Bella Broomstick

by Lou Kuenzler

  “You’ll just have to stay like that. I’m not stopping,” snapped Aunt Hemlock.

  My arm felt as if it was going to be wrenched from its socket, but at least I couldn’t smell Aunt Hemlock’s stinky old cloak down here. “Are we nearly there yet?”

  “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if I was you,” laughed Wane. He was riding in front of Aunt Hemlock like a dragon on the prow of a ship. “Persons eat witches for their tea, you know!”

  “Scuttling scorpions!” I gasped. I could see a ring of bright lights glowing in the distance. Were the Persons lighting a fire ready to boil me in a pot? But I thought of the Sellwell catalogue rolled up secretly in the bottom of my travelling sack. Wane didn’t know anything. The Person World was good and kind… I was sure of it.

  As we flew on, I realized the glow beneath us was just a line of tall lanterns twinkling in the darkness. “How pretty,” I whispered.

  “They’re only street lights,” sighed Aunt Hemlock. I scrambled back on to the broom as we swooped over a signpost:

  WELCOME TO MERRYMEET VILLAGE.

  Please Drive Carefully.

  “Ha! Doesn’t say anything about flying though, does it!” she chuckled, looping the loop.

  “Help!” I cried, hanging upside down.

  “I feel broom-sick!” groaned Wane.

  “What a lily-livered pair you are!” whooped Aunt Hemlock as we dive-bombed a village green with a duck pond in the middle and rows of snug little houses all around. She raised her wand and waved it above the rooftops, muttering a strange chant:

  Persons round this ring of green,

  Let your secret dreams be seen!

  Rise foolish thoughts and show the way

  To where this hopeless witch will stay.

  My heart gave a leap. This was the villiage where I was going to live. “Will your spell really show us my new home?” I asked.

  “Precisely. Keep your eyes peeled,” Aunt Hemlock cackled. “You’ll know what we’re looking for when you see it!”

  I stared down at the sleeping village with its rows of moonlit cottages. Strange brightly coloured mist rose out of their chimneys and filled the sky.

  Aunt Hemlock shook her head. “None of those are the dreams we’re after.”

  We flew on over chestnut trees and narrow winding streets. A burbling river flowed under a humpback bridge, and roses rambled over low stone walls.

  It was the prettiest place I had ever seen – all except for one big dark house, hunched like a cold grey rock on the far side of the village green. As we flew closer, I saw high iron railings covered with sharp barbed wire that coiled like snakes around the top of the spikes.

  “Cool security!” whistled Wane.

  “I do like the bars on the windows. Gives it such a lovely dungeon feel,” Aunt Hemlock agreed.

  My heart plunged like a stone in a well. This would be just the sort of place Aunt Hemlock was looking for, I was sure of it.

  Suddenly the courtyard was filled with light. There was a sound of a hundred locks and bolts being undone as the door swung open.

  “Who’s there?” shouted a man as thin as a wand. “I’ll call the police!”

  Police? I thought of the giant one-eyed Cyclops Cops who stamp out trouble in the Magic Realm. Would the Person Police be as scary as that?

  “Nosy busy-body! I’ve got a good mind to put a hex on him,” thundered Aunt Hemlock as we shot over the roof like a firecracker. My heart soared as we left the grim grey house behind. We weren’t stopping there after all.

  “Look!” cried Aunt Hemlock, swooping over the spiky fence and hovering above a bird table in the garden next door. “This is the one! I knew my spell would lead the way.”

  I peered over her shoulder and saw an adorable white cottage with a thatched roof. Out of the chimney came a shining swirl of pink and silver smoke.

  “Quick!” Aunt Hemlock whispered. “Where’s my snare?” She scrabbled underneath her cloak and pulled out a ragged butterfly net.

  “Catch it!” cried Wane as the smoky mist swirled all around us.

  “You can’t catch smoke in a net,” I said, confused.

  But Aunt Hemlock hunched forward. “This isn’t smoke – it’s magic!” She pulled a narrow glass jar from her pocket and plunged it into the net. “Got you!” she grinned, slamming the lid on tight.

  Aunt Hemlock held up the jar in a stream of moonlight. The smoke was gone and a pale silvery moth was beating its wings against the glass.

