by Temre Beltz
Looking terribly pleased with herself, Rudey Longtooth let out a hideous cackle. “Don’t feel too badly for him, dearie! Better to be a goat than to be dead like the two of you scrumptious little morsels!” And she punctuated her words with a mighty whack from her broomstick against Birdie’s and Cricket’s backsides. A whack that sent Birdie, Cricket, and Sprinkles flying helplessly through the air and tumbling smack-dab into the center of the Drowning Bucket. Beneath their weight, the Drowning Bucket squealed in delight.
“Take it home, Council sister!” Rudey screeched.
Mistress Octavia didn’t waste a moment. She bent down deep and cranked the Drowning Bucket’s pulley with all her might. With nothing but her Tragic End ahead, Birdie scrambled for her letter. It was her last chance to tell Ms. Crunch that together they had discovered a new kind of magic. That, in all of Wanderly, it was friendship that had the power to change a Tragical and a witch. And all that time, it was waiting in something as ordinary as the tip of a nubby charcoal pencil and a blood-red quill pen.
Birdie wrenched the letter free from her gown. She opened up her palms and released it to the Winds of Wanderly.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Cricket whimpered.
“Being a friend,” Birdie said.
And with that, the Winds of Wanderly swept onto the scene. They seized upon Birdie’s letter. With one heavy gust, the letter soared straight into the thick gray clouds that never lifted off Tragic Mountain. And suddenly, as if an entire bottle of ink was spilled from the heavens, the clouds were doused an ominous shade of black.
Cricket gripped Birdie’s hand tighter. “Birdie, do the Winds always do this sort of thing to your letters?”
Birdie’s mouth hung open. Mistress Octavia cranked harder and got to kicking her pointy boot at the Drowning Bucket’s pulley because it still hadn’t budged an inch. The witches twittered atop their broomsticks. And all around, the Winds began to race.
Harder. Faster. LOUDER.
Birdie turned up her chin and stared as the black clouds began to toil and churn. They puckered and shuddered, and with one great and mighty rumble, they burst open and rained down buckets full of—
“ARGH! I got me a paper cut!” an orange-haired witch howled. “Even worse than that, this paper’s got words written on it!”
“Whatcha talkin’ about, Frances? We don’t even know how to read!” the witch hovering beside the orange-haired Frances shrieked.
“Well, I recognize my A, B, Gs—especially when they’re bent on slicing me up like a fruit platter! Maybe this plan is as doomed as the Tragicals! Maybe we ought to get outta here!”
As the witches began to race about, the words from the sky continued to fall. Shreds of paper blanketing the gray and dreary exterior of Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical in white. Making it look shining and new like the start of a brand-new story.
Along the Plank, the other Tragicals bent down in wonder. They scooped their hands through the paper. They filled their hands up to overflowing with words. Words they began to shout out.
“Your friend!” Mildred said.
“I like you!” a boy called.
“Thank you!” Benjamin shouted.
“Hello!” a girl exclaimed.
Cricket tugged on Birdie’s hand. Her eyes shone bright. “Birdie, it’s you! The things you have written! And it’s just like that picture I drew— Oh, Birdie, the sky’s raining words! It’s magic!”
But the shreds of paper drew to a sudden halt. They froze in midair. Each and every one of them began to tremble and twitch. And then in one giant burst, they exploded in a blinding shower of sparkling pink glitter.
“AI-EEEEEEEEEEE!” the witches cried in unison.
“All I see is cute! All I see is pretty!” a witch wailed.
“It’s stuck to my black dress! I can’t brush it off! I-I-I’m sparkling!” a witch howled, waving her hands wildly through the air.
Another witch threw herself down against her broomstick. She wrapped her arms and legs around it while shouting, “I dink dit’s don dy dongue! Det dit doff! DET DIT DOFF!”
Two more witches zoomed by, lying completely prone on their broomsticks, as if the impact of so much sparkle had cast them into a deep sleep. One red-faced witch took to punching her way through the curtain of glitter without an ounce of success. And finally, the green-haired witch hollered, “No meal could possibly be worth all this! MOVE OUT! MOVE OUT!!”
And the witches flew away.
And Mistress Octavia looked worried. And a fair bit splotchy.
