Strike of the Sweepers

by Tyler Whitesides

  Without another word, Walter Jamison touched the little flame to the School Board.

  Spencer had seen various ways of starting campfires. His dad used to try to ignite a fire with a single match and one piece of newspaper. Daisy’s dad liked to douse the wood in lighter fluid. But the School Board lit like nothing Spencer had ever seen before.

  It caught fire immediately, large flames lapping across the wooden surface. The colors were unusual, too. The flames flickered between deep purple and hues of brilliant green.

  “Why does it burn like that?” Spencer finally asked.

  “The Manualis Custodem says that the School Board was cut from an ancient piece of wood growing at the heart of a Glop lagoon,” Walter said.

  Spencer looked at him in surprise. “The Broomstaff?”

  The old warlock nodded. “The Board was cut from the Broomstaff and brought into civilization as a way to regulate the transfer of power from one warlock to another.”

  Spencer knew the process. When one of the bronze hammers was passed on to another person, the new warlock had to reset the power by driving the nail into the School Board and pulling it out again.

  “I always thought I understood the purpose of the School Board,” Walter continued. “I thought it was for us, the warlocks. But now I realize that this,” he pointed to the blazing wood, “is what it was made for.” The warlock nodded. “The School Board wants to burn. The Witches knew we would need its ash to bring them back.”

  Spencer and Walter stood in silence, transfixed by the multicolored flames as the School Board burned. Then it began to smolder. The wood turned to ashen embers that blazed a fierce golden when Walter knelt down and breathed on them.

  Walter prodded the charred School Board with his razorblade until it cracked in half, weakened to charcoal from the magical flames that had consumed it. Nudging the ruined wood with his foot, Walter slid the smoldering remains aside, leaving a little pile of white ash in the middle of the hallway.

  The old warlock drew a dustpan from his belt. Instead of opening it into a magical shield, he used it for its original purpose. Once Walter finished scooping the ashes into the dustpan, he stepped over to the drinking fountain and upended it into the brew.

  The School Board ashes swirled into the viscous liquid, and the whole mixture began to glow a deep red. Thick bubbles rose and splattered like magma, with bits of the glowing substance dripping down the side of the fountain.

  Two more ingredients to go.

  Keys of a warlock

  Walter reached down to the ring of keys that was always hooked through his pants belt loop. Spencer didn’t know why he carried so many keys, but there were certainly a lot of doors in Welcher Elementary School, and he figured the janitor had a key for every lock.

  Walter stretched out his arm until the keys were dangling above the lavalike Glop formula. He took a deep breath and dropped them. The keys landed with a clink in the drinking fountain, though there was so much vapor and smoke that Spencer couldn’t see where they fell. The mixture accepted the keys with an aerial shower of sparks, like Fourth of July fireworks in the hallway.

  Walter stepped away from the drinking fountain. “It’s up to you for the last ingredient,” he said.

  Spit of an Auran

  Spencer swished a bit of saliva in his mouth. At least he didn’t have to spit on his hand this time. He secretly wondered if his spit would work in the formula. It hadn’t been very long since he’d Glopified the leaf blower. And the Glop in his system took time to recharge. Besides, the Founding Witches would surely be expecting one of the original Aurans to spit into the mixture. Would this suffice?

  Spencer stepped up to the drinking fountain, feeling the heat of the gurgling Glop formula on his face. He’d seen lots of kids spit into the water fountains at school. That was one of the main reasons why Spencer vowed never to drink from one.

  He told himself that this was different. If he and Walter succeeded in turning this water fountain into the source of all Glop, then Spencer was pretty sure no one would be drinking from it again.

  Spencer leaned forward. If he waited any longer, his mouth would dry up from the heat of the Glop and the anticipation of what was about to happen.

  Spencer opened his mouth and spat into the drinking fountain.

  The final ingredient in the Witches’ recipe hit the mixture with a loud pop! Spencer staggered backward as black smoke began billowing out. The red glow brightened until Spencer was forced to squint. Then all went dark and silent, and the smoke cleared.

  Gurgling out the top of the ruined drinking fountain was the source of all Glop.

