By Pamela Love

I’m not robbing the witch. Or so I told myself while creeping toward her cottage by moonlight. What used to be her cottage, really—she’d died the day before. Earlier that evening, I’d heard the chanting of her coven from my home. After the death rite, the witches had ridden off on their broomsticks. The dead woman’s broom was gone too, free to live wild.

I’m not taking anything valuable. My growling stomach reminded me that wasn’t true. I gave it a reassuring pat. You deserve it. I earned so little as a seamstress that I grew most of my food and needed help to grow more. Memories filled my mind of the glorious squash, beans, and other vegetables I’d seen while passing the witch’s garden. And those strawberries! I’d complimented the witch once on her produce. She’d laughed and said the compost deserved the credit. I wish I’d asked her for some before she passed.

It’s only a spoonful. Carefully, I reached into the enchanted compost heap with a tin spoon. I knew better than to touch it with iron, which destroys magic. With this richer rot, I can transform my garden.

Before leaving, I pulled out three apple cores from my apron’s pocket. I stuffed them into the witch’s heap. Fair trade.

My conscience eased, I headed home, cradling my precious new fertilizer so it wouldn’t spill. I sprinkled it onto my own heap, then closed the bin.

After a restless night, a thud outside woke me at dawn. I peeked through my curtains. My compost heap had doubled in size, rising high enough to push its lid onto the ground. I clapped. I hadn’t dared hope for more compost, just better.

After scattering feed for my few scrawny fowl, I sat down to porridge and tea. A half-dozen loud cracks shattered the morning’s peace, then frantic squawking. Jumping up, I flung open my back door.

My compost heap had shoved down its bin’s sides. It heaved like an ocean wave, then formed huge hands that grabbed for my chickens. The hens reached their coop just ahead of its grip. The rooster scrambled up after them, but not before those foul fingers tore off its tail.

“No!” I yelled. “Stop that. Let me feed you.” I dumped my oatmeal on the heap. I considered what to give it next, only to have the heap yank off my cotton apron. Its arms now stretched even longer, reaching toward the henhouse.

What have I done? I turned toward my shed. Robbed a witch, that’s what. But one stab with my rake’s iron teeth and—oof!

The heap struck me on the head, hard. I fell to my knees. Through blurry eyes I saw the heap oozing toward me, a fist raised for another blow. Screaming, I tried to crawl away.

I didn’t hear the dead witch’s broom coming, but suddenly, it was bobbing in front of my face. I climbed on, sobbing with relief. The broom started to rise, then dropped as the heap stunned it with a blow.

“Don’t!” I clutched the broom’s bristles, but the heap overpowered me. Now it dragged me along with my wooden would-be rescuer across my garden as I dug in my heels. Half-hysterically, I wailed, “You eat wood? You didn’t eat the bin.” Then I spotted the iron nails sticking out of the boards—it must have been extra careful to escape without getting stabbed. “Wait! Real food tastes better than this. I’ll get you some. Just don’t eat the broom!”

I let go. Part of me thought I’d be grabbed again, but I wasn’t. Part of me thought the heap would eat the witchstick. It didn’t. Slowly, I backed up. I could run. I could find a witch. But not before the compost devoured the wild broom. I won’t take on that guilt, too.

I tossed a sourdough loaf to the heap, then every piece of food I had. “Let me bake something! Bet you like that.” I threw some potatoes in the fireplace to roast.

Time to stall. I dragged a chair outside. With my axe, I chopped it into pieces. “Have something while your potatoes bake. Will you take an arm?” Yes, it would.

That bought the broom some time, as did the next arm. But the risk grew as the monster did. Within minutes, it started swallowing the broom again. I shouted, “Will you take a leg?” Four of those meant more precious minutes.

At last, the smell of baked potatoes drew me back inside. “I’m fetching your treat!” Just give me the seconds I need. Soon I carried out the potatoes in my skirt. I waved one, which was sprouting all over. “Will you take these eyes?”

One by one I flung the potatoes into the heap, careful not to touch the broom. The heap swelled to cottage-size. Moments later, it collapsed into a pile of gray dust. “Glutton! I stuck my needles in those potatoes. You ate iron eyes,” I sneered.

Then I pulled the broom as gently as I could from the rubbish. “I’m so sorry. You saved my life. Are you still… you?”

The broom’s now splintered tip nodded, then it floated out of my arms. It hung in midair.

“Thank you. I wish I could repay—oh!” I dashed back inside and returned with a crust of bread, which I tore into crumbs. It swept them up. Glad I remember how brooms feed. “I’m sorry for what I did. I just wanted to grow more food.” I chuckled ruefully. “Now I have less than I started with.”

The broom left, skimming my rooftop. Sighing, I started cleaning up the mess with my shovel. Hours later, I was filthy and sweaty when something thudded behind me. Is that horrible heap back? I spun around.

No. The broom had set down two pails of potatoes. Tears filled my eyes—the ones on my face, not on the spuds.

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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