  “The poor thing!” I cried. “Let it go!”

  “Certainly not.” Aunt Hemlock pointed at the pretty white cottage. “The foolish Persons who live here have a dream – something they have always hoped for. I have caught their hope and turned it into this moth.”

  She stabbed the lid of the jar with her sharp green fingernails, making two small air holes. “Let’s hear what it has to say, shall we?” She raised the jar to her ear. “Idiots…” she laughed. “Fools.”

  “What?” grinned Wane. “What do the Persons hope for?”

  “Yes, tell us,” I whispered, looking down at the cosy little cottage and wondering who might live inside. My heart was fluttering as fast as the moth in the jar.

  “They hope,” said Aunt Hemlock slowly, “for a child.”

  “Fizzing ferrets!” I gulped, as Aunt Hemlock landed the broom outside the pretty white cottage. “The Persons who live here want a child?” I watched the fragile hope-moth flutter in the jar. “That’s perfect. If they want a child … they might want me.”

  “You!” Aunt Hemlock snorted. “Who’d want you?”

  “Even Persons aren’t that stupid,” sniggered Wane.

  “They hope for a child. That’s a start at least. But we’ll have to use very powerful magic before any Person would agree to take on somebody like you,” said Aunt Hemlock, shaking the jar so hard the poor moth turned topsy-turvy.

  “More magic. Of course.” I sunk down inside my tattered black cloak. “How silly of me.” I could smell the sweet scent of the honeysuckle tumbling over the cottage door. It was the prettiest house in the whole village, with its wishing well on the lawn and window boxes full of flowers. In the glow of a lamp hanging in the porch, I could see that the front door was painted sunflower yellow, and a mat on the step said: WELCOME! I should have known it would never be possible for me to live in a pretty little cottage like this. Not without tricking the Persons with a spell.

  “Disgusting little place, isn’t it?” Aunt Hemlock shuddered. “Sweet as a cupcake. Yuck!”

  “Revolting!” Wane stuck out his purple tongue and made a gagging sound.

  But they were wrong. I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather live. “Honeysuckle Cottage”, I whispered, reading the name on the door. “If we have to use magic, then let’s do it,” I fumbled for my wand. “Ouch!” As usual an angry splinter jabbed my finger. “Here goes!” If there was ever a spell I had wanted to get right, it was this one.

  I’ll just say what I feel, I thought, waving my wand in the air.

  “Roof of straw and yellow front door

  Be my home for ever more…”

  “What are you doing?” cried Aunt Hemlock. She spread her arms like a swooping bat and dived in front of me. “You’re not allowed to do magic in the Person World – not without an examination certificate.” She waved her own wand under my nose. “If you had been offered a place at Creepy Castle, you would have been trained to use magic properly. As you failed, you cannot use any magic ever again. Do you understand me?”

  “Never?” A strange feeling of emptiness curled inside me – the same hollow thud I get sometimes when I wake up after dreaming about Mum and Dad. For a moment, everything always seems perfect; then I open my eyes and I remember I’m an orphan and Mum and Dad are never coming back. “No spells at all?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “No spells, no potions, no chants, no charms, no incantations, no hexes,” said Aunt Hemlock. “Hold out your wand and shout: Adieu.”

&nb
sp; “A-dew?” As soon as I said it, the wand leapt out of my hands, wriggled in mid-air, and turned into an enormous brown rat with sharp yellow teeth and a long pink tail.

  “Eek,” it squeaked as it scurried through the fence, towards the cold grey house next door.

  “So you really were a rat,” I whispered. “I always thought you might be.” But the wand was gone.

  As I turned back, picking the last jagged splinter out of my finger, the hollow feeling inside me grew deeper. I’ve never actually got a spell right in my whole life … so it wasn’t magic exactly that I’d miss (nor my grumpy old wand). But there was a feeling I got every time I waved my wand or muttered a chant. A little fizz of excitement. A tiny tingle of hope that the magic might just go right. I don’t suppose I’ll ever feel that tingle again.

  “You will be a boring, non-magic Person from now on,” said Aunt Hemlock firmly. “It really shouldn’t be too difficult; it’s not as if you were ever any use in the Magic Realm.”

