Witchmyth by Emma Fischel

Author:Emma Fischel [Emma Fischel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857634252
Publisher: Nosy Crow
Published: 2015-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

I sprinted to Mum’s snug, Grandma close behind.

We stood in the doorway and gaped. There were sticks. Sticks EVERYWHERE. On the sofa, on the floor, everywhere. Huge piles of sticks from the garden. Big sticks, small sticks, all kinds of sticks.

The snug window was wide open. And – oh dear – my troll was not safely tucked up in Astribel’s cot, snoring. Not any more. He was padding up the garden, clasping another stick in his paws. A chunky, heavy-looking one.

As for Mum, she was standing in the middle of the snug, wringing her hands and wailing. “What has he done?” she wailed. “What has he DONE?”

“He is preparing to build, Kristabel,” said Grandma. “All trolls build dens. It is perfectly normal.”

“But not in my snug,” Mum wailed. “No building – not in my SNUG!”

“Kristabel, you really are a fusspot,” said Grandma, tutting. “You hardly ever use the snug. You’re far too busy.”

“One more stick inside this house,” hissed Mum, “and that troll GOES!”

“Have no fear, Kristabel,” said Grandma grandly. “I shall train him.”

She turned to me. “Flo,” she said. “Watch. And learn.”

And she turned to the window as the small fluffy head of my troll appeared. He heaved himself up on to the windowsill, stick still clasped in his paws. Then he saw all of us, standing in the snug, staring at him.

He stared back.

“No,” said Grandma firmly, shaking her head and holding up her hand, palm out. “NO sticks in the snug.”

My troll stared more. Then he hopped down into the room, still carrying the stick.

“Very well,” Grandma said, pursing her lips. “So be it.”

She pointed her wand. “Abrakkida Mutattikk, Bakkuliki Mutik, Diversikka, Optikka, Lune,” she said, in the strange singsong voice she uses to do spells. “Ambik Non, Elsik Non, Revikkto Zin Rovvik, Ignittik, Bestolikka, Grune.”

A shower of stardust burst out of her wand and headed straight for the stick.

My troll yelped. He dropped the stick as if it was burning hot. And – with a zizz – the stick was gone. Transformed into a buzzing red insect with long flaming pincers.

“A firehopper,” cackled Grandma, watching it fly out of the window, trailing smoke behind it. “That troll will soon learn not to bring sticks into the house.”

My troll did NOT like his stick being turned into a firehopper. He threw a tantrum. He hurled himself on the floor. He bawled. He drummed his feet on the ground. He gnashed his teeth. He changed colour. From orange to purple, red to blue, green to yellow. He was furious with rage.

“Leave him be, Flo,” said Grandma, turning her back on him. “He is simply seeking attention. And now, follow me – I have something for you.”

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