by Ruth Chew
While the bird was eating Amy and Jean heard a tapping noise. They looked at the broom. She was doing a happy little dance with the end of her broomstick on the floor.
“Sh-sh, Wispy! Suppose my mother and father come in here!” Amy picked up the little blue broom and carried her down to the laundry room. She came back with her mother’s worn-out old broom and swept up the cornflakes. She propped the broom against the table while she went to get the dustpan.
The bluejay walked across the table to get a better look at the old broom. She tipped her head on one side. Then she hopped down onto the scraggly bristles. She sat there for a minute, like a bird on a nest.
“Look, Amy,” Jean said, “the jay looks right at home on your old broom.”
Suddenly the bird spread her blue wings and fluttered off the bristles. She flew out of the kitchen and through the dining room. Then she winged her way across the living room and up the stairs.
Mr. and Mrs. Perkins were sitting on the living room sofa reading the Sunday paper. When the bird flew through the room, Mrs. Perkins jumped to her feet. She chased after the jay.
Jean and Amy had followed the bird out of the kitchen. Now they ran upstairs to see what was going on.
The bluejay was flying in and out of all the bedrooms.
“She seems to be looking for something,” Jean said.
The jay caught sight of a wastebasket. She flew down into it and started turning over all the trash.
Mrs. Perkins was holding a section of the newspaper. She put the paper over the top of the wastebasket like a lid. Then she picked up the basket. “This bird is quite well enough to go back outdoors.” She took the wastebasket downstairs and went out onto the front stoop. First she closed the big glass front door behind her. Then she took the newspaper off the top of the wastebasket.
Amy’s father had come to the door. Along with Jean and Amy he looked through the glass. They saw the bird fly out of the wastebasket. She flapped up into the sycamore tree in front of the house.
“Thief! Thief!” the bluejay screamed at Amy’s mother.
Mr. Perkins opened the door for Mrs. Perkins to come in. “I’m sure we could have made a pet of that bird,” he said.
“Wild birds belong outdoors,” Mrs. Perkins said. She looked at Jean and Amy. “And so do children on a lovely day like this. Why don’t you take the broom out and play horse with it? That’s all it’s good for.”
Amy and Jean took the blue broom out on the front stoop. As soon as the door closed behind them Wispy tipped over on her side and floated in the air beside the girls.
They sat down, one behind the other, on the broom. Wispy sailed up into the air. But instead of flying across the street, she flew into the sycamore tree.
“Look, Jean,” Amy said.
The bluejay was perched on a branch. Her feathers were fluffed out around her. She looked lonely and sad.
“I wish my mother would let her live in our house,” Amy said. Then she told the broom, “Wispy, we can’t stay here. My mother doesn’t let me climb this tree.”
The broom jiggled up and down. But she stayed in the tree. Suddenly there was a whirr of blue feathers. The jay landed on the bristles of the broom. At once Wispy flew out of the tree. She zoomed up over the houses.
The two girls held tight to the broomstick. They were going so fast that it almost took their breath away. For several minutes neither of them could say a word. Then Amy said, “You were wrong, Jean. Wispy doesn’t seem to be afraid of the bluejay at all. I think she asked the bird to come along.”
“Where are we going?” Jean wanted to know.
“Why don’t we go to the beach?” Amy suggested.
“We didn’t bring our bathing suits,” Jean reminded her.
“We could go wading,” Amy said.
Jean thought about this. “Wispy, take us to Coney Island.”
The girls looked down. They were so high that they could see the ocean. But the broom was flying inland, away from the sea.
Amy tried to jerk the stick back. “Whoa!” she said.
Wispy kept right on flying the way she was going.
The bluejay was perched on the end of the bristles. She stared straight ahead. The wind whipped through her feathers.
“Maybe Wispy’s afraid she’ll get wet again,” Jean said. “And that’s why she won’t go to the beach.”
Amy was staring at the ground below. They were flying over a dark forest. “Jean,” she said in a low voice, “it isn’t moonlight now. So I can’t be sure. But that looks like the forest I saw in my dream.”