  “Useless as a leaky cauldron!” grinned Wane, laughing so hard he flashed like a set of Christmas lights (the Sellwell Department Store Catalogue pages 198–204).

  They were right of course. But my heart was pounding – a magical life, living in Aunt Hemlock’s cave, is all I had ever known.

  “Stand back and leave the magic to me,” said Aunt Hemlock as her wand spat sparks. “These silly Persons wished for a child… Well, they should be careful what they wish for.”

  POOF!

  Suddenly Aunt Hemlock was wearing a purple suit.

  “There! Now I look like a smart busyness Person,” she grinned. “All I need is a handybag… Ah, Wane.”

  “No, mistress, not me!” He ducked behind a flowerpot, but it was too late.

  Pow!

  Aunt Hemlock grabbed him by the tail, turned him into a lizard-skin handbag and hung him over her shoulder. “It’s only for a little while.”

  “Ha!” I grinned, but then she spun around and pointed her wand at me.

  Ping!

  “Dingley daises!” I gasped. “I look like … like Gretel.” I was now wearing a brown dress and an apron.

  “Exactly! From the fairy tale,” beamed Aunt Hemlock. “That is how Person children should look.” She must have read me the story of Hansel and Gretel a thousand times when I was little.

  “That poor, sweet old hag,” tutted Aunt Hemlock. “Roasted in her own oven by those greedy children.” She grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards the cottage. “Never let these Persons know you are a witch – not unless you want to be roasted too,” she grinned.

  She stretched her long green fingernail and rang the doorbell. “Let the fun and games begin…”

  A light flicked on in a window of the cottage.

  “Coming!” called a sleepy voice inside.

  “Smile!” hissed Aunt Hemlock, poking me in the ribs.

  I nearly toppled over in surprise. Aunt Hemlock had never asked me to look cheerful before – she usually tells me off when I look happy.

  “Persons like it when you smile,” she explained. Unfortunately, her twisted sneer didn’t look very friendly…

  “Can I help you?” A jolly-looking man, as tall as a baby giant, stood in the doorway blinking. “Yikes!” He took one look at Aunt Hemlock and jumped backwards, nearly bumping his bald head and tripping over his enormous feet, which were stuffed inside a pair of very small, fluffy pink slippers.

  “Ladies’ So-Soft Cosy Toes – candyfloss colour!” I gasped.

  “What?” Aunt Hemlock scowled at me.

  “They – er – belong to my wife,” blushed the man. “I couldn’t find mine anywhere.” He looked down at his feet and smiled. “I think I like these better anyway … mine are ever so boring and brown.”

  “They’re brilliant!” I smiled too (and not because Aunt Hemlock had told me to). I knew at once that I liked this funny Person with no hair on his head. I liked the way his shoulders shook as he laughed at himself (Aunt Hemlock only ever laughed at other people).

  “Mr Able?” Aunt Hemlock was grinning like a Halloween pumpkin. “I am from FAKE.”

  “Fake?” Mr Able looked confused.

  “I told you Persons were stupid,” whispered Aunt Hemlock from behind her hand. “We are a charity,” she said, talking slowly so that Mr Able could understand. “F-A-K-E. It stands for Fostering and Adopting Kids Easily. You and your wife did want to foster a child, didn’t you?”

  “Well … er, yes.” Mr Able scratched his head. “But we only phoned the council yesterday. We haven’t even had a meeting yet. They said it would take months to put everything in place.” He turned and smiled kindly at me. “Although, we would be delighted if things moved quicker than that.”

  “Well they have moved quicker,” said Aunt Hemlock, shuffling her papers. “Much quicker. You said you’d be happy to take even the most hopeless case.” Aunt Hemlock pointed at me. “Well, they don’t come any more hopeless than this.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” said Mr Able, frowning.

  “Hmm, you’ll find out soon enough,” sighed Aunt Hemlock. “Her name is Belladon—”

  “Bella – just Bella.” I stepped forward. If I was going to start a new life I might as well start it with a name I liked. “I’m Bella Broomstick,” I grinned.

  “Pleased to meet you, Bella.”

