Carbonel and Calidor

18. The Duel

‘WONDERFUL! Wonderful!’ sang Miss Dibdin, as the broom, sloping steeply, circled higher and higher. Up and up it went, the wind singing in its twigs and whipping Rosemary’s hair out behind her. After a dozen turns she called breathlessly:

‘Don’t you think we’re high enough, John? You’re hanging on to my waist, and Miss Dibdin is hanging on to your waist, and if I stop hanging on to the broom handle, we shall all three slither off the end! I can’t ... hold ... on ... much longer!’

‘Then tell the broom what you want it to do!’ shouted Miss Dibdin. ‘Showing off, that’s what it’s doing. You have to be firm with young flying besoms, and let ’em know who’s master.’

‘Down broom! Down a little!’ commanded Rosemary desperately. ‘And then straight on to Fallowhithe, and hurry!’

At once the broom tipped the other way, so suddenly that John and Miss Dibdin nearly catapulted over Rosemary’s head, then it straightened out, settling down to a steady forward flight.

‘I say, I think I can steer it a little by pressing one knee or the other against the handle!’ said Rosemary.

‘The station is right behind us!’ joined in Miss Dibdin. ‘And we’re coming up to Tucket Towers. How thrilling. And I do believe that’s Dulcie Witherspoon in the garden. I can see her pink frock. Oh, I do hope she sees us! Dulcie! Dulcie!’ she shouted. ‘Coo-ee! Look at me flying up here!’

‘Don’t call her,’ said John curtly, turning so abruptly to frown at Miss Dibdin that the broom rocked perilously.

‘Do sit still!’ said Rosemary crossly.

‘Well, we don’t want Mrs Witherspoon knowing where we’re going. She might find out and start interfering,’ said John, facing squarely front once more.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Miss Dibdin in a resigned voice.

As they flew over the clump of trees growing beside the house, the rooks rose in a protesting cloud, and then settled down again. Through the overhanging boughs, here and there, they could see the drive leading up to Tucket Towers, the crumpled humps that were the roofs and the tower itself which stood up like a warning finger, where Carbonel sat patiently waiting. When they flew over the pink blob which was Mrs Witherspoon, Miss Dibdin gave a sudden chuckle.

‘What are you laughing at?’ called Rosemary over her shoulder.

‘Oh, I was ... just thinking how surprised Dulcie would be if she did see us. But of course there is no reason why she should look up, is there?’ She chuckled again.

‘Bags I sit in front and steer coming back!’ said John. ‘It’s simply super! You can see the fields and woods and houses down below, like your bed-cover, Rosie. You know, the patchwork one.’

‘And the roads like white ribbons!’ said Rosemary.

‘There’s the motorway to Fallowhithe with streams of cars and lorries, looking like beetles! That greyish, pinkish smudge must be the town,’ said John.

‘But surely you can tell me why it’s so important that Dulcie shouldn’t know why you are going to Fallowhithe?’ said Miss Dibdin.

John told her about Carbonel and Calidor, and Grisana’s wicked scheme. But he made no mention of the purple cracker, although he began to feel uncomfortable about it.

‘Do you mean to tell me that my dear pussididdlums is a royal cat? I always thought there was something special about him! And poor Carbonel! Imagine being a prisoner of Dulcie’s! Of course I forgive Crum ... I mean Prince Calidor for running away. If there is anything I can do to help ... Oh dear, I do wish I hadn’t ...’ she stopped.

‘Hadn’t what?’ asked John. But before Miss Dibdin could answer, Rosemary, who had been looking anxiously forwards, said: ‘There’s a great bank of cloud in front. It would take ages to go round it.’

‘Then we’d better go straight through if it will save time,’ said John.

The swirling cloud swallowed them up and the broom ploughed on and on; but, no longer able to see anything but the surrounding mist, they could not tell at what speed they were flying. The silence was complete. There was not so much as the beat of a bird’s wing.

‘It’s like being wrapped in cotton-wool,’ said John.

‘I shall be jolly glad when we’re out in the sunshine again. Nothing but grey swirling cloud everywhere. It’s creepy,’ went on Rosemary.

