Puddlebrain

Chapter Six

The witches' house was settled at one end of Shadowmoss Lane. Apart from Windermere's place, a ramshackle old shed that looked like a good wind could blow it over (and many a good wind had tried), theirs was the only actual house on the lane. A couple of leftover shells that were cottages once, a long time before, and a good many vacant plots were all that filled the rest of the street. The witches didn't take it personally. It came with the territory – people didn't totally trust them no matter how nice they tried to be and how warm they were received. Seriously, Edna hadn't done any real damage with her magic and it was all in fun anyway. The rest of the time they tried their best to be helpful. Mostly, people treated them with courtesy, but no one would actually move in next to them.

Windermere was a special case. He was a right old grumpy gumdrop and was as set in his ways as an apple falling from a tree – it was going to go down no matter what anyone might think, want or care. Windermere, who might once have had a second name but seemed to have lost it along the way... unless Windermere actually was his second name, in which case he'd lost his first name, didn't take anyone's side except his own and wouldn't be run out of town by anyone, least of all witchin' folk. He was old and probably more infirm than the hovel he lived in, but he was staying put, and no young whippersnip was going to tell him otherwise, you hear?

Windermere could only walk with the aid of his crutches, of which he only really needed one, but used two because he didn't like odd numbers. He always slept on the right side of his bed and every chipped cup and cracked pot had to be lined up and straight with every dusty and dirty other thing in his kitchen. But, although his house was the next best thing to a pile of rubble, Windermere kept himself clean-shaven and spick. He'd keep himself span too if he could, but his age sometimes got the better of him and he couldn't always manage to be both spick and span. Halfway there was quite acceptable though.

He'd lived on Shadowmoss Lane for as long as he could remember and no amount of pressure from those villager types or mysteriousness stuff from the witchin' folk would force him out of his home, or at least shamble, or maybe shuffle, him out.

Between the two houses was a whole host of nothing. Windermere could see the witches' house from his front room, if the light was good and his eyes weren't playing him up, as they often did nowadays, but he didn't normally bother. He wasn't interested in the comings and going and wotnots of the rest of the world. He was content to simply be left alone in his grumpiness. The witches realised this and did just that. Besides, most of the time they simply forgot Windermere was even there.

In contrast to the run down state of the old man's house, Edna, Gemini and Puddlebrain's dwelling was both spick and span. They kept it clean themselves, with a great deal of help from the bewitched brooms and similar items. Though the witches had lost their magic many decades before, the house and its contents had kept on cleaning and opening and so on. The brooms, being unable to fly anymore, contented themselves with chasing dust about the floor. The grass in the well kept garden was allowed to grow how it pleased, but remained a respectful length, except for when Puddlebrain fancied a run in tall grass or a hunt through the jungle.

On these occasions, the grass would suddenly grow another few inches or, in the case of the jungle, a few feet. The path, as Mayor Harper discovered, led the way wherever the witches desired, and the pond, well populated by carp and trout aplenty, was a spring-fresh haven for all manner of insects. The pond, as with the path and the grass, followed the moods of the witches. It would be still as glass if Edna was on the warpath, or bubble a small fountain if Puddlebrain needed relaxing. The witches were the friends of their surroundings, and their surroundings were friends back.

Well, apart from that gnome out back.

A door from the kitchen led out onto a small patio area in the back garden. To one side (the left, to be precise) was a slight dip that, over the centuries, had become a hollow. In the middle of the hollow, due partly to an accident Gemini had once had when she fancied orange grass instead of green, was a scorched patch of bare earth. In the centre of the scorched patch lived a gnome called Billy.

Billy the gnome was an exile. He'd been cast out of Templemead, the gnome capital city far off to the east, for not being sneaky enough. He could never quite get the knack of tricking people out of their belongings and his pranks didn't have the decency to work out. They always backfired on him - literally sometimes - and so he just couldn't live up to the ideal of being a gnome. If his nose was a little more crooked and his back was a touch more humped, he could maybe pass for a goblin, but the gnome race had pretty much turned its collective back on him.

He had wandered for months with his resentment swirling and bubbling like a cauldron of Edna's bladderwrack soup and had finally decided to take his revenge on the witches. He had no real reason to other than he just happened to be passing. It was their fault they put their house right where he wanted to walk, so they would pay for it, and they could also pay for the attitude of his fellow gnomes into the bargain. Billy was generous like that. Why cause a lot of people bother when you could lump it all on one person, or three in this case. He plonked his bum in the nice, comfy patch of black bristle that had once been grass and proceeded to hurl abuse at the witches every time they happened to poke their heads out of their back door.

Billy had been out there for around four years. He'd curse and swear and try, unsuccessfully, to play practical jokes on the sisters. The thing was, they quite liked him, in a sort of repulsed kind of way. He provided a welcome distraction from their own problems and, regardless of his attitude towards them, they thought he might be... fond was perhaps too strong a word... let's just say Billy might not dislike them as much as he made out. The cold and stale leftovers they threw at him on an almost daily basis were about the only kindness the gnome had ever been shown in his wretched life. It wasn't every day, of course. They didn't want him getting any ideas.

Gnomes made a distinct effort to not be kind. Sympathy and gentleness were disgusting to the gnarled little creatures, so much so that they didn't even have words for such nice qualities. Ugh. A gnome would rather cut off his own head than show consideration to another, and some had even done so when they'd been caring accidentally.

So, being a gnome, the witches' kindness was a great big fat no-no to him. Even though he appreciated it way on down deep inside, he had to show his rage, so the tirade continued, sometimes, for hours and often long into the night. They needed to be shown, those witches, and Billy was just the gnome to do it!

Of course, while he was showing them, he'd just stay where he was, comfy in the bristle patch, taking their food. Just to make sure they learned their lesson, you understand.