“You mean the one about the witches?” Jean asked. “Wispy,” she said to the broom, “turn around and go home now.”
The broom didn’t seem to hear her. She flew even faster. Now there were rolling hills below them. The hills became mountains. Far ahead Amy saw a tall bare mountain. The broom headed straight for it.
Now Amy was sure. “It wasn’t a dream after all,” she said.
The bluejay cast a big black shadow on the mountainside. Then the little broom dived into the dark tunnel. The girls tried to hold on to each other and the broomstick at the same time. Very soon it was too dark for Jean to see Amy right in front of her. And it was cold.
Amy could tell that Jean was afraid, so she pretended to be very brave. But, deep inside, Amy was frightened too. Jean had been right all along. There was something spooky about the bluejay. And the broom was mixed up in the spookiness.
“We should have brought our sweaters,” Amy said.
Jean’s teeth were chattering. She looked into the blackness. It seemed an age before they saw a faint light.
“We must be coming to the big cave,” Amy whispered.
This time Wispy didn’t slow down. She kept flying at top speed. The light got brighter. The little broom sailed into the cave.
The fire on the flat rock was almost out. Only a little pale steam came from the big iron pot. The cave was much darker than before. At first Amy thought it was empty.
Then she caught sight of a pile of purple rags beside the big pot. Amy looked hard at it. Now she saw that it was the old witch. She was curled up on the rock, fast asleep. Her pointed purple hat had rolled off her straggly white hair. But she was still clutching her long-handled spoon.
Wispy headed for the flat rock. Before she reached it the bluejay fluttered off the broom. The bird flew to the witch and perched on her shoulder. She tickled the old woman’s cheek with her blue wing.
The witch waved the spoon as if to brush the bird away. She let out a snore.
Again the bluejay tickled the old woman’s cheek. This time the witch opened her green eyes. The bird flew off her shoulder.
At this moment the broom landed on the rock. Amy and Jean got off. Amy looked around for a place to hide. But it was too late.
The witch was wide awake now. She stared at the two girls. Then she looked at the broom. She put her hat back on her head and stood up. “Aren’t you Beryl’s broom? Where, may I ask, is Beryl?”
Amy and Jean stood as if they were frozen. The bluejay was circling round the rock. She flew down in front of the witch. The old woman bent over to take a good look at the bird. She straightened up and turned to Wispy. “Broom, something tells me this is Beryl. Am I right?”
The blue broom nodded.
“Too bad you can’t talk, Broom,” the witch said.
At this Wispy flew to Jean and Amy. The witch walked over to them. “And who are you?” she demanded in her harsh voice.
Amy’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed. “This is Jean,” she said, trying hard not to sound frightened. “And I’m Amy.”
The witch took a long hard look at Amy. Then she bent over and picked up the bluejay. She stroked the bird’s head with one bony finger. “Silly little witch,” she said. “What did you do to get yourself in this condition?”
“Beryl,” the old witch said, “tell me the truth! Did you lose the magic charm I gave you?”
The bluejay didn’t a
nswer. She hung her head and looked ashamed.
The witch turned to the broom. “You brought these girls here because you thought they could help. Didn’t you?”
Wispy nodded.
The witch looked at Amy with her bright green eyes. “What do you know about all this?”
“Not very much,” Amy said. “I knew Wispy was a magic broom, but I didn’t know she belonged to a witch. And I thought the bluejay had escaped from a circus.”
“A circus!” the witch rasped. “What do you mean?”
“She didn’t really act like a bird,” Amy said. “She held her food in her claws instead of pecking it off the ground. And she drank out of a cup.”
The old witch frowned. “I can’t understand how Beryl got into all this trouble so fast. She came to the meeting Friday night.”
Before she had time to think, Amy said, “No, she didn’t.”
The witch grabbed her by the arm. “I thought you said you didn’t know much about all this.”
