‘Now!’ said Carbonel, and she leant over and dropped the plait into the centre of the swirling water, which rose up to meet it in a froth of winking bubbles. Without thinking twice she said aloud:
While the mixture’s boiling hot,
Bear me round the reeking pot.
Widdershins, please fly designedly,
Seven times round. And thank you kindly.
The broom shook itself and rose slowly from the ground. At the same time a swirl of steam rose from the cauldron, so that she only caught glimpses of her friends below as she whirled round; John and the Occupier on the wheelbarrow and gazing upwards open-mouthed, and Carbonel sitting tense and upright on an upturned bucket. The broom was making wide circles at some speed, so that Rosemary’s pigtails flew out from beneath the witch’s hat, and what with keeping her balance and stopping the hat from slipping over her face like an extinguisher, she had her work cut out.
At the fifth time round, the steam from the cauldron began to sink, by the sixth it had become a mere trickle, and when the broom deposited her gently by the fire after the seventh circle there was no steam at all. Although the fire still burned brightly, the water in the cauldron was placid and still. Rosemary looked eagerly at its unmoving surface, and there, breaking the reflection of her own face, floated a garland made of seven different climbing plants. Very gingerly Rosemary bent over, and with the handle of the broom hooked it out, and lo and behold, there were flowers of wild rose and bryony. There were white trumpets of bindweed, delicately touched with pink, sweet-smelling clusters of honeysuckle, and little purple vetch, and the leaves and tendrils were as green and delicate as the day on which they were picked seven years ago.
As Rosemary knelt down with the garland on her lap, there fell a silence that seemed as though everything was listening, the sounds of the f?te died away, the birds stopped their twittering, even the thrush stopped hammering his snail shell and stood motionless with his head on one side. Very carefully, very carefully, so that not one strand of the garland should break, Rosemary began to unravel the plait. And while she unravelled, quite silently in her head she said the spell that she had learnt by heart. (If you do not know how she could say it silently, remember the times you have repeated your homework to yourself quite clearly, without making a sound.) The vetch twined its pale green tendrils round her fingers as though to hinder her, the juice from the crushed berries of the bittersweet made the strands slip from between her feverish fingers, but she went on. And this is the spell she said:
Fingle fangle, warp and wind,
Weeds that strangle, climb, and bind,
Plants that trip unwary feet,
Bramble, vetch, and bittersweet.
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… and with the handle of the broom hooked it out.
The scent from the honeysuckle rose sweet and sickly, and so strong that her head began to swim and she felt faint and drowsy, and when she shook off the drowsiness the thorns tore her fingers, but she closed her lips tightly so that no sound should escape, and went on untwisting, untwining.
Fangle, jingle, mickle muckle,
Bindweed, ivy, honeysuckle,
Climbing bramble, tendrilled vine,
Loose your hold, untwist, untwine
Silently, without a sound
Free the Slave and loose the Bound.
The scent from the honeysuckle was so strong that only by a tremendous effort was Rosemary able to finish. But with the last word of the spell the last twist unravelled itself beneath her torn and bleeding fingers, and fell to the ground. For a minute the seven strands lay there, strong and green in the sunlight, and then beneath her eyes they wilted and shrank, the flowers dropped their shrivelled petals and the leaves became dull, the glossy green gave way to dusty brown. And as a balloon withers and shrinks when the air escapes, so the strand of creepers diminished and shrank. And when Rosemary bent down to pick up the withered twig that had once been honeysuckle, it fell to powder between her fingers. A little breeze sprang up, and it was scattered and gone.
The fire was nearly out. The cauldron had boiled dry, and in the bottom was a hole the size of her fist. Rosemary gave a great sigh. She was aware that the thrush was once more tapping with his snail shell. The noise of the f?te sounded cheerfully on the breeze again. She stood up with the broom in her hand. Carbonel was still sitting on the far side of the enclosure.
‘Say the Summoning Words!’ he said harshly. ‘If I am still bound I must come to you.’
Rosemary said them rather faintly. She felt strangely tired.
By squeak of bat
And brown owl’s hoot,
By hellebore,
And mandrake root,
Come swift and silent
As the tomb,
Dark minion
Of the twiggy broom.
Nothing happened. Carbonel still sat unmoved upon the bucket. There was a long, long pause. Then very deliberately he stepped down and came towards her.
‘Little mistress!’ he said.
‘You never called me that before, and now I’m no longer your mistress,’ said Rosemary, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘You didn’t have to come this time when I summoned you!’ Carbonel was purring deeply.
‘I came in gratitude. That will be a stronger bond than any spell.’ And his warm tongue licked her scratched hands.
There was a movement on the other side of the enclosure. The young man got up from the wheelbarrow. He yawned and stretched.
‘Extraordinary thing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I must have dropped off to sleep, sitting here bolt upright! I had a pretty rum dream, too. I’ll tell you about it sometime.’
Rosemary looked inquiringly at Carbonel, who shook his head.
‘It is just as well he should think he dreamt it. It will save awkward questions.’ But only Rosemary heard him, because only she had the broom.
‘It has been a warm day,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much for the Hat. We shan’t need it any more.’
‘Not at all. I hope you had a good game with it. I say, it’s five o’clock! I must fly. Look here, will you and young John put it back in the van? I will give you the key, then you can bring it back to the summer-house when you have locked it up. Here you are. See you later!’
The children listened in silence to his receding footsteps. Then Rosemary said:‘I know what I am going to do.’
She removed the cauldron, and bent down and blew up the fire again, and then she took the Book of Spells and poked it deep into the smouldering heart of the ashes.
‘Stand back!’ warned Carbonel, and she jumped away just in time. With a swish, a green flame edged with purple shot up ten feet into the air. For a moment it flashed and flickered, then it wavered and sank. There was nothing to be seen of the book in the bonfire, nothing but a trickle of sluggish, oily-looking smoke.
‘You are wise, little mistress!’ said Carbonel.
‘Well, I think it was just silly of her,’ said John. ‘Think what fun we could have had with it on wet days.’
‘Nothing but evil ever came of that book.’
In silence they put away the flower pot in the toolshed, then, taking the Broom and the Cauldron with them, they went to replace the Hat in the van.
‘Before you put the Broom in the car, I shall say good-bye,’ said Carbonel gravely.
‘But shan’t we see you again ever any more? Must you go?’ asked Rosemary.
‘I must go. I have work to do. I shall never forget what you and John have done. You will see me at the Full Moon!’ he said. He gave Rosemary’s hand a little lick, then he turned, and they watched him grow smaller and smaller as he trotted with head and tail erect down a long path bordered oneither side with tiger-lilies. Then he turned a corner and was gone.
‘How simply beastly,’ said John. ‘Everything is over now. We’ve even missed tea. I’m starving.’ Silently he passed Rosemary his handkerchief.
‘We ought to feel as pleased as anything, because we have done what we set out to do. But I don’t feel as though I shall ever be pleased again.’ She blew her nose very hard.