station.”
“Why?”
“I’m in danger, Mr Tobago. The school is mad. It’s on an island – and they’re all vampires and witches and ghosts … and they want to turn me into one of them. I’ve got to stop them!”
“Ha ha ha haaargh!” Horace Tobago had a laugh like a cow being strangled. His face went bright red and the flower in his buttonhole squirted water over the dashboard. “So you’re a bit of a practical joker yourself, are you, David?” he exclaimed at last. “Like a bit of a giggle? Maybe I can sell you a stink bomb or a piece of plastic sick…”
“I’m telling the truth!” David protested.
“Course you are! Course you are! And my name is Count Dracula!” The joke salesman laughed again. “Vampires and witches. What a wheeze, old boy! What a wheeze!”
David got out of the car at the first town, Hunstanton. Mr Tobago had laughed so much during the journey that there were tears streaming down his cheeks and a fake wart had fallen off his chin. He was still shrieking with laughter as he drove away waving, playing-cards tumbling out of his sleeves. David waited until the car had gone. Then he set off.
Hunstanton was a resort town. In the summer it might have been full of colour and life but out of season it was something of a last resort, a tired jumble of grey slate roofs and towers, shops and pavilions sloping down a hillside to the edge of a cold and choppy sea. There was a quay with a cluster of fishing boats half-wrapped in their own nets and looking for all the world like the fish they were meant to catch. In the distance a number of grey tents and wooden boards surrounded what might, in the summer, be a fun fair. In these sunless days of spring, there was precious little fun to be seen anywhere.
He had to find a police station. But even as he began to search for one, he was struck by a nasty thought. Horace Tobago hadn’t believed a word he had said. Why should the police? If he went in there spouting on about black magic and witchcraft, they would probably call the local asylum. Worse still, they might hold him there and call the school. He was thirteen years old now. And it was a fact of life that adults never believed thirteen-year-olds.
He paused and looked around him. He was standing outside a library and on an impulse he turned and went in. At least there was something he could do – find out more. The more he knew, the more he could argue his case. And books seemed the best place to start.
Unfortunately, Hunstanton Library did not have a large section on Witchcraft. In fact there were only three books on the shelf and two of them had accidentally strayed out of Handicrafts, which were on the shelf next door. But the third looked promising. It was called
Black Magic in Britain
by one Winny H. Zoothroat. David flicked through it, then carried it over to the table to read in more detail.
C OVENS A gathering of witches, usually numbering thirteen or a multiple of thirteen. The main reason for this is that twelve is often considered a perfect number – so the figure thirteen comes to mean death. Thirteen is also the age at which a novice will be introduced.
I NITIATION A new witch is often required to sign his or her name in a black book which is kept by the master of the coven. It is customary for the name to be signed in the novice’s own blood. Once the novice has signed, he or she will be given a new name. This is the name of power and might be taken from a past witch as a mark of respect.
W ITCHES Well-known witches in Britain include Roger Bacon, who was famed for walking between two Oxford spires; Bessie Dunlop, who was burned to death in Ayrshire and William Rufus, a 13th-century Master-Devil.
S ABBAT The witches’ sabbath – it takes place at midnight. Before setting out for the sabbat, the witches rub an ointment of hemlock and aconite into their skin. This ointment causes a dream-like state and, they believe, helps with the release of magical powers.
M AGIC
“Why?”
“I’m in danger, Mr Tobago. The school is mad. It’s on an island – and they’re all vampires and witches and ghosts … and they want to turn me into one of them. I’ve got to stop them!”
“Ha ha ha haaargh!” Horace Tobago had a laugh like a cow being strangled. His face went bright red and the flower in his buttonhole squirted water over the dashboard. “So you’re a bit of a practical joker yourself, are you, David?” he exclaimed at last. “Like a bit of a giggle? Maybe I can sell you a stink bomb or a piece of plastic sick…”
“I’m telling the truth!” David protested.
“Course you are! Course you are! And my name is Count Dracula!” The joke salesman laughed again. “Vampires and witches. What a wheeze, old boy! What a wheeze!”
David got out of the car at the first town, Hunstanton. Mr Tobago had laughed so much during the journey that there were tears streaming down his cheeks and a fake wart had fallen off his chin. He was still shrieking with laughter as he drove away waving, playing-cards tumbling out of his sleeves. David waited until the car had gone. Then he set off.
Hunstanton was a resort town. In the summer it might have been full of colour and life but out of season it was something of a last resort, a tired jumble of grey slate roofs and towers, shops and pavilions sloping down a hillside to the edge of a cold and choppy sea. There was a quay with a cluster of fishing boats half-wrapped in their own nets and looking for all the world like the fish they were meant to catch. In the distance a number of grey tents and wooden boards surrounded what might, in the summer, be a fun fair. In these sunless days of spring, there was precious little fun to be seen anywhere.
He had to find a police station. But even as he began to search for one, he was struck by a nasty thought. Horace Tobago hadn’t believed a word he had said. Why should the police? If he went in there spouting on about black magic and witchcraft, they would probably call the local asylum. Worse still, they might hold him there and call the school. He was thirteen years old now. And it was a fact of life that adults never believed thirteen-year-olds.
He paused and looked around him. He was standing outside a library and on an impulse he turned and went in. At least there was something he could do – find out more. The more he knew, the more he could argue his case. And books seemed the best place to start.
Unfortunately, Hunstanton Library did not have a large section on Witchcraft. In fact there were only three books on the shelf and two of them had accidentally strayed out of Handicrafts, which were on the shelf next door. But the third looked promising. It was called
Black Magic in Britain
by one Winny H. Zoothroat. David flicked through it, then carried it over to the table to read in more detail.
C OVENS A gathering of witches, usually numbering thirteen or a multiple of thirteen. The main reason for this is that twelve is often considered a perfect number – so the figure thirteen comes to mean death. Thirteen is also the age at which a novice will be introduced.
I NITIATION A new witch is often required to sign his or her name in a black book which is kept by the master of the coven. It is customary for the name to be signed in the novice’s own blood. Once the novice has signed, he or she will be given a new name. This is the name of power and might be taken from a past witch as a mark of respect.
W ITCHES Well-known witches in Britain include Roger Bacon, who was famed for walking between two Oxford spires; Bessie Dunlop, who was burned to death in Ayrshire and William Rufus, a 13th-century Master-Devil.
S ABBAT The witches’ sabbath – it takes place at midnight. Before setting out for the sabbat, the witches rub an ointment of hemlock and aconite into their skin. This ointment causes a dream-like state and, they believe, helps with the release of magical powers.
M AGIC
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