Witch Baby and Me After Dark Read online

  KABOOOM.

  Squish, squelch, schloop.

  This is No Fun At All. In fact, I decide, this is The Pits. Then, when I’m sure it can’t get any worse, it begins to rain.

  ‘VIVALDEEEEEEEE?’ I can just about see her, wading through bogs up ahead. ‘I think we’re lost.’

  Ominously, Vivaldi doesn’t deny this. Instead, she stops and waits for me. I stagger and squelch across to her and put Daisy the Pumpkin down to give my arms a rest. Daisy gives a hiss and her light goes out. Oh, great. That’s all we need. Now I can’t see a thing, including where I just dumped Daisy.

  ‘Daisy?’

  Silence.

  ‘DAISEEE?’

  KABOOOM!

  ‘Lil?’ That’s Vivaldi calling.

  ‘I’ve lost the pumpkin lantern!’ I wail.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Vivaldi calls back. ‘Hang on. I’ll come over to where you are.’

  Squelch, splash, splott.

  ‘Vivaldi? Is that you? There?’

  ‘No. I’m over here, Lil.’

  Sploosh, Squerch, schloop.

  Fun as it was watching Lily and Vivaldi wading in circles around each other, Daisy was growing bored with being an extinguished pumpkin lantern. However, thanks to Vivaldi, she had a brilliant idea for what to turn herself into next. As the distant flashes and KABOOMS built up to a dazzling crescendo, and Lily and Vivaldi flailed around in the darkness, unable to find each other, Daisy the dinosaur lumbered away to watch the fireworks.

  *She had. Here it is, minus the hard-to-pronounce bit in Ancient Babbleonian:

  mus, i, mus

  her, me, mus

  ver, min, us

  verminus

  a whisker a sister

  a hisster

  a twister

  chin to grin; grin to grit

  grit to rit; rit to rat

  That’s that.

  Seventeen:

  Spell it out

  The Sisters of Hiss were too engrossed in fighting each other to notice the giant shadow of a dinosaur that fell over their swimming pool. The Chin had escaped from the Harukashis, only to find that Arkon House had been turned into a battlefield in her absence. Despite her strict instructions to avoid using magic at Halloween, it was obvious that both the Nose and the Toad had been hurling hexes at each other for hours. Caught in a stinging hail of curses, the Chin had no option but to roll up her sleeves and join in.

  KABOOOM went the Chin’s Marshmallow Mortar spell, making the ground shake as it covered the Toad and the Nose in a monsoon of sticky white goo. Coughing as she picked marshmallow out of her vast nostrils, the Nose flexed her fingers, racked her brains for the right words, and then, with a huge FLASHHHHHH, replied with a Fossicking Furball, which carpeted everything around it in black fur.

  The combination of being slathered in marshmallow and then dusted with fur so infuriated the Toad that instead of attempting to make peace between her Sisters, she threw a Soup-pot spell. All at once it began to rain minestrone, and gigantic soup-pots of every shape and colour began to gather like thunderheads in the sky above Arkon House.

  In the middle of a particularly heavy pea-and-pasta squall, Daisy the Dinosaur stepped out from behind a tree and loudly demanded, ‘What doon, witses?’

  The spectacle of all Daisy‘s rows of dinosaur teeth glinting in the darkness made the Sisters of Hiss pause in mid-battle. In fact, for one moment they were so paralysed with fear that they failed to recognize who was looming over them with her claws outstretched in such a terrifying manner. Then the Toad spotted a familiar headband wrapped round one of the dinosaur’s horns, and all became clear.

  ‘Don’t panic, dear Sisters!’ she yelled. ‘It’s only our own precious Witch Baby.’

  ‘Witch B-B-B-Baby?’ the Chin quavered. ‘How on earth did she ever get to be that size?’

  ‘Pffffff,’ the Nose snorted. ‘Anyone can turn themselves into a dinosaur at Halloween. Dinosaurs are easy-peasy.’ To prove how unimpressed she was with Daisy’s spells, she marched up to the dinosaur and poked at its rear end. ‘I mean, look at this tail. It’s the wrong colour. They’re meant to be green, not pink. I could do better with my eyes shut.’

  ‘No likeit, wits,’ the dinosaur muttered, a loud rumbling sound coming from its middle.

  ‘What was that?’ the Nose whispered nervously. ‘That sort of thundering sound?’

