by Temre Beltz
“What is it, Bernadette?” another witch hacked in a raspy voice.
“Call me crazy, but I coulda swore I caught a big ol’ whiff of girl-child,” the sniffing witch, Bernadette, said.
The other witch cackled wildly. “You ninny! Don’t you pay any attention to invites? There’ll be plenty o’ young witches here tonight too. You better get that sniffer of yours checked out!”
Bernadette put her hands on her hips. “I ought to know the difference between a wee witch and one of them ordinary runts! And there’s not a blasted thing wrong with my sniffer! You’re always telling me I’m wrong, and I’m plumb sick of it!”
Birdie instinctively took a few steps backward. Her hand hovered near the Council cloak. Before Birdie could use it, Bernadette reached out and snatched the other witch’s hat right off the top of her head. It went whizzing through the air and floated down, of all places, at Birdie’s feet.
Birdie waited for them to see her; for them to screech that there was an imposter at the ball—a child, no less—and then surely they would turn on her at once! Instead, the hatless witch grabbed two handfuls of Bernadette’s frizzy blue hair and yanked hard enough to make her howl. Right away, the witches around them formed a little semicircle. They lurked with eyes that gleamed in the darkness, drumming their fingers together, licking their lips and hissing out venom like “Smoke her!” and “Make her pay!” and “Teach her a lesson!”
Birdie didn’t waste a moment. She swept the witch’s hat off the toe of her shoes and plunked it on top of her own head. With her new disguise, she scurried away as quickly as she dared. But she only made it a few strides when the arrival of a team of witches flying in a perfect V-shape formation caused everyone to stir.
Birdie looked up and gasped.
It was Ms. Crunch! And Ralph! And the rest of the awful gang of witches that had swarmed about Tragic Mountain earlier that very night. The witches around Birdie began to whoop and hoot and holler. They threw their hands into the air. They raked their nails through the night as if they could tear it to shreds. They jumped up and down with such vigor the tall grass beneath their witchy boots was mashed into a soggy pulp. High in the air, the witch with scraggly green hair and a horribly long tooth stood on her broomstick. The thick folds of her purple Council cloak swirled around her.
“SILENCE!” she bellowed.
But, of course, witches don’t listen one bit. And these witches continued to chatter and snort, bumping elbows with one another and cackling up a storm.
The witch in the Council cloak, however, wouldn’t have it. She jumped three times atop her broomstick, and every time her witchy boots came crashing down, a great thundering erupted from the sky—BOOM! A thundering so loud the ground trembled, and the orange candle flames in Castle Matilda’s windows flickered violently.
The witches on the ground fell silent.
“Aha!” the witch in the Council cloak exclaimed triumphantly. “And now, wicked witches, I am tickled green to welcome you to this extraordinary event—THE ANNUAL WITCHES’ BALL! You have gathered here tonight, from near and far, to let Wanderly know what it means to be wicked!” The witch paused to allow for another raucous wave of cackling. Birdie shivered, wondering if the other Tragicals could hear them all the way on top of Tragic Mountain. “Surely you are wondering why I have allowed a witch as inconsequential as this one”—the witch raised her hand and jabbed in the direction of Ms. Crunch—“to join me on an occasion as special as this.”
As if on cue, the witches on the ground sent up a scurry of curses. Rotten banana peels, a few swarms of hornets, and a shower of smelly skunk spray pelted Ms. Crunch. Birdie could see Ralph had wisely curled up into a little ball with his hands thrown over his neck for protection, but not Ms. Crunch. Through it all, Ms. Crunch sat stoically. Her old, crooked shoulders were rigid. The only thing that moved even a smidge was her wild purple hair as the hornets buzzed by and made a mess of it. Ms. Crunch didn’t even bother to wipe away the banana goo smeared across her cheek.
Birdie shifted uncomfortably. Witches, it seemed, weren’t just generally awful; they were even awful to one another. Birdie thought back to all the times in her letters when she brought up friendship. No wonder Ms. Crunch didn’t have any friends. No wonder she didn’t want any friends. No wonder . . .
