At First Glance

By Pamela Love

At first glance, it looked like just another broken branch—one of many in the forest canopy due to the previous day’s windstorm. However, Phezz noticed it twitching within a tangle of vines in the fork of an ash tree. The Xintixa’s eyes widened. That’s no branch. Too round, too smooth, and there’s straw at one end. I’ll bet my tail that’s a wild broom.

Once a witch died, her riding broom was turned loose by her coven. It was unusual for wild brooms to enter the Xintixa Forest, and even rarer to see one alone. Normally, they flew in small flocks just above the forest canopy. Phezz had caught an occasional glimpse of them when they migrated. The storm must’ve knocked this one down here. “Trying to free yourself?” Phezz chittered to the struggling broom.

His insides twisted as he remembered helping lift the tree that had fallen on his friend Terrizzel that morning. Once the hickory had shifted, skilled healers had taken over.

“Phezznibbett, scout the forest for other damaged trees and mark them for removal,” his village’s leader had ordered.

Phezz obeyed, although it was the kind of labor he hated—gently testing one branch after another for sturdiness, examining cracks in trunks for depth? He was ready for action!

Now, agile as the squirrel he so resembled, he climbed downward, pulling out a knife. “Let me help.”

Only Phezz’s lightning-quick reflexes saved his life when an eerie whistle bore down on him moments later. He dove off the branch, flinging himself down the trunk. Digging his claws into the bark, he stopped his descent halfway down.

Three brooms circled the ash tree. One had several holes. The whistle’s source, Phezz thought. Another had a scorch mark; the third, a splintered tip.

Well, here’s the rest of its flock. Like Xintixa, wild brooms guard their own. Phezz gulped, realizing that his good deed appeared to them from above as if he’d been attacking one of their kind. And it’s less battered and faded than they are—likely it’s the youngest. No wonder they’re being protective. “I was trying to free your friend!” But the others continued their assault.

Scorched Broom struck Phezz’s head. Only his helmet kept him from being knocked out by the glancing blow. He wasn’t the only one half stunned; that broom now wobbled in the air.

Need shelter. Scanning his surroundings, he spotted a hole in a tree within easy leaping distance—or what would’ve been easy if he weren’t half concussed. He sprang.

A horrific shriek erupted from the dark hole and stabbed at Phezz’s ears. A nesting fangbird slashed at him, tearing his vest.

He scrabbled back out, only to have Splinter Broom arrow toward him. Phezz flattened himself on a branch. Another near miss—the blast of air flattened his ear tufts. My luck’s bound to run out soon.

Dashing along the branch, he slipped on some moss, almost missing his grab for a vine. Clinging to it, he jumped off. Whistle Broom’s after me now. Likely the others, too.

Down he swung toward the forest floor. Plenty of burrowers there. Hope the brooms won’t follow me into one of their tunnels. He pulled his legs up as the Whistle Broom raced beneath him. If I can survive that long.

Still the broom trio came, prowling between the trees. At the lowest possible point, Phezz let go of the vine and landed on all fours in the leaf litter. Ignoring his sore paws, he sprinted into the nearest thicket.

At first glance, the flash of purple at the thicket’s edge seemed floral. But Phezz knew that forest like the back of his paw. That vivid purple belonged to no blossom there. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated—just long enough to catch sight of the flame-red hair beneath the hat’s veil.

A witch lay sprawled in a muddy patch beneath some ferns. Phezz crouched beside her. Despite that bruise on her forehead, she’s breathing. Gotta wake her. Maybe she can calm those brooms—I bet the tangled one isn’t wild at all, but hers. A fall would explain her injury and presence here. Witches didn’t walk long distances.

He opened a bag near her right hand. Within were netted pouches of various herbs. Good, she’s a healer—sparkberries! He squeezed the silver and blue striped fruit under her nose.

Gasping for breath, the witch sat up, coughing. She jerked her head this way and that. “Where—where—”

“Looking for your broom, ma’am?” He pointed. “It’s up there, vine tangled. Tried to cut it loose, but three wild ones thought I was trying to hurt it—here they come!”

“Help me stand.” She struggled to her knees and leaned on Phezz’s shoulder as he braced himself under her weight. The witch hoarsely half shouted some spell to the wild brooms speeding toward them. They stopped midair. Another command and they floated toward the witch as if they were twigs drifting downstream.

Thought wild brooms were free. Evidently, witches kept quite a bit of control, just in case. He tucked that fact away for a later time. “Got caught in the storm, ma’am?”

“Aye. Would ye finish freeing my broom? I’ve no blade.” Phezz nodded. “Climb up behind me.”

Phezz did as she’d bidden. And I thought the most exciting thing I’d find on this scouting mission would be a broken branch.

***

A troop of Xintixa were making their way through the treetops moments later. At first glance, they saw what looked like their friend Phezz, arms wrapped around a witch, riding a half-burned wild broom skyward, with two others trailing after them.

They were too skeptical to believe such a thing until well into their third glance.

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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