Bella Broomstick

by Lou Kuenzler

  “I … I’m going to my room for a bit, if that’s all right?” I turned and sped towards the cottage, still clutching Rascal under my T-shirt. I could feel tears pricking my eyes. I glanced nervously at the clear blue sky, half-expecting Aunt Hemlock to appear and whisk me back to the Magic Realm so I could be a guinea pig in the potions lab after all. Everything had gone wrong. I had made a hopeless mess of being in the Person World already.

  RULE ONE:

  DON’T USE MAGIC.

  RULE TWO:

  KEEP THE HOPE MOTH SAFE.

  BELLA BROOMSTICK SCORE:

  FAIL!

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Just stay under the duvet and don’t go poking about,” I said as Rascal hung off the end of my bed and tried to peer underneath it.

  I knew I shouldn’t have brought him inside without asking. But Uncle Martin didn’t even want a kitten in the garden, let alone the house. “No more waifs and strays!” That’s what he’d said. Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that for much longer. My Gretel dress was gone. The glass jar was probably broken already and the hope moth would have flown away.

  I could hear the Ables murmuring in the kitchen below. As soon as they escaped from the power of Aunt Hemlock’s spell, they would realize they had never wanted to foster me at all. Perhaps they were already using their strange telephone-thing to call the council and say there had been some mistake.

  Rascal stuck his head in the wastepaper basket. “What’s in here?” he asked.

  “Nothing!” I sighed. “I thought I told you to stop poking about.”

  “Do another spell,” he said, pouncing on the bed as I sat playing with the feathers on my pink flamingo pen. “Do one on me. But I don’t want to be a worm.” He arched his back. “Turn me into a lion … or a tiger. It will be a very easy spell as I am so big and fierce already.”

  “Really?” I smiled. I didn’t like to tell him he was no bigger than a guinea pig.

  “Listen to me roar!” he growled. It was more like the buzz of a bumble bee. “Go on. Wave your wand.”

  “No more spells!” I lifted my pillow and slid the pen underneath it. “You saw what happened to Piers.”

  “It was brilliant,” said Rascal.

  “He was nearly eaten alive by a killer bird!” I groaned.

  “Imagine if the poor old crow had choked on his bow tie,” giggled Rascal.

  “You shouldn’t laugh. We were in serious trouble back there.” But I couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible to be cross – or sad – for long with Rascal around. I slipped my fingers under the pillow and felt the soft feathers of the flamingo pen.

  “No! I mustn’t.” I folded my arms tightly. “Persons do not use magic. And I don’t want to either. Magic only ever causes problems. Now, will you please get back under the duvet and stop poking about!”

  “Oh!” Rascal’s ears drooped and his tail sunk between his legs. That’s the thing with Cat Chat – you have to hiss and spit when you’re being firm, but it makes you sound super-fierce and angry. I must have sounded far more cross than I meant too.

  “Mum’s always telling me off for being too curious,” he mewed. “That’s how I got in trouble in the first place.”

  “What happened?” I purred gently. “Where’s your mum now?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Rascal, burying his head in his paws. “I climbed into a box, just to see what was in there. Then I fell asleep and somebody carried it off. When I woke up, I was in a pile of boxes for the jumble sale at the village hall.”

  “Horrid jumble! It causes problems for everyone,” I said, stoking his ears and imagining a mean kitten-stealing monster wearing my Gretel dress.

  “I wriggled out of the box and dashed straight home,” sniffed Rascal. “But Mum had gone. So had my brother and sister. And the family we live with.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can find them,” I said.

  “How?” mewed Rascal. “I peeped in the window of the flat where we used to live, but everything had vanished. Even the furniture.”

  “Who’d want to make their furniture vanish?” I said. Persons really are very peculiar. “And how do they do it if they don’t use magic?”

  “I don’t know,” wailed Rascal. “If only I hadn’t fallen asleep in that silly box. There wasn’t even anything to see, just lots of dusty old books. But it was so dark and cosy.”

  “How did you end up at Hawk Hall?” I asked.

