The Courage of Cat Campbell (5 page)

“I made a spider change color, Peter. Lots of colors. And it grew and bounced around the attic, and—”

“Cat,” Peter interrupted, handing her back the wand. “You have an extremely vivid imagination. Remember that time you thought you made a stick roll, but it was really the wind? Or the time you made a rain spell, and when it rained two days later, you thought that was because of you?”

“This was different, Peter. I felt all tingly and magical!” Cat shivered at the memory. “It was the most delicious sensation.” She opened
Simple Spells
, and started to flip through it. “Look, I'll show you. I'll do a spell.”

“Well, make it quick, because I'm ready for my gingerbread.”

“I should start with something easy, don't you think? How about this? A simple room tidying spell?” Cat glanced around her bedroom. Her jacket and scarf and gloves were still lying in a heap where she had taken them off, and yesterday's clothes were scattered across the floor.

“Go on then,” Peter said, yawning.

“Can you open my cupboard so the clothes can hang themselves up?”

With a loud sigh, Peter walked over to Cat's cupboard and tugged it open. He folded his arms and rolled his eyes.

“I know you don't believe me, Peter, but you will! I'm so excited, I can hardly stand it.” Cat glanced at the page, then, waving her wand around the room, she cried out, “Tiddlylischus!”

Nothing happened, and Peter gave a crooked smile. “I think you're holding your wand upside down, Cat.”

“I am? Oh yes, you're right, Peter. The tip should go the other way, shouldn't it?” Cat flipped the wand around and tried again. “Tiddlylischus!” she shouted.

Still nothing happened, and Peter chuckled. “Should I be using my imagination here?”

Cat glared at him. “I am not making this up.”

Shaking his head, Peter strolled across the room and glanced down at the page. “Okay, Cat, seriously! That says ‘Tidylischus,' not ‘Tiddlylischus'! You've got to be able to say the words right!”

Ignoring Peter's comment, Cat tried again. “Tidylischus!” she said, making a sweeping motion with the wand. Immediately all the clothes on the floor floated into the air, and Cat danced around in delight. “It's working, Peter, it's working.” She watched them tumble and swirl as if they were in a dryer, but instead of hanging themselves up in the cupboard like the spell said they would, the clothes started moving faster. “Oh dear, I don't think I've got it quite right,” Cat said, as her red wool sweater grabbed Peter by the arms, tugging him across the room.

“Hey, get off me,” Peter cried, as the sweater spun him around like a dance partner.

Cat's scarf was speeding in circles, and every time it flew by Cat, it whipped her in the face. Not knowing quite what to do, she gave a panicky laugh. “Into the cupboard!” Cat ordered a pair of black socks that were dipping and diving at them like bats. Her jeans waved their legs about, racing away from Cat every time she tried to grab one. “Peter, help me,” she panted. “I can't control them.”

“No kidding,” Peter gasped, wrestling with the sweater. “Will you go away?”

Cat managed to grab on to her puffy winter jacket as it spun by. She dragged it across the room and, with a great deal of pushing and shoving, got it into the cupboard and slammed the door shut behind it. “Oh, no, the window,” Cat groaned, turning to see her jeans squeezing through the opening. At least they were her old ones with the holes in the knees. Her socks and gloves sped out after them, quickly followed by Cat's scarf and T-shirt. Her sweater had pinned Peter to the floor, and Cat yanked at the neck, trying to pull it off him. “I never liked wearing you,” Cat said, pulling as hard as she could. “You were always too scratchy!” Noticing the other clothes leave, the sweater abruptly let go of Peter and dashed off after them, pushing Cat out of the way as if it didn't want to get left behind. She raced to the window to try to grab an arm, but it was too late. The sweater waved a sleeve at her, and by the light of the moon Cat watched it dance off along the canal.

“Wow!” Peter said, moving to stand beside her. His face was flushed red.

“So you believe me now?” Cat giggled nervously as she shut the window.

“You're going to have to tell your mum.”

