The Tragical Tale of Birdie Bloom

by Temre Beltz

  “Can we stay like this for just a little while longer?” Cricket asked.

  “As long as we possibly can,” Birdie said.

  “Do you think maybe that could be forever?” Cricket asked.

  “Forever and a day,” Birdie said.

  And the words settled soft and warm around them as if maybe, somehow, it could possibly be true.

  Later that night, when the other children were asleep, Birdie tiptoed away from the dormitory and stood at the foot of the ladder leading up to the Plank. It was a place no child wanted to be, and it was the place Birdie would be the very next day if her kidnapping wasn’t successful. The only thing waiting at the end of the Plank was the Drowning Bucket.

  Birdie had never stood on the Plank before. Birdie didn’t know if any Tragical had ever stood on the Plank before. But with Mistress Octavia’s wolf pack prowling about the perimeter of the manor, it was the only outside place she could think to go where she could safely await Ms. Crunch’s arrival. At least as safe as it was to teeter three hundred feet above the Black Sea while suspended from a narrow walkway.

  Birdie began to climb up the ladder. A little wisp of the Winds still bounding about the manor from the day Sir Ichabod broke the library window surged beneath her feet,46 urging her onward. At the top of the ladder, Birdie lifted her hands to push on the trapdoor, but it was stuck. She pressed her shoulder against it. She pushed with all her might, and when it finally burst open, her breath was swept clean away.

  Birdie stood with her head poking out from the hole as if she were a field mouse. She eyeballed the great expanse of black night sky and the glorious presence of stars that burned with light; she drank in the death-defying heights from which she teetered atop a crooked mountain nearly ready to tumble into the sea, and then she ducked. With her chest heaving, she ducked right back into the manor. Because she was small. So very, very small. And what place could she possibly have in a world as grand as that?

  Maybe she really was nothing more than a Tragical.

  Maybe it was safer to think so.

  Beneath her hand, the wisp of the Winds rose up. It wrapped around Birdie’s fingers and began to pull. Gently.

  Birdie shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  Come, the Winds urged.

  “I can’t.”

  Come, friend.

  Birdie’s chest tightened. Was it true? The Winds had been the first to find her; they had never forgotten her; and they had connected her with a witch unlike any other. Without the Winds of Wanderly, would Birdie even have anything at all?

  Birdie stopped pulling against the little wisp. She allowed it to lead her slowly through the trapdoor. She swallowed hard at the gleam of the Drowning Bucket’s chain as it waited at the end of the Plank. She crawled along the narrow wooden walkway on her knees because there was no railway, no safety net, not one single thing to prevent Birdie from plummeting off the side. The wisp shut the trapdoor behind her and eased her into a cross-legged position. It swept softly against her cheek and then slowly tumbled away, rolling off into the unending black.

  “No!” Birdie cried. “Please don’t go! I’m scared!”

  Shhhh, the Winds said. Shhhh . . .

  Birdie whipped her head to and fro. Her heart banged like a drum, and everything inside her felt hollow. She fought off a terrible wave of dizziness that made it feel as if she were falling. She wanted to go back in; she needed to get back inside the manor!

  “Birdie?”

  Birdie froze at the sound of her name. When she spun carefully around, however, she didn’t see a pointy witch hat or the fastidiously smooth hairdo of Mistress Octavia. Ralph was climbing through the trapdoor. And Birdie’s pulse raced because surely only one thing could have brought Ralph near the spot of a potential witch sighting.

  “Oh no!” she cried. “Cricket—the others— Has something happened to them? What has happened?”

  Ralph quickly shook his head. “No, no. Nothing has happened. They’re all asleep.” Ralph peeked over the edge of the Plank and shivered. “Wow, this is nice and creepy, isn’t it?”

  Birdie frowned. “Ralph, you shouldn’t be out here. You need to get back inside. I don’t want Mistress Octavia to punish you, too.”

  Ralph lifted his bandaged arm in the air. “What’s the worst she can do? Throw me to the wolves?”47

  “No. But she could sentence you to the Drowning Bucket. Like me.”