  Chapter 53

  “That is incorrect.”

  Spencer and Walter stood side by side in the hallway, watching the Glop bubbling upward. The lower half of the drinking fountain looked the same, but the top had melted away, spigot, drain, metal, and all. In its place was a deep opening, Glop spewing upward from the unknown depths.

  “I suppose it’s time,” Walter said, drawing Ninfa from his pocket. He took a moment of silent reprieve with the bronze hammer. Spencer understood. As soon as Walter extracted the nail, his domain would collapse. But even more than that, the moment he threw the hammer into the mixture, Walter would give up his warlock powers forever.

  Walter stepped over to the large mirror beside the fountain. His reflection looked worn and weary—a man burdened by the huge responsibility of saving the future of education.

  Walter sighed as he placed Ninfa against the nail. The magic bond formed and the nail slipped easily from the wall beside the mirror.

  Spencer withdrew Belzora and the nail from his belt pouch. The latex glove he still wore prevented him from going into a vision. Walter took the items, gripping the nails in one hand while holding all three hammers in the other. Ninfa, Holga, and Belzora.

  It was strange to see the complete set of bronze hammers in one place. They weren’t large, and each was slightly different. But they seemed to radiate an unseen power.

  Walter looked at Spencer, their faces alight in the magical luminescence of the Glop source. Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by a bit of static radio noise. The static cut out and a voice came through.

  “Spencer? Spencer, do you copy?”

  It was Min. And at a time like this!

  Spencer had almost forgotten about the walkie-talkie on his belt. Since they’d succeeded in rescuing Walter, he hadn’t given any thought to Min and his efforts to translate the Manualis Custodem.

  Spencer unclipped the radio and pressed it to his lips. “I’m here, Min. Reading you loud and clear.”

  “I have nearly completed the translation you asked for,” the boy said. “All but the final chapter.”

  Spencer smiled. “Why are you even awake? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I have worked nonstop,” Min said. “You told me it was urgent.”

  “Not too urgent anymore,” Spencer said. “We did it, Min. Walter and I just reopened the source of all Glop.”

  “Just you and Walter?” Min said. “Where is Daisy? Where are the others?”

  “They’re waiting outside,” Spencer answered. “Walter and I had to do this alone, just like the Manualis said.”

  “The Manualis Custodem said nothing about that,” Min said.

  Spencer paused, confused. He looked to Walter, who stooped over the translated binder and turned back a page.

  “Says it right here,” Spencer said into the radio. “On the page before the Glop formula recipe.” Walter pointed to the line and Spencer read it: “Only a warlock and an Auran are permitted to be present at the time of the source’s opening.”

  “That is incorrect.” Min said it so matter-of-factly that Spencer instantly believed him. “That sentence is not written on that page of the Manualis Custodem.”

  Walter leaned in to say something, and Spencer pressed the button for him. “Perhaps you made a mistake.”

  Spencer could imagine Min shaking his head.
“It’s much more likely that your first translator made a mistake.”

  “Professor DeFleur?” Spencer said. “That’s a pretty big mistake to write in there.”

  “Unless, of course, it wasn’t a mistake,” Min said. “Perhaps this professor wanted to isolate you and Walter Jamison from the rest of the Rebels.”

  “But why would he do that?” Spencer said. “He died trying to help us escape with the translation.”

  “You saw him die?” Min asked.

  “Yeah,” said Spencer. “Mr. Clean swallowed him whole.”

  There was a sound behind Spencer and Walter, a shuffling footfall punctuated by the click of a cane. Spencer turned to find himself staring at a figure he had never expected to see again.

  Professor Dustin DeFleur hobbled forward, his thin cane tapping across the hard floor. He paused beside the smoldering remnants of the School Board and turned his wizened face toward them.

  There was a little grin on his face as he spoke. “Did you know that a small person can survive for several minutes inside the belly of a Grime?” Professor DeFleur said. “Quite an unpleasant experience, I must say.”

  “How did you get in here?” Walter asked. Spencer was wondering the same thing. It seemed unlikely that the old professor could have been stealthy enough to slip past the Rebels standing guard outside.

