Dire Woods
Chapter 11

Clutching his knapsack, John Joseph slowly made his way down the hill towards the town of January. The sky was full of towering grey clouds and he was stung constantly by lashing rain. Battling the wind, he kept his battered umbrella poked high into the air. He was hoping to be struck by lightening, thus avoiding the embarrassment of having to go to a new school.

He’d stayed in his room most of the day. Every time he went out, to the office to look for clues, or to the living room to look at pictures of his parents, he’d find his aunt staring at him from a doorway. It was creepy. He’d finally decided to stay in his room and make plans. Plans for what, he wasn’t quite sure, but he figured it would come to him.

The day had positively dragged. He’d practiced with his wand for hours, reading and rereading his manual. He’d decided that he’d need to know as much magic as possible if he was going to have any chance of finding his parents without his aunt‘s help. Unfortunately, things had gone as badly as usual. He’d gotten so frustrated he’d tried to torch his textbook. He’d forgotten it was fireproof. All he’d gotten for his effort was a new scorch mark on the carpet. The book was in pristine condition. On a cheerier note, it was probably one of his best fire making efforts.

John Joseph tripped over a rock and stepped into a puddle. It quickly brought him back to the situation at hand and it wasn’t a good place to be.

It felt extremely strange to be going to school in anything other than a uniform. He hoped he’d dressed appropriately but he was sure he hadn’t. When you go to a school where they wear uniforms, you don’t end up buying that many other clothes. Sure, John Joseph had good clothes, the ones you wear on special occasions. He also had grubby clothes for hiking out in the bush, or helping in the garden. What he didn’t have were normal, everyday, off to school clothes, which were what he desperately needed.

Through his years at St. Francis Academy he’d discover that one of the first rules of being invisible was to blend in. You never wanted to give bullies an excuse to notice you. You definitely did not need to hand them ammunition. John Joseph was sure that wearing his current outfit, he was not only handing them the ammunition, but the weapon as well.

Wet feet dragging through puddles, he walked down the dirt road past the Dingle’s farm, nodding at Edam, the cow, as he slouched past. He had loved going there to buy milk, butter and eggs. There were always kittens in the barns in the spring. Before his grandfather had disappeared, he and John Joseph had visited often.

The road slowly turned from dirt to rough cobblestones. The farms disappeared and the wood and stone houses got closer and closer together.

He heard the sounds of the schoolyard before he saw the school: screams, laughter, swings screeching. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened to attention.

There was only one school in the town of January, Kipling Memorial. It was a stark, two-storey, grey stone building surrounded by trees, play equipment, a ramshackle picket fence and kids. Lots of loud, rambunctious kids. John Joseph was petrified. Only the thought of his aunt, waiting back at Alabaster Manor kept him from running back home.

He stood across the street from the school grounds and waited for the bell to ring. He watched the students swarm up the front steps and into the school. He stood silently for another ten minutes then walked slowly through the yard and up the stairs.

Fifteen minutes later, he was officially enrolled at Kipling Memorial and was standing outside his new classroom. The secretary had initially been a little hesitant when he’d arrived on his own, but when she’d been reminded of who he was, and who his aunt was (she’d obviously lived in January for quite some time), she’d been quick to fill in the necessary papers. It seemed she wanted to avoid seeing his Aunt Angerona as much as he did.

His new teacher, Mr. Dimswood, a thick, dark man with wire-rimmed glasses, read the note from the office and introduced him.

“Class, we have a new student,“ he announced, “John Joseph Alabaster.“ He pushed his thick glasses up on his nose and peered into John Joseph’s eyes. “From Alabaster Manor, I presume?“

“Yes sir,” John Joseph answered in a whisper.

“Well this is a first,” Mr. Dimswood pronounced. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a student from Alabaster Manor before.”

John Joseph didn’t take this as a good sign.

“Well, take an empty desk John Joseph,” instructed his new teacher. “We can’t be waiting around all day!”

School was even worse than John Joseph had imagined.

The students stared daggers at him as he approached an empty desk and a few even stuck their legs out to trip him. They sniggered or giggled when he attempted to answer a question. They whispered whenever Mr. Dimswood turned his head.

By the time he made it to the schoolyard for recess, he had been pushed, poked and prodded, the subject of smirks, winks and wagging heads.

The worst of the offenders was a small, bright, wren-like girl named Emily Lavender. Her intense black eyes followed his every move in the classroom. She had been the first to laugh when he got a question wrong and once the bell rang, the first to make fun of his too short pants and his worn out shirt.

