by Mary Stewart
'…the dancing ring of days!' called Mary (or something like that) and, as before, several things happened at once.
The flying broomstick lost its way and plunged, as suddenly as a falling stone, into the mist. There was a yell, an enormous splash, then silence except for a hiss like metal cooling, and a sudden agitated lapping of water on the pebbled shore. Beside the children, the little broomstick gave a leap, a buck, a funny little flick of its birch-twigs, and vanished.
And with a splash of gold and red and lovely light, the sun came up.
The two children, with the two cats, looked about them as the golden light grew.
They were standing in a long meadow where cows grazed, apparently unalarmed by what had happened.
In front of them was a narrow strip of shingle which edged, not a lake of mist, but a river. The mist had gone. And the river was vaguely familiar to Mary.
'There,' said Peter suddenly, 'by the bridge. That's my bicycle! I thought I knew the place. It's only three miles home from here. Can you hang on behind?'
She hadn't even been missed. The front door at Red Manor was still unlocked, and after the children had said goodbye–'And see you in the morning,' said Peter–Mary let herself and Tib in quietly, locked the door behind her, and crept up to her bedroom. The grandfather clock, coming up to five o'clock, merely winked its brass eye at her and ticked calmly on.
Her room was as she had left it, with one difference.
The fly-by-night had vanished from her tooth-glass. And when she took off her coat and put a hand in the pocket, she found only a torch. The book of Master Spells had vanished, too.
And padding round in circles on the quilt, purring, looking very contented and very sleepy indeed–as well he might–was a very ordinary cat, who would never, Mary knew, try to be a witch's cat again.
'I have had a letter from your parents,' said Great-Aunt Charlotte later that morning.
She had come down, early for her, while Mary was still finishing breakfast. For a moment Mary felt alarmed, thinking that her great-aunt must know something about the night's adventures, but Great-Aunt Charlotte was as placid as usual, and obviously pleased with the news she bore.
'They are coming back at the beginning of October,' said Great-Aunt Charlotte, 'and I am delighted to say that they talk of buying a house in this part of the country. There is a delightful house about three miles from here, which will be vacant soon. It has an excellent garden, which includes a stretch of the river. What is it, child?'
'Is it near a bridge?' asked Mary.
'Bridge? Of course they play bridge. That is one of the reasons why it will be so delightful to have them near us. Your mother tends to be a little erratic, but your father plays an excellent game, and the dear Vicar–'
'I meant–well, it doesn't matter,' said Mary. 'I know the house, Aunt Charlotte. It's very nice. And it'll be lovely living near here.'
'And not so lonely for you, with your brother and sister here?' Great-Aunt Charlotte patted her shoulder, kindly. 'But I have more good news for you. The Vicar–our own Vicar–came home yesterday. His son Peter is a boy about your own age. It will be pleasant for both of you to have a companion, I am sure.'
'That will be lovely.' Mary had kept her eyes on her plate while her great-aunt spoke. Now she looked up. 'Aunt Charlotte, if we come to live here, could I keep Tib, please?'
'Tib? Oh, the cat. I see no reason why not, if your parents make no objection. And Confucius certainly does not care for him. In fact, I am not at all sure if he even belongs to the house. Do you know, Miss Marshbanks?'
'He does not belong here,' said Miss Marjoribanks with decision. 'And he certainly seems to have strangely taken to Mary.'
Mary looked down at her plate again. Miss Marjoribanks had–it seemed to her–been watching her very narrowly indeed this morning. Was it possible that she had heard something? Or even seen?
'Well,' said Great-Aunt Charlotte placidly, 'Mrs McLeod will know. We can ask her. Now, dear child, enjoy yourself. I think I shall go and see Zebedee about the roses.'
She dropped an absent kiss on Mary's cheek, and went out, with Confucius waddling behind her. Miss Marjoribanks rose, rang for Mrs McLeod to clear, and went briskly to her chair to get her knitting. It was, thought Mary, going to be the usual busy day, except that now she was going to see Peter, and Tib was going with her.
