The Little Broomstick

by Mary Stewart

  'Oh, yes, please!' Mary would never have thought she could be so thankful at the prospect of going back to Red Manor and Great-Aunt Charlotte. 'And I'd better hurry, Madam. They'll be missing me soon.'

  'Then we shall hurry.' And the Headmistress moved quickly towards the strong-room door, her black robes rustling about her. Mary followed close on her heels, pulling Tib, who for some reason seemed reluctant to go with her. Then they were out in the lab, and behind them the strong-room door shut with a smooth clunk.

  The lab was deserted now. The students had all gone. The burners were out. Only the furnace burned green and roaring.

  Tib was still dragging at the lead. Mary stooped quickly and picked him up and held him tightly. This time he neither spat nor scratched, but she heard him growl deep in his throat, and she felt him still quivering with that queer tension and excitement.

  She followed Madam Mumblechook out of the lab and along the corridor.

  The Headmistress's office was a pleasant, businesslike place, and very ordinary, with shelves of books–quite ordinary books like Who's Who, and What's What, and Teach Yourself Magic–and a typewriter and a big desk. Mary stood restlessly near the door, hugging the invisible Tib, while Madam Mumblechook lifted a big ledger from a drawer and spread it open on the desk.

  'Name? You still wish to go by the name of Mary Smith?'

  Mary opened her mouth to protest yet again that it was her real name, then stopped. There was no point, after all, since she would not be coming back. 'Yes, please.'

  The Headmistress was inscribing the name in that bold, flowing hand that Mary recognised. 'Very well. Mary Smith Sixty-four.'

  She was writing it, Mary noticed, as LXIV Madam underlined this carefully. 'There. That is how you will be known among us. Address?'

  'Red Manor, Shropshire.'

  Madam glanced up at that, her eyes suddenly very piercing. 'Indeed?' She seemed to be about to say something further, but merely raised her brows, nodding, then turned back to the ledger. And now Mary, craning forward, could see what had surprised her. The previous entry looked almost exactly the same. It ran: Mary Smith LXIII, Red Manor, Shropshire. Madam closed the book with a snap.

  'So that is that. Delighted to have you.' She dropped the book back in the drawer and handed Mary an envelope. 'Here is our prospectus. We will discuss fees later, but believe me, we shall be most grateful for your generous donation. So many prospective pupils have no idea that a little initial gift is not only very acceptable, but–shall we say?–an excellent start to one's college career. When you have had time to think it over, I am sure you will see it in this light.'

  'I don't understand,' said Mary.

  Madam smiled kindly. 'All in due course, my dear, all in due course. At the moment everything is so new to you …Tomorrow at ten, then, and we shall discuss your classes. A little distilling, I think, and some practice with the astrolab for instrument flying, but I think–I really think–that your father's daughter can go straight on to transformation.'

  'Thank you,' said Mary. She was glad to hear that she did not sound nervous, only slightly worried.

  'And now I really think I'd better hurry home, Madam. My great-aunt likes me to be washed and changed by half past six, and–'

  'Badness me,' said Madam mildly, looking at the clock on the wall, 'then certainly you must be going. I'm afraid that our private landing strip is locked now, except for residents, but Danny will have your broomstick ready at the door.'

  And he had. He was waiting at the foot of the front door steps in the thick dusk, holding the little broomstick, which stood quite still in his grasp, just like an ordinary broom. So like an ordinary broom that Mary, running down the steps with relief in the fresh evening air, had a moment's terrible doubt. Had this morning's journey really been true? Had she really flown? And could she fly again?

  'Will it know the way?' she asked anxiously, and Mr Flanagan grinned cheerily.

  'It will that. They're each after having their own runs, and this one will be getting you there with a lep like a blooming grasshopper. If you can stay on, that is. Come along then, me dear, I'll hauld him the while you'll be mounting. Be aisy, now, will you?'

  This to the broomstick, which began to sidle and skip as Mary tried to mount it.

