The Broken Spell (9 page)

Standing between Adie, Rachel and Una in the middle of the A block, Grace couldn’t miss the doubtful glances they gave each other.

‘Why didn’t you tell us about it before?’ asked Rachel.

‘I… I don’t know,’ Grace stammered. ‘I was mad at Jenny after the flying thing and… I just didn’t.’

She looked at each of them, and they weren’t even trying to hide the doubt anymore.

‘What?’

‘You know that you don’t need some big emergency to keep us around,’ Adie said gently. ‘We’re always here.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Grace. ‘You think I’m lying?’

Adie cleared her throat nervously and shook her head.

‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I’m only saying that Mirrorman or no Mirrorman, we’re always your friends.’

‘Why don’t you believe me? I’m not making this up.’

‘It’s alright,’ Una said, putting one hand on her arm. ‘We do believe you.’

The pitying look on her face told Grace the truth. She couldn’t understand why they thought she would make up such a horrible story. She regretted keeping it to herself for so long. Just then, as if she wasn’t miserable enough, Grace saw Jenny come strolling down the corridor with James O’Connor.

‘Hey Grace,’ said Jenny, beaming.

‘Hi Jenny,’ Grace replied quietly.

‘I was just telling James about Ms Gold.’ Jenny grinned up at James confidently. ‘She’s the best teacher ever.’

‘You’re not even in her class,’ said Grace.

Jenny turned her eyes to Grace, but spoke to James.

‘A few of us are taking some extra after-school classes with her.’

‘Extra geography classes?’ James said with surprise. ‘Who’d want to do that?’

‘Oh, not geography. Non-school subjects only.’ Jenny put her finger to her lips and leaned towards him, whispering. ‘But, shush. It’s a secret.’

James gave a little laugh as his cheeks reddened. Just then, the school bell rang.

‘We better get to class,’ said Adie, as they all turned to make their way up the corridor.

‘Sure thing,’ said Jenny. ‘Oh, James?’

‘Yeah?’ he said, turning back to her.

‘Do you want to catch a movie on Saturday? That new horror one’s supposed to be great.’

Grace felt her heart drop into her shoes.

‘Em…’ James stammered, his rosy cheeks going redder.

‘Eight o’clock at the Omniplex,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘I’ll see you just outside, okay?’

‘Er… okay, sure,’ he said with a shy smile. ‘See you there.’

Grace watched him shrug his bag onto his shoulder and make his way up the corridor. There was an uncomfortable
silence as Rachel, Una and Adie looked first at Jenny, then at Grace, not sure what they were supposed to say.

‘Alrighty,’ Jenny said, as if nothing had happened. ‘Let’s go.’

She marched down the hall without looking back. Grace half-expected the others to let her go on alone, but after a few sympathetic glances in her direction, they followed Jenny to class. Only Adie spoke to her.

‘You okay?’

Grace nodded, but she wasn’t okay. And she didn’t know what hurt most – that one of her best friends was going out with the boy she liked, or that none of her other best friends had said anything about it. She’d never felt so alone.

By the time they reached the C block, anger had overtaken hurt. In the doorway Grace grabbed Jenny by the elbow and pulled her aside.

‘What’s gotten into you?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you being so mean?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. You… you asked out James O’Connor, just to get at me!’

Jenny looked at her with fake confusion.

‘How was
I
supposed to know you liked him?’ she said.

‘You’ve known for ages that I like him. You’ve teased me about it loads of times,’ said Grace.

‘Well, I presumed you were over that. I mean, if you liked him so much why didn’t you ever ask him out?’

Grace stared at her, watching the smugness spread across Jenny’s brow.

‘That would be a bit unfair, don’t you think?’ Jenny said, softly pushing Grace backwards and heading back to the classroom door. ‘You never going out with a boy, but never letting anyone else go out with him either.’ She turned into the room and paused to speak over her shoulder. ‘If you want something, maybe next time you shouldn’t wait so long to do something about it.’

9

A HISTORY

Past the woods and across the rickety old bridge, Grace
hurried
to keep pace with Delilah. There were no street-lights this far out of town and it was dark and quiet. There were no paths either, once they crossed the river, so they had to walk along the side of the road with the rushing water loud to their left, and the mucky ground to their right swelling up onto a hill with more woods. There were a few isolated bird calls still sounding out, even though the sun had gone down. Grace had to concentrate to keep her footing at the edge of the tarmac, but the small girl in front of her walked fast, with her head up, as if in broad daylight.