At that exact moment–perhaps a little of the magic still clung about him–Tib jumped on to the window-sill outside. Mary went across to open the window. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and Zebedee was on the lawn sweeping up the leaves with his big broomstick, a normal, ordinary broomstick that did exactly as he told it.
The click of knitting needles suddenly stopped.
Looking up, Mary caught Miss Marjoribanks watching the broomstick, too, still with that strange look in her eyes.
Suddenly, memories came back to her; the rushing and crackling of twigs on that first night when Tib leaped to her window-sill–the crash of a heavy body hurtling down too fast on an unmanageable broomstick.
Then there was Miss Marjoribanks' stiffness at breakfast next morning, and the way she and Tib had looked at one another. Finally, there was the memory of someone, somewhere–this memory was vague and misty, and getting all the time vaguer–of someone writing in an enormous book, for the second time: 'Mary Smith, Red Manor, Shropshire…"
Mary saw it now. Poor Miss Marjoribanks had been Tib's first choice, but she hadn't liked Tib, so she had never found the fly-by-night, never had the power to manage the little broomstick, open the locks, find–what was it she had found, and where?
Beside her Tib purred, arching himself against her.
She stooped to whisper in his ear:
'You tried us both, didn't you, to get your friend Gib back from …from wherever it was. Poor Miss Marshbanks! She'll never know what she missed that adventure…'
She paused. Later, when she had caught up on her sleep, no doubt she would remember it all perfectly…
Miss Marjoribanks, who would never know what she had missed, was unwrapping a new hank of wool in a rather nasty green shade.
'It is delightful, my dear, that your parents should be thinking of moving near us. Of course it will mean that you will have to board at school, but no doubt you will enjoy that? Of course you will–and indeed needs must, since–' She paused, and fixed Mary with her eye'–since there is no school near here of any kind.' She paused again. 'Of any kind,' she repeated, firmly.
'Not now, anyway,' said Mary softly, to Tib, who was sitting beside her.
Tib smirked.
Nobody ever quite knew how the birch-grove came to be there, down beside the river, just near the old stone bridge. They grew like magic, those birches, or so said Mary's father, who had bought the field along with the nearby house. And very soon there they were, full grown, golden in spring and green in summer, and in autumn rich with orange and russet and amber and all the colours of sunset.
But in winter, when the trees were bare, the colour of dark raisins, bloomy with purple against the high windy sky, you could hear the wind swishing through them, whistling like something flying; and the myriad tiny twigs rattled like the hoofs of galloping deer, and overhead the birds tumbled, crying and shrilling, in the winter sky.
But Mary, who was away at school, and seldom went down to the woods in winter, never heard it.
And if she had, she would not have remembered.
Author's Note
It is possible that some readers may not believe in magic broomsticks. I can only quote the letter I received from Messrs Harrods, Ltd. in reply to my queries about prices of the available range.
'Obviously the demand for this product is limited and, with modern ideas regarding colour, weight, and the use of plastics, quite apart from a desire for comfort, they can only be made to a very special order. During the past few years the helibroom has been found increasingly popular both as a means of transport and, when use is made of the remote control
system available at extra charge, for the traditional clearing-up-the-garden-rubbish. May we suggest one made from carbon-fibre reinforced plastic with nylon bristles. This could be obtained in black, brown, or in pastel shades. The two-stroke engine is made of aluminium to save weight, and so are the rotors. Greasing is only needed every 100 years or 1,000,000 miles. Accessories which can be supplied at extra cost are a matching telescope and a coffee percolator.
'The work is specialised, and there may be a delay of several years in obtaining the helibroom, so we would appreciate prompt confirmation of any order. The basic cost would be 874 pounds 75 pence.'
I believe there is now a cheaper German model available, but the report in last month's Whoosh was unfavourable. The Helibroom remains the best buy.
M.S.