  “I’ve been here all day,” said Professor DeFleur, “waiting in the gym for you Rebels to show up. I work here now. Principal Poach just hired me to be the new P.E. teacher.”

  Spencer scoffed. “You?” he said, pointing at the hunched man’s cane. “The P.E. teacher? You’re like a hundred years old!”

  “I’m faster than I look,” said Professor DeFleur. He swung his cane, hidden metal prongs extending from the tip to form a rake. He slammed his concealed rake at Spencer’s feet, the impact knocking the walkie-talkie from the boy’s grasp. The metal bars folded around Spencer in a heartbeat, and the momentum from the attack sent his cage sliding across the hallway and clattering into the wall.

  Walter was still free, his entire body tense as he guarded the drinking fountain, standing firmly between Professor DeFleur and Spencer’s cage.

  The old professor drew a razorblade from the pocket of his linen shirt. The blade extended, and he thrust the tip into the fallen walkie-talkie, crushing the Glopified device in a spray of sparks.

  “We trusted you,” Walter muttered, but the professor ignored him.

  Professor DeFleur turned his gaze upon the drinking fountain. “Is that it?” He pointed a crooked finger at the gurgling mess. “Is that the source of all Glop?”

  Spencer couldn’t believe that the old professor was alive! And even more unbelievable—he had turned against the Rebels. Spencer gripped the bars of his cage, staring speechlessly at the old man standing alone in the hallway. He was terrified by his arrival and disgusted by the fact that DeFleur’s death had been a lie.

  Professor DeFleur took a step closer to the drinking fountain. “Stay back!” Walter threatened, reaching for his janitorial belt. “We have help waiting outside. You’re alone and outnumbered.”

  The professor’s bushy white eyebrows raised. “How alone am I?” he asked.

  His wrinkly hand flashed to his side, drawing a short-handled rubber squeegee that had been tucked in his belt. Leaning forward, DeFleur dragged the squeegee across the large hallway mirror beside the drinking fountain.

  Walter stepped backward, bumping into Spencer’s cage as a magical portal opened. In a moment, the two Rebels were outnumbered as a dozen Sweepers poured into the hallway.

  The last to arrive was Mr. Clean, his white lab coat still damp from the flooded laboratory.

  The Sweeper warlock greeted Professor DeFleur with a nod before turning to Walter and Spencer. “Your Rebel uprising ends tonight,” he said.

  Professor DeFleur chuckled and looked at Walter. “Now it seems you are alone and outnumbered.”

  “But you’ve made a mistake,” Walter said. “We’re not alone either.”

  Then Walter turned and flung the bronze hammers into the bubbling Glop source.

  Chapter 54

  “There’s work to be done.”

  The first Witch emerged rather suddenly, rising up out of the Glop. The sludge spat her onto the ground, where she rose to her knees, dripping.

  She was old, with bony fingers that she used to brush the snarly gray hair from her wrinkled face. Her thin frame was draped in a thick cloak of black, with a hood bunched around her neck.

  Spencer had barely looked her over when the next Witch bubbled up out of the Glop source. She landed beside her sister, wiping sticky Glop from her eyes and tugging at the ill-fitting black dress she wore.

  In no time at all, the final Witch gurgled into view. She landed more gracefully than the previous two and stomped her feet to shake the Glop from her tall leather boots. She lifted her arms, as if to embrace her freedom, and Spencer saw more than a dozen shiny bangle bracelets adorning her right wrist.

  “This is ridiculous!” exclaimed the middle Witch. “Whoever thought of this exit plan, anyway? My dress is utterly ruined!”

  “Oh, shut up, Holga,” said the first Witch. She was patting the pockets of her cloak. “I simply must find my wand. There’s work to be done.”

  Holga began to laugh, a true witch’s cackle. “Please, Ninfa,” she said to the first Witch. “You haven’t done a day of work in your life! I wouldn’t be surprised if your wand grew legs and walked away, it felt so neglected.”

  “Liar!” Ninfa shouted. “My wand was always prettier than yours. You finally grew jealous enough to steal it! Now give it back!”