  “I saw the broomstick, flying through the sky, with you and the big witch … and the crazy lizard thing.”

  “Wane,” I laughed.

  “I wasn’t scared. Not one little bit. I decided to follow it,” explained the kitten. “Witches like cats, don’t they? I thought the big one with the pointy hat might use her magic to help me.”

  “Oh dear. Aunt Hemlock never helps anyone,” I said, stroking his fluffy head.

  “That lizard stuck his tongue out at me,” said Rascal.

  He looked so sad – ever since he had started to talk about his mum, all the puff and fluff had gone out of him. But what could I do?

  “I wish I could help. But I don’t even know your real name,” I said as he curled up on my lap.

  “It’s Rascal now,” he yawned. “You chose it. I never had a proper name before I met you. Mum just calls me Number Three, because she says I am smaller than my brother and sister… But I’m not!”

  “Well, Rascal certainly suits you,” I said.

  “That’s because I’m fearless and not afraid of trouble,” yawned the tiny kitten, curling up on my lap. “Since you’ve given me a name, you’ll have to help me. Mum says that’s what naming a cat means … it’s like a promise to look after me.”

  “But—”

  “You are going to help me find her, aren’t you?” he said with a happy little snuffling sound. “I knew you would. Do you think you’ll use magic? It’ll be awesome if you do.”

  “No magic! I already told you,” I said firmly.

  But Rascal closed his eyes and laid his head on my knee. He was just starting to snore when there was a knock on my bedroom door.

  “This is it,” I whispered. “The Ables have realized they were tricked by magic. Now they’ve come to tell me to leave.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Bella?” Aunty Rose rapped on the door firmly.

  “One minute,” I scrambled to my feet and slipped sleepy Rascal into my half-open sock drawer. “Stay there and don’t move,” I warned him. Then I opened my bedroom door to face Aunty Rose.

  She was holding out a tall glass of something dark and fizzy. The only bubbly black liquid I know is swamp gas, which goes into most of Aunt Hemlock’s favourite potions. Surely Aunty Rose wouldn’t make me drink anything like that…

  “I brought you a glass of cola,” she smiled.

  Cola? Well, that didn’t sound too bad…

  “And some crisps,” she said, handing me a little snack on a plate. “Don’t get any crumbs on the bed … and we’re going to have to start eating a bit more healthily tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I gasped. So they weren’t sending me away? At least not yet. Aunty Rose was still being so kind, bringing me treats. Perhaps there was a chance the jar hadn’t broken … the moth was still safe. “Thank you.” I sniffed the bubbling black liquid and took a tiny sip. “Fuzzy Fungus!” The fizz went right up my nose but it was delicious – like shooting stars and sugar. “Yum!” I took a giant gulp.

  “Careful!” Aunty Rose patted me on the back. When I finally finished spluttering, I cleared my throat.

  “What would somebody do if they sent something to the jumble by mistake?” I asked.

  “This is about that costume of yours, isn’t it?” said Aunty Rose, sitting down on the bed beside me.

  “Yes,” I mumbled. I couldn’t bear to make her feel bad for giving the Gretel dress away. I was the one who had told her to get rid of it in the first place. She wasn’t to know I’d left a jar of powerful magic inside the apro
n pocket.

  “There’s a good chance it might not have been sold,” said Aunty Rose. “Uncle Martin can take you down to the village right now, if you like. He still wants to buy birdseed. But you better be quick.” She glanced at her watch. “The jumble sale closes in fifteen minutes.”

  The jumble sale smelt like Aunt Hemlock’s socks. But it was really fun and colourful too. There were piles of clothes and tables of teapots, cups and plates, a barrel of toys and a basket of wellington boots in every shade of the rainbow (though none of them seemed to be a matching pair). Nothing was shiny and crisp and new (like the things in the Sellwell Department Store), but everything seemed as if it had once been loved. Jars of buttons and bottles of beads shimmered like treasure and there were weird things too – a wastepaper basket shaped like an elephant’s foot (Aunt Hemlock would have snapped that up) and a giant purple teddy bear as tall as Uncle Martin.

