The Tragical Tale of Birdie Bloom

by Temre Beltz

  Agnes had never felt so necessary.

  When she tore onto the scene and caught sight of the wild hog staring Pooky down with its long tusks dripping with sticky saliva, her witchy boots didn’t waste any time. They sidestepped, skip to my Lou’ed, and sashayed near for a series of swift kicks in the belly, because dancing witches were the absolute worst!

  The wild hog couldn’t get away fast enough. It squealed like a piglet. It drummed its hooves beneath its body so fast and so furiously it flipped on top of itself. In fact, it stumbled three separate times trying to dart away from Agnes, and by the time it finally leaped through the surrounding brush and scuttled away, it was a big, weepy, blubbering mess. No doubt that wild hog would spend the rest of its days squawking about the time it almost tango’ed with a witch.

  Agnes watched after the wild hog for a moment or two, snarled at the owls overhead that had the good sense to turn their tail feathers and flee, and then finally knelt down beside Pooky. Pooky was rolled up tight into a little ball. When Agnes tapped her on the shoulder, she sprang into the air, as if she’d been electrocuted, and then, seeing Agnes, she dove into her arms.

  Agnes growled. She tried to pry Pooky off, but every time Agnes yanked on her, the blasted kitten dug those needle-sharp claws even deeper into Agnes’s skin!

  “Oh, you’re rotten! You are so, so rotten!” Agnes hissed.

  Nevertheless, Agnes looked over shoulder. She made certain not a single soul was watching. And then, because it was just easier, she bent her chin toward Pooky and gave her a rough, unpracticed pat. The kitten vibrated. Absent a sudden craving for bacon, Agnes felt almost content.

  Twenty-seven minutes later, Agnes’s surprising feeling vanished. But not because of anything Pooky did.

  It was, instead, the person waiting on the doorstep of Agnes’s haunted cabin who ruined absolutely everything.

  Rudey Longtooth fluffed out her obnoxious purple Council cloak. She adjusted her ridiculous badge and gnashed her black tooth in Pooky’s direction. She executed one looooong, rolling sniff of her horrid nose.

  “Ew,” Rudey exclaimed. “That thing smells as wretched as it looks. Times must be tough, eh, Agnes?”

  Agnes tried to stuff Pooky in the bell of her sleeve and then behind her back. Finally, she rolled her into a little ball and dropped her down the front of her pinafore where Pooky, for once, didn’t make a peep.

  “Oh, poor, poor Agnes,” Rudey cooed. “You don’t have to be ashamed in front of me. Indeed, we are old enemies, aren’t we? If this is all you are capable of catching for your meal; if you have stooped so low as to eat cuddly things . . . Well, it’s no surprise you’ve gone soft.”

  “What are you doing here, Rudey?” Agnes said.

  “Not feeling very chatty today, are we? Well, if you must know, the Council sent me.”

  “What does the Council want with me?”

  “Funny you should ask. It seems someone’s been breaking the rules. Someone’s been talking with a child. No, no, wait. It’s much, much worse than that. Someone’s become friends with a child. A Tragical child named Birdie Bloom.”

  Agnes’s creaky knees buckled. Nestled against her bosom, Pooky mewed softly.

  Friends? Agnes wondered. Did the Bird-Girl really say they were friends?

  Rudey lunged at her. “Have you forgotten Witches’ Manifesto Rule Number Nine? The one that says any and all contact with children is forbidden unless for the purpose of evildoing? Not to mention—ugh—friends. What in all of witchery do you think you are doing?”

  Agnes swallowed back the knot in her throat. She knew the answer to that question. She did. She never intended to help a child. It was merely an unfortunate byproduct of her evil (and, by the way, very witchy) plot to do in Octavia Foulweather. Of course, what made that so deeply satisfying was the exact reason why Agnes couldn’t tell Rudey. If Rudey caught even a whiff of Agnes’s desire to do in a Council member, Agnes would get deported to Council headquarters for sure! The whole evil plot would be off. Both she and Birdie would remain hopelessly, endlessly, stuck.

  “I’m tricking her,” Agnes said hoarsely. “I sought the child out and have very nearly gained her trust. It’s taken a disgustingly long time, but it’s almost finished now. So don’t you”—Agnes swallowed again and narrowed her eyes—“don’t you dare get in my way!”