  ‘Need a nutha POO,’ the dinosaur roared miserably, turning round to peer in reproach at its tail. ‘Need a—’

  And before the Sisters of Hiss could take cover or throw another spell to protect themselves, there came a thundering roar, followed by a choking alt="image" class="svg"/> cloud of noxious gas, and then the dinosaur erupted.

  At which point, aware that she’d probably done A Bad Thing, Daisy the Dinosaur vanished into the night.

  This is the worst night of my entire life. After what feels like hours of wallowing around in cold mud, yelling each other’s names, hugging trees and falling into keep boggy bits, Vivaldi and I finally find each other. However, it’s beginning to look like I’ve managed to lose Daisy (again). And to make matters worse, it’s pitch dark, we’re up to our knees in mud and it’s raining hard. Oh yes, and we still haven’t found WayWoof.

  Suddenly I’m so sick of Halloween that all I want to do is scream. At this rate we’re never going to find WayWoof. We don’t know why she vanished, and we haven’t a clue where she’s gone. Didn’t she like us any more? Right up until she vanished, I was so sure she loved us as much as we loved her. Oh, WayWoof – if only we knew why you’d gone, we’d have a better idea of where you might be. All I can think of is that she must have gone somewhere quiet to have her babies. Like humans do. When Mum and Dad went to have Daisy at the hospit—

  It’s as if a light has switched on behind my eyes. Suddenly I know why WayWoof has run away, and I have a good idea where she has gone. It’s so ridiculously obvious, I’m amazed it’s taken me so long to work it out.

  ‘I’m nearly one hundred per cent positive that she ran away to be with the father of her puppies,’ I say, thinking out loud.

  ‘ Who ran away to be with the father of her pup—? Oh, you mean Way—’

  But before Vivaldi can finish what she’s saying, two things happen at once. There’s a faint shrieking, hissing cry from the direction of where the fireworks were, and then, much closer at hand, we hear something go:

  Awooooo.

  AOWWWWLLLLL. Yowwwwll.

  What was that?

  AWOOOOOOWWWWLLL. YOWWWWLLLLLL, it goes again.

  Vivaldi grabs my arm. ‘That’s her,’ she says. ‘I’d recognize that howl anywhere.’

  It’s an impressive howl. Almost as loud as my bagpipes, and they’re loud.

  ‘How d’you know it’s WayWoof?’ The words are just out of my mouth when I realize that saying WayWoof’s name out loud is the best way to find Daisy.

  Vivaldi is so excited that she practically foams at the mouth. ‘WAYWOOF!’ she shrieks. ‘It’s WayWoof – I’d know that howl anywh— Aw, heck.’

  A mere step or two way, the Pumpkin suddenly blazes fiercely, relighting herself in a blast of yellow fire, and lets rip with a banshee shriek: ‘WAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY–WOOOOOOOOOOOOO.’

  ‘Um. Sorry, you guys.’ Vivaldi closes her eyes and shakes her head. ‘I am such a complete and utterly, totally hopeless numpty.’

  Daisy stops in mid-shriek and her pumpkin eyes swivel* in Vivaldi’s direction. Her mouth curves up in a pumpkinny leer and she says, ‘Sucha numpy. NUMPY DUMPY, sittona POOOOOOO.’**

  ‘Er, yes,’ Vivaldi says. ‘Well, not exactl—’

  ‘Sucha NUMPY sattona POOOOOOOO.’

  Oh, dear – but at least we’ve found the Pumpkin, and she isn’t crying any more and we’re getting closer to the source of the Howl. AWOOOOOHOWWWWLLLLL.

  Now that we’re heading in the right direction, I’m feeling more and more certain that this is where WayWoof will be. We can see where we’re going now, because th
e rain has stopped and the moon has slid out from behind the clouds. As we get nearer, we realize that the distant howling is mingled with the chorus of many cat voices, all of them impatiently demanding their supper.* This is because, up ahead, tucked away behind a little group of trees, is

  The Doghouse.

  This is a small house belonging to a very old couple called Lucinda and Henry. Lucinda and Henry live with their colossal family of dogs and cats. Lucinda and Henry love cats and dogs more than anything else, which is just as well since they have ten dogs and twenty-seven cats, plus the biggest milk-bottle collection in the whole of Scotland.*

  We stand on the doorstep, trying not to knock over any milk bottles and listening to the loud barking coming from behind the front door. In my arms, the Pumpkin wriggles and turns back into my little sister, round-eyed with wonder.