“But I'm scared, Peter. You know how she feels about magic. What if she doesn't let me apply to Ruthersfield?”

“You've got to tell her, Cat. That is not normal magic.”

“Well, I haven't had any practice. That's why I need to go to the academy. So they can teach me how to do spells.”

“Crikey!” Peter shook his head. “Crikey,” he said again. “I'm not sure I could eat any gingerbread after that. I've completely lost my appetite.”

“I wish my dad were here,” Cat sighed. “He would understand how exciting this is. He'd help me tell my mum.”

“When's he coming back?” Peter asked.

Cat gave a small shrug. “I don't know, Peter. I hope soon. He's searching for a rare species of plant and he won't come back until he finds it. That's how my dad is. He doesn't give up easily.” It was always hard when her father went away on one of his trips, and although Cat tried not to worry, it was impossible to stop the scared feelings from building up inside her.

C
AT WAS RELIEVED WHEN THE
Parkers finally left that evening. She needed to be alone, to think about what had just happened. Peter had made her promise to tell her mother, and Cat wanted to—she really did—just not tonight. She couldn't face the conversation she knew they would have when her mother found out Cat was a Late Bloomer.
I'll tell her tomorrow,
Cat promised herself,
right after school.
That way she could figure out exactly what to say. Besides, she still had her homework to do, which, in all the excitement of the afternoon, Cat had completely forgotten about.

Tristram Campbell had built Cat a little desk in the corner of her room. It was the perfect place to do her homework; her books always got covered in flour whenever she sat at the kitchen table. But Cat found it impossible to concentrate on Antonia Bigglesmith with her jacket moving about in the cupboard. Every time it gave a muffled thud, a nervous thrill shot through her and Cat glanced at the door, anxious that her mother might hear. It was slightly unnerving, having an uncontrollable coat in her cupboard. She obviously needed more practice with her spells, but at least some magic had happened.

Cat impulsively reached for the airplane note cards Marie Claire had given her last Christmas, opening up one with a vintage stunt plane on the front. Cat wrote in purple ink:

Slipping the card into an envelope, Cat gave a satisfied sigh. She would post the letter tomorrow. It would take ages to get to Zangezur—Cat knew that—but she had a strong feeling that when her father read it, he would understand how important this was and come right home.

Cat yawned and tapped her pen against her teeth. Her eyes felt heavy and tired even though her mind was still racing. The magic books seemed to be calling out to her. “Just a little peek,” they were saying. “One little peek and then you can go back to your homework.” Bending over her journal, Cat scribbled, “Antonia Bigglesmith was born in 1927 in Clacton-by-the-Sea.” She yawned again and pushed back her chair. One little peek wouldn't hurt, surely? She'd just read through a couple of spells and then finish drafting her essay on Antonia Bigglesmith.

Kneeling on the floor, Cat opened
Practical Magic
. Some of the pages were stuck together, which made Cat smile, because when she put her tongue against the paper she could taste something sweet. Obviously her mother used to do her homework while she baked! Very carefully Cat peeled the pages apart, taking in the dusty book smell mingled with the faint fizz of old magic that tickled her nostrils and made her want to sneeze.

“Moving a simple object,” Cat read. That looked like a fun spell. All you did was wave your wand at something and say . . . Cat peered at the word and mouthed it slowly. “Aloftdisimo.” She said it over and over again, letting the strange sounds roll off her tongue. “Aloftdisimo, Aloftdisimo, Aloftdisimo.” Then you pointed your wand to wherever you wanted the object to go. “Oh, but look at this spell!” Cat murmured, turning over the page. “Magic Dictation” it was called. She studied the instructions. “Have a pen ready beside a piece of paper. Wave your wand and say the command, Squiggleypaparady, then begin to dictate in a loud, clear voice.” Cat giggled. How did witches ever manage to learn all these complicated words? “Swiggly, I mean squiggley, squiggleypaparady,” Cat whispered, struggling to get the sounds right.