Amy looked into the witch’s eyes. “I don’t. But I do know Beryl wasn’t here Friday night. I was the one who answered when you called her name.” Then Amy told the old woman about her wild ride in the middle of the night. “Next morning I thought it was just a dream,” she finished.
“And how did you happen to have Beryl’s broom?” the witch wanted to know.
“My mother found the broom under the peach tree in the back yard,” Amy said. “And Jean discovered that the broom was magic when it pulled her into the house.”
The old woman turned to look at Jean.
“I thought Wispy was afraid of the bluejay,” Jean said. “But she must just have been trying to lead her into Amy’s house. After that the bird was always trying to get in.”
The witch was still holding the jay. She smoothed the blue feathers. “I suppose you know you’re in an awful fix,” she said to the bird.
“What do you mean?” Amy asked.
“She’s changed herself into a bird and now she can’t change back,” the old woman told her.
“Why can’t she? She’s a witch, isn’t she?” Jean said.
“Beryl is only a beginner. She’s not very good at magic yet.” The old woman straightened her purple hat.
“Can’t you help her?” Amy said. “You must be very good at magic.”
The old woman cleared her throat. She looked pleased. “Well, yes, I am good at magic,” she said, “quite good. But Beryl has lost the charm I gave her. You can’t go losing charms, you know.” She fiddled with the folds of her baggy skirt. “Oh, I suppose I might as well tell you. Only, mind you don’t go blabbing it around.” She lowered her voice. “Beryl is my granddaughter.”
“Your granddaughter!” Amy and Jean said together.
“Yes, and I’m fond of her,” the purple witch admitted. “But all the other witches would be very angry if they knew I gave her the strongest charm I have. It was a stupid thing to do. Beryl was always so silly. Fancy letting a broom fly bristles-forward just because it wants to!
“Now Beryl has used that powerful charm to change herself into a bluejay. She has lost the charm and can’t change back. And none of my magic is strong enough to break the spell.”
“Poor Beryl,” Amy said. “What can we do to help?”
“Take her home with you.” The old witch handed Amy the bluejay. “She doesn’t like sleeping in trees. And once in a while let her have a little cake or ice cream. Beryl always did like strange things to eat. I never could get her to enjoy beetles’ whiskers or any other proper witch food.”
When the broom flew out of the tunnel in the mountain there were dark clouds in the sky. The bluejay was perched on Amy’s shoulder. It was more comfortable for her than the turned-up bristles of the broom.
Wispy was flying against the wind. The broom bounced up and down.
“Slow down, Wispy,” Jean said. “My stomach can’t stand this.”
The broom flew faster.
“There’s a storm coming,” Amy said. “If Wispy’s bristles get wet she won’t be able to fly.”
Far off there was the rumble of thunder.
Jean looked down. All she could see below were the tops of trees. She closed her eyes and tried not to feel the bouncing of the broom.
Amy was talking to the jay. “When we get home, Beryl,” she said, “I’ll have to hide you under my shirt to get you into the house. You can stay in my room.”
Jean opened her eyes. A long fork of lightning streaked from one cloud to another. An instant later there was a crash of thunder. “Look!” Jean pointed to the forest below. A huge tree had split in two.
Amy felt a drop of water on her arm. Then another. The broom began to fly more slowly.
Jean was thinking hard. “Wispy,” she said, “if you flew with your bristles down I could sit on them. My dress would keep the rain off.”
The broom stopped still in the air. The rain was splashing down. Wispy seemed to be thinking. Then she tipped up and down as if she were nodding.
“Hold still, Wispy,” Jean said. “Amy’s wearing jeans. We have to change places.”
The jay flew off Amy’s shoulder and fluttered over the broom. Jean grabbed Amy around the waist and swung around her. Amy slid along the broomstick. Jean landed on the bristles. She spread her dress over them.
Now Amy was facing Jean. If she didn’t want to ride backward she had to turn around.
“Hurry, Amy,” Jean said. “If Wispy points her stick up the bristles will be sure to stay covered. And I want to get home. My legs are getting scratched.”