  ‘WayWoo?’ she whispers, as if hardly daring to believe that this might be where her missing dog is.

  ‘Let’s hope so, Daze,’ says Vivaldi, leaning on the doorbell.

  * Yup. This is every bit as weird as it sounds. Especially since we can see that there’s nothing inside Daisy’s head except three lit candle stubs. I hope she changes back into herself before Mum and Dad catch sight of Daisy the Illuminated Squash-with-no-brain.

  * Actually, for all I know they could be demanding to be told the answer to Three Down in today’s crossword, or what today’s football score was, or even what the ingredients were in the delicious dustbin stew they ate at lunch time, but until I learn to speak Cat, the true meaning of the sound that cats make will have to remain a mystery.

  * Probably because twenty-seven cats can drink vast amounts of milk. Also, with ten dogs bounding around among twenty-seven saucers of milk, lots of milk will be spilled.

  ** My little sister loves poo jokes. Any possible place where she can drop in a poo or two, she’ll do it. Er. That’s not what I mean.

  Eighteen:

  A doggy bit

  Immediately the barking grows ten times louder and is joined by the sound of something huge flinging itself against the door . . .

  Ker – thudda – thWONK

  over and over again

  Ker – thudDA – thWONK

  as if trying to break the door down

  KeRRR – thuDDaa – thWONKKKK

  and reach us.

  Gulp. I know exactly what is making the door quiver on its hinges. I’ve met it. I barely escaped with my life last time.

  ‘Bertie – DOWN – NO, don’t jump up. Who’s a GOOD boy? NO! Bertie, STOP THAT.’

  That’ll be Lucinda, trying her best to stop the dreaded Bertie* battering down the door.

  Ker – thuDDDa – thWONKKKK

  Unfortunately Bertie never listens to Lucinda or Henry. Being a dog and weighing roughly one hundred kilos means you don’t have to listen to anything other than the demands of your own stomach. It occurs to me that I would probably have suspected that WayWoof was here at The Doghouse a lot sooner if it hadn’t been for Bertie. Bertie is such a monster that I’d do just about anything to avoid being anywhere near him.

  Ker – thuDdda – thWONK

  Surely WayWoof wouldn’t have . . . ? Tell me she didn’t choose Bertie to be the daddy of her puppies? Surely she has more sense?

  In between Bertie’s assaults on the door, we can hear a metallic rattling sound: Lucinda turning keys and undoing latches and sliding bolts. Oh, heck. Here he comes . . .

  ‘DOWN, BERTIE!’ she bawls as the door bursts open and Bertie bounds through, crashes into Vivaldi and hurls himself out into the night.

  Vivaldi staggers, thrown off-balance by having one hundred kilos of dog bouncing off her legs, but miraculously she doesn’t fall into the doorstep glacier of milk bottles, and even more miraculously, she seems to find Bertie amusing.

  ‘Here, boy,’ she calls. ‘Come here. Come and see me. Who’s a lovely BIG boy, then?’

  Is my dearest friend mad? She must be. I mean, when normal people catch sight of Bertie, they usually run away. Not Vivaldi. She waves her arms and runs towards him, showing every sign that she thinks this is a Good and Proper Thing to Do.

  As does Bertie. The beast stops in mid-bound and reverses direction, a long whiplash of drool spooling out behind him as he speeds towards Vivaldi. The sight of that string of drool is quite enough to make me pass out with horror, but Vivaldi is made of sterner stuff. When Bertie and Vivaldi collide, there’s a flurry of tail-wagging and barking, then he rolls over on his back with all four paws in the air and submits to having his tummy rubbed.

  Wow. I’m seriously impressed by Vivaldi, beast-tamer. She must have a magic touch because Bertie is acting like a teddy bear, and in fact, if he weren’t a dog, I could swear he’d be purring with pleasure.

  Beside me, Lucinda is trying to stem the tide of dogs pouring out of the door, all of them curious to discover what Bertie has found. She jumps up and down, shrilling commands at the dog-pack, doing her best to bring them under control. Rooting in her pocket for a whistle or even a handful of dog biscuits, she shrieks, ‘Down, BOYS. HEEL. Lie down. HEEL,’ but the dogs pay her no attention at all. One by one, they make their break for freedom, having a quick snuffle at my bog-muddy legs, then a sniff at Daisy, before bolting off to sample Vivaldi.