“Think you’re better than us, don’t you?” She accused. “Living up in your fancy house and going to your fancy school, wearing clothes like you’re going to muck out the barn. But now you’re stuck here and we know you aren’t anything special at all.”

The entire day was an absolute misery. By the time school ended John Joseph was feeling so depressed, he couldn’t stand the thought of heading back to Alabaster Manor. One more unfriendly face was just too much to deal with. Instead, he found himself wandering aimlessly across the fields and meadows that surrounded the town. Soon, his old boots were waterlogged, his legs covered with scratches where his pants waved around his shins.

He’d just stumbled into a rather mushy, muddy hole when he heard singing. Not sweet angelic singing, just loud, off-key, extremely happy, warbling singing. It was so joyful and so totally unexpected on this terrible day that he followed the noise mindlessly.

He was just stumbling through an extremely gooey bit, when the singing stopped and a cheerful voice pierced the fog of his brain.

“Hello there!“ The voice hollered.

John Joseph shook his head and peered through the reeds. An old woman, in a yellow slickeret, pants rolled up above her knobby knees, was waving at him from the midst of the bog.

He inched closer. The old woman was short and comfortably round. A straw hat, brimming with greenery, was jammed onto her wispy grey head.

“You can come on in and help me if you want,” the old woman hollered. “It’s actually quite therapeutic.”

John Joseph looked around. It took him a few moments to realize that she was talking to him. It felt so nice to be wanted that he stepped farther out into the spongy ground, squelching up to his ankles.

The old woman pulled a rather warty looking root from the ground and plunked it into a bucket at her side and gave him a broad smile. John Joseph found himself smiling back into warm hazel eyes.

“You’re John Joseph, aren’t you?” the old woman asked.

John Joseph felt himself shutting down. It was happening all over again. Here was someone else who would judge him before even knowing him. But the old woman didn’t even wait for him to answer; she just rattled comfortably on. “My name’s Mrs. Wickaby, in case you’re interested. I knew your grandmother and I met you once or twice when you were small. I even went to St. Francis Academy for one semester, but I didn’t work out.” Her mud-coated hands dipped into the mesh of weeds once again. “I run the local apothecary and herb shop. I’m also a hedge witch.”

John Joseph was intrigued, “A hedge witch?”

“ A green magician, I suppose,” Mrs. Wickaby explained. “Not to be rude, but most witches and wizards nowadays use complex spells, incantations and rather bizarre wand wavings to control the powers around them. Green witches just work with the forces of the earth to perform magic. They work with the earths own energies, to make things better. It’s more of a symbiotic relationship.” She gently shook the soil from the roots and placed the gnarled plants in a mud-splattered sack.

“Got to get back to the shop.” Her merry eyes twinkled. “You wouldn’t feel like coming back for a scone and a nice cup of tea, would you?” she asked, pulling a gnarled old walking stick from the mud beside her.

Tea? A scone? With someone who wanted to talk to him and knew his grandmother? Of course he would!

“That would be wonderful,” John Joseph answered.

He followed the old woman out of the bog and down a tree-studded lane. He carried the bucket. She carried the sack. John Joseph’s shoes made sucking sounds as he walked and he left a rather muddy trail.

Mrs. Wickaby’s house was on a quiet little lane on the outskirts of January. It was a sunny, soft yellow house, surrounded by flowers and ramshackle birdhouses. Mrs. Wickaby led the way up the stone pathway and up onto a broad, wooden porch.

“I make most of my concoctions in my house, so we’ll just step into the shop and drop off these roots.”

She gently took the bucket from him, hung it on a nail in the wall and pushed the wooden door open. “Go on, go on,” she urged.

John Joseph walked through the door and stared around him in wonder. The interior of the shop was absolutely brilliant. Three entire walls were nothing but shelves with tiny, wooden drawers fitted into slots. Brass knobs stuck out of the drawers, each with a hand-written label. Two thin ladders were propped in the corner of the room. At the back of the shop was a gleaming wooden counter with scales, mortar and pestles and glass containers. By the wall there were a couple of small tables and a few comfortable looking high back chairs. But the most amazing things in the room were the plants. They were everywhere. They crawled up on trellises. They hung from the ceilings. They tumbled from giant pots in corners and crevices. John Joseph couldn’t imagine how they grew, but then he stared up at the ceiling and noticed that through the greenery, the entire thing was made of glass.

John Joseph’s eyes were the size of boiled eggs as he stared in admiration around him. There were oranges, reds, purples, blues, yellows, sparkling whites and greens of every shade and hue. Aromas, sweet and thick with spice, hung about his nostrils and wafted through the air. He had never been in a room full of such an amazing plants.