Tumbling on the heels of the swiftly fleeing witches was the one thing Mistress Octavia couldn’t protect herself against: giggling.
Despite her rapid-fire burst of emphatic shushing, the children were simply beside themselves. For every time they thought of the terrible witches being frightened away by something as infinitesimally small as glitter, they exploded into another bout of giggling, because who would have ever imagined?58
Not Mistress Octavia. Indeed, she was getting itchier by the moment. But even that annoyance paled in comparison to the look on her face when the curtain of glitter thinned out and a voice rose above all the rest. The unmistakable voice of a witch.
“Hello!” Ms. Crunch bellowed.
Only Ms. Crunch wasn’t alone. Ms. Crunch was soaring on the back of the Blue Dragon, and seated behind her was none other than a grinning Ralph.
Birdie gasped and threw her arms around Cricket. “Cricket, they’ve come back! They’ve come back for us! This is so much more than avoiding our Tragic End. This—this is good.” And, with the Winds of Wanderly ruffling up her hair, and Cricket’s hand locked tight in her own, Birdie called out, “We’re over here, Ms. Crunch! We’re right here!”
And Ms. Crunch swept down and rescued them, the way Birdie always believed she would, while the other children jumped up and down along the Plank, for once looking not a single bit like Tragicals.
Twenty-Two
Something’s Brewing on Tragic Mountain
Birdie had never flown on the back of a dragon before.
Much less one as extraordinarily large as the Blue Dragon.
She never imagined dragons to be a weepy sort, but fat green tears rolled repeatedly off the Blue Dragon’s long fringed lashes while he mused softly, “So this is the Birdie we came to save. Oh, and to think I almost wasn’t a part of it!”
Beside Birdie, Ralph nodded and said, “You can say that again, Blue.”
To which the Blue Dragon cleared his throat and obediently repeated in a much louder voice, “So this is the Birdie we came to save. Oh—”
Ralph waved his hands in the air. “No, no, Blue! I didn’t actually mean you were supposed to say it again.” But Ralph was smiling. And when he snuck a glance in Birdie’s direction, she smiled back. Despite the fact that Ralph had returned to Tragic Mountain, surely he too was freer than he’d ever been before.
Cricket and Sprinkles, meanwhile, were busy administering a hearty dose of comforting pats along the Blue Dragon’s rough scales. “There, there, Mr. Dragon. Don’t cry. Everything is all right now.” To which the Blue Dragon’s generously sized heart swelled at least two sizes larger.
But the Tragicals on the Plank were shouting. The Tragicals on the Plank were trying to get their attention. And standing before them, with her eyes fixed on Ms. Crunch, was Mistress Octavia. Mistress Octavia lifted her hand. Mistress Octavia began to flick her wrist with the practiced swish that never failed to make Birdie flinch.
And Birdie remembered Mistress Octavia’s secret.
Her heart caught in her throat. She tried to drum up the words. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs, “SHE USED TO BE A WITCH! SHE USED TO BE A WITCH!”
But there was no need.
The swirl of magic—real magic—that crackled off the tip of Mistress Octavia’s fingertips said it all.
The only consolation was she flat-out missed. The inky black ribbon Mistress Octavia aimed at Ms. Crunch plummeted harml
essly into the Black Sea. Foul aim or not, Ms. Crunch was steamed. Without missing a beat, she bent near the Blue Dragon and commanded, “Make yourself a moving target. No matter what these children tell you, don’t bring them near the Plank.”
“I—I—I,” the Blue Dragon tried to say while swallowing profusely. “I mean, whaaat?!”
“For crying out loud, just keep everybody outta the way!” Ms. Crunch roared.
She prepared to leap off the Blue Dragon’s back, but Birdie grabbed on to her arm. “Please don’t go! Mistress Octavia was already awful, but Mistress Octavia with magic is—is—is . . .”
A shadow flickered across Ms. Crunch’s eyes. But then, as if remembering something, she set her jaw. “Nothing is impossible. Now let go so I can put my witching to good use!”
Birdie uncurled her fingers one by one, and Ms. Crunch leaped onto the Plank with a great and mighty crash.
Ms. Crunch and Mistress Octavia glowered at each other.
