Half Bad

  I have to leave. But first I have to see Arran. It’s his seventeenth birthday in a week’s time, and I want to be with him for his Giving. After that I will go in search of my father.

  * * *

  On my first morning at home Deborah passes me an envelope that arrived a couple of weeks earlier. It’s addressed to me. I have never received anything through the post before. Notifications are always sent to Gran. I expect some new Council decree, but inside is a thick, white card on which is beautifully scripted writing.

  I pass it to Arran.

  “Who’s Mary Walker?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “It’s her ninetieth birthday. You’re invited to her birthday party.”

  “Never heard of her,” I say.

  “Do you know her, Gran?” Arran asks.

  Gran is frowning but she nods cautiously.

  “And?”

  “She’s an old witch.”

  “Well, I think we worked that out for ourselves,” Arran says.

  “She’s . . . I . . . I haven’t seen or heard from her in years.”

  “Since?”

  “Since I was young. She used to work for the Council but she went a bit . . . odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Unusual.”

  “She’s mad, you mean.”

  “Well . . . she went a bit strange, making accusations left and right. Only dangerous to herself at first, but then it was clear she was mad. Apparently she would dance around in meetings or sing love songs to the Council Leader. She left the Council in disgrace. There wasn’t much sympathy for her.”

  “Why would she invite Nathan to her birthday party?”

  Gran doesn’t answer. She reads the invitation and then busies herself making more tea.

  “You going to go, then?” Arran asks.

  Gran holds the teapot, ready to fill it. I say, “She’s a mad old witch. No one else in the family has been invited. I don’t know her, and I’m not supposed to go anywhere without the Council’s permission.” I grin for Arran’s benefit. “So of course I’m going.”

  Gran puts the teapot down and doesn’t fill it.

  * * *

  The birthday party is four days away. In those four days I learn nothing more about Mary from Gran, whose only concern when I bring up the subject is that I memorize the directions to Mary’s home that are written on the reverse of the invitation. There is a tiny map with instructions that give times when I should be at certain points. Gran says that I have to follow the map and the timings precisely.

  I set off early on the morning of the party, heading for the railway station in town. I catch a train, followed by another train, then a bus, followed by another bus. The journey is slow—in fact I could catch two earlier buses—but the instructions are clear, and I stick to them.

  Then I have a long walk. I make my way to the points in the woods that are shown on the map and wait for the allotted times to pass before moving on to the next place. The woods are more forest than woods and the farther I go the quieter it becomes. As I wait for the final leg of the journey I realize that there are no noises in my head, and all around me it is beautifully silent. I almost miss the time to leave as I’m trying to work out what noises aren’t there any more. But I keep to the schedule and eventually come to a ramshackle cottage in a small clearing.

  There’s a vegetable patch to the left side of the cottage, a brook to its right, and some hens pecking around in front of it. I skirt around to the right and scoop up some water to drink. It’s sweet and clear. I don’t have to change my stride to step over the clear running water. I make a circuit of the cottage, which is so rundown that it is actually falling down at the back and I can see into a bedroom where a chicken is pecking around. I carry on around to the small, green front door and knock lightly in case the rotten wood gives way.

  “It’d be a waste to be indoors on a day like this.”

  I turn.

  The strong, loud voice doesn’t seem to fit the stooped old witch with a floppy, big-brimmed hat, baggy, holey wool jumper, baggy, holey jeans, and baggy, muddy wellington boots.

  “Mary?” I’m not sure; the person in front of me, with a wispy white mustache, could be a man.

  “No need to ask who you are.” The voice is definitely female.

  “Umm. Happy birthday.” I hold the basket of presents out toward her but she makes no move to take them.

  “Presents. For you.”

  She still says nothing.

  I lower the basket.

  She makes a noise that is a cackle or maybe a cough, sending saliva dribbling down her chin, which she wipes away with her sleeve.

  “You never met an old witch before?”

  “Not many . . . well, not . . .”

  My mumbling tails off as she peers closer at me.

  She is bent almost double and has to lean back and turn sideways to look up at me. “Maybe you’re not so much like your father as I first thought. You certainly look like him, though.”

  “You know him . . . I mean . . . you’ve met him?”

  She ignores my question and now takes the basket from me, saying, “For me? Presents?”

  It’s as if her hearing isn’t too good, but I think she can hear fine.

  She walks to the brook and sits on a patch of thin grass. I sit beside her as she pulls a jam jar out of the basket. “Is it plum?”

  “Apple and bramble. From our garden. My gran made it.”

  “That old bitch.”

  My jaw drops.

  “And this?” She holds up a large earthenware tub, sealed with wax and tied with ribbon.

  “Umm . . . a potion to soothe aching joints.”