The witch with the long tooth snickered. “All right now, that’s quite enough. I’m certain you shall find the answer to this little riddle quite fulfilling. But until then, let us proceed. Let every citizen of Wanderly lock their doors tight and tremble beneath their sheets! For tonight the witches of Wanderly will be WITCHES!”
A deafening roar arose from the crowd. A shower of fireworks pop-boom-banged in the air, and with a brusque tap of her broomstick, the witch in the Council cloak—along with the others accompanying her—whipped through the air and soared through the open castle windows, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of smoke.
The witches on the ground stampeded for the door. They bumped and banged and bustled. They punched and pummeled and pounced. Witches were left flat on their backs, splayed on their faces, and some were even tossed up into the air and out of the way. It was utter madness! But the swiftly moving current of witches afforded Birdie a one-way ticket through the giant, creaking doors of Castle Matilda.
Once inside, Birdie tugged the edges of her witchy hat low against her ears and slipped off into the crowd. She hadn’t a clue where to begin looking for Ralph, but she figured the best place to start was by finding Ms. Crunch and maybe that awful long-toothed witch. Birdie peeked toward a table where a trio of witches was hissing at one another over a game of Go Snitch.52 Without spying a hint of purple or green hair, she shuffled toward the center of the room where a heap of witches was stomping their witchy boots on a rectangular wooden floor. Birdie nearly got caught up in the midst of a knuckle-cracking line dance, but she ducked out in the nick of time.
Birdie gulped. As far as she could tell, Ralph wasn’t anywhere to be found in the main room, which meant she would have to go exploring. Exploring in Castle Matilda. Could she do it? Was it unthinkable for a Tragical to even attempt such a task? Of course none of those questions had anything to do with Ralph. . . . Ralph with his feet swinging against the night sky; Ralph being ripped away from her side; Ralph in the clutches of a witch who Birdie had trusted.
Birdie set her jaw. I’m coming, Ralph, she reaffirmed.
But she rounded the corner only to barrel nose-first into the paunchy stomach of another witch! A witch who smelled, curiously, of peppermint. And gumdrops. And . . . chocolate.
The witch grabbed hold of Birdie’s wrist. “Off in such a hurry?” she cooed.
Birdie tried very hard not to wonder if standing before her was one of those witches who made gingerbread houses to try to trap children for funsies. Just in case, she kept her eyes low and hoped the brim of her witchy hat was enough to thwart her—gulp—delectable smell.
“Whatsa matter, dearie? Can’t you talk? How you gonna cast hexes and curses if you don’t got a tongue for talking?”
Birdie’s heart pounded. If she turned and ran, surely the witch would get suspicious. If she said something, surely she’d say the wrong thing. If the witch happened to get a real good look at her, surely she’d know Birdie wasn’t a witch at all, but merely a child. A Tragical child. A Tragical child about to meet her Tragic End.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, a bell chimed in the distance.
The witch in front of Birdie squealed. Her hands balled up into little fists at her sides, and her pointy-toed boots swept off the ground as she hopped to and fro.
“Oh my! It’s nearly time!” the witch exclaimed. “By now you’ve must have heard what we’re having for dinner? I almost punched through a wall when I heard it. Not that I was surprised the witchy community was coming around, but it hasn’t ever really been a mainstream choice. And tonight . . .” The witch paused and clasped her hands against her chest. “Oh, tonight we eat child! I think I can already sme
ll it now! Yes, that obnoxious ‘ding-dong’ means the child is about to be put into the pot. Soon, all of Castle Matilda will be filled with the scent of roasted arms and legs. Watch out, dearie! I’m gonna grab my seat.”
The witch knocked Birdie out of the way and slunk out toward the main room. Birdie leaned hard against the wall and begged her heart to slow down.
Child.
They were going to eat child.
No doubt, the child they were going to eat was Ralph.
And soon. Very, very soon!
Birdie took off down the hallway. She streaked past several groups of witches, but all of them had their noses tilted toward the main room and were pushing one another out of the way to get there. Birdie ran so fast the long flames of the candle sconces on the wall jumped out after her. She ran past open doors with rooms full of bubbling cauldrons brewing themselves, and dark and shadowy boxes with mysterious labels such as “Host of Eyes” and “Heap of Bones.” She sailed past rooms full of cobwebs, broomsticks, and even a crystal ball with a ghostly head stuck inside. Birdie would have material for at least seventeen years of nightmares, but for the moment, all she needed to find was Ralph. And that meant she needed to find . . . the kitchen.