“I’ve had enough of you! You and your magic are ruining the years of misery I’ve poured into these Tragicals!” Mistress Octavia hissed.
“Actually, I think you’ve had enough of you. Or at least enough of being a big, fat phony. Ha! What are you exactly? A Council member? A Tragical? A wannabe witch?”
Mistress Octavia’s eyes flashed. She lifted her hand and executed another swift swish. The children threw their hands over their eyes in terror. They waited for an awful shriek to erupt from Ms. Crunch, but when all was quiet, they peeked open their eyes and gasped. Ms. Crunch looked dumbfounded. The crisp, clean lines of her jaunty hat had been transformed into an elaborately feathered concoction that was nothing short of ridiculous. Even more intriguing was the fact that Mistress Octavia’s name was singed into the velvet brim.
“FOULWEATHER,” the hat screamed.
Mistress Octavia’s nostrils flared. Ms. Crunch threw the hat onto the Plank and began stomping on it with her witchy boots. “Is that all you got?” she asked. “That hat’s hideous, but it sure isn’t enough to do me in.”
Mistress Octavia raised her hands again.
“Watch out!” Birdie cried from atop the Blue Dragon. Ms. Crunch managed to duck and dive seconds before another blast of magic swirled free. This time, however, Mistress Octavia’s magic didn’t sink harmlessly through the sky, but singed itself into the Plank, again bearing her name.
“FOULWEATHER,” it taunted.
Mistress Octavia stomped her feet. She jiggled her hands. She shot out several more swishes of magic that flew willy-nilly around the Plank.
Francesca Prickleboo’s black buckle shoes ballooned into a pair of floppy red clown shoes. “FOULWEATHER,” they honked.59
The Drowning Bucket at the end of the Plank transformed into a festively colored piñata fit for a birthday celebration. “FOULWEATHER,” it ballyhooed, swinging merrily about.
“Argh!” Mistress Octavia exclaimed. And she rushed forward. She rushed forward in the direction of the children. Ms. Crunch stood firm, but the toe of Mistress Octavia’s pointy boot caught on a loose nail, and as she tumbled down, her hands fell upon her Council cloak.
Her magic wound its way into the brilliant purple fabric.
“FOULWEATHER,” the threads boldly proclaimed.
Mistress Octavia shook her head from side to side as if she found the rising sight and sound of her name deafening.
“Ha!” Ms. Crunch said. “Your own magic tattles on you! You can’t cast a single stinking spell without it spilling the beans. How could you possibly think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t,” Mistress Octavia said with narrowed eyes. “It must be a side effect of the potion.”
“What sort of harebrained potion is that?”
“One that squelches my magic. The Chancellor says that it . . . it is a necessary requirement for maintaining this prestigious position.”
Ms. Crunch snorted. “Prestigious position my big toe. You hate these kids!”
“I hate bad endings more! And that’s what’s at stake for me if these brats don’t sign their Tragical Oaths! Now get off my mountain before I ruin you!”
Ms. Crunch’s eyes flashed. “Ruin me? But you already seem quite busy ruining yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, old hag?”
Ms. Crunch bent toward Mistress Octavia. She lowered her voice to a growl. “Let me spell it out for you. You have stepped outside the bounds of your Chancellor-approved role. You used magic. And the evidence is written all over this manor and on that ridiculous Council cloak of yours. You can’t go anywhere without advertising to all of Wanderly what you’ve done. The Chancellor will have no choice but to punish you.”
Mistress Octavia’s face flushed a peculiar shade of red. “No, that’s—that’s just not possible—”
“Ha! You’re a Council member, no less. You of all people should know the rules! Tell me, what happens, exactly, during a Council detention?”
Mistress Octavia took a few deep breaths. And then, ever so slowly, she smiled her awful smile. “Maybe you can let me know. Too bad I won’t be around for mine!”
Mistress Octavia jumped to her feet! She seized the broken broomstick that had fallen against the Plank, and the children cringed the way they always did when it was wrapped tight in her spindly fingers. But this time she did something astonishing with it. She did not raise it in the air and shout her frustrations. She did not run at Ms. Crunch and try to thump her on the head with it. No—instead, she stuck it beneath her bottom, sat lightly atop it, and zoomed off through the sky with a wild cackle!
. . . And zoomed off through the sky with a wild cackle!
