Broomstick Battles. Nathan Reed

the witchy hour struck at that very moment.

      Miss Strega’s broomstick came whooshing out of the Broom Cupboard under the stairs. “Come on,” said Miss Strega, climbing aboard, “let’s go for a proper Spin. I feel another sneeze coming on so there’s no time to lose.”

      Jessica quickly clambered on to her broomstick again and whistled for her nightingale, Berkeley, to get into her pocket. Miss Strega was already disappearing through the attic trap door.

Chapter Two

      Jessica landed on the tallest chimneypot on the rooftop and looked down at the High Street. Buses, cars and bikes splashed through greasy puddles. School children with violins and football kits and library books dawdled in front of shop windows looking longingly at toys and books, mobile phones and trainers.

      None of them, thought Jessica, could even see the creaking sign that hung over Miss Strega’s shop door.

      And they can’t see me, either, she thought, wrapping her Super-Duper Deluxe Guaranteed-lnvisibility-When-You-Need-lt cape around her.

      “Do stop disappearing, Jessica,” Miss Strega called from the peak of the roof tiles. “Come over here and take my hand.”

      After one final chin-wobbling sneeze – Aa. . .aaa. . .aaa. . .aachoooo! – Miss Strega began to chant:

      “Doog eltneg noom, Ward su pu, Tel su ylf, Rafa, tfola, Kcab, kcab, Kcab, kcab.”

      At the last “kcab”, a shower of bright shooting stars fell out from behind the moon. The air crackled. The whole world groaned as if some large heavy machinery were braking painfully to a halt and going into reverse. Miss Strega and Jessica teetered dizzily until the noise stopped.

      All the High Street shops had disappeared. In their place lay soft rolling hills with fields of round haystacks, a river with a humped bridge, and a strange little house. Its untidy yard was stacked high with bunches of twigs and lengths of branches.

      “Tickety-boo!” Miss Strega clapped her hands. “If I’m not mistaken this is the historic site of Dame Walpurga’s Well, one of the Wonders of the Witch World. Nowadays it’s in the W3 headquarters at Coven Garden. Sadly, the cottage doesn’t exist any longer.”

      Jessica frowned. “Why can we see it then if it doesn’t exist?”

      “Because, my little lamb’s lettuce, we have just Spelled Backwards to when all the trouble started, to the witchy year of 370.”

      Jessica whistled. “Wow, I wish I had listened to that chant.”

      “What chant?” Miss Strega tapped her very long nose. “You really must be more observant, Jessica. Now, let’s fly down. You’ll need to turn your cape to Guaranteed Invisibility.”

      Jessica floated off the roof. To her surprise, the sky was filled with witches hurtling from north, south, east and west, all flying the Wrong-Way-Up on old-fashioned broomsticks. They whizzed past with centimetres to spare, muttering crossly and spitting nails. Jessica had to use both her Duck and Dive twigs to avoid bumping into them.

      “Simply hopeless!” Miss Strega sighed. “Those Wrong-Way-Uppers can’t even steer, let alone do any fancy flying. And, sadly, once they get tired and forget to be cross, they fall out of the sky.”

      Even as she spoke, one of the hurtling witches began dropping helplessly towards the river.

      “Dearie me.” Miss Strega gave a sort of choked giggle. “It looks like she’s in for a ducking.”

      They hovered above the river watching until the bedraggled witch had clambered safely to the bank and joined the back of a long line of dripping witches trudging towards Dame Walpurga’s cottage.

      Jessica and Miss Strega zipped over them and descended beside a handwritten notice on the garden gate.

      NEW BROOMS FOR OLD

      Dame Walpurga was sitting on a low three-legged stool. She was very, very warty, Jessica couldn’t help noticing, and even had a grinning warty toad sitting on her shoulder. Walpurga was also very, very loud. She boomed and cackled her head off as she demonstrated her new brooms to the swarm of eager customers who surrounded her.

      “My first broom,” she was saying, “the Walpurga Basic, had only eighteen twigs, me dears, but it’s still a cracker. But you might prefer this one, the Walpurga Special. It has a Cauldron Hook, an Adjustable Seatbelt for your mascot and a very useful Air Bag (for those unavoidable crash-landings). Or perhaps,” she cackled, “some of you zippier types would like the Walpurga High-flyer for some extra oomph on the Milky Way. Go on,” she said encouragingly, as she passed her brooms around, “have a whirl! Have a test drive! Ig-Fo-Li, that’s it. Ignition, Forward and Lift. Whoops! Re-Pa-De. Reverse, Pause, Descend. There you go!”

      She roared her support as the witches hurled their old besoms away and jerkily flew up on to the roof on their new brooms. Some of them even whooped and slapped their bottoms as they took off.

      “Wey-hey!” they shouted. “Long life to Dame Walpurga and her Blessed Warts.”

      Dame Walpurga hooted delightedly. “Have a Spin,” she yelled. “And don’t forget the old Ducking and Diving.”

      Jessica turned to Miss Strega. “They all seem very friendly to me,” she whispered. “How did they end up going to war?”

      “Wait,” said Miss Strega, “look who’s coming now.”

Chapter Three