  There was a table of tea and coffee, cakes and biscuits and bright-orange squash as well. Aunty Rose had given me a shiny fifty pence which I would have loved to spend on a giant slice of sponge cake stuffed with strawberries and cream, but I had to save the money to buy my Gretel costume back.

  “Excuse me,” I said, peering over a mountain of winter hats and woolly scarves.

  “Hello, dearie,” said the old woman running the clothes stall. She was tiny and wrinkly as if she might have tumbled out of a bag of jumble along with the clothes. Her kind brown eyes were as big and round as buttons. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well—”

  “How about a winter scarf ?” She pulled a bright red one from the very bottom of the pile so that all the others tumbled to the floor in an avalanche of wool and bobbles. “It’s summer now, but you’ll be glad of something cosy come Christmas time.”

  “No thanks,” I said, scrabbling on the floor and piling mittens and gloves back on to the table. “I’m looking for a special outfit. Like a costume.”

  “Ah!” She began to flick through a rail of clothes. “Cinderella, Belle, Minnie Mouse, Mickey Mouse, a dalmatian, Shrek?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Father Christmas, Elsa, Superman, Spiderman – no idea what this one is supposed to be – a witch, a wizard, Alice in Wonderland or—”

  “Sorry!” I stood on tiptoes and shouted as loudly as I could. “It’s a special costume I’m looking for, you see. Like Gretel from the fairy tale … brown with a frilly apron on the top.”

  “Well blow me down!” she grinned toothlessly. “Rose Able came in earlier and donated one just like that.”

  “That’s it!” I cried, holding out my fifty pence. “Please can I buy it back?”

  “Sorry!” Her face crumpled like a paper bag. “You just missed it.”

  “Missed it?” The coin almost slipped from my fingers. “You mean it’s been sold.”

  “That’s jumble for you,” she sighed. “Hundreds of things that nobody wants and one thing they’re all after. Had the same trouble with a clock shaped like a fried egg last year. Mrs Brimblecombe from the post office got quite nasty—”

  “The costume,” I said, darting round the side of the table so I could see her properly. “Please, it’s really important. I don’t suppose you noticed, but did it have anything in the pocket?”

  “The pocket?”

  “Yes.”

  “The apron pocket?”

  “Yes.” I felt a surge of hope. Maybe she had seen the jar and kept it safe.

  “Sorry, couldn’t say.”

  “Oh!” I sighed.

  “I wish I could help but I only had the dress a few minutes, dearie,” she explained. “Rose Able had only just dropped it off when the little girl came up. Desperate to have it she was.”

  “Little girl?” I asked.

  “Young Gretel. Her mum used to run the secondhand bookshop,” the old lady smiled. “Gretel’s her real name – just like in the story. Perhaps that’s why she wanted the costume so much.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I nodded.

  “Don’t tell anyone but I let her have it for free,” whispered the old lady, leaning forward and taking my hand. “Seemed the least I could do after all the trouble that poor family have had. Mr Seymour throwing them out of their home like that…”

  “Mr Seymour?” I asked. “What did he do?”

  “He owns the building the family were renting,” the old lady explained. “But he closed the bookshop down and threw them out of the flat with just one day’s notice. He’s going to turn the whole place into fancy offices for his concrete-making company, ‘Seymour Cement’. Now we don’t have our lovely old bookshop any more.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. The more I heard about the Seymours the more they reminded me of Aunt Hemlock and her horrid tricks. I wouldn’t be surprised if they grew big green warts on the end of their noses.

  “And little Gretel and her family have had to leave Merrymeet for good,” sighed the old lady.

  “You mean they don’t even live in the village any more?” I asked. My last chance of finding the costume and saving the hope moth was gone.

  “They only popped back this morning because they were looking for a lost kitten,” the old lady said.

  “A kitten?” My heart was racing again.

  “They dropped off some books and things,” said the old lady. “They think the little grey kitten might have crawled into—”

  “Into the box,” I cried, flinging my arms around her neck. These were Rascal’s owners for sure. “Please. You have to tell me where they’ve gone.”