  “Nah, not happening—”

  “But she—”

  “Please let me stay. I—I couldn’t sleep with the Winds of Wanderly blowing. And all I kept thinking about was how I didn’t want a witch to turn out to be a better friend than me.”

  “Then you think I am doing the right thing?”

  Ralph lowered his head. “Not really, no. But friends don’t have to agree about everything, do they?”

  Birdie paused. She thought back to her storybook. She couldn’t remember any specifics about such a thing, but she knew how it felt to see Ralph. And maybe even especially so, considering his contrary feelings. “I’m glad you’re here,” she finally said.

  And the two of them sat down together along the Plank. They swung their feet, back and forth, as if they were somewhere far, far away. Maybe even somewhere wonderful. Though Birdie was certain the Winds were long gone, she couldn’t keep from whispering, “Thank you,” because—however mysterious they were—the Winds seemed to be behind every good thing.

  WHOOOOOOOSH!

  The Winds of Wanderly were closer than Birdie thought.

  SWOOOOOOSH!

  The Winds of Wanderly swirled all about.

  With the Plank trembling beneath the Winds’ mighty force, Birdie and Ralph grabbed tight to each other’s hands.

  They watched in stunned silence as the Winds of Wanderly swept clean from the ground and all the way up to the heavens. The Winds billowed across the horizon, dipping fingers into the sea and snuffing a wave with one mere puff. The Winds ruffled the fur on the backs of Mistress Octavia’s wolf pack and caused the light of the stars to ripple. They tapped softly along the windows of Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical as if it were a xylophone, and all the world was its symphony.

  Ralph’s eyes were wide. “Wow,” he whispered.

  And finally, Birdie understood.

  Perhaps more important than how small she was, was how big the Winds of Wanderly were. Uncountable. Unfathomable. Most astonishingly, their friend.

  “What do you think about the Winds of Wanderly now?” she asked Ralph.

  Ralph swallowed. “I think that if you’re right about the Winds of Wanderly—if they really do want to help us—then maybe we’ve never needed to be afraid of anything at all.”

  As the Winds lulled to a soft breeze, Birdie resumed swinging her feet. “You know, I always figured when my Tragic End was getting close I would sense it somehow. But right now, it almost feels as if things are as right as they’ve ever been. Do you think that’s a good sign, Ralph?”

  Ralph opened his mouth to reply, but he froze at the sight of a dense cloud of fog tumbling across the horizon. The Winds stilled, and Birdie straightened up. She squinted, but the fog was too thick and soupy to see through. An odd smell wafted near. A smell not unlike that of dirty socks. Every so often the cloud of fog erupted with a jarring flash of light.48

  Cruuunch! An ominous wail rolled toward Birdie and Ralph.

  And again: Cruuunch!

  Birdie tried to control the tremble in her voice. “That must be Ms. Crunch. She, uh, must be announcing her arrival.”

  Birdie swallowed hard. She placed her shaking hands on the Plank and stumbled to her feet.

  “What are you doing, Birdie?” Ralph asked. “I think we ought to wait a minute. We need to see what’s going on.”

  “But Ms. Crunch told me to be ready. She said she needed to get me quick. I-it was part of our plan.”

  Ralph’s voice rose. “Were the dark cloud and scary noises part of the plan, too?”

&nbs
p; “No, but she is a witch. Maybe we should have expected that? Anyhow, I think it’d probably be safer if you went back into the manor.”

  “You want me to leave you right now?”

  But Birdie didn’t answer. She was trying to be brave. She set her jaw. She raised her arms over her head. “Ms. Crunch!” she called out. “Ms. Crunch, I’m over here!”

  And then, like magic, the witch appeared.

  She burst forth from the cloud, the fog continuing to fan out around her. It magnified her, making her appear at least three times her normal size. Tendrils of fog flicked and swished through her purple hair as if she were sporting a headful of snakes! She sat in a plump pile of gauzy black fabric, and her pointy hat was tilted to a jaunty degree. Her eyes gleamed dark as coal, and her nose was as warty as a cucumber.

  Still clinging to the Plank, Ralph gasped.

  Cruuunch! Cruuunch! The ominous moan came again.

  “Why does she keep doing that?” Ralph asked.

  Birdie shrank just a bit. “I don’t know. I thought she didn’t want to alert Mistress Octavia. . . .”