Amy felt like a high-wire performer in a circus. She took a deep breath and swung one leg over the broomstick. Now she was sitting sideways. One more swing of her legs and she was in front of Jean again.
The bluejay flew down to perch on the end of the broomstick. She turned to look at Amy. Then she clapped her wings.
Jean clapped too.
By the time the broom landed on Amy’s front stoop the rain had stopped. Jean stood up and shook her dress. “You fly very well bristles-down, Wispy. Why don’t you do it all the time?”
The blue broom wagged at her.
“I guess she still likes to fly her way.” Amy picked up the broom. She put the bluejay under her shirt and tucked the shirt into her jeans.
“It must be past lunch time. I’d better go home.” Jean crossed the street to her own house.
Amy rang the doorbell. Her mother opened the door. She reached for the broom. “I hope you don’t mind if I use your horse to clean the cobwebs out of the furnace room.”
Amy was sure Wispy wouldn’t like it, but she had the bluejay under her shirt. She didn’t want to argue with her mother.
Mrs. Perkins took a good look at Amy. “Goodness! You’re soaking wet. Run up to your room and change. Then you’d better get something to eat. While you were out I baked a batch of brownies.”
Amy felt the bird give an excited little flutter. She went into the house and ran upstairs. “Take it easy, Beryl,” she whispered. “You’ll get a brownie.”
Amy went into her bedroom. She took the bluejay out from under her shirt and put her on top of the dresser. Then she opened a drawer to get a dry pair of jeans and a fresh shirt.
The bird hopped into the drawer. She began to turn over everything in it.
“Don’t mess up the stuff in there, Beryl.” Amy slipped into the jeans and pulled the shirt over her head. “My mother likes me to keep the drawers neat.”
Amy went down to the kitchen. Lunch was all ready for her on the table. She ate the baloney sandwich and the banana and saved the two fat brownies and the glass of milk for last.
Just as she was about to take her first bite of brownie, Amy remembered the bluejay. She jumped up from the table and ran upstairs with the brownie.
Amy went to her bedroom, but the bluejay was no longer there. She looked in the bathroom and in the spare room. Beryl wasn’t there. When Amy went into her parents’ room she found the bird perched on top of h
er mother’s dresser. The jay had opened the lid of the glass jewel box. She was picking Mrs. Perkins’ earrings out of the box and dropping them on the floor.
“Beryl! Stop that!” Amy grabbed the bird and carried her to her own room.
She put the bluejay on her desk. “I brought you this.” She placed the brownie beside the bird. “If you can’t eat it all, save some for me. Mother only gave me two. And, Beryl, try to be good.”
Amy went back to her parents’ room. She picked up her mother’s earrings and put them in the jewel box.
One of her father’s dresser drawers was partly open. Mr. Perkins’ handkerchiefs and socks were scattered around the room. Amy folded the handkerchiefs and rolled the socks into neat little balls. She put them back into the drawer. When she went out of the room she clicked the door shut behind her.
Mrs. Perkins was in the kitchen. “Finish your milk, Amy,” she said. “You must have liked the brownies. You didn’t leave so much as a crumb.”
Before she left for work next morning, Mrs. Perkins said, “You’re too old to be going through the things in my room, Amy. I thought you’d grown out of that. I don’t want to have to lock my door.”
Amy didn’t know what to say.
When her mother and father had gone she made the beds and put the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. The doorbell rang. Amy went to answer it.
Jean stood on the front stoop. She was wearing dungarees. “Mom was pretty mad at me for getting wet two days in a row,” she said. “My Sunday dress has to go to the cleaner.”
“That reminds me.” Amy pulled a pink slip of paper and a dollar bill out of her pocket. “Mother told me to pick up my skirt from the cleaner. Let’s do it now before I forget.”
“Where’s Beryl?” Jean asked.
“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I haven’t seen her this morning. That bird gets into everything. We’d better see what she’s up to.”