The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories by Garth Nix, Joan Aiken, Andi Watson, Lizza Aiken
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Family Life, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Families
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out of the door, she switched on a large electric stove which glittered with newness. The crow gave a large “croak” and shuffled sideways along the window-sill.
She came back in a minute with a vast sheet of brown paper and some string, and proceeded to make Mark into a neat parcel, so that he could see nothing at all.
"Drat it,” she said, “if I haven't forgotten the herbs.” She went over to a cupboard and brought out a paper bag full of strange leaves. Then she untied the bit of string which was around Mark's neck, and pushed away the paper from his face. He could not stop her from stuffing his mouth with the herbs, which tasted most unpleasant. The crow flew across to the table and peered into his mouth with evident interest and approval.
"I can't be bothered to tie him up again,” said the witch. “I'm too hungry. We've got an hour to wait as it is.” She had a look at the thermometer on the oven door.
"Not near 250 degrees” she said in disgust, “what a time it takes. I don't know why I ever bought the thing. Well, I shall just put the creature in now, and use my judgment about the time it takes. We can always poke it with a fork to see if it's tender enough.
A shiver ran down Mark's spine.
She picked him up and put him in a roasting-pan. “It says no basting is necessary—that's a comfort,” she muttered, and shoved the pan into the oven. The door shut with a click, and Mark found himself in the dark.
To his surprise, the oven was not hot in the least.
"I know what's happened,” he suddenly thought. “She's new to this kind of stove and she forgot to turn on both switches. She turned on the oven switch, but she forgot the main one."
However, this did not comfort him much, for she was bound to remember sooner or later.
Half an hour passed, in which he could hear the witch moving about the kitchen, setting the table and singing to herself something about goats and vervain. Then she opened the oven door.
"Not done yet?” she exclaimed. “It's as cold as a stone. Something's wrong with the dratted stove."
The bird gave an angry croak.
"Yes, I know,” she said crossly, “you always said it was a mistake to get one of these things and you were quite right. Newfangled nonsense. I wish I'd stuck to my good old range. Switches and thermometers indeed! As for you,” she said, turning furiously to Mark, “as for you my little seraph, in another five minutes, if this still hasn't hotted, I shall toast you on my toasting-fork in front of the drawing-room fire.” And she fished down from the wall an enormous toasting-fork. Mark shuddered at the sight of it.
The witch shoved him smartly back into the oven and shut the door.
This time he was overcome with despair. He thought of his aunt waiting at the theatre door with the tickets, and how he would not turn up and she would get more and more anxious and telephone the police, and two tears rose in his eyes and trickled slowly backwards down his forehead and into the roots of his hair, where they felt cold and sticky.
There came a knock at the door, and the witch swept across the room and opened it.
"He is here? You haf him all stuffed and trussed, yes no?” asked a voice which Mark recognized as that of the little man with the invisible elastic.
"Yes, I've got him in the oven now,” said the witch. “Would you like to have a look at him?"
"So the whole thing was a plant,” Mark thought, “right from the very beginning. What a fool I've been."
Steps came across the room, and the oven door was flung back.
"There's something wrong with the stove,” the witch said. “It won't heat up properly. I expect you know what it is.” She pulled the pan out of the oven and dumped it on the table. They both leaned over and prodded Mark.
"See? Not done at all,” she said.
But the little man seemed angry about something.
"You besom,” he said furiously, “I weel teach you to be lazy. You know I like heem peeled and stuffed and garneeshed.
She came back in a minute with a vast sheet of brown paper and some string, and proceeded to make Mark into a neat parcel, so that he could see nothing at all.
"Drat it,” she said, “if I haven't forgotten the herbs.” She went over to a cupboard and brought out a paper bag full of strange leaves. Then she untied the bit of string which was around Mark's neck, and pushed away the paper from his face. He could not stop her from stuffing his mouth with the herbs, which tasted most unpleasant. The crow flew across to the table and peered into his mouth with evident interest and approval.
"I can't be bothered to tie him up again,” said the witch. “I'm too hungry. We've got an hour to wait as it is.” She had a look at the thermometer on the oven door.
"Not near 250 degrees” she said in disgust, “what a time it takes. I don't know why I ever bought the thing. Well, I shall just put the creature in now, and use my judgment about the time it takes. We can always poke it with a fork to see if it's tender enough.
A shiver ran down Mark's spine.
She picked him up and put him in a roasting-pan. “It says no basting is necessary—that's a comfort,” she muttered, and shoved the pan into the oven. The door shut with a click, and Mark found himself in the dark.
To his surprise, the oven was not hot in the least.
"I know what's happened,” he suddenly thought. “She's new to this kind of stove and she forgot to turn on both switches. She turned on the oven switch, but she forgot the main one."
However, this did not comfort him much, for she was bound to remember sooner or later.
Half an hour passed, in which he could hear the witch moving about the kitchen, setting the table and singing to herself something about goats and vervain. Then she opened the oven door.
"Not done yet?” she exclaimed. “It's as cold as a stone. Something's wrong with the dratted stove."
The bird gave an angry croak.
"Yes, I know,” she said crossly, “you always said it was a mistake to get one of these things and you were quite right. Newfangled nonsense. I wish I'd stuck to my good old range. Switches and thermometers indeed! As for you,” she said, turning furiously to Mark, “as for you my little seraph, in another five minutes, if this still hasn't hotted, I shall toast you on my toasting-fork in front of the drawing-room fire.” And she fished down from the wall an enormous toasting-fork. Mark shuddered at the sight of it.
The witch shoved him smartly back into the oven and shut the door.
This time he was overcome with despair. He thought of his aunt waiting at the theatre door with the tickets, and how he would not turn up and she would get more and more anxious and telephone the police, and two tears rose in his eyes and trickled slowly backwards down his forehead and into the roots of his hair, where they felt cold and sticky.
There came a knock at the door, and the witch swept across the room and opened it.
"He is here? You haf him all stuffed and trussed, yes no?” asked a voice which Mark recognized as that of the little man with the invisible elastic.
"Yes, I've got him in the oven now,” said the witch. “Would you like to have a look at him?"
"So the whole thing was a plant,” Mark thought, “right from the very beginning. What a fool I've been."
Steps came across the room, and the oven door was flung back.
"There's something wrong with the stove,” the witch said. “It won't heat up properly. I expect you know what it is.” She pulled the pan out of the oven and dumped it on the table. They both leaned over and prodded Mark.
"See? Not done at all,” she said.
But the little man seemed angry about something.
"You besom,” he said furiously, “I weel teach you to be lazy. You know I like heem peeled and stuffed and garneeshed.
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