The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight (The Broom Closet Stories)

by Jeff Jacobson

  “Your mother, Elizabeth kept you hidden all those years, hidden away so you wouldn’t know the truth of who you were and what you could do. But then we found out that you existed, even though no one else had been able to. You were hunted down. Do you know why, Charlie?”

  “What are you talking about?” He had to yell now, for they were flying faster, and the wind was sucking the words out of his mouth. Somehow Grace managed to speak as if there was no wind to impede her.

  “Didn’t you wonder why that Dog Man, as you call him, came and tracked you down? Didn’t you wonder why he went to all that fuss? I mean, really, who cares? You were just a young, unpopped witch kid hiding out with his pathetic little mommy on a crap farm in the foothills? Didn’t you ever stop and think, ‘I wonder why these people are making such a big deal of me’”?

  Charlie couldn’t figure out what to do. He knew he was in danger. Grace had already taken control of his broom. He didn’t know where they were going. But her words pulled at him. He hadn’t thought much about what Grace was saying, at least not about why they had come for him. It had all gone so fast.

  He felt stupid. Why hadn’t he considered any of this? Could he really get away with the excuse that everything had gone too fast? Or was he just keeping his head in the sand?

  The truth was, he didn’t know why the man had come for him. Or why the two witches had broken in and tried to kidnap him. And now, in spite of the danger he knew he was in, a tiny spark of interest burned in him. Did Grace know? Could she tell him?

  “Do you want to know, Charlie? Do you want to know the things that Beverly’s precious, ridiculous little coven is trying to keep from you? Because if you do, I’ll tell you. I’ll explain it, and a whole lot more, if you want to hear it. If not, fair is fair. You can fly on home to your cute little house and keep living your cute little life with your aunty and uncle. And that hunky Diego, too. I must say, you do have good taste in boys.”

  His face flushed. How could she know about Diego? Had she seen them? Seen them kissing? How did she…?

  Who was he trying to kid? She was the most dangerous witch around. Even normal people always found out. For her it was probably as easy as blinking.

  Grace’s voice dropped low. “Would you like to know, Charlie? Answer me now and we’ll keep going. If not,” she said, letting her voice grow louder, “I’ll set you free.” She waved her arm above her head. A rainbow of colored lights sparkled from her fingertips and floated around his face, mocking him.

  ‘No, Charlie,’ a voice said inside of him. ‘She’s dangerous. You can’t trust her. Say ‘no’ and fly away. Go back to Beverly, where it’s safe…’

  ‘Beverly doesn’t want me,’ another, angrier voice said. ‘My mother doesn’t want me. At least maybe I could find out the truth for once.’

  Before he could ponder any further, he nodded. Grace laughed again, a tinkling sound that was clear even through the rushing wind and the myriad crow wings beating at the air.

  “Wonderful!” she shouted, clapping her hands together in delight. “Then hang on to your broomstick, young man. I think you’re going to enjoy yourself.”

  Chapter 64

  Grace sped ahead, and Charlie’s neck snapped back as his broomstick shot forward to keep up with her. He clung tightly to the wood in his hands, not sure if the sound he was making was a prayer or a scream. The flock of crows surrounded them like a cloud of coal dust, their smell gamey and raw, their chorus of cawing awful in his ears.

  “Do you know what a group of crows is called?” Grace yelled over her shoulder, her placid expression replaced by what looked like madness. She had tucked her feet underneath her legs, and now sat with her shoulders hunched over the front of her broom, her neck twisted to look back at him, several strands of ginger hair whipping about her forehead and cheeks.

  Charlie was too terrified by their breakneck speed to do anything other than shake his head.

  “It’s not a flock. It’s a murder. We’re surrounded by a murder of crows!” Even from the distance of two broomstick lengths in front of him, with the wind that passed through the crows’ wings pounding at his face, he could see the crazed light flashing in the witch’s eyes.

  They flew north. Through the erratic gaps between black feathers, the lights of downtown Seattle twinkled several miles away.