  'Let me hold the cat,' said Madam Mumblechook, and lifted Tib from Mary's arms. Tib was growling and grumbling audibly now, his voice rising to a squall as Madam Mumblechook busied herself tying the end of the raffia lead to the broom handle.

  'Stand back, now!' cried Mr Flanagan. 'Hauld on, me dears!' And he gave the little broomstick a slap, and shouted: 'Home wid ye now!'

  It did work. It was just the same, except that this time the broomstick tried no tricks, but rushed smoothly up into the air on a trajectory like a rocket.

  The birch twigs whistled in the air like a tiny jet engine. Then the broomstick curved out over the huge trees at the edge of the park, and fled for the last bright gap in the heavy clouds of evening with a speed that took Mary's breath from her lungs.

  As they left the ground with that tremendous leap, Tib's squalling had stopped as suddenly as if he had choked.

  The clouds swirled round her, indigo and grey and aubergine, then suddenly golden, all smoke and flame and tossing fire. But this time she hardly noticed their beauty. She held on tightly to the broomstick, calling out to the silent Tib, and watching for the break in the sea of cloud which would mark the beginning of their descent.

  Here it was. A great gap of darkness, like a lake of black water. The broomstick tore through the firelit surf of cloud at the edge of the gap, then plunged steeply down into the evening dusk above Red Manor.

  It skimmed the top of the lime tree, and the autumn leaves, torn off in its wake, swirled round Mary's head like a cloud of bats. There was a swish and tossing of twigs, and the broomstick jerked once as if it had hit something–or as if, thought Mary, clinging like a burr. Tib must have jumped clear into the lime boughs.

  And indeed, when the broomstick ran to earth in a long wake of blown leaves along the lawn, and she turned to look, the raffia lead had gone. No warm fur met her hand as she stroked it along the twigs of the besom.

  'Tib? Tib? Come down!' she called softly, dismounting, and staring up into the twilit boughs of the big lime. She could see the raffia lead, caught on some high branch. The swinging collar was obviously empty. Tib had pulled himself free, and, though surely not still invisible, apparently was not yet ready to come to her.

  Mary ran down the path towards the kitchen garden, and put the little broomstick back in its place with a pat of thanks. With a soft flirt of wings and a faint chirrup the robin flew up on the wall by the tool-shed, and began to sing. There were daisies all along the edge of the path, and by the door as she ran in the evening primroses shone pale and scented in the dusk. Everything was normal and ordinary, and very comforting, and there in the kitchen was Mrs McLeod just putting the pans on the stove for supper.

  'There you are. Did you have a good day, now?'

  'Lovely, thank you,' said Mary. 'Is Aunt Charlotte home yet?'

  Mrs McLeod looked amused. 'You've beaten her,' she said, 'but only just. I can hear the car there now. Run, lassie.'

  Nobody had asked any questions that could not be answered. The old, old friend had apparently been good value, and Great-Aunt Charlotte and Miss Marjoribanks spent a happy supper-time talking about their day. For once, Mary was pleased that they seemed totally uninterested in hers.

  At last she escaped up to her room. The first thing she did was to run across to the window and pull the curtains wide. Nothing but sky and stars. The clouds had cleared, and a fresh young wind tossed the lime boughs. There was no cat waiting on the windowsill.

  She pushed the sash up and leaned out, calling softly. No reply.

  Mary began slowly to undress, knitting her brows with worry. Supposing Madam Mumblechook were wrong, and Tib couldn't get his visibility back at will? Suppose the spell had been different from
her own? Suppose–then she remembered the book, and put a hand in her pocket, half expecting the book to have vanished, too. But it was safely there, the embossed cat and the circle of lettering winking in the electric light.

  Mary fingered it doubtfully. Not tonight, perhaps.

  No, this was something to be looked at tomorrow, when the sun was shining. Somehow, here in her own room, the book looked uneasily out of place, not belonging to the same world as the daisies, and the smell of the lime tree, and the robin's song. But there was Tib…

  Well, Tib was probably all right anyway. Cats could cope with magic, they had told her. And in any case, Tib would have to be here himself for any kind of spell to work.