  “Unless she’s not the one making the noise.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Look,” Ralph croaked. “Just look.”

  Birdie followed Ralph’s gaze past Ms. Crunch and into the thick cloud of fog. Her heart caught in her throat. Among the sporadic flashes of light, she could see the terrifying silhouette of . . . broomsticks. Lots of broomsticks. And sitting on those broomsticks, witches.

  Birdie’s breath came out in great, heaving gulps. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she come alone? She didn’t say anything about other witches.”

  But what Birdie really wanted to say was: she’s supposed to be my friend.

  Despite all Birdie had read about witches, despite all she had read about her certain doom as a Tragical, the letters between her and Ms. Crunch seemed more real than any of the Chancellor’s authorized storybooks put together. But maybe the Chancellor was never the enemy. Maybe the Chancellor was nothing more than a messenger. Maybe the hope Birdie had was never real to begin with. Had she been wrong about everything?

  Ralph sprang up from the Plank and grabbed hold of Birdie’s hand. “Come on, we’re going inside. Both of us.”

  At the sight of Ralph rising alongside Birdie, Ms. Crunch slowed up. But only for a moment. She sped forward with a shiny glint in her eye.

  “Ralph, she’s seen you!” Birdie cried. And Birdie was more afraid than ever.

  A terrible wave of cackling rolled toward Birdie and Ralph. The air crackled and popped as if it were filled with electricity. The witches broke free of the foggy cloud and began executing an impressive series of loop the loops, dive-bombs, and curlicues. One witch whooshed so close to Birdie she was forced to drop to her knees lest she be knocked clean off the Plank.

  Ralph helped Birdie back up. “Come on!” he shouted. “We can still make it if we hurry!”

  But Birdie’s feet were stuck. She swallowed back the knot in her throat. “Tomorrow I’ll die in the Drowning Bucket for sure, but tonight there’s a . . . slim chance that maybe this will still turn out okay.”

  Ralph’s face was aghast. He looked at the witches streaking past. “But you can’t— There’s no way that— Birdie, you have to change your mind! It doesn’t count as turning your back on a friend if she was never a friend in the first place.”

  But why did she write all those letters?

  Birdie felt too foolish to say it out loud though. She knew it didn’t make any sense. But neither could she leave without always wondering if she had made a grave mistake.

  With tears streaming down her face, Birdie pushed Ralph in the direction of the trapdoor. “Please, Ralph,” she said. “You have to go. You must go! Now!”

  And when he had taken a few stumbling steps away, Birdie turned her attention to Ms. Crunch. Ms. Crunch was very nearly there. She was almost upon the Plank, and then she would scoop Birdie up. She would tell Birdie that everything was going according to plan; that there was never anything to fear because they were friends. They had to be.

  Ms. Crunch lifted high her crooked, gnarly hands. Ms. Crunch swept ever so slightly to the left of Birdie. Birdie, confused, tried to dodge into Ms. Crunch’s arms opened wide, but stumbled against someone and fell backward. It was Ralph! Ralph was still on the Plank! Ralph had come back to Birdie’s side. And when Ms. Crunch swooped in, she wrapped her fingers around the scruff of Ralph’s collar and plucked him up and into the air.

  An awful noise ripped free of Ralph’s mouth. His feet wriggled helplessly as he swung from Ms. Crunch’s grip like a rag doll against the vast night sky. Ms. Crunch never said a word to Birdie. She spun so fast upon her broomstick its bristles glowed an angry shade of red. She twirled her free hand through the air, and the other witches flying about willy-nilly hustled to line up behind her.

  Ms. Crunch was leading them.

  As they zipped off across the horizon, a witch with scraggly green hair flew by and yanked on Birdie’s curls.

  “Sorry, dear!” she hissed. “Maybe next time it will be your turn to go to the Annual Witches’ Ball!” She erupted into a fit of wild cackling and flicked her tongue across the surface of her long black tooth.

  Nobody cared that Birdie was screaming.

  Nobody cared that Birdie was jumping and bouncing and pummeling her fists into the air.

  Nobody cared because Birdie was nothing. Birdie was a Tragical. And maybe the most tragic of all.