  “Huh!” She sets the tub on the grass, saying, “She was always good at potions, though. I take it she still has a strong Gift?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice basket too. You can never have too many baskets, I’ve found.” She studies the basket, turning it round. “If you learn nothing else today, at least remember that.”

  I nod stupidly and again stumble out my question: “Have you met Marcus?”

  She ignores me and pulls out the final present, a rolled-up piece of paper tied with a thin strip of leather, which she slides off and puts into the basket, saying, “And a leather shoelace too. I am doing well, aren’t I? Not had a birthday like this for . . . for oh so long.”

  Mary unrolls the paper, a pen drawing that I made of trees and squirrels. She studies it for some time before saying, “I believe your father likes to draw. He has a talent for it, as have you.”

  Has he? How does she know this?

  “It’s polite to say thank you when someone pays you a compliment.”

  I mumble, “Thank you.”

  Mary smiles. “Good boy. Now, let’s get tea and some cake . . . ninety candles will be interesting.”

  * * *

  Much later we are sitting on the grass in silence with a picnic of tea and cake. The candles, ninety of them, counted out slowly by Mary, were placed on a small cherry cake by me, although I don’t know how they all fitted on. The candles were lit with a muttered spell at the snap of Mary’s fingers. Her spittle-laden blow wasn’t powerful enough to put out the candles so I smothered the flames in a tea towel. During all that I learned nothing from Mary apart from the ingredients of the cake, where she kept her candles, and how she wished someone would come up with a spell that kept slugs off her vegetable garden.

  Now I ask her why she has invited me to her birthday party.

  She says, “Well, I didn’t want to spend it on my own, did I?”

  “So why didn’t you invite my gran?”

  Mary slurps some cold tea from her teacup and lets out a resonating belch.

  “I invited you because I wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t invite you
r gran because I didn’t want to talk to her.” She belches again. “Oh, that cake was good.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “The Council and your father. Though I don’t know much about your father. But I do know about the Council. I used to work for them.”

  “Gran told me.”

  Silence.

  “What do you know about the Council, Nathan?”

  I shrug. “I have to go for assessments and follow their notifications.”

  “Tell me about those.”

  I stick to the facts.

  Mary doesn’t ask any questions while I speak, but she nods and dribbles occasionally.

  “I think they’ll kill me if I go to the next assessment.”

  “Maybe . . . but I think not. There’s a reason they haven’t so far. And it’s not because they’re feeling kind and generous, you can be sure of that.”

  “Do you know the reason?”

  “I have an idea what it may be.” She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and then pats my arm, saying, “You will have to leave soon.”

  The sun was behind the trees now. “Yes. It’s late.”

  She grabs my arm in a tight clawlike grip. “No, not leave here. You must leave your home soon. Find Mercury. She will help you. She will give you three gifts.”

  “But my father . . .”

  “You mustn’t try to find your father. Mercury will help you. She helps many witches who are in trouble. Of course she will expect some payment in return. But she will help you.”

  “Who is Mercury?”

  “A Black Witch. An old Black Witch. Ha! You think I’m old. She is old. Her Gift is strong, though, very strong. She can control the weather.”

  “But how can she give me blood? She’s not my parent or grandparent.”

  “No, but she is a very astute businesswoman. Ironically, the Council is the source of Mercury’s success. You see, they decided years ago to keep a bank of blood of all White Witches, so that if a child should be orphaned the Council would be able to step in and arrange the Giving ceremony.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Yes, perfectly. The spell is modified, I believe, but the blood is of the parent or grandparent and three gifts are given.”

  “Let me guess . . . Mercury stole some of the blood.” And so she must have some of my mother’s.

  “Well, it isn’t hard to guess that. Any fool could have told the Council that this was bound to happen, and many did. And while they were warning the Council, and the Council was assuring everyone that the blood was secure, Mercury was stealing parts of the store. Never whole bottles, just enough to ensure that if any whet fell into bad books with their parents or the Council they could run to Mercury for help.

  “There are many potions requiring witches’ blood. White Witches go to Mercury when they can’t get help within their own community. Black Witches go to her when they need White Witch blood for a potion. Mercury does not help people for free, but she doesn’t get paid in cash; she gets paid in kind. She exchanges the blood for potions, spells, rare ingredients, magical items . . . You get the idea. She has learned how to make potions and cast spells even though that is not her Gift. She has access to strong magic, and she has grown into a very powerful witch.”

  “And how do I find her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know where she is. Not many people do. But there are a few White Witches who don’t agree with the Council’s methods or for some reason or other have fallen out with them. Mercury uses such people. And one of them I do know.”

  “And I can trust this person?”

  “Yes, you can trust Bob. He has his own reasons for despising the Council. He’s a good friend.”

  We’re silent. I think I can trust Mary, but Mercury doesn’t sound like a good solution to my problems. And I want to see my father.

  I say, “But I think my father—”

  Mary interrupts, “Yes, let’s talk about your father. Of course, I don’t know him at all well, and your gran knows him better than I do.”