  A bright glow caught his attention far off below him, to his left. It appeared to be growing larger. Grace didn’t seem to notice, and neither did the crows.

  He blinked eyes to be sure that he wasn’t imagining things. Sure enough, the bright light wasn’t just growing. It was moving toward them, a blazing ball of yellow, rushing so fast that he had trouble tracking it.

  A moment later Grace looked over her left shoulder. The air was filled with a terrible screeching sound, though Charlie didn’t know if it came from the witch, the crows, or something else. Half of the birds broke formation and winged off toward the oncoming ball of light. Grace dropped back, closer to Charlie. The tendons in her neck strained as she reached beneath the bodice of her dress and pulled something out, something silver, hanging from a cord. It had a white handle, and moonlight reflected off its long curving blade.

  With horror, Charlie watched as Grace gripped the strange-looking knife in one hand and, letting go of her broom handle with her other, leaned toward him. The distance between their two brooms disappeared. Before he could react, she grabbed Charlie around the neck and lifted him almost completely from his broom, choking him. Charlie batted at her iron-like grip, unable to breathe, as white dots began to swim in front of his eyes. Any trace of the previous softness in her face, which was now inches from his, had disappeared. Her teeth were gritted, her lips bared, her eyes narrowed to horrible slits. The hand holding the wicked-looking knife rose above his head.

  And then the ball of light was upon them.

  Shouting erupted in Charlie’s ears. Broomsticks tangled with legs, hair whipped at his cheeks, arms and faces flashed in front of him. Grace’s nails scratched hard at the skin of his neck before they were ripped away. He gulped for air. There were feathers, the cawing of crows, screams and grunts, swearing. Before he knew what was happening, his broom had spun out from under him.

  He felt weightless for a split second as he was thrown in an upward arc. New shouts joined the cacophony. Hands grabbed for his back and legs. His body began to flip, head over heels, as he plummeted toward the earth, no more feathers to block his view as he fell away from the mess of birds and broomsticks colliding above him.

  A sharp jab caught him on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, his waist. He had stopped falling. He saw the strange yellow glow about twenty feet above him in the air. Two figures were mounted on Grace’s broom. Arms rose and fell repeatedly, but he couldn’t tell why, or what they were doing Or even who they belonged to. More screaming, more cawing. Charlie turned his head and saw the faces of a man and woman on either side of him, faces that should have been familiar, though he couldn’t place them. It took him a moment to figure out that he was splayed across two broomsticks. Hands held onto him to keep him in place.

  Crows dove and spun at them. The man…it was Daniel! Daniel Burman! The stern-looking detective. And the woman was Rita Lostich, her hair a mass of curls about her face. Daniel smacked at the crows with his hands. His face bled from several scratches. Charlie watched as a crow bit Daniel’s ear, listened in terror as the man screamed.

  More birds came, a seeming endless rush of beaks and claws, more fight than Daniel could ward off.

  “Hang on!” Rita yelled. She gripped Charlie with one hand. The other reached up and grabbed a gold-colored ring hanging from a cord around her neck. He watched her mouth move. A colorless wave spread out from the ring, becoming black ripples in the air. The ripples struck the cloud of attacking crows, sending them spinning off like dry leaves in a gust of wind. The instant Charlie felt the wave wash over him, his stomach lurched with nausea. The next thing he k
new, the cold cereal he’d eaten earlier that night rushed up from his stomach. He barely had time to turn his head away from Rita before vomiting over the side of the broomstick.

  She pulled Charlie over until he was mostly sitting up, on her broom, in front of her.

  “Go, Daniel! I’ve got him!” she yelled.

  “No! There aren’t enough of us!”

  “Go!” she screamed.

  Daniel veered off to the right and flew directly up at Grace and the witches surrounding her. Charlie wiped at his eyes, then felt his veins turn to ice as he figured out what he was looking at. His aunt Beverly was mounted on the back of Grace’s broomstick. Her hair flew behind her in a dark stream. She had her hands around the witch’s neck.