  Rudey stuck her hands in the pockets of her cloak. She kicked her witchy boots up in the dust and began to walk around Agnes in a slow, lazy circle. “And how, dear Agnes, do I know you’re not lying to me?”

  “You said it, didn’t you? I’m down to eating cute, cuddly things for dinner. I’ve never been to a Witches’ Ball. Not until this year anyways. And so long as I’m going, I figured I ought to do something outrageous.”

  Rudey’s tongue flicked across her long tooth. “I was told you have been sending good magic to assist the children against my Council sister, Octavia.”

  Agnes tried not to retch at the mention of Octavia’s name on Rudey’s lips. “Sister, is it? Witches aren’t supposed to honor such a thing as family. Doesn’t that go against the rules?”

  “The interest of the Council rises above all,” Rudey said quickly. “Anyhow, is it true? Have you been sending good magic?”

  Agnes’s eyes drifted down toward Rudey’s shiny badge. Despite what Rudey claimed, she was hardly anyone’s witchy representative. The Council members lived to serve the Chancellor. And the Chancellor wasn’t on anyone’s side except his own.

  Agnes snorted. “You of all witches should know wicked witches can’t produce good magic. It’s impossible! Has the dumbing down of the Council made you forget even the basics?”

  Rudey swept in over Agnes’s shoulder. She pressed her pointer finger into the base of Agnes’s throat as if ready to toss off a curse. “Watch your tongue! You have no idea how fine a line you are walking. In fact, if it wasn’t for that recent scandal involving Maggie Pruneface Punch, you would probably be seated in the Council’s detention room for questioning right this instant.”

  “Oh, lucky me. Instead, I get this lovely visit from you?” Agnes said, twisting away from Rudey’s grasp. “Anyhow, as I was saying, the only curse I am aware of sending was a bevy of rain clouds meant to flood the place silly. And spiders enough to bury the children up to their ears and squeeze the breath out of their lungs. You tell me how that’s called good magic?”

  Rudey frowned. She tapped her fingernail against her tooth. “Hmmm, I see your point. Maybe. Really, I’m just sick of you, and I want to get back to work. I’ve got a hot lead on Maggie Pruneface Punch, and she’s on the Chancellor’s top ten list. That makes her way more important than you. But before I go, I’ll leave you with this: you better be at the Witches’ Ball, and it better be worth all this nonsense! The Council’s feeling restless, and without some hard proof of your wickedness, there’s no way they’ll listen to your word over my sister, Octavia’s.”

  “She’s not your sister,” Agnes hissed through gritted teeth.

  But Rudey just patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, don’t be jealous. The Chancellor made room for just one wicked witch on the Council, and of course, he chose the best.”

  With that, Rudey Longtooth whipped her Council cloak around and disappeared in a puff of purple smoke.

  Agnes sighed a long, deep sigh.

  She plopped down on the steps of her haunted cabin and almost planted her hand on an especially fat worm crawling her way. If Agnes had any appetite at all, she might have slurped it right up except, upon closer inspection, the worm was hopelessly covered in glitter. Pooky stuck her head out from Agnes’s pinafore just in time to see the worm explode in a sparkling burst that felt about as celebratory as Agnes’s last birthday party. The glitter whipped itself up into a letter, and Agnes drew it near.

  Dear Ms. Crunch,

  I know you haven’t had a chance to respond to my last letter, and I’m pretty certain you already hear from me more often than you’d like, but somethin
g’s happened. Something terrible.

  Or, rather, I did something terrible.

  I imagine you’re probably smirking right now, but this is real serious. It turns out even nonwitches can do wicked things. Worst of all, the wicked thing I did involves you.

  Ms. Crunch, I told Mistress Octavia your name. Your whole name.

  I didn’t want to, and I never meant to get you into trouble. I did it to save Sprinkles. You may remember that Sprinkles is Cricket’s pet rat and sort of a hero to the rest of us. Considering you likely eat rats from time to time, this probably sounds like the worst reason in the whole entire world, but if you took the advice in my last letter, if you’re a pet owner too, maybe there is a teeny, tiny chance you understand.