  “That’s easy. They’ve taken shelter in the Old Windmill. Dreadful, draughty place. Can’t miss it,” she said. “Five miles out of the village on top of the hill.”

  “I’ve seen it!” I said. “On the road to town.”

  “That’s the one,” smiled the old lady. “Run quick and you might even catch the last bus!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Why can’t we go to the windmill right now?” asked Rascal, scratching his claws on the end of my bed. “You could save your magic butterfly and I could see my mum.”

  “It’s a moth,” I sighed. “And it’s Saturday night, which means there aren’t any buses until Monday morning. I missed the last one by a weasel’s whisker.”

  I paced up and down the room. I wished I could help Rascal and I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting the whole weekend before I could try and rescue the hope moth.

  The lady at the jumble sale said Gretel was only four years old (and very lively). She’d be sure to break the jar or lose it somewhere by Monday.

  “If only I could ask the Ables to help,” I said, peering out of the window as the last of the day’s sun began to fade. “But then I’d have to explain how I brought you into the house without asking.” Rascal curled himself around my ankles. “Then they’d get cross and throw us both out.”

  “But you are a witch,” purred Rascal. “Couldn’t we just fly to the windmill by broomstick?”

  “No!” I said. “No more magic! Anyway, Aunty Rose probably doesn’t even have a broomstick.” The nearest thing I’d seen was a vacuum cleaner.

  “She does,” said Rascal. “It’s next to the mop in the back of the cupboard beside the stove.”

  “You’ve been poking about downstairs!” I cried. “What if you’d been caught? I told you to stay hidden.”

  “Sorry.” Rascal looked up at me with his big green eyes. “I just don’t want Mum to worry where I’ve gone. I never even got to say goodbye to her.”

  “All right, all right!” I said as he rubbed his head underneath my chin and mewed pitifully. “Anything to get you back home before you cause any real trouble. How long was the broom handle? Do you think we’ll both fit?”

  Aunty Rose and Uncle Martin had tucked me up in bed hours ago. The cottage was quiet and the garden was dark as Rascal and I slipped out on to the lawn.

  “Ready?” I whispered, laying Aunty Rose’s jolly red sweeping brush down on the grass.
“Keep out of the way and don’t ask any questions.”

  “Why would I ask questions?” asked Rascal.

  “That is a question!” I giggled. “Just stand behind me and don’t move until I say so. Getting a broomstick to fly is a very tricky spell.”

  This wasn’t true actually. Most witches do it about ten times a day, but I’d never been able to make it happen. Not once!

  Things would be different now, I told myself, taking the magical feathery pen from behind my ear. My wand wasn’t a grumpy old rat any more – it was a beautiful pink flamingo. “If I can turn Piers Seymour into a wiggly worm and back again, I can make a broomstick fly.”

  “How fast will we go?” asked Rascal. “Will we be able to touch the moon?”

  “Shh!” I held my flamingo wand above the broomstick and muttered the words I had heard other witches say a thousand times:

  Sweep like wings into the sky,

  Brush the clouds and fly, fly, fl—

  Poof!

  There was a puff of pink smoke and I shot backwards on to the lawn. Rascal, who was standing right behind me, tumbled too. We rolled across the grass in a tangle of arms, legs and a fluffy tail. “Ouch!” I cried as his claw went up my nose (though I’m sure he didn’t mean to scratch me).

  “Did it work?” said Rascal, staggering to his feet. “Are we going to fly now?”

  I stared at the broomstick lying flat on the grass. “I’m sorry,” I groaned. I knew how much Rascal wanted to see his mum. “We’re not going anywhere.” I was still as hopeless at magic as ever.

  “Oh! Have you seen your fluffy wand-thingy?” asked Rascal.

  “No,” I scrabbled around on the dark grass trying to find the pen. “I must have dropped it somewhere…”

  “No. I mean, have you seen it? Behind you!” said Rascal. His tail was puffed up to twice its normal size.

  Very, very slowly, I turned my head. A large pink flamingo – a real one – was balancing on one leg, dipping her beak into the bird bath on the edge of the lawn.