  She put the book on her dressing-table, and then noticed–sticking out from between the pages where she must have pushed it–the envelope Madam Mumblechook had given her with the College's prospectus. She picked it up. This was different; since she had no intention of ever going there again, it would be fun to have the prospectus to keep and read. Now that she was safely back at home, the adventure was pleasant enough to remember; apart from Tib's accident everything had gone well–and they thought she was a wizard's daughter…

  Mary grinned to herself at the thought of Daddy making himself invisible. She would enjoy showing him the prospectus, and Mummy, too. How people would stare when they knew that there was a College for Witches, only a broomstick's ride away from Red Manor. She wondered if there was a picture, or even a map to show you how to get there. She opened the envelope.

  A slip of paper fell out. On it was written, in that big bold hand: Received with thanks from Miss Mary Smith LXIV of Red Manor in Shropshire, one Familiar for Transformation Experiments!

  And an initial below which looked like M.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Can I Get There By Candle Light?

  Yes, And Back Again!

  If your heels are nimble and light...

  There was nothing for it. She would have to go back–tonight. They would hardly keep Tib unharmed until tomorrow, when they expected Mary back as a pupil, otherwise the Headmistress would not have been so mysterious about the 'donation' Mary had made, and she would have taken the little cat more openly, instead of …Yes, thought Mary, as she hurried her clothes on again, that was how they had done it. When Madam Mumblechook took the cat from her she had simply pretended to put him on the broomstick, then she had tied the empty raffia to the handle, and Mr Flanagan had sent the broomstick away before Mary had had time to check on Tib's presence.

  They must all be in it, nice though they had seemed. And Doctor Dee, too–Mary was sure now that he had deliberately left Tib invisible, to help Madam and Mr Flanagan to snatch him. Cats were 'especially valuable', Doctor Dee had said …But if cats knew about magic, then Tib must have known what he was risking. Why, then, had he deliberately led her to Endor College?

  Mary stood in the middle of her bedroom, fully dressed again, thinking. It was quite dark outside, and the wind had grown stronger, and was roaring in the treetops. There were voices on the stairs now; Great-Aunt Charlotte coming to bed early, as usual.

  Miss Marjoribanks would be anything up to an hour later. It would be useless for Mary to attempt before that to creep downstairs unseen. She would have to wait.

  She sat down in the chair by the lamp, and opened the red book called Master Spells. Three spells, if they were there, she had to find. She found the index page and ran her finger down.

  The first one she had seen before: To Unfasten Locks. The others would probably be more difficult but surely there must be one to cancel invisibility, and one to undo a transformation?

  But there was not. She started again at the top, and went down one by one, slowly.

  To Change Into Stone.

  To Turn Him Blue.

  To Strike Him Pink.

  To Render His Hands Powerless.

  To Transform Into Animals.

  To Transform One Animal Into Another…

  Mary's finger checked. The invisibility spell, she remembered, had been undone by being chanted backwards. Perhaps transformation spells worked the same way? She leafed through the thick yellow pages until she found the one headed To Transform One Animal Into Another. She skipped through the spell, which was gibberish, to the note at the bottom, which read, simply: 'This spell does not apply to cats, toads, or other familiar creatures of witches.'

  So it would not work. Cats were special. But since Madam had taken Tib for transforming, there must be a spell for it, and therefore there must surely be one to undo it. Unless–and it was possible–they never did undo transformations, just went on and on experimenting, changing one miserable shape into another...

  It didn't bear thinking about. She went down the index again. Nothing, nothing …ah! She had it! At the foot of the page, printed small, was a star, and after it the simple words: The Master Spell.

  Mary turned to the back of the book.

  There it was, printed in scarlet, with a star at the start of every line. And above it, under the heading The Master Spell, was written in a small, crabbed hand: To Undo any Magick within Range. This spell to be used only against Magick already made. If it is used where there has been no Magick, then it will come back upon the user, to his dire affliction. Beware, and say me not save in sore need.