  There are dogs of all shapes, colours and sizes. Big dogs, small dogs, black, brown, white – even a pale pink one. They bark and yip and pant, greeting these new humans Bertie has found, sniffing as they try to find out where we’ve come from. I check to see what Daisy is making of this mass dog-greeting and catch my breath.

  Oh, my. Oh, gosh. Oh, YES!

  Oh, Daisy. I want to rush to her side and hug her tight, to spin her round in a circle of delight because . . . there she is, eyes shining, both arms outstretched to welcome something that looks like the black shadow of a wolf . . .

  . . . faint, but growing more solid, more dense . . .

  And as a puff of wind brings a familiar smell drifting my way, I realize that at last we’ve found—

  ‘WAYYYYYYYYWOOOOOOOOO!’ Daisy buries her face in WayWoof’s now-visible fur and clings on for dear life. Across Luanda’s garden, Vivaldi’s head comes up from where she’s been hugging Bertie the Beast and a wild grin appears on her face.

  ‘Y E E E E – HAWWWW!’ she yells. ‘Way to go, Daze.’ And abandoning Bertie, she runs over to greet our long-lost WayWoof.

  For a moment WayWoof is completely surrounded by her humans, all three of us limp with the relief of having found her. We pat her, tell her how much we’ve missed her, how many places we’ve looked for her and, most of all, what a clever, beautiful and utterly loved-to-bits dog she is. In return, WayWoof rolls her long pink tongue all the way out of her mouth and halfway down her chest, pants with hot dog-breath . . . and lets rip with a really extra-special, eye-watering, clear-the-room . . . cough, gag, PHEW.

  WayWoof’s back.

  * Bertie. Think Hound of the Baskervilles crossed with the Abominable Snowman, dyed black, sprinkled liberally with fangs as long as your thumb, and with a stomach where its brain should be, and that’s Bertie. If Bertie were a mountain, he’d be Everest; if he were a country, he’d be Russia; and if he were anything other than Lucinda and Henry’s beloved pet, he’d be behind bars.

  Nineteen:

  In The Doghouse

  In the excitement of finding WayWoof we have managed to forget Lucinda. I cannot imagine what she must think Vivaldi, Daisy and I were doing, patting and stroking and cooing over an invisible something that only we can see. Normal humans can’t see magical creatures like WayWoof, so Lucinda must think we are completely crazy, exclaiming over a dog that isn’t there. However, although she can’t see WayWoof, she can smell her. As she comes over to see what’s going on, she coughs, blinks rapidly, and then peers at Daisy in dismay.

  ‘Poor little mite,’ she gasps. ‘Does Baby need to go home to Mumsy and Daddykins for a nappy change?’

  Daisy stops patting WayWoof and peers up at this stra
nge old lady. ‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘Wantit pup-pups.’

  AAAARGH. The puppies. How could I have forgotten? Carried away with joy at WayWoof’s reappearance, I completely failed to check her tummy. AaaaaaaRGH. WayWoof is all skinny again. I can see her ribs. Oh, NO. Where are the puppies? What has she done with them? WayWoof? As if she can read my mind, she suddenly turns tail and streaks into The Doghouse. At this, Daisy frowns and bawls, ‘Way gone, PUP-PUPS?’

  Fortunately, not only can Lucinda not see WayWoof; she can’t really understand what Daisy is saying.

  ‘Oh, dearie me, no,’ she says. ‘We don’t have any puppy-wuppies here. Lots of dear little doggies, though. And simply heaps of pussycats. Would you like to see the pussycats, dear?’

  Daisy’s bottom lip pops out. Uh-oh.

  ‘No WANTIT pussycats,’ she says. ‘WANT pup-pups.’ And before we can stop her, she spins round and bolts through Lucinda’s front door.

  Luckily Lucinda doesn’t seem to mind Daisy gatecrashing The Doghouse. She’s far more concerned with rounding up her dogs: she strides across her garden, yelling, ‘BOYS! Come to Mummy. Here, BOYS. Naughty BOYS. Mummy will be very cross. HERE, boys.’

  As she heads into the shadows, I spot the four guard dogs from Mishnish Castle, still magically transformed, floating across the sky, their balloon bodies and dangling leashes silhouetted against the moon. They drift towards the faint glow of lights from the village, legs slowly pedalling in mid-air. From far away I hear Lucinda calling, ‘Naughty boys. Come down at ONCE . . .’

  Then the night and the distance swallow them all.

  Vivaldi and I stand in the doorway of The Doghouse, uncertain what to do next. Vivaldi looks at me and bites her lip.