Witches Get Stitches

The teahouse was full of women sipping from cups and pouring from various teapots.

Mona Heptinstall winced. She didn’t have any money to buy a drink. She didn’t have any money at all; she was only a young schoolgirl. But the sight of all these women put her at ease a little. And God knew that she needed somewhere to feel safe right now. Mona ducked into the shop, past the few tables outside occupied by little old ladies sitting in the shade.

The aroma inside the teahouse was exotic and familiar, exciting and cosy. Steam wafted from the rims of mugs, none of which were matching. It was as though the owner had put serious effort into ensuring all crockery sets were different. Women sat clustered into groups and pairs, chatting away. Some sat solo, unconcerned with their lack of company. They smiled, contented and closed-eyed, into the sunshine while sipping their brews. On the walls, various posters and flags hung. There was something about flowers and plants here. There was something about animals being friends there. The symbol for females – the circle above a cross – was here. Rainbow flags and a flag with light blue, pink, and white stripes hung there. Plant pots housed a forest’s worth of greenery, growing in every direction. The flowers crawled up stakes and dangled from shelves. And dog-eared books about cooking, herbology, feminism, and equal rights were everywhere.

Mona’s thudding heart slowed, and her stitched-up eyebrow settled into a steady pulse. This teahouse was a nice place, a good place. One that she imagined that Grubby Gilbert wouldn’t think to check. She glanced over her shoulder out the window into the sun-drowned street outside.

Grubby Gilbert Boyd came plodding along as if on cue, a frown etched upon his bovine countenance. His pot belly bounced as he slowed to a trot, his head jerking around like a pigeon’s. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. Beneath his food-stained shirt, his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His eyes passed over the teahouse, and he didn’t seem to register it was there. Then, he moved on. A few seconds later, Gilbert had passed the shop and disappeared down the street.

She couldn’t help but grin at the boy’s stupidity. If only it were always that easy to escape his chubby fingers. Everyone – her teachers and parents – said he only picked on her because he liked her. He pushed her and pulled her and tripped her up because he fancied her. To Mona, this had made no sense whatsoever. First, why would you do those things to somebody you liked? Second of all, what kind of excuse was that? She had to endure this unhappiness because of the reason behind his actions. Besides, even if he had asked her out, she didn’t think he was all that interesting or good-looking. She wasn’t interested. When she’d split open her eyebrow after he’d stuck his leg out last week, she hoped that’d be the end. Alas, Grubby Gilbert didn’t give up. She stepped to the side to watch him trot down the street. She walked right into a table whilst she gazed in the opposite direction. Mona squeaked, timid like a mouse, as time slowed around her.

The table toppled over. The mugs crashed to the floor and disintegrated, spilling hot tea over the rug. The flowery doily drifted to the ground, where the liquid stained it brown. The two women flinched backwards from the carnage and squealed. They escaped the flying China unscathed but lost their beverages to gravity.

Mona gasped, wide-eyed, hands raised in self-defence. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This accident was not good, not good at all. She had no money, nothing with which she could make amends. She tried to think, speak, and act, but fear rooted her to the spot.

A woman with a teatowel draped over her shoulder came marching up to the scene. The woman was tall and had an ‘out there’ fashion sense. Her long hair, which she’d tied up into a bun, she’d dyed electric blue. Her eyebrows and her eyes were coffee-brown. Tattoos crawled up both arms, under the sleeves of her dress, and up the sides of her neck. The dress was black with a flowery design, both gothic and summery. A hoop dangled from her nose, and more piercings than Mona had ever seen dotted her ears. She took the teatowel and dropped it into the puddle, which disappeared. Before Mona could blink, the table was upright, its doily pristine, and the mug shards were gone. The blue-haired woman called to a younger girl who was busy behind the counter. ‘Sabrina, another ginger tea and a peppermint tea for this table, please. On the house, of course.’

Mona shrivelled before the sight of her. Adults always seemed big. Despite being no taller than the other grown-ups, this woman seemed like a giantess. Some unknown qualities made her presence more clear. She squeezed her hands together, averted her eyes, and awaited the tongue-lashing.

‘I’m Alice Wallaker, and this is my teahouse. Do you mind answering a few questions?’

Oh God, oh God, oh God. ‘I’m… sorry. I’m so so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to. I’m such an idiot, I’m such a stupid idiot, I—’

Alice silenced her with a wave of her hand. She smiled. ‘Never mind about that, Mona. Don’t cry over spilt milk. Unless if it’s for a black cat. What’s your name, sweetie?’

Something cold and jagged inside Mona began to melt. Calmness washed over her. She looked up into those warm brown eyes and didn’t see the hostility she expected to find. ‘I’m Mona. Mona Heptinstall.’