  Mary read no further. Footsteps were coming creaking up the stairs. She switched the light off and waited, breathless in the dark, listening. She heard Miss Marjoribanks' door open and shut, softly. A few minutes later the grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven. The house settled, creak by creak, into silence.

  At last she moved. She switched the light on and got into her dark coat and soft-soled shoes. She dropped a torch into one pocket and the book of spells into the other. She picked a head off the purple fly-by-night and kept it carefully in her hand.

  Then, heart thumping, she opened her bedroom door.

  It was quite quiet. The only sound was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. The lights were out under Great-Aunt Charlotte's door and Miss Marjoribanks'. Mary switched on her torch and crept along the corridor to the stairhead, then slowly, slowly, down the stairs, avoiding the treacherous one three from the bottom, which creaked.

  As she reached the hall the grandfather clock it cleared its throat and struck the half hour.

  Mary jumped. Then the steady, soft ticking started again.

  The memory came to her of that other clock, the one in the lab at Endor College, with the lead weights that looked like horrid little dead mice, and the nasty rhyme it seemed to click out. She shone her torch up at the grandfather clock. Its brass face winked at her.

  There were cherubs engraved in the upper corners, and between them a sun with curly rays all round a jolly face, cheek to cheek with a coy-looking moon.

  The weights were hidden in the clock-case, but Mary knew what they looked like; fir-cones, fat and tightly shut.

  It was a lovely, old, homely clock, and it is possible that at that moment Mary would have gone straight upstairs again and tried to forget all about the other one, if a movement at the foot of the clock had not caught her eye. A mouse, a real one, small and glossy and bright-eyed, whisking aside out of the torchlight and vanishing into the wainscot.

  'Wait till Tib sees you,' whispered Mary, and then said to herself, in surprise: 'And that's fair enough, it's the way things are; it's between Tib and the mouse. But magic–magic isn't fair. Not on Tib or the mice–and not on those poor things in the cages, whatever they are. I'll have to go. And it wouldn't be right to use the spell book to unlock the front door, either. I'll do it the way it's used to, even if it does take longer…'

  It didn't take so very long. A few moments later the last bolt slid back and the key turned to let Ma: out into the dark night air.

  It was so easy that it was almost routine. The little broomstick was just where she had left it, and apparently it was asleep, because when Mary took hold of it, it gave a jump and a kick that nearly tore it out of h
er grasp. But now she knew what to do. She squeezed the fly-by-night in her hand, rubbed the hand down the broom-handle and said sharply: 'Stand still!'

  The little broomstick stood still.

  'That's better!' said Mary sternly. She settled torch and book carefully in her pockets, got astride the broomstick, stroked it–this time more gently–with the crushed flower, and commanded it: 'Endor College. Front door, and carefully, please!'

  The broomstick, with only the tiniest quiver of a buck, leaped into the air and headed straight for the nearest bunch of stars.

  It was impossible to tell distance this time, or height.

  The sensation of speed was, if anything, greater than during daylight, because all the stars seemed to be racing and wheeling as well. It was like flying through an enormous catherine-wheel of a sky, where stars whirled and flashed, and the wake of the little broomstick fizzed with bubbles of light.

  Then the stars, pouring away, dwindled to bright dust, and the dusky trees sailed up and blotted them out, and the broomstick had arrived. Just as it had been told. At the very foot of the front door steps.

  Mary dismounted. The broomstick stood quite still for her, so as she propped it in the shadow of the house wall she gave it a friendly little pat and whispered, 'Wait for me, and be good. I won't be long.'

  She stood for a moment in the shadow beside it, watching and listening. There were no lights in the windows. The alarm-cock was silent. Indeed, not many sounds would be audible above the rush of wind in the treetops. This had got stronger now, almost as if a storm were coming. Mary, flattening herself back into the deep shadow between the steps and the house wall, got out her book and her torch, and shone a cautious light on the page.

  To Unfaften Locks…

  It was right, she supposed, to use the spell on the front door of Endor College. It seemed such a simple little rhyme, but if the lock was indeed a magic one…