  Of course, it doesn’t make it right. And I’m sorry. I am SO sorry.

  I’m not sure if there is such a thing as forgiveness among witches, but I hope there is such a thing as forgiveness between BFFs. It would make what’s gonna happen to me tomorrow a whole lot better.

  And I guess that’s the last bit I have to share. Depending where you stand on the forgiveness thing (and how hard I’ve made your life by disclosing your identity), you’ll either be blowing up balloons or maybe a little bit sad to hear Mistress Octavia has sentenced me to the Drowning Bucket. This means I’m going to die. But considering I’m a Tragical, I guess this really shouldn’t be a surprise to anybody. That’s just how things go in Wanderly.

  So . . . I guess this is goodbye. I sort of always hoped we might meet face-to-face, but it looks like we won’t. Even still, I wouldn’t give these letters back for anything. Because of you, I think I’ve fit more living into the past few weeks than I did in my whole entire life.

  If you have a chance to write back before I drown, I’d really like that. If only just to tell me about your pet so I know, even if I’ve scared you away from letter writing forever, you won’t be alone.

  Yours truly,

  Birdbrain

  (considering what I did, this name feels most appropriate)

  PS: I don’t have anything else to say, really. I just sort of like how we usually include a PS or two. Maybe I just have a thing about “The End.”

  Agnes lowered the letter from beneath her warty nose. She dashed off the steps, and she ran ahead several feet with her fist raised in the air because what was she supposed to do with any of that?

  She was breathing so heavy, the edges of the letter rippled to and fro.

  Or maybe that was the Winds of Wanderly.

  Because the Winds were gusting back and forth around Agnes’s cabin. They dipped their fingers low through the dirt and rustled the scant leaves high in the trees; they swished around Agnes’s ankles like Pooky tended to do and finally came to perch on her shoulder.

  Go, the Winds whispered. Go . . .

  Agnes stomped her foot on the ground. “Go and do what?” she demanded. “I’m nowhere near close to brewing that laughing potion. I’ve got nothing!”

  Just go, the Winds insisted.

  “Witches don’t just go!” Agnes hollered.

  The answer came immediately. Not from the Winds. But from Agnes. From somewhere deep inside Agnes’s small, stony heart. It rose up, almost as if it flew on the wings of a bird.

  “Friends do,” Agnes croaked. “Witches don’t just go, but friends do.”

  Agnes shut tight her eyes for a moment. She recalled the line of Birdie’s last letter, the one she’d been repeating over and over in her mind since the first moment she saw it. The most unforgettable line Agnes would ever read: Because I like you, Ms. Crunch.

  But why? How could anyone like a witch?

  Especially when no one had ever liked her before.

  Agnes didn’t think she ever wanted anyone to like her. But then again, neither did she ever imagine she would keep a pet.

  But there she was. Holding a letter from an orphan with a kitten cradled against her bosom.

  Who was she exactly?

  What did witches really do?

  “Meow,” Pooky mused.

  Agnes’s beady eyes lit up. Sometimes witches protect.

  Agnes had certainly been good at showing that awful hog a thing or two. Maybe she would be just as good at snatching Birdie away from Octavia. Maybe only someone as terrible as a witch would risk brushing up against such formidable opponents. Maybe this was the mission Agnes had been looking for all along.

  The Winds continued to whip through the tangled strands of Agnes’s purple hair. The folds of her black skirts billowed all about. Agnes set her jaw. Agnes looked full upon the face of the Winds of Wanderly as the setting sun blazed across the horizon.

  “Yes,” she answered, and she dashed toward her cabin to complete the thoroughly annoying yet necessary task of rebristling her broomstick.

  Unfortunately for Agnes, she didn’t give a moment’s thought to what day it was. And it just so happened to be October 4. For those dear readers who pay close and careful attention to details, I am sorry. For you are likely wringing your hands right now because, yes, Agnes did just do what you feared she did. Agnes just vowed to rescue a Tragical on the very same night the skies would be flooded with witches all headed to the Annual Witches’ Ball.

  Sixteen

  A Rotten Twist

  On the same day Agnes came to the decision to do something utterly astonishing, tucked into a quiet corner of Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical, and way up high on Tragic Mountain, Ralph and Cricket huddled around Birdie.