“It’s absolutely incredible,” he whispered.

“I’m glad you likc it,” Mrs. Wickaby answered, hanging her slicker on a hook by the door. “Let’s head to the kitchen, shall we? It’s where I spend most of my time.” The old woman looked down at John Joseph and gave him a twinkling grin. “I usually come in through the back door into the kitchen anyway.”

She glanced down at his boots and the trail he’d made upon the rough wooden floor.

“Best to remove your boots, if you don’t mind!” She said, pulling off her own galoshes and placing them on a straw mat by the polished door.

The kitchen was bright and homey, with a gaily-tiled counter, a cheery fire and two comfy chairs in a sunlit corner. “Just sit down and make yourself at home,” Mrs. Wickaby advised. “I’ll brew us that tea.”

John Joseph snuggled into an overstuffed, red plaid chair and breathed in the scent of lemon and cinnamon. Mrs. Wickaby dropped a heaping plate of scones and two thick mugs of tea onto the table. John Joseph warmed his hands on the rough mug and softly blew across the top of the rich, brown brew.

The old woman held out the plate of scones. “I don’t want to upset you,” she commented, “but after I heard your parents were missing I went up to where your parents disappeared.”

John Joseph froze, the mug clenched in his hands. “Why?” he asked.

Mrs. Wickaby smiled softly and her eyes crinkled. “I’ve known your family for years, John Joseph. I used to go hiking with your grandmother.” She bounced her calloused hand on the thick cup. The silver, vine-covered ring on her finger made a clear tinging sound. “She even brought you here once.” The old woman smiled gently, “You haven’t changed too much, really.”

John Joseph could barely remember his grandmother, she’d died when he was three, but it made sense. January was a small town and his grandmother had loved plants. He searched back through the few memories he had of his grandmother, he couldn’t believe that he’d forget a house as lovely as this, but obviously he had.

“I wanted to go up and search, too,” John Joseph admitted, staring into his mug. But I was too afraid of my aunt. It felt painful to admit it. Even to himself. “Did you find anything?”

The old woman reached forward again with the plate. John Joseph shook his head.

“I didn’t find anything concrete,” Mrs. Wickaby answered. “But there was definitely something there,” she waved a wrinkled hand through the air. “Something strange that I couldn‘t quite put my finger on.” Her eyes, surrounded by her freckled, wrinkled skin, peered into his own. “There was definitely a taste of magic in the air, but try as I might, I couldn‘t identify it.”

John Joseph put his mug back on the table and clenched his hands.

“I feel like I need to go up there too,” he murmured, “or at least talk to Mr. Longbottom. I’m sure there’s some sort of clue just waiting for me.”

Mrs. Wickaby placed her mug on the small table beside her. Her hands were shaking. Small waves of the deep brown tea were spilling over the side. “Mr. Longbottom has disappeared, John Joseph. He hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.”

John Joseph sat frozen. His eyes, his mouth, his shoulders, nothing moved, he felt like he couldn’t even breath. Every time he thought things possibly couldn’t get worse, he was proven totally wrong. Somehow the agony that he was feeling, the terrible things that were decimating his family were spreading.

“Mr. Longbottom’s gone too?” He asked. “What the heck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Wickaby answered, “ Not yet. It seems that after finding your parents missing, he searched for a few hours with the rest of the rescue party, then went down to the inn for a bit of dinner. According to his wife, he never made it home.” She gave John Joseph a sad smile. “There was no scream in the night, no flash of thunder, not even a dashing of rain. He just disappeared.”

John Joseph felt a great anger growing in the pit of his stomach. “I have to do something, Mrs. Wickaby. I have to. I’m just not sure what.”

“Any ideas?” Mrs. Wickaby asked.

John Joseph felt a rush of blood flow through his face. “I’m not very good at magic, Mrs. Wickaby.” His eyes dropped to his worn boots. “I’m so bad, I was failing, actually.” He raised his eyes and stared into her hazel ones. “According to the rest of the students I’m the first person to ever fail magic studies in the history of St. Francis Academy.”

Mrs. Wickaby’s eyes narrowed and she gave John Joseph a funny, lopsided grin. “I’ve told you already young man, there are other sorts of magic than the one’s they teach at that Academy of yours. Magics that rely upon a union with the earth instead of a mastery of it.” She picked her twisted stick from the floor and tapped it on the ground. “Magics I think we need to discover.”

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