  Mr Able held out his hand. I wasn’t sure why, so I just smiled even harder than before. “Pleased to meet you too.”

  “Broomstick is an unusual-sounding name,” he said.

  “Not where I come from,” I answered, thinking how much worse it could have been.

  Aunt Hemlock dropped her pile of papers into Mr Able’s outstretched hand. “You’ll find these all in order,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must fly…”

  “But … hold on a moment.” Poor Mr Able stared down at the papers. Beads of sweat appeared on his bald brow. “This all seems most unusual. I mean, you turning up in the middle of the night and everything… I … I’ll call my wife.” He stepped back into the house and hollered up the stairs. “Rose! There’s a lady here says she’s from something or other FAKE. She’s got a little nipper for us—”

  ZAP! The minute he turned his back Aunt Hemlock froze him like a statue. She clicked her fingers and leapt on to her hovering broomstick. She was already in her old witchy clothes again and Wane was no longer a handbag.

  “That was horrible,” he choked, coughing up a coin.

  “Stop moaning,” said Aunt Hemlock, “or I’ll leave you here in the Person World too.”

  “No!” Wane clung to the broomstick. “Anything but that…”

  “Here! Look after this.” Aunt Hemlock thrust the tiny glass jar into my hand and muttered an incantation:

  Take this jar which holds the hopes

  Of these silly Person dopes.

  Safe and sound the moth must stay,

  Or its power will fade away.

  “It’s so sparkly!” I said, holding the jar up in the light from the porch. I had never seen such pretty magic before – most of Aunt Hemlock’s potions are gloopy and gassy like bubbling mud. But the moth’s wings glistened with the dreams it had carried out of Honeysuckle Cottage.

  “Careful!” snapped Aunt Hemlock. “When I trapped the moth, I tricked these fools into thinking they wanted a hopeless child like you. But, if the jar breaks, the spell will be broken…”

  “You mean, if the hope moth escapes, these Persons won’t want to look after me any more?” I asked.

  “Precisely! You’d be no more welcome here than you are in the Magic Realm,” laughed Aunt Hemlock.

  Wane giggled.

  “And remember, Persons don’t do magic – so there’ll be none of your hopeless hocus-pocus either,” snarled Aunt Hemlock. “If any Persons in this village find out you are a witch, they’ll throw you into a dungeon. Then they’ll start poking their wartless noses through the Curtain of Invisibility.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” I thought of the
angry man in the big grey house, shouting about the police. Perhaps I’d be better off without any more magic after all. It had only ever caused me trouble. I took a step towards the warm orange lights of Honeysuckle Cottage.

  “I think I’m going to like it here,” I said.

  “Ha! I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” cackled Aunt Hemlock, shooting into the sky. “You were a hopeless witch, and you’ll be a hopeless Person too…”

  PING!

  With that she was gone. Not even a “goodbye”.

  Before I could blink, Mr Able leapt back to life. “So sorry. Strangest feeling,” he said, wriggling his neck. “Like I fell asleep on my feet…” He turned and hollered up the stairs. “Rose, are you coming down?”

  My legs were shaking like a bowl of newt-eye trifle. This was it – the start of my brand-new life.

  Chapter Seven

  I stood on the doormat as Mrs Able came bustling down the stairs. She was round and rosy as an apple.

  “What did you pinch my slippers for, you daft noodle,” she said, swapping with her husband so that she had her own fluffy pink ones back.

  I quickly scanned the sky, checking that Aunt Hemlock really was gone. Thank goodness nobody seemed to have noticed her flying away on her broomstick. I slipped the little shining jar safely into my frilly apron pocket, crossing my fingers and wishing with all my heart that the magic power of the hope moth would be enough to let me stay here.

  “It’s all a bit peculiar.” Mr Able was bobbing around like a boiled egg in a pan of water as he tried to explain about the strange lady from FAKE.

  “That’s as may be, but don’t leave the poor mite standing on the doorstep,” said Mrs Able, tutting at her husband. “Come on in, pet, before you grow roots out there.” She stepped forward and gathered me up in a strawberry-scented hug. I didn’t know anyone could smell so good – no rotten eggs, no garlic, no cheesy feet or swamp mud.