Alice’s eyes rolled over her every feature, settling on the stitches in her eyebrow. An odd look sparkled behind her kind eyes. ‘And what’s his name, Mona?’

Mona took a sharp inhale of breath. How did she know? Mona debated lying and telling Alice that there was no ‘him’. She was fine, and nothing was wrong. She soon abandoned this, then entertained the thought of giving the woman a fake name. But then that flittered away like a bat on the night’s breeze. In the end, Mona told the truth. ‘Gilbert Boyd.’

Alice wrinkled her nose as though she knew the boy already. She inhaled through her nose, then out through her mouth. She bent down, picked up her teatowel – now bone dry – and slung it over her shoulder again. ‘Come with me.’

Uh oh. Here it came. This point was the moment that Ms Wallaker would call the police, and they’d take her away. The cops would call her school, and the school would tell her parents. She’d be in so much trouble because she wanted to escape Grubby Gilbert.

Alice ushered her through the packed teahouse with a gentle hand on one shoulder. It seemed that every pair of eyes watched them go with hungry curiosity. And something else was in those gazes, too. Alice took her into the back of the teahouse, past the telephone.

Mona opened her mouth to ask but then closed it again.

Alice opened a door near the back of the building and led her down a beautiful wooden staircase. Despite their descent, the sunlight seemed to grow stronger. It shined through windows that should have been underground. She pushed open a grand pair of double doors and brought her into—

Mona frowned. ‘A library?’

Alice turned to face her. She stretched her hands out either side of her as if reaching for the walls. Behind her, shelves of books stretched on for an impossible distance. Here and there, bustled all kinds of women. They scanned shelves and pored over forgotten tomes. Some looked happy and healthy; others looked battered and bruised. Expressions ranged from interest to anger. A middle-aged woman with a black eye gritted her teeth and flicked through the pages of a thick book. Nearby, a granny chuckled into her stack of open books, mumbling about ‘teaching the bugger’. ‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘A library. A special library. A secret library, containing hidden knowledge. For people like us.’

‘Like… us?’

Alice smiled. ‘Women.’

Now, Mona understood what had been in the eyes of all those women as Alice took her through the teahouse. Sympathy. Sympathy and understanding. They’d all been in similar positions before, too. They knew how it felt. And when they saw a little girl experiencing the same, they couldn’t help but send their hearts to her. Her mouth dried up. ‘Only for women.’

Alice nodded, then turned and beckoned her. ‘Come, we can find something to help your predicament. We have a little something for everyone, from ailments to revenge. But something gentler might be a good starting point for you.’

Mona paused. ‘You’re… going to help me? But I wrecked your teahouse! I—’

Alice surprised her by laughing. ‘Oh, Mona, you didn’t wreck anything! Besides, you were seeking shelter, weren’t you? Well, you found it.’

Mona found herself laughing, too. A few minutes prior, she’d never felt less like laughing. But being around this woman had eased her wounded heart. It was as though she were—

Magic.

She stopped dead in her tracks. ‘A-Are you— Are y-you—’

Alice turned, eyebrows raised, mischief written in the colour of her cheeks. She said nothing and waited for Mona to ask.

She blurted it out. ‘Are you a witch?’

Alice’s eyes danced. ‘Why, of course! All the best women are.’

She’d expected to feel terror, coldness, claustrophobia. This woman was into the dark arts; Alice practised magic and witchcraft. She ought to be frightening. And yet, she wasn’t. At least, not to Mona. But she thought Alice could be scary to the right – or wrong – kind of person. The sort of person like Gilbert Boyd. And the types of people Gilbert Boyd would grow up into if left unchecked. But to Mona, she felt as if an umbrella of love had opened over her head. Not only was the rain no longer falling on her, but the sun shone through the material. Mona followed the witch deeper into the library. ‘What kind of help, Ms Wallaker?’

Alice hummed and scanned the shelves, pointing at them as if eyeing a police lineup. At last, she said, ‘Aha!’ and produced a book from a shelf. It wasn’t quite ‘Baby’s First Seance’ or ‘Witchcraft For Dummies’, but close enough. A beginner’s book. An entry point into the dark arts.

Only, were these arts dark? Or had men labelled them as such? Mona took the book, feeling the weight of power crackling through her fingertips. She couldn’t help but utter a contented sigh.

Alice opened the book and slid a finger down the index page, tapping on certain words. ‘Like this, Mona. There’s some powerful stuff in here. Stuff that I wouldn’t share with a boy no matter how old he was. But you can handle that responsibility, can’t you, Mona?’

Mona decided that she could.