The bluejay cast a big black shadow on the mountainside. Then the little broom dived into the dark tunnel. The girls tried to hold on to each other and the broomstick at the same time. Very soon it was too dark for Jean to see Amy right in front of her. And it was cold.

Amy could tell that Jean was afraid, so she pretended to be very brave. But, deep inside, Amy was frightened too. Jean had been right all along. There was something spooky about the bluejay. And the broom was mixed up in the spookiness.

“We should have brought our sweaters,” Amy said.

Jean’s teeth were chattering. She looked into the blackness. It seemed an age before they saw a faint light.

“We must be coming to the big cave,” Amy whispered.

This time Wispy didn’t slow down. She kept flying at top speed. The light got brighter. The little broom sailed into the cave.

The fire on the flat rock was almost out. Only a little pale steam came from the big iron pot. The cave was much darker than before. At first Amy thought it was empty.

Then she caught sight of a pile of purple rags beside the big pot. Amy looked hard at it. Now she saw that it was the old witch. She was curled up on the rock, fast asleep. Her pointed purple hat had rolled off her straggly white hair. But she was still clutching her long-handled spoon.

Wispy headed for the flat rock. Before she reached it the bluejay fluttered off the broom. The bird flew to the witch and perched on her shoulder. She tickled the old woman’s cheek with her blue wing.

The witch waved the spoon as if to brush the bird away. She let out a snore.

Again the bluejay tickled the old woman’s cheek. This time the witch opened her green eyes. The bird flew off her shoulder.

At this moment the broom landed on the rock. Amy and Jean got off. Amy looked around for a place to hide. But it was too late.

The witch was wide awake now. She stared at the two girls. Then she looked at the broom. She put her hat back on her head and stood up. “Aren’t you Beryl’s broom? Where, may I ask, is Beryl?”

Amy and Jean stood as if they were frozen. The bluejay was circling round the rock. She flew down in front of the witch. The old woman bent over to take a good look at the bird. She straightened up and turned to Wispy. “Broom, something tells me this is Beryl. Am I right?”

The blue broom nodded.

“Too bad you can’t talk, Broom,” the witch said.

At this Wispy flew to Jean and Amy. The witch walked over to them. “And who are you?” she demanded in her harsh voice.

Amy’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed. “This is Jean,” she said, trying hard not to sound frightened. “And I’m Amy.”

The witch took a long hard look at Amy. Then she bent over and picked up the bluejay. She stroked the bird’s head with one bony finger. “Silly little witch,” she said. “What did you do to get yourself in this condition?”