About fifteen minutes later they reached a turn-off that ran around the base of the hill. The road narrowed and the tarmac turned into a mess of gravel and mud. There was a
wall of trees on either side, blocking out what little light the moon provided. Grace grabbed the tip of one strap on Delilah’s bag and trusted the girl to lead her safely down the track.

When they reached the end of the road Grace was sure they had made a mistake. They stood in front of a
dilapidated
structure that could only be referred to as a barn, not a house. There was no light inside or outside the building, the windows were cracked, the wooden slats that covered it were split and rotting, and it was surrounded by woodland that had to be impassable in bad weather.

‘Are you sure your mother won’t mind me coming over?’ Grace whispered.

‘She won’t mind,’ Delilah replied. ‘She’s never here anyway.’

Grace wasn’t surprised. If she lived here, she wouldn’t want to come home either.

She followed Delilah up the two steps that led to the porch; the wooden planks felt spongy beneath her feet. The small girl bent down to pick up an old-fashioned oil lamp, which she lit with some matches pulled from her pocket. Her face illuminated as she twisted the brass key until the flame was at its brightest. Holding the lamp by her cheek, she turned the black handle and the door opened with an echoing creak.

The inside of the house was as welcoming as the outside. There was the bare minimum of furniture, and no lighting or radiators that Grace could see. She pulled up the collar on
her jacket and shivered against the freezing cold. As Delilah led her to the kitchen at the back of the house, there was a growing sickly sweet smell of rotting food mixed with the damp of the wood. Everything was grimy and growing mould, and there was the constant sound of tiny scurrying feet in the walls and under the floorboards.

Delilah dropped her bag onto the table and pulled up two chairs. The table, made out of planks, roughly nailed together, looked as rotten as the rest of the house. Grace didn’t want to sit at it but, out of politeness, she took the offered chair and sat, holding her schoolbag in her lap.

‘I don’t know what we need,’ said Delilah.

‘I have everything here,’ Grace said, opening her bag and placing several items on the table. ‘A couple of silver forks, there’s one each. A porcelain dish, and the soil and herb blend. I just hope there’s enough, I could only find a tiny bit of Green Figwort.’

‘What’s that?’ said Delilah, pointing.

‘Incense.’ Grace had forgotten she’d brought it. She motioned for Delilah’s matches, thankful for the vanilla scent that masked the stench of the decaying house.

‘How does the spell work?’ asked Delilah, picking up a silver fork.

‘We hold the silver in the dish with the blend, and then I say the spell. I’ve written a new verse, so it won’t be as potent as the last one. We
should
just be able to watch past
events from here.’

Grace had double-checked and knew she was right about the potency, but there was still a swarm of butterflies
growing
in her stomach.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she said, holding her fork above the dish. ‘You don’t have to.’

Delilah’s brown eyes smiled, and she nodded her head.

‘Thanks,’ said Grace, ‘for helping me.’

She pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolded it, laying it flat on the table. It was the figure of the Mirrorman, cut out of Mrs Quinlan’s yearbook. She stuck the end of her fork into the blend, and Delilah did the same. Then Grace started to chant:

‘God of time, we ask this blessing,

Save us all this woeful guessing,

Break this old man’s mystery,

And show us his dark history.’

Grace kept her focus on the picture until she heard a bubble-popping sound. Then another. At the centre of the wooden table, a dark liquid was filling the narrow gaps between the planks. It bubbled and spat, then bubbled some more until it spilled over the boards, reaching out with fluid fingers that turned to meet each other and form a wide, wet circle. The surface smoothed out until the girls could see their own reflections. Then there was a ‘plop’, like someone had dropped a pebble into the middle of the puddle, and
ripples spread from the centre, revealing an image of a grand house surrounded by gardens.

A young boy plays with a slingshot, taking out wildflower heads as they sway in the breeze. The boy stops suddenly,
staring
ahead and, as the view pans out, there is an old woman approaching him from the adjoining woods. He turns and runs away, back towards the grand house where a
middle-aged
man is standing. Their clothes are old-fashioned, like Grace has seen in history books at school. The old woman reaches the house, where the man waits, the boy hiding behind his legs.

‘There will be no more talk,’ the man says gruffly. ‘A notice of eviction has been served.’

‘I wish to give you one more chance,’ the woman says. ‘One last chance to save your souls. My home is my own and I have lived there since I was a child. I ask only for my small plot and nothing more.’

‘Your plot,’ the man replies, ‘is in the centre of what will be new farmland, to be sold. Be gone by tomorrow or I will have the bailiffs throw you out and burn every last one of your possessions.’