“Oh, I just have to try this!” She was gripping the wand in her pocket so hard there were marks dug into her left hand, and an idea occurred to Cat. Why couldn't she do her homework and practice a little spell at the same time? It made perfect sense, didn't it? “And I have so many things I want to write down,” Cat said out loud. “It will be much faster this way.”

Opening her journal at a clean page, Cat positioned her purple pen beside it. She loved being allowed to write in purple ink, just like the girls at Ruthersfield did. Her teacher didn't mind, just as long as her handwriting was neat and her spelling correct. Cat strained her ears, making sure she could still hear opera music coming from the kitchen, which her mother and Marie Claire always listened to while they got the bread doughs started for the next day. It would not be good if Poppy chose this moment to come in and say good night. “Okay,” Cat whispered, feeling her excitement start to build. She flexed her fingers and picked up her wand, making sure she was holding it the right way. Then, waving the wand in the air, Cat carefully pronounced the word, “Squiggleypaparady!”

The pen stood up, twitched, and flopped down again, knocking its lid on the desk a few times. “Oh, I left the top on!” Cat giggled. “Silly me.” Leaning over the desk, she pulled the lid off and repeated the spell. This time she watched in amazement as the pen twitched and stood up. Cat squealed, covering her mouth with her hand. This was unbelievable. The pen hovered over the page, and Cat realized it was waiting for her to speak.

“Ahh . . . Antonia Bigglesmith got a toy airplane for her fourth birthday and told her parents right then that she was going to fly one herself one day.” The pen scrawled away across the page, and Cat felt a great wave of pride sweep over her. She had done it! The spell was working correctly.

“When she was six,” Cat continued, “she went for a—Hey, stop!” Cat yelled as the pen lurched off the page and started scribbling on the desk. She launched forward and tried to grab it, but the pen darted away and drew a squiggly line on the wall. “Stop that!” Cat shouted, and the pen wrote “Stop that.”

“Get back on my journal! Flipping fish cakes!” Cat gasped, chasing after the pen. “Get back on my journal! Flipping fish cakes!” the pen scribbled in large, loopy purple script.

“Mamma is going to have a fit,” Cat groaned, and the pen scrawled her words right across the ceiling. Trying not to say another word, Cat watched her pen hover in the air for a few moments, as if it was waiting for her to speak. Then, looking for something new to draw on, it dived to the floor, where it stared to draw circles.

“Got you,” Cat panted, stomping on it quickly with her foot. She stamped as hard as she could, crushing purple ink all over the wooden boards. Cat cleaned up the mess with a handful of tissues and then moved her rug with the ducks on it, the one Auntie Charlie had made her, over the purple stain. Looking around at the walls and ceiling, Cat gave a soft groan. She would have to scrub the rest of the pen off tomorrow, when she didn't feel quite so tired. At least it was meant to be washable.

But Cat couldn't help smiling as she picked up her journal, because there, at the top of the page, was one perfect line of magic writing. Cat admired it for a while before slipping the journal into her backpack. Her eyes were sore, and she couldn't stay awake any longer. She would just have to finish her homework on the bus.

As Cat lay in bed with the lights out she could hear her jacket occasionally knocking against the inside of the cupboard. Soft, muffled thuds as it waved the sleeves about. But it wasn't a sound that she minded. In fact, it made Cat smile because it reminded her, as she drifted off to sleep, that she had finally got her most cherished wish. She had inherited the gift of magic.

Y
OU LOOK TIRED,” POPPY REMARKED
as Cat padded into the kitchen the next morning. Marie Claire's favorite opera station was playing on the radio, and a fire crackled in the hearth. There was a sweet smell of caramelized fruit in the air.

“I got to sleep a bit late,” Cat admitted, smiling at her mother. Cat loved the coziness of the bakery, the warmth and the happiness that surrounded her, and she had a sudden hopeful feeling that everything would be all right. There wasn't time now, but she would tell her mother as soon as the bakery closed this afternoon.

“I made raspberry muffins,” Poppy said, offering the plate to Cat. Her long braid dangled over her shoulder, the ends streaked with flour.