. . . . . . And zoomed— Oh, I’ll just be honest, Mistress Octavia didn’t zoom off more than six inches away from the Plank because both you and I know it is nearly impossible to get very far on half a broomstick. Indeed, the sight of Mistress Octavia, looking as frumpled and frazzled as ever before, swaying ever so slightly back and forth on a broken broomstick was so pitiful, for a moment, Ms. Crunch almost looked a bit sorry for her.
But certainly not enough to let her off the hook.
Ms. Crunch wriggled her fingers in the air, and a magical rope entwined itself around Mistress Octavia’s wrists and ankles. Mistress Octavia fell helplessly against the Plank, and her broken broomstick fell down, down, down until it crashed into the ever-raging Black Sea and was swallowed up once and for all.
“Baaaaa!” Sir Ichabod bleated. He trotted up to Ms. Crunch with the heavy medallion dangling from his teeth.
“Ugh! I thought you said Tragicals weren’t allowed to have pets?” Ms. Crunch called out to Birdie, who was still seated safely on the Blue Dragon.
“Ha! That’s Sir Ichabod,” Mistress Octavia hissed from the Plank.
Ms. Crunch snorted. “Sir Ichabod, huh? That ought to make Pooky good and jealous! I’ve never heard such a fancy name for a pet, and what’s it doin’ with a medallion?”
“Ms. Crunch, that is Sir Ichabod the butler,” Birdie called out. “And that medallion’s not an award, it’s a curse.”
“A curse?” Ms. Crunch said. “What sort of curse?”
“Whoever wears it has to pick ten thousand blueberries a day, is forbidden to leave Tragic Mountain, and must obey the person who places it around their neck.”
“All that, huh?” Ms. Crunch said, rubbing her hands together. “What a bargain! It would be a shame to leave a perfectly good curse lying around.”
As if reading Ms. Crunch’s thoughts, Mistress Octavia began wriggling backward along the Plank like a worm. But it took merely the slightest stretch on Ms. Crunch’s part to wrap that medallion clean around Mistress Octavia’s neck with a smile wide enough to show off all her crooked teeth.
Mistress Octavia howled.
Ms. Crunch crossed her arms and tapped her witchy boot. “Well, that’s not a very nice thank-you, now, is it? Here I’ve gone and saved you from who knows what at the hand of the Chancellor, and all you have to do in return is pick t
en thousand blueberries a day and do whatever I tell you.”
“I despise those blueberries!”60 Mistress Octavia spat out. “Why don’t you just turn me in and be done with it?”
“Because these kids have been bugged enough! I don’t trust the Chancellor as far as I can throw him, and who knows what sort of harebrained replacement he’d find?”
Mistress Octavia sneered. “You aren’t a witch at all, you know that?”
“All I know is the Chancellor’s precious roles don’t seem to be making a whole lot of sense anymore. And soon he’s not going to have a clue who or what he’s dealing with.” Mistress Octavia’s eyes widened, but Ms. Crunch snapped her fingers in the air. “Blue! Oh, Blue!” she called out.
The Blue Dragon swept near to the Plank. Ms. Crunch plucked Pooky off his outstretched wing, while Ralph, Birdie, Cricket, and Sprinkles slid gently down. The Blue Dragon turned his great fringed lashes toward Ms. Crunch and let out a string of soppy sniffles.
“Stop that,” Ms. Crunch said.
“But I can’t! The danger seems to be nearly over—which I am quite happy about, mind you—but I fear that also means all of this is about to end.”
“Shows how much you know. In fact, your work is just beginning.”
The Blue Dragon lifted up his head. “It is?”
“Yes, and you’ll start by depositing our new blueberry picker somewhere along the side of Tragic Mountain. I am placing you in charge of her.”
“Me?” the Blue Dragon said with a gulp. “In charge of her? But how?”
“You’re a dragon, remember? You’re big. And you’re stinky. That counts for a lot.”
The Blue Dragon bent near to Agnes and lowered his voice to a dragonly whisper, “But she seems a bit nasty,” to which Mistress Octavia promptly snapped her teeth at him, and he shuddered.
“Of course she is! If she wasn’t, we wouldn’t need your help. You’ve got the power to change people, remember?”