The woman stands motionless. A small hump beneath her woollen shawl wriggles, and a young red squirrel peeps out. It scampers up the woman’s arm to perch on her shoulder.

‘By tomorrow,’ says the woman, ‘you will be sorry.’

From the folds of her clothes she pulls a parcel made of sackcloth. Dropping it at the man’s feet, she stamps on it with one foot and twists her heel into it until a foul-smelling slime oozes out between the threads and seeps into the ground.

‘As you sow,’ she shrieks, raising her hands in the air, ‘so shall you reap!’

‘Get off my land!’ the man shouts.

Emboldened by his father’s anger, the boy pulls his
slingshot
taut and fires a stone at the squirrel on the woman’s shoulder. It hits the animal in the eye and the squirrel falls lifeless to the ground. The woman screams, grasping the creature in her clawed hands and holding it to her cheek. A few terrible sobs escape her mouth before she turns, and only then is her whole face visible. Her eyes burn with hate, her skin is blighted and raw, her teeth are scarce and the few she has are black and loose. The boy ducks behind his father, gripping his coat, but the woman doesn’t rush at him.

‘As you sow,’ she whispers, ‘so shall you reap.’

She lifts up the end of her shawl, wraps it around the squirrel and cradles it in her arms. Then, turning her back on them, she leaves the grounds and disappears into the woods…

Ripples wash away the image. As they clear the image shows the same boy, this time tossing and turning in bed. He wakes suddenly and screams and screams. He doesn’t stop even when his mother and father come running to his
room. His mother grabs his shoulders and soothes him, then screams herself. His left eye has gone from blue to pearly white. The father is distraught and immediately blames the old woman for taking half his son’s sight. He sends the bailiffs to burn her out of her home, but they refuse, pleading fear and telling stories of monstrous beasts and angry spirits.

Enraged, the father summons his men from the fields and commands them to dam the river and cut off her water supply. Another wash of ripples reveals the father drinking cup after cup of water. His skin looks yellow and dry. He is weak but won’t stop to eat. He drinks and drinks but can’t seem to quench his thirst.

The image switches to the mother riding on horseback into the woods, and carrying her husband’s gun. She finds the hut with two goats tethered outside, but the woman is not there. Incensed, she loosens the ropes that bind the
animals
and chases them off, bellowing into the twilight that the old woman must pay for her crimes.

More ripples in the puddle and the image now is of the family’s herd of cows stampeding through gates that aren’t strong enough to hold them. Farm-hands are trampled as the cattle run. The animals disappear over the horizon, leaving a path of destruction behind them. The father and several crooked-looking men go into the woods with guns, knives and flaming torches and set fire to old woman’s roof. The woman escapes, but her hut is burned to cinders.

This image is blurred slightly by the smoking cinders, which then become the burning embers of another house – the grand house of the boy and his parents. The family stand in the blackened gardens as the father’s men throw useless buckets of water on what is left of their home. The father takes the hands of his wife and son and leads them into the woods. He falls to his knees in front of the woman who sits on a stool in the ashes of her home. He begs her forgiveness. He offers her ownership of her plot. He cries and tells her his family have suffered enough.

The old woman stands and says his family has not
suffered
as she has suffered, but that they soon will. A startled cry from the mother makes the father turn around. Their son has disappeared. When they turn back, the old woman is also gone.

One last ripple across the puddle of water, and the old woman sits on a stool by the fire. An Irish wolfhound lies by her feet sleeping. A bird calls outside the hut and the dog jerks awake. He listens intently before resting his head on his paws once again, and closing his unusual eyes, one blue, one milky white…

Grace and Delilah watched as the liquid drained through the boards and the last image faded to nothing.

‘Is that
it
?’ asked Grace. ‘What happened then? How did
he become human again? Oh, I knew there wasn’t enough green figwort!’

Delilah traced her finger through the damp remains on the table and didn’t seem to hear.

‘Delilah? said Grace. ‘Are you freaked out?’

The girl dried her finger on her jumper and shook her head, smiling.

‘No, it’s cool. It’s really magic!’

Grace sighed. She didn’t know how serious it was for her to have told Delilah about her friends and their spells. Had she now brought Delilah into their coven without asking anyone? Would Ms Lemon be angry? Would Mrs Quinlan? She didn’t know the answers but at least the girl hadn’t lost it when she saw the magic happening for real. Besides, if her friends thought she was making up stories about the
Mirrorman
, who else could she turn to for help?