“Moooooooo!” a cow bellowed after her.
Birdie skidded to a halt.
She hadn’t a clue what business a cow had at a frightening place like Castle Matilda.
Not a moment later, she heard the distinctive sound of a snake’s rattle. But it was at least one hundred times louder than the awful knapsack Sir Ichabod shook at the Tragicals to wake them each morning. It was hard to imagine what sort of snake a rattle as loud as that could belong to.
The sounds all seemed to be coming from behind the door closest to Birdie. Beneath the lip of the door, shadows moved back and forth and a hefty spew of dust was sporadically expelled. Other than toting Sprinkles about and being terrified of Mistress Octavia’s wolves, Birdie hadn’t much experience with four-legged sorts. Things with teeth typically made her nervous. Still, she had to have some sort of plan. She couldn’t just stroll into a kitchen full of frenzied witches and demand that Ralph be removed from the chopping block.
Maybe the answer was behind that door.
Birdie took a deep breath. She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted it open.
Birdie gasped.
She found herself in a room so large it appeared to be another ballroom, though it certainly didn’t smell like one. So overwhelming was the odor of hay and animal droppings, it was all Birdie could do not to pinch her nostrils shut. It could hardly be blamed on the animals themselves, however, for their quarters were less than ideal. Cage upon cage upon cage was stacked one on top of another and lined the room on both sides. The dimly lit candle propped up in the faraway window, coupled with the inconvenient haze of shedding fur and loose feathers, made it nearly impossible to see the animals in their shadowy abodes, but that was likely for the best. Indeed, just a few glimpses of several pairs of glowing eyes were enough to make Birdie’s knees buckle.
Birdie swallowed back the lump in her throat and drew near to the cage closest to her. Unlike the other cages where animals were bumping and rustling up against the metal bars and making a fine sort of racket, the cage in front of her was very, very quiet.
Birdie peered into its dark, shadowy interior.
She tried to remember the way Cricket spoke to Sprinkles. Cricket spoke gently and calmly; she sometimes even made kissing noises. Could such a thing work in the belly of a hopelessly wicked castle? Birdie figured it couldn’t hurt. She pursed her lips and tentatively kissed the air once, twice—
A great ball of red fire exploded out of the dark and rammed itself against the bars of the cage. Birdie stumbled backward, tripping and teetering and crashing into the cage behind her, where a hairy moth the size of a fox blinked its bulging eyes at her and fanned out its wings. Birdie jumped forward and found herself face-to-face with the red fireball that, upon closer inspection, was not a fireball at all, but a parrot.
“You’re disgusting! You’re disgusting!” the parrot taunted in a singsongy voice.
“Hey, that’s not a very nice thing for a parrot to say,” Birdie said. And she began to scoot sideways. She eyed the door leading out to the hallway she had just come from. She was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea after all.
The bird, however, had fallen into another round of near hysterics. It catapulted from metal bar to metal bar and lost at least ten feathers in the process.
“Not a parrot! Not a parrot!” it shrieked.
“Oh, a-all right, then,” Birdie said, though she tilted her head a bit to the side because the bird certainly looked like the sort she’d seen riding around the shoulders of scallywag pirates in storybooks. “But if you’re not a parrot, what are you?”
The bird spread wide its wings and hovered in midair. It turned its head this way and that, so Birdie could see every one of its brilliant colors. The bird was wondrous.
“Scarlet macaw! Scarlet macaw!” The bird let the message sink in a moment before whirling about and jabbing its wing in Birdie’s direction. “Not a witch! Not a witch!”
Upon the scarlet macaw’s proclamation, the whole ballroom full of animals began to twitter and stir. Deep groans and rustlings could be heard, and way down at the very wee end, Birdie was certain she saw a real lick of fire erupt from a baby dragon.
“SHHH!” Birdie begged. “I can explain, but first, you must tell me why you are all trapped here.”
The scarlet macaw let out a haughty sniff. “Not trapped! Special prize! Special prize!”