  I’m not sure that I heard that right.

  “I take it from that look on your face that she’s never mentioned that.”

  “No! How does Gran know Marcus?”

  “We’ll come to that shortly. First tell me what you know about your father.”

  My head is spinning. Gran knows Marcus. That means . . .

  Mary prods me on the arm. “Tell me what you know about Marcus. We’ll get back to your gran soon enough.”

  I hesitate. Gran said never to talk about Marcus, and she never talked about him. But all the time she’s kept this secret from me. . . .

  I say it loud and clear. “Marcus is my father. One of the few Black Witches left in England.”

  I was always afraid to talk about him because the Council might be listening, but now it feels like he is listening.

  And then I’m angry at him, and angry at Gran, and I say, “He’s powerful and ruthless. He kills White Witches and takes their Gifts. He mainly kills members of the Council, and Hunters too, and their families. His Gift, the one he didn’t steal from other witches, is that he can turn—transform—into animals. This means he can eat the hearts of witches whose Gifts he wants. He becomes a lion, or something like that, eats their beating hearts and steals their Gifts.”

  I’m breathing heavily.

  “His mother was Saba; she was killed by Clay. Saba killed Clay’s mother, Virginia. Saba struggled with being indoors at night. So do I. And I guess Marcus is the same.

  “I’m good at drawing, and Marcus is too. I’m rubbish at reading, and I guess that’s one of the few things Marcus is bad at. I have weird noises in my head, and I bet that runs in the family as well.

  “Marcus hates White Witches. I’m not fond of most of them either. But I don’t go around killing them!” I shout that last bit at the treetops.

  “He leaves no survivors. He kills women, children, everyone, except he didn’t kill my mother. He would probably have killed Jessica, Deborah, and Arran, but they were with my gran the night he attacked my mother. He killed their father.”

  Silence.

  I look at Mary and speak quietly now. “He didn’t kill my mother. He didn’t kill Gran either, though you say they’ve met. You say Gran knew him better than you did, so I guess they met more than once . . .”

  Mary nods.

  “So Marcus knew my mother. And Mother didn’t hate him . . . or fear him, or despise him?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  I hesitate. “But they couldn’t be . . . friends . . . or lovers . . . That would be . . .”

  “Unacceptable,” Mary says.

  “If they were, they would have to keep it secret. . . . Though my Gran found out?”

  “Or knew from the start.”

  “But either way it wouldn’t make any difference; Gran couldn’t do anything except try to keep it secret too.”

  “That was the best way, the only way, in which she could protect your mother. I admit she did well, considering. I believe your mother and father met once a year.”

  “So, Marcus and my mother . . . they wanted to see each other . . . they arranged to meet, sent the kids to Gran’s . . . but the husband turned up unexpectedly . . . and Marcus killed him.”

  Mary is nodding to each one of my statements.

  “But my mother killed herself because of the guilt. . . .” I sense Mary is shaking her head.

  “Because she couldn’t be with Marcus?”

  Mary is still shaking her head.

  I hold my gaze away from her, eventually saying what I have always known. “Because of me?”

  Mary’s hand is on my arm and I turn to look at her pale eyes, watery with age. “Not in the way you think.”

  “How many ways can there be?”

 
“I suspect she hoped that you would look like her, like her other children. You didn’t. It was clear once you were born that your father was Marcus.”

  So it was because of me.

  Mary pushes me on. “What would the Council want your mother to do?”

  I remember Jessica’s story and the card she said had been sent to Mother. I say, “Kill me.”

  “No. I don’t think the Council has ever wanted that. But your mother was a White Witch; she loved a Black Witch and had his child. And, because of her relationship, her husband—a White Witch, a member of the Council—was killed.”

  The truth leaves me hollow. They would want her to kill herself. They made her do it.

  Two Weapons

  The next morning Mary makes porridge. She sucks hers up slowly, making disgusting noises. I haven’t slept, and the slurping sets me on edge.

  Between spoonfuls she says, “Your gran has done the best she can with you.”

  I scowl at her. “My gran has lied to me.”

  “When?”

  “When she didn’t tell me that she had met Marcus, that she knew Marcus. When she didn’t deny that my mother was attacked by him. When she didn’t tell me that the Council was responsible for my mother’s death.”

  Mary pokes me with her spoon. “If the Council ever found out where I was and what I’d helped you discover, what do you think they’d do to me?”

  I look away.

  “Well?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that they would have killed Gran?”

  “And will do.”

  I know she’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Mary gives me a string of chores to “help me get out of my morning grouchiness.”

  As she supervises my scraping out of the chicken house, I say, “Gran told me that you left the Council in disgrace.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way of describing it.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “A lucky escape. Finish that and close it all back up. Then make some tea and I’ll tell you.”