this was not any other occasion. She was only a few minutes away from the festival now, if she could slip through the magical bubble that shielded the festivities from the outside world... she’d be safe. She chanced a look at the dragon. It was a foul creature, with glinting yellowish teeth, sneering lips and thin slits for eyes - it looked rather like Raven’s tutor Ms Skull, except less ugly and a bit bigger - but not too much. It was about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, with long claws. From the feet and wings hung silvery chains. It’s emerald reptilian skin was embroidered with strange little barnacle - like gems. They glinted in many colours - silver, crimson, azure and violet. At the very top of its head was a massive diamond-shaped gold one. Raven giggled now. “It looks like a Christmas tree, Dusk.” she said, trying to cheer the distraught cat up as they glided onwards. Maybe it’s jewellery was slowing it down. Or maybe not. For the dragon seemed to unearth a sliver of energy within itself - suddenly it lurched towards the little witch and her familiar: opening its fanged, cave-like mouth a glow of yellow rose up. Raven felt unbearable heat wash all over her face, soon she’d be disintegrated into ashes! Not only would she burn with fire painfully, she would burn with shame as her father shook his head at his remains and her sisters tutted, dutifully throwing delicate petals at her withered behinds. It was a rather morbid thought and rather funny. Whenever her sisters disapproved of her, they would sneer in a way that suggested dung under their noses. This look hurt Raven when it came from her father, but it was funny to watch on her snobbish sisters. At least she’d have a laugh at the funeral.
Blam! Raven hit something cold and hard, sending her ricochetting off like a spinning top. She hit it again, her vision now wonky and felt herself... melting? The barrier! She’d crashed into the barrier. It hadn’t recognised her as a witch as first but now it was giving her entry. “Thank goodness!” wailed the familiar, as they watched the dragon hurtle off, disorientated, thinking it was following them elsewhere. The celebrations didn’t last long, however. Raven had forgotten to keep flying. They tumbled to the ground in fast motion. Raven went through her cloak’s pockets. She found a chilly vial, something she’d made in class. Ms Skull had dismissed it but maybe it could help. She threw it at the ground desperately, watching it shatter on impact and braced herself... Boing! Raven slapped right into a strange but soft substance. She opened her eyes and found herself glaring into a bluish luminescent gel. She felt herself be unleashed from the goo and hauled herself up to stare at the wintry night sky.
She could feel the goo clutching at her ankles and wrists but she managed to unearth herself and Dusk - and a very battered broom. She slid off and turned to face her invention. A bright, hemispheric bubble was lying in the middle of the clearing. The bubble had obviously come from her vial. “Well that didn’t go too badly. We haven’t broken any bones, our broom hasn’t snapped and we tricked the dragon into flying off. He probably would’ve ended up finding and preying upon us as we left the party!” it was only as Raven spoke these words she felt both pride and a bit guilty. She sounded a bit boastful. But Dusk nodded. “And we’re both alive. Well done, Raven.” Dusk said kindly. “Your father would be proud, but I suggest we don’t mention it to him. We’ll be grounded again, both in the house and on the ground.” Raven felt disappointed, but she understood. As they approached the Yule Festival, Raven could smell delicious foods, roaring fires and the smoky stench of magic. She could see the golden Christmas tree, decorated in silver and purple and the hear the cries of delight. Her stomach rumbled. “Come on, Dusk. Let’s get some food.” she said. The little witch and the prim familiar walked on alone, but very happy.
f you enjoyed that haunting tale, click here to read another of Evie's stories http://www.sycamoretrust.org.uk/latest/article/The-case-of-the-ghostly-child