Broomtrick

By Pamela Love     

Leaning against a tree trunk, I nibbled on a roll—all I could afford at the market square—and mulled over how to move on from this village. Cursed to keep journeying lest some disaster befall me—be it a broken bone or house fire or falling victim to thieves, all of which have occurred—travel is my constant concern. My fingernails were already chewed to the quick from worry. My three days were almost up. I snorted. Who was I trying to fool? I would have to walk, despite my blistered feet.

A bald, wrinkled peasant in brown homespun strode by, munching on a handful of nuts. He tossed a few over his shoulder. I reached to pick them up—I was so hungry I would’ve eaten a pickle if I could have.

“Hey!” He jerked his head around and made a fist. “Buy your own food, stranger. I’m feeding—”

“Birds,” I muttered. My gut twisted with envy of those wrens and sparrows as I let go of the nuts, but I didn’t dare fight him.

But the man pointed to the maple above us. “Nope. Look there.”

Spiraling down through the leaves with slow grace came a broom—sans witch—onto the cobblestones. It briskly swept up the nuts under its weather-beaten brown straws, then flew a few yards away to repeat the process with another villager.

My jaw dropped. “Broom feeding?”  I’d seen flying brooms before, but I never thought of them as anything but witches’ tools. That’s one of the things I regret most about the curse—sure, I see plenty since I need to be constantly on the move, but there’s so much I miss since I can’t spend more than three days in one place.

“You ain’t from hereabouts?” he asked. A glance at my polka-dotted turban confirmed his guess.

“Spark Spaulding. I’m from…” I shrugged. “Many places.”

“Well, when witches die, their broomsticks fly off. They’re free as birds after that, going where they—”

“So… do any other witches watch over the brooms, then?” Holding my breath, I waited for this crucial answer. Can’t risk another curse.

He shook his head. “Don’t need to. Us common folk leave bits of this and that for them.” Now the broom was sweeping up crumbs beside the woman who’d sold me my roll. The peasant smiled at the sight.

So did I. Here’s a piece of luck. “May your day be peaceful.” I turned away.

“Besides, those wild brooms can—”

I held up my hand since I’d learned all I needed. “Thank you kindly, but I’d better be on my way.”

Pocketing what remained of my bread, I headed to the village outskirts to find a spot with nobody around to interfere. The earlier broom had shown no fear of people, and I had no fear of heights. A quick flight to the nearest city on the first broom I could trap was all I could wish for. I’d ridden plenty of bucking horses without a fall. How much harder could this be?

I hesitated a moment. Don’t be foolish, Spark. A roll for a ride—that’s a fair trade. Ignoring my growling belly, I shredded the bread, scattering it on a path. Moments later, a broom with long, battered straws swooped down to sweep them up. Losing no time, I leaped aboard.

It launched itself skyward, rocketing past some clouds white as sheep’s wool. Well, I’d expected that and just gripped it all the harder. Good thing this broom doesn’t have any splinters, or I’d be in real trouble.

Trouble? I soon learned I didn’t know the meaning of the word as far as this broom was concerned. For it dove straight toward the ground like a hawk after a rabbit. Swallowing hard, I hung on, trusting it wouldn’t crash. It’s not like I can jump off.

My faith was rewarded as it pulled out of its dive at the last second. However, my sigh of relief came too soon. Now, it swerved and did loop-the-loops and other maneuvers I lack the words for, anything it could think of to break free of me. I clung to it for all I was worth.

Finally, I shouted, “Take me to the city. I’ll never give up. Do as I say!” And I shook the front end hard.

The broom slowed down and did as I’d ordered, although moving no faster than a walking pace. Was it sulky I’d outmatched it? Or merely weary? In any case, it carried me along at just my height above the path. I wasn’t bothered—I’d had enough of its tantrum.

Finally, I spied a signpost for the city, Royport, on the other side of the hill. Giving the broom no warning, I hopped off just a few paces short of the sign so I wouldn’t be caught off guard if it decided to drop me unexpectedly. “There! Now you can go.”

It zoomed up in front of me. I saluted it—just as something thwacked me across my back, knocking me off my feet. Before I hit the ground, another broom dashed between my legs. Instinctively, I caught hold of it. Whirling around, it shot back to the village square as if it were an arrow. All I could do was maintain my grasp and bite my lip in frustration.

At last, it dumped me at the feet of the peasant who’d told me of this magic.

“Rode one, did you?” The peasant slapped his knees with glee as the broom departed. “Well, you weren’t the first man fool enough to try it—nor the first the broomsticks paid back like this.”

A tree branch fell on me. The peasant gasped. Moaning as I rubbed my aching head, I said, “That doesn’t surprise me a bit… by crumb.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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