‘Hush!’ said Miss Dibdin suddenly. ‘Quiet, I can hear something!’

They all three listened. Far away, but coming nearer and nearer was the unmistakable sound of a bicycle bell. ‘There it is again, much nearer!’ said Rosemary.

‘But it can’t be a bicycle bell! Not up here!’ cried John incredulously.

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid it is,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘It’s Dulcie Witherspoon on her tricycle!’

‘But tricycles can’t fly!’ said Rosemary.

‘Hers could,’ said Miss Dibdin sourly. ‘If she made the right magic, and she might. She said I had no imagination because I thought only brooms could fly. And now she is following us, and it’s all my fault. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known about Carbonel and Calidor. But you didn’t tell me till I’d done it.’

‘Done what?’ asked Rosemary.

‘You wouldn’t let me call to Dulcie when we were flying over Tucket Towers,’ went on Miss Dibdin sadly. ‘I did so want her to see me really flying, so I pulled a button off my coat and dropped it on top of her as we passed.’ (The buttons on her coat were very large and black.)

‘Help!’ said John. ‘Well, we shall just have to hope we can go faster than she can, and escape her that way.’

The bicycle bell rang again, and it sounded much nearer. Rosemary clapped the handle of the broom with her knees, and made encouraging noises with her tongue, and for a short time it increased its pace, only to sink back again to the original speed.

‘We must be a pretty heavy load for it,’ said John. ‘I suppose it’s only meant to carry one person really.’

‘The noise of the bell is getting louder and louder,’ said Rosemary. ‘It must be quite near!’

‘There’s a dark shape coming towards us through the mist!’ said John, who was looking over his shoulder. And as he spoke, through the cloud behind them came a strange sight: young Mrs Witherspoon on her tricycle, crouched low over the handlebars and pedalling fast. Her black hair was down and streaming behind her. She was not aware of the flying broom and its three passengers, until she was nearly on top of them; then she braked so sharply that the tricycle reared and she had to stand up on the pedals. Then, adjusting her pace to theirs, as it righted itself, she drew alongside. Gullion, immovable as ever, was sitting in the basket in front.

‘Well! Well! Well!’ she said, laughing heartily as she shook back her long hair. ‘If it isn’t Dorothy Dibdin, actually flying on her broom! Though I see someone else is in control. You there in front! Why, if it isn’t one of those deceitful children! And bless me, you are the other!’ she went on, turning to John. ‘Collecting for Orphan Children indeed! Well, you won’t get your two pennies from me, that’s certain! So the rooks were right. They warned me that something strange was flying overhead. So did Gullion, and something hard hit me on the forehead.’ (Miss Dibdin beamed at this.) ‘And so I came up to see what it was, and it’s only you! And where are you off to?’

‘That’s our affair,’ said John shortly.

‘We have no intention of telling you!’ said Miss Dibdin haughtily.

‘As if I care,’ said Mrs Witherspoon, with a toss of her head. ‘But wherever it is, I think ... yes, I think, I shall stop you from going there!’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Rosemary. ‘We simply must get to Fallowhithe!’ John’s warning ‘Shut up, Rosie!’ was too late.

‘So that’s where you want to go!’ the young witch replied, with a mocking laugh. ‘What a pity you will never get there! I shall stop you, just to show the power of my magic!’

‘You can’t stop us,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘The besom is our servant, not yours!’

‘But I can muddle and confuse it, so that it doesn’t know north from south, or up from down! And I can bewitch your young friend in front who seems to be in control; she is twice the witch that you are, Dorothy Dibdin. I can see that with half an eye.’

‘Don’t you dare touch Rosie!’ shouted John. But Mrs Witherspoon only laughed.

‘Look out and hold tight,’ whispered Miss Dibdin. ‘I don’t know what she’s up to, but be ready for anything!’

As she spoke the young witch bent over her handlebars. Pedalling hard and fast, with twinkling knees, she dived under the broom, came up the other side and circled over them, so low that they had to duck to avoid a blow from her high-heeled shoes. They barely had time to look up again before she skimmed under and over once more, this time from head to tail. Over and under she went again and again, and as she circled round and round, she chanted something, the words of which were blown away by the speed of her going.