  Belzora finally stepped between them, her voice sharp and commanding. “Silence your bickering!” Ninfa and Holga suddenly seemed to grow aware that other people stood nearby.

  Belzora lowered her voice. “One of these mortals holds our wands.”

  “I have them.” Walter stepped forward, opening his palm and showing the three bronze nails. An excited look passed over Belzora’s face.

  “Are you a warlock?” she asked.

  Walter nodded his bald head. “Yes.”

  “Have you done what was asked in the Warlocks Box?” Belzora pressed.

  Spencer felt a pang of worry pass through him. Walter knew nothing of the Warlocks Box. Mr. Clean had opened it before Walter had stolen Ninfa and the nail.

  “Yes,” Spencer said from the confines of his rake cage. “We have solved the thirteen clues from the Warlocks Box.”

  Belzora turned her long, wrinkly face toward him. “And who are you, young lad?”

  “My name is Spencer Zumbro.”

  Holga took a shuffling step closer, sniffing the air. “White hair,” she muttered. “White hair and the ageless smell of Auran about him.”

  “I am an Auran,” he said. “I’m new. But I’m friends with Olin, Sach, and Aryl.”

  “Aww,” Ninfa said. “How are the children?”

  “Good, I guess,” Spencer said.

  “Are they getting along?”

  It seemed weird to be talking about it while Mr. Clean and his BEM Sweepers stood watching in silence. “Well,” Spencer said, “the girls panned the boys about two hundred years ago, and they’ve been archenemies ever since.”

  “Oh,” Ninfa said with a sweet smile. “That’s nice.”

  “Enough chat,” Belzora said. “Has everything else been prepared for our arrival?”

  Spencer and Walter exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “What do you mean?” Walter asked.

  “The other instructions in the Warlocks Box,” Belzora asked. “Did you fulfill them all?”

  Spencer’s head turned slowly to Mr. Clean, whose lips were curling in a gradual smirk. The big Sweeper stepped forward. The Witches turned to him as he dropped respectfully onto one knee in the hallway.

  “New Forest Academy is ready,” Mr. Clean said. “Just as you commanded.”

  Spencer felt his heart stop. A flush of fear
and shock crawled across his skin as the Founding Witches nodded their approval at Mr. Clean’s words.

  “One more thing,” Professor DeFleur muttered to Spencer and Walter. “I never gave you the translation of the final chapter—the part where it explains that the Founding Witches are on our side.”

  Chapter 55

  “Give me the nails!”

  Spencer felt the panic, causing him to rattle and shake at the bars of his rake cage. They needed to run. But he was trapped, and Walter seemed frozen. The Rebel warlock closed his hand tightly around the three bronze nails. “What is going on?” he finally muttered.

  “We are ready to visit the Academy,” Belzora said. She turned to Walter. “Give us our wands.”

  Walter took an unsteady step backward. “You know about New Forest Academy?”

  “Obviously,” Belzora said. “We left specific instructions for the Academy to be started in the Hopeless Day.”

  “Is that today?” Holga asked.

  “Of course it’s today,” Ninfa said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have opened the Warlocks Box, and we wouldn’t be here.”

  Walter looked so confused. Mr. Clean had told Spencer a little bit about the Warlocks Box, though apparently not everything. He had said that the Witches had prophesied of a Hopeless Day, when there would be nothing but sin and corruption in the world. That was why Mr. Clean and Garcia had opened the Warlocks Box. But it wasn’t right!

  “There’s been a mistake,” Spencer said. “It’s not the Hopeless Day. There’s still a lot of good in the world out there!”

  Mr. Clean stood up, whirling to face the boy. “Your lies are evidence of the Hopeless Day!” he bellowed, causing Spencer to shrink to the back of his cage.

  Then, lowering his voice, Clean turned back to the Witches. “There is no good left in the world. But we have done everything you asked. The Bureau of Educational Maintenance has followed every instruction found in the Warlocks Box. We allowed Toxites to take over schools. We raised a private Academy in the mountains, protecting only the most cunning students. We followed the thirteen clues to find the Auran landfill and the Manualis Custodem. We have brought you back into this corrupt world so you can rule it and set things right again.”