  No! What was she doing? Didn’t she know how dangerous Grace was? Didn’t she…?

  A sound cracked the air, something between a woman’s scream and the boom of thunder. He watched as Beverly, Daniel and the others were flung away from Grace, spinning faster than the crows from the terrible wave of Rita’s ring. He saw his aunt tossed from her broom, her feet flailing in the air.

  “No!” Charlie shouted. “No, they’re falling!”

  Rita looked over her shoulder. “They’re all right! Don’t worry about them!”

  Freed from her attackers, Grace spun her neck around until she looked down at Charlie and Rita. Even from nearly twenty feet away he could see her face. For a moment, it was horrifying, crackling with murder and rage, spitting with war. Then she turned, bent low over her broom, and shot off into the distance, impossibly fast, faster than a fighter jet, faster than a witch should be able to fly. The pungent odor of moist wood filled his nostrils. The last he saw of her was the streak of long red hair, freed from its bun, trailing behind her as if on fire.

  Dark shapes surrounded them. He saw Daniel, Beverly, the older witch, Joan, the one who’d argued with Randall that night in the kitchen, and another man he didn’t recognize, all secure on their broomsticks.

  “All accounted for?” Rita shouted.

  “Yes!” Beverly yelled in reply, pointing west. “Back to my place!”

  The broomsticks angled toward the Puget Sound, with no crows, no red-haired witch, pursuing them.

  Chapter 65

  The disheveled band of witches walked into the living room. Charlie jumped as he heard loud cracks behind him, and turned to see the adults picking up their shrunken broomsticks from the floor.

  Randall rushed at them, coffee mug in hand, his the worry lines thick on his face as if drawn with ash.

  “Bev! Is everyone all right?”

  “We’re okay,” his aunt said. “We’re okay.” She took off her shoes, then walked over and threw her arms around her husband.

  Charlie had only just begun to understand the magnitude of what happened, had only just realized that, because of his stupidity, Beverly and the others had risked their lives in order to rescue him.

  “Mostly okay,” Rita said behind him. She and Daniel were supporting Joan, who seemed barely able to walk.

  “Joan!” Beverly gasped.

  She pulled away from Randall and rushed over to where the rest of the group stood in the entryway to the living room.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s just my leg,” Joan answered, trying to laugh it off. But her voice was weak, and her face grimaced in pain as she tried to take the next step.

  Daniel and Rita brought her to the couch and had her lie down. Beverly and the man Charlie didn’t know gathered around her.

  Charlie stayed in the entryway, watching from across the room.

  “I saw Grace strike at her with that dagger.”

  “How much does it hurt?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound,” Joan said, imitating an English accent.

  “Did anyone else get hit?”

  “No, no, we’re fine.”

  They didn’t look fine to Charlie. Their clothes were torn, Daniel and Rita’s faces were covered with claw marks, and the detective’s ear was bleeding.

  “I’ll get supplies,” Beverly said, walking past Charlie without looking at him and heading downstairs. The man Charlie didn’t recognize went with her.

  “Well, what the hell happened?” Randall asked, looking at his nephew, then the remaining three adults.

  Daniel took his attention away from Joan’s leg and glanced at everyone in the room, stopping last at Charlie, who stood frozen with his arms folded over his chest, not sure if he should sit down, or go to his room and hide his face in shame.

  “Grace had your nephew and was taking him north somewhere. She had an army of crows surrounding them for cover.”

  “I tell ya, Randall, your wife is one bad-ass witch,” Rita said from the end of the couch near Joan’s feet. “She led the charge, flying right into Grace and her coterie. Grace had Charlie’s broom locked up, but Bev broke the lock by taking her straight on. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What?! She flew right into Grace?! What the hell was she thinking?” asked Randall, freezing in place in front of the couch, a look of horror on his face.

  “It’s okay, Randall,” Daniel said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It was the only thing that would have worked. Grace has a tremendous amount power, more than all of us combined. But I don’t think she’s used to being confronted directly. Beverly’s attack threw her off and allowed us to get Charlie away from her.”