‘Something is happening!’ said Rosemary anxiously. ‘It feels as though she is twisting an invisible thread round my arms and legs ... Help! It’s binding me to the broom ... I can scarcely move! And the broom won’t do as it’s told any longer! What shall I do!’ she cried desperately.

The broom, which had been flying as straight as an arrow, was faltering uncertainly now, as though it had lost its bearings. Under cover of Mrs Witherspoon’s mocking laughter, Miss Dibdin said: ‘Keep your heads down and listen to me. I’ve got an idea. You remember I told you, it is the bundle of twigs at the end of a broom that give it its power to fly?’

‘There’s a bundle of twigs tied on to the back of the tricycle, where the saddle bag usually is, I noticed,’ said John. ‘It’s sticking out like a turkey’s tail-feathers.’

‘Exactly,’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘Every time the tricycle swoops under the broom, John, do your best to pull out a few twigs. When it comes up the other side, I shall to the same. Cheer up, Rosemary, I think it’s going to work. Now, John!’

With a ‘whoosh’ Mrs Witherspoon dived beneath them once more, and as she went, John bent over and snatched a couple of twigs. As it came up the other side, Miss Dibdin pulled out a few more. The broom had now lost all sense of direction, heading first in one direction, then in another. Round went the tricycle again. This time John managed to pull out several twigs and Miss Dibdin, in her turn, a considerable handful.

‘That’s loosened them nicely. It’s beginning to work!’ said Miss Dibdin with a chuckle. Mrs Witherspoon stopped chanting. The tricycle had begun to slow down. Loosened from the band that held them by the removal of the first twigs, the others began to slip away of their own accord, and as they fell out of sight into the mist below, the tricycle went slower and slower, although Mrs Witherspoon pedalled faster and faster.

‘Whatever is the matter with you?’ she said to the tricycle, as it began to flounder, like a bather in deep water who can’t swim. The more it faltered, the more the broom began to pick up speed and purpose.

‘Matter?’ called Miss Dibdin triumphantly. ‘Look behind you, Dulcie dear! Look at your twigs! It was as easy as plucking a chicken!’ Mrs Witherspoon looked.

‘No! No! Not that!’ she screamed. ‘My power is ebbing away!’ And as the last twig fell, and disappeared into the greyness below, she threw up her hands, and the tricycle plummeted down and down out of sight into the thick blanket of mist.

‘Who is the winner now?’ Miss Dibdin shouted after her, with a triumphant laugh. From far away, as though in defiance, came the faint ringing of the bicycle bell ... and then ... silence.

‘Rosie! Are you all right?’ asked John anxiously. Rosemary nodded.

‘The minute Mrs Witherspoon stopped that chanting, my arms and legs seemed to become unbound again. But poor thing, do you think she’s hurt?’

‘Witches, like cats, have nine lives. That’s why they work together. She will survive, no doubt,’ said Miss Dibdin coldly.

‘Oughtn’t we to go down and see?’ asked John.

‘You can’t,’ she replied. ‘You commanded the broom to go to Fallowhithe, and to Fallowhithe it will go. Nothing will stop it, except more powerful magic.’

As she spoke, the mist round them began to dissolve. It became thinner and thinner, until at last they sailed out into radiant sunshine.

‘Thank goodness!’ said Rosemary. She looked down. ‘Why we’re right over the motorway to Fallowhithe and flying lower!’

‘I say,’ went on John. ‘Look at the roundabout down there!’

Just below them was a circle of green grass. Round it flowed what looked like an unending stream of traffic. In the middle of the roundabout, they could just see a pink blob, and the crumpled shape of what might once have been a tricycle. As they flew over, it looked as though the pink blob shook its fist at them.

‘But however will she get away from there, with traffic swirling round all the time?’ asked John.

‘It will do her no harm to cool her heels for a little,’ said Miss Dibdin drily. ‘Besides, it might keep her out of mischief.’