  Tomorrow Birdie would die. Unless, of course, she was “saved” by a witch.

  More than likely Birdie’s death would already have happened had Mistress Octavia not extended an invitation to the Chancellor in hopes he would attend. Though Birdie knew she was lucky to have one last night with her friends, and time to receive a letter back from Ms. Crunch, all she kept thinking about was how year after year, she had traipsed alongside Cricket and Ralph without once realizing what she was missing out on. And now—just now that they were friends—the Tragic End she had been dreading was upon her.

  Why had she wasted so much time?

  Cricket nudged Birdie gently. “Why don’t you read Ms. Crunch’s letter again,” she whispered.

  Despite the fact that she’d already read it twice, Birdie nodded. This letter wasn’t like any of Ms. Crunch’s other letters. It was different. Monumental, even. The sort of letter that could change everything.

  Birdie cleared her throat and read aloud:

  To Birdie,

  I’m gonna make this short and wicked.

  Tonight I’m gonna kidnap you. If that sounds scary, don’t worry. Kidnapping is part of every witch’s training, and I was top in my class.

  But here’s my condition: you’ve gotta find a way out of your manor. You’ve gotta be waiting for me outside, someplace where it’ll be really easy for me to scoop you up on my broomstick. Because I am not—I repeat not—prepared for a full tangle with Octavia tonight.

  I blame this entirely on you. If you hadn’t tossed out your terrible pet idea, I would have made it to the Blue Dragon and been back with that laughing potion days ago. Instead, I’ve been toying around with a kitten. So far, she’s ruined everything, and considering I’ve yelled more in three days than three years combined, I doubt she’s doing much for my so-called “goodness.”

  Anyways, if you try to pull anything funny midair—like bringing up that BFF stuff in person. Blech!—I’ll sic her on you. If you’re wondering how bad a kitten can be, just know my entire cabin (which is properly haunted) is terrified of her.

  See you at the witching hour (that’s midnight, for beginners).

  You’re not off the hook yet,

  AP Crunch

  PS: Be prepared to swing by the Deepest, Darkest Bog for a little visit to the Blue Dragon. Though it’s amusing to think how steamed Octavia will be when you’ve “disappeared,” I still want MORE! And for that, we’re gonna need the laughing potion.

  Birdie laid the letter gently down in he
r lap and looked at Ralph and Cricket. “So . . . what do you think?”

  “A kidnapping,” Cricket said, shaking her head. “I’m scared for you, Birdie. Aren’t you scared too?”

  “Yes,” Birdie said. And then: “Quite a lot scared, actually. But didn’t you tell Sir Ichabod that being scared isn’t what’s most important?”

  Cricket frowned. “I don’t think he listened though. Maybe I didn’t either. Oh Birdie, when Mistress Octavia brought Sprinkles near that spinning wheel, I got scared! I got so scared I wasn’t thinking what Mistress Octavia might do to you—”

  “But you didn’t make me do anything. I was the one who brought up Ms. Crunch, and I was the one who gave away her name,” Birdie said.

  Cricket laid her hand on top of Birdie’s. “And now Ms. Crunch is gonna save you.”

  Ralph shook his head. “Maybe,” he said. “But have you both forgotten what Ms. Crunch is? Have you forgotten what we are? Has anything good ever come out of a kidnapping? This has Tragical stamped all over it.”

  “Maybe,” Birdie agreed. “But my only other choice is the Drowning Bucket. That’s a for sure Tragic End. At least with Ms. Crunch, I have a chance.”

  “Getting kidnapped by a witch shouldn’t be your best option!” Ralph said.

  “I guess that depends on your thinking. If we believe what the Chancellor says, this will be a disaster. But if we think of Ms. Crunch as more than a witch—if we think of her as a friend—then maybe she really will be the one to rescue me,” Birdie said.

  “But how do you know she’s telling the truth?” Ralph said.

  “I think I’m supposed to trust her. I think that’s what friends do.”

  Ralph didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed up off the cold stone floor. He walked off with the shadows chasing after him, and Cricket nestled in tight against Birdie’s side.