  Seventeen

  A Magical Cloak and a Foul Secret

  The Annual Witches’ Ball?” Cricket echoed in the quiet of the dormitory. “What’s that?”

  Birdie was still out of breath from sliding down the ladder, sprinting through the hallway, and tumbling toward Cricket’s bedside, where Birdie had shaken her awake. “I haven’t a clue. But that’s where Ralph is. That’s where the witches . . .” Birdie paused. “Where Ms. Crunch has taken him.”

  Cricket’s eyes were wide. “But she didn’t say any of that in her letter, did she?”

  “No!” Birdie burst out. And then: “I—I guess I should have listened to Ralph. I guess he was right about Ms. Crunch all along. And now, because of me, he’s gone.”

  “But why was Ralph outside with you?” Cricket asked.

  Birdie’s voice cracked. The weight of each word fell heavy on her heart. “He was being a friend. And that’s why I have to save him.”

  “But didn’t you say he’s with a bunch of witches?” Cricket said, clutching her ratty sheet just below the tip of her nose.

  Birdie gulped. “I’m scheduled to die tomorrow; what could I possibly have to lose?”

  “But—but—how will you even get there? Ms. Crunch and her broomstick are gone. Even if you found a way past Mistress Octavia’s wolves, how would you climb down Tragic Mountain and through Beastly Valley? Wouldn’t it take an . . . awful long time?”

  “Yes,” Birdie said. “Too long. And that’s why I’ll need Mistress Octavia’s Council cloak. It’s the only thing that will work. The Council cloak can go anywhere. The Council cloak can fly. And the Council cloak is lightning fast!”

  Cricket shook her head vigorously to and fro. “But the Council cloak is magic. You don’t know how to use magic. Even worse, it’s in Mistress Octavia’s Room of Sinister Plotting! The door handle is inside a box full of snakes! Birdie, you can’t!”

  A flash of white and a sudden flurry of movement five beds over caused Birdie and Cricket to jump. It wasn’t, however, a ghost, but merely an extraordinarily perturbed Francesca Prickleboo. She tossed her sheets aside and stomped near. A few of the other children began to rustle and stir and scratch sleepily at their mussed-up hair.

  “Please go back to bed, Francesca. We’ll try to be more quiet,” Birdie said.

  “Go back to bed? Go back to bed!?” Francesca said with her voice rising.

  Birdie and Cricket exchanged worried glances. Amelia poked her sleepy head up and
sprang from her bed and into Mildred’s, where two other girls were already huddled. The boys weren’t far behind. A trio of them, led by Benjamin—who had taken to wearing his sleeves proudly rolled up—bounded from mattress to mattress until they plopped atop the still-sleeping form of a teenage boy. The impromptu round of musical beds continued until not a single Tragical was left alone except for Francesca.

  Francesca glowered at them all. “Ha! Because of all of you, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for over a week! I used to sleep like a baby. I used to like shining my shoes and braiding my hair and impressing Mistress Octavia. I liked being a Tragical! But ever since your whispering and your secrets, ever since that stupid drawing showing everybody else together, you’ve been ruining it for me! You’ve been making me think. And it’s just so much easier . . . not to.” Francesca’s lower lip began to quiver. She crossed her arms against her black gown, like she had suddenly grown very cold. “Do you know that Mistress Octavia hates me? I always used to think I was her favorite. But she sees me the exact same way she sees all of you: as nothing! And I don’t think I want to be a Tragical anymore, but I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do about that now!”

  Cricket was the only one brave enough to speak.

  “I could make a new drawing,” she said. “I—I’ve still got some more paper, and this time I can put you in there, too.”

  Francesca thrust her lower lip out. “How’s a drawing supposed to change anything?”

  “Like you said, it helps us think. It helps us see. See that we’re more than what Mistress Octavia says.”

  “But I want to do something,” Francesca said. “I want to prove it!”

  Birdie took a small step forward. “I think there’s something you can do. But only if you’re one hundred percent certain you want to help and one hundred percent certain you’re tired of being a Tragical. If you help me, it’s very, very likely that you’ll get into trouble.”

  Francesca bristled. “What sort of trouble?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”