Birdie frowned. “Is that what the witches told you?” The scarlet macaw’s eyes gleamed, and Birdie continued, “And you think you would really like to go home with a witch and do her bidding forever? Because that’s what will happen. You will belong to whomever wins you. I can’t imagine most witches are very good caretakers. But if you want . . .” Birdie paused and licked her lips. Birdie couldn’t believe what she was about to suggest, but it was perhaps something not even a ball full of wicked witches would expect. “If you prefer, maybe I can set you free. All of you.”
The bird’s eyes narrowed. “Stranger danger! Stranger danger!” it chanted.
“But I’m not a complete stranger. You said yourself I’m not a witch. Maybe that’s reason enough to trust me. Do you want to be free or not?”
The bird held up its brilliant scarlet wings. It flicked the tips gently back and forth against the bars. It looked down at the little pile of feathers on the ground and then up toward the dimly lit candle in the window. Finally, it bobbed its head and sang gently, “Free.”
Hearing that terrible ding-dong in the background, Birdie knew she didn’t have a moment to spare. The sooner the animals were loosed upon Castle Matilda, the sooner she could make her way to the kitchen and whisk Ralph to safety. She lunged toward the scarlet macaw’s cage and unlatched the door.
The scarlet macaw shot past her. It soared to the upper rafters of the ballroom and executed several brilliant and daring dives. Its feathers ruffled through the breeze and the animals remaining in their cages stomped, snorted, and whinnied with approval. Birdie’s heart thumped. She never imagined she would find anything to be glad about in the depths of Castle Matilda, but she was glad about this.
“Come on, Scarlet!” Birdie shouted out. “Help me with the others!”
The scarlet macaw swept toward the cages on the upper levels. It used its beak to lift each latch and herded the freed animals toward the massive double doors at the other end of the ballroom. Birdie held her breath tight while setting loose such creatures as a midnight black tiger, a massive python, an oversize owl with its razor-sharp beak, and the fox-size moth she met when she first arrived. Creature after creature galloped, flew, slunk, or slithered past her and toward the scarlet macaw. The ground rumbled; the columns of Castle Matilda trembled and shook; the animals pressed hard against the double doors until they burst wide open. A
t least one hundred or more jubilantly free wild animals were ready to gallivant about Castle Matilda and astonish a crowd of unsuspecting witches.
Birdie couldn’t imagine a more perfect distraction.
She waited one—two—three seconds, and when she heard a resounding peal of witchy screams, shrieks, and cackles erupt, she resumed her mad dash toward the kitchen.
On her way, Birdie leaped over a small mutiny of hissing cockroaches. She barreled around a corner and bounced off a witch performing a frantic two-step while a trio of baby dragons flambéed her heels. Birdie’s heart soared. She had done it! Castle Matilda was in a complete state of chaos! Most important of all, no one was paying a lick of attention to how suspiciously unwitchy she appeared to be.
As Birdie pressed on down the hallway, the smell of burned rubber stopped her dead in her tracks. Now, both you and I would likely never think to follow the scent of burned rubber to a kitchen, and may have even turned back in the opposite direction, but Birdie was a very clever child. If Ralph was being boiled feetfirst (or rather shoefirst), the smell of burned rubber made all the sense in the world.
Birdie burst through the kitchen door. A small cry escaped her lips.
She had found Ralph.
His head hung low against his chest. His eyes were shut, and a small dribble of drool rolled down his chin. He floated in midair above a cauldron with bubbles that snapped and popped like an anxious crocodile. Every so often, one fiery flame licked against his shoe and caused the black rubber to drip-drop into the pot.
Standing directly beside Ralph, with her crooked hands raised in the air, and her nose crinkled in fierce concentration, was none other than Agnes Prunella Crunch.
“Ms. Crunch?” Birdie choked out.
Ms. Crunch’s eyes widened. Ms. Crunch shook her head in disbelief. “How did you— When did you— Why would you come here?” she hissed. And then, with her hands still carefully controlling Ralph’s position above the cauldron, she jerked her head toward the right and said, “Quick! Scurry over there and hide under that table! Perhaps you can still be saved!”