  “It was so satisfying to land on that bitch’s broom and smack her around,” Joan said from her prone position on the couch. Her voice shook, but her eyes gleamed with fierceness. “She didn’t know we had it in us.”

  “But…but…how did you get away?”

  “Rand, it’s okay, don’t worry about it. We managed.”

  “Don’t placate me, Daniel. Goddamn it. My nephew takes off in the middle of the night, and my wife and the rest of you go on a rescue mission against…the most dangerous witch in the cosmos, and you tell me not to worry?!” He yelled, his voice bouncing off the walls of the living room. Charlie cringed.

  Beverly and the other man entered the room, carrying jars and bowls and candles.

  “Hey, hey, the worst is over,” said the man. He was short, stocky and mostly bald, but what hair was left was brushed in a not-so-subtle comb-over. In spite of himself, Charlie wondered how his hair had managed to stay plastered to his scalp after the midair fight they’d just had.

  “Randall,” Rita said, turning to him, her face solemn. “Beverly contacted us, as you know, after she heard Charlie’s mirror break. It didn’t take long to hone in on where Grace and Charlie were. As I said, we flew straight at them, surprising her. Daniel and I got Charlie back. Joan, Bev, and Morty attacked Grace. She had crows everywhere, so I blasted them with my trusty ring here…”

  She reached up and pointed to the cord around her neck.

  “…and took care of them. Daniel joined in the fray until Grace was overpowered. She took off. We flew back here. End of story.

  “Now,” she said, looking from Randall to Beverly to Charlie. “Why don’t you let me take care of Joan? You probably need to have a little chat.”

  Beverly, who stood next to her husband, finally turned to Charlie. He saw the fury in her eyes. He felt his knees weaken, and had the sudden urge to open the front door and flee.

  “Do you want to tell us just what the hell you were thinking, Charlie?” His aunt yelled, her voice ringing sharply in his ears.

  “Easy, honey. Let’s take this easy now, okay?”

  “I will not take this easy. Charlie, do you realize how much danger you were in? I don’t know why Grace hadn’t already killed you. She was about to when we got there. I don’t…” She stopped, the fury draining from her face. A choking sound escaped her lips. Her head dropped to her hands, and she started to weep.

  “Aw, honey,” Randall said, draping an arm over her shoulder.

  Charlie wished that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to do too many things at once: r
un to his aunt, pound his fists on the couch, throw something, beg for forgiveness, and rush out the front door, never coming back.

  Instead, he did what he always did. He stood still, unable to say anything.

  The man whose name was Morty walked over to Charlie and looked up into his face while Beverly continued to weep.

  “Why don’t we all sit down and talk? There’s gotta be some food in this joint somewhere. I’m starving!”

  ––-

  Tea, coffee, and juice had been poured. Apples, cheese, and banana bread were passed around. Rita made some sort of ointment from Beverly’s supplies. She dabbed it on the cuts everyone had sustained in the fight, including the scrape on Charlie’s neck from Grace’s fingernails, which she assured him would not leave a scar, then massaged a large quantity onto Joan’s leg. When it had been determined that no poison or spell had infested her wound, the older witch smiled and said, “I told you so” as she sipped her tea.

  Charlie sat in a chair as far from the adults as possible. He knew they were waiting for an answer from him. And he knew that it was time to give one. They had put their lives on the line for him tonight. This made his fears and worries seem stupid, seem meaningless. He would no longer hide behind his shame and shyness in front of these brave people.

  He had found the courage to speak with Diego, and with Malcolm. He could do it again. His aunt, Joan, and the others deserved it.

  He wasn’t sure where to start. He looked down at the floor, as if an answer might be waiting for him in the soft weave of the carpet. Then he remembered Malcolm’s advice: be straightforward.

  He raised his head and saw that everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. So he took a deep breath, looked back down at the floor, and began.

  “I got up in the middle of the night to have some cereal,” Charlie said. Surprisingly, his voice was steady, betraying none of the shame that he felt.