Starfell: Willow Moss & the Lost Day

by Dominique Valente

  A loud silence followed this. Moreg looked at Willow. Willow looked at Moreg.

  Then. “What was that?” asked the witch.

  “That,” sighed Willow, “was nothing. . . .”

  The witch raised a brow and Willow hastened to add, “That you would care to know about. Trust me.”

  Witches for the most part aren’t stupid, so Moreg didn’t press it. But she did say rather loudly, “A witch’s business is none but her own. However, my cellar and pantry are off bounds . . . not unless a kobold wants to be turned into a full tabby cat.”

  There was a distinctive gasp from within the bag. Willow snorted.

  After helping Moreg do the dishes (Moreg, of course, had hot water and a tin basin ready), Willow climbed into her sleeping bag, and even though it was her first night away from the cottage in her whole life, she fell instantly asleep, despite Oswin’s grumblings. “Why she ’ave to take it that far? Turn me into a common cat! Jes’ because I’m a monster don’t mean I don’t have feelings,” he finished with a meaningful sniff.

  5

  The Broom Makers

  THE NEXT MORNING, after they’d packed up their sleeping bags and Willow had attempted to brush her teeth with her finger, they came across a rather unwelcome sight. Standing with their backs to Willow and Moreg by a clump of tall trees was a large gaggle of around twenty men wearing distinctive brown-and-gold robes.

  Moreg held up a hand, just as a faint “Oh no” came from within Willow’s carpetbag.

  “Brothers of Wol,” she said softly. Her face turned to marble, like she was annoyed. Then she gestured for Willow to go back the way she’d come.

  Willow gave a silent gasp. The Brothers of Wol still had a rather archaic view of witches—mostly they thought the best way to deal with them was by burning them at the stake. The Brothers lived in Wolkana—a hidden fortress that no magical being could find, let alone enter. And when they weren’t there, plotting and scheming, you could guarantee they were out causing trouble for people with magic in their veins. Such as trying to ensure that no witches or wizards entered forbidden areas. These were towns and cities that had decided that they would prefer not to have magical residents on their doorstep.

  When magic had at first begun to trickle back into the world, families like Willow’s and Moreg’s had been forced to live in enclosed settlements like Ditchwater. Gradually things had changed; as magical people grew in number, a compromise was needed. Magical people agreed not to use their abilities on people without their permission, as well as to live only in areas where they were welcome.

  Some moved away to more accepting pockets of Starfell over the years, but they never forgot the shadow of persecution, which was why some witches and wizards—like Moreg Vaine, for instance—kept the location of their home a firm secret, vowing never to have to answer to anyone ever again.

  “We could fight them,” said Moreg, who appeared for a moment to consider it. “I could get rid of them now. . . .”

  Willow swallowed, hoping the witch didn’t mean what she thought she meant. She was finding the nerve to ask when Moreg shook her head, her eyes going hazy for a second, before she blinked. “But not quite yet, no. . . . She’ll need it, so this is best, yes.”

  Willow stared blankly at Moreg. “Er, sorry?”

  Moreg seemed to snap out of her reverie, gave a small nod, and said, “Back the way we came, I think. We can go around, and still get to Radditch that way.”

  They crept backward slowly, careful not to alert the Brothers to their presence.

  It was some time before Willow’s heartbeat slowed down. She was wildly relieved, however, that the witch had decided not to fight around twenty witch-hating men.

  The closer they got to Radditch, the less Willow thought of the Brothers, and the more she wondered about the people they were going to meet. Broom makers. She couldn’t believe that she was finally going to see brooms that actually flew!

  “All the best broom makers are Mementons,” said Moreg. “Which, as you know, means we need to remember one important thing. . . .”

  Willow swallowed, waiting for the warning. From within the carpetbag there was a faint “Oh no” from Oswin