Broomsticking the Landing

The doors slid open, and the witch entered the supermarket, a trolley rolling in front of her as if of its own free will.

Harry Blanton froze. Edlyn Blackmane had been on his mind a lot this week, but not in a cutesy way. Girls were gross. Ew. No, she’d been on his mind since he’d heard the playground gossip from Webster McCarthy. Or, instead, an item in her possession had been on his mind. Webster was often full of it. He once claimed he held his breath for ten days but stopped at ‘the government’s request’. But this latest rumour had a ring of truth. What had gnawed away at Harry was what to do with this information. He wanted, needed, to have a go on her broomstick. This small-town life was so dull. It wasn’t even worth skipping school because there was nothing fun to do if you did. But if he asked, magical woman or not, she’d respond like every other adult in this watching-paint-dry town. Christ, kill him now. Harry pretended to inspect the sourball – ‘Will MELT your EYES and BURN your TONGUE!!!’ – and kept an eye on her.

The trolley squeaked and wobbled in front of her. Despite Edlyn propelling it with magic, it still had one dodgy wheel. Some things not even spells could fix. Smiling and nodding at people, her pointed hat bouncing on her head, she pulled out her shopping list. The scroll upon which she’d daubed her required groceries uncoiled like a royal decree for soup and milk. It unfurled and unfurled until it all but touched the floor. Edlyn was whistling ‘Witchy Woman’ by the Eagles.

Harry’s jaw opened with a click. It was as if the stars had aligned only for him. A plan began to form in his prepubescent mind. Edlyn was going to be shopping here for quite some time. The cogs in his brain struggled to turn. That meant her house—

He dropped the sweet; there was something else that could give his life a jolt, and it wouldn’t cost him a penny. Harry fled the store like someone evading a colleague with whom they didn’t want to chitchat. He snatched his bike from the rack, where he’d left it unlocked – nobody locked things around here – and hopped on. He pumped his little legs as fast as he could.

The witch’s house was atop the town’s highest point. A path wound up the side of the hill to where the house perched. A sheer incline plunged before the house, dropping to the town’s central street.

Harry arrived at Mrs Blackmane’s house in record time, panting and sweating. He dropped his bike before the black fence and then pushed inside, blinking away the spots in his vision.

As he passed, the wrought-iron gate squalled on its hinges, and a murder of butterflies took to the skies. A wild garden sat between the fence and the house, overflowing with life. There was dill, thyme, fennel, and sage. Garlic, foxgloves, mint, and lemon balm. Henbane, mistletoe, mandrake, poke, and nightshade. A wizened walnut tree had grown into a question mark – stooped over like an old crone. Beyond the curtain of leaves, the house stood. It was wonky like some big bully had shoved the matchstick diorama before the glue had time to set. It was a Tudor-style, half-timbered house. An exposed framework of dark oak beams formed the structure of the building. It had a thatched roof sitting on top like a farmer’s straw hat. The small casement windows had diamond-patterned panes of glass set in black frames. The house had wobbly lines with no right angles in sight, as though drawn by a child or a particularly dense adult.

Harry ran through the garden, smelling the spices in the air, and reached the door.

The rectangular door had wide, vertical oak planks. Its wrought-iron hinges and metal studs were the same shade of black. The handle was ornate, in contrast to the wood. A ring knocker, etched with flowers, sat in the middle, below a small window.

Harry paused, trying to think. What if Edlyn had cast protective spells, ‘Home Alone’ style? He picked up a small rock from the soil and opened the door. He lobbed the stone underarm through the entryway.

The rock bounced across the flagstone floor. It skipped once, twice, and thrice before rolling to a stop. It neither burst into flames nor morphed into a toad.

Harry nodded, satisfied. If it was safe enough for a pebble, it was safe enough for a human child. He strode across the threshold.

In the entryway, various cloaks and pointed hats hung from hooks. There was something for every season – purples, oranges, greens, yellows, blues, and blacks. Hand-sewn patterns adorned the fabric: stars, planets, plants, and flowers. Below, a selection of well-worn, knee-high boots waited for their owner’s feet. Ahead, the hallway carried on to the kitchen, with doors on the side. A steep, narrow staircase rose to the upper levels.

Harry halted in his tracks, crackling with excitement. He felt like a heretic on the rack, pulling in several directions. Harry wanted to search everything but worked with a time limit here. He had to have his joyride and then get out before Edlyn returned. Where would it be? In non-magical homes, people seldom kept vehicles upstairs. He had to assume this was the case for witches’ homes, too.

A cosy parlour was off to one side, with a sagging sofa, threadbare armchairs, and an empty fireplace. A patchwork rug covered the wooden floor.

Harry pushed on and headed for the kitchen.

The smell of warm, hunger-baiting baking filled the air, doughy and delicious. A crooked black stovetop leaned on uneven legs. A large cauldron was soaking in the sink, with soapy bubbles dribbling over the rim. And there, off to the side, next to a dustpan and brush, was the witch’s broomstick.

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat, ribbeting like a frog behind his windpipe. There it was, within reach. Success! Part of him had thought he wouldn’t find it. Part of him thought Webster had lied when he said Edlyn flew everywhere on her broomstick. And yet, here it was, leaning to the side as though it were a common cleaning item.

Harry snatched the broomstick up.

It was heavy.

He frowned a little. He’d expected it to be light as a feather, floating in his grip like a helium balloon. Well, duh. Sometimes, he astounded even himself with his stupidity. He couldn’t expect the magic to work when holding it like this. You had to be riding it. Speaking of, where should he test it? Harry looked out the kitchen windows. His vacant, zombielike expression bloomed into a grin. He sprinted down the hallway, skidding on the stone and almost crashing into the front door. He took the stairs two at a time, then paused on the wooden landing, gasping.

A ladder led up to the loft.

In for a magical penny, in for a mystical pound. Clutching the broomstick in one hand, Harry scrambled up the ladder, which was no mean feat. But he managed it without falling and breaking his ankles.

In the attic, old wooden chests and cloth-covered pieces of furniture collected dust. Stacks and stacks of leather-bound books towered in miniature mazes. Cardboard boxes overflowed with forgotten tomes of lore. Motes drifted through the sunbeams coming through the highest window in the house.

He wrinkled his nose. Books were for nerds. Harry released the latch and pushed open the window, peering down the steep incline to the town below. From up here, he could see the whole world: his house, Webster’s house, the school, the church, the supermarket. He climbed up onto the ledge and tucked the broomstick between his legs.

The wind rippled his clothes.

Harry fought the dizzying vertigo. You didn’t need to be afraid of heights if you could fly! He leapt from the window, hooting. ‘IS IT A BIRD? IS IT A PLANE? NO, IT’S—’

Someone else was flying on a broomstick, coming in the opposite direction.

Harry locked eyes with the witch.

A look of pure and utter bafflement crossed Edlyn’s features.

It had never occurred to him that she might have two brooms, a magical flying one and a second for regular cleaning.

But he did indeed fly.

Five metres.

And then gravity pulled him down, and he crashed into the road below.

Harry Blanton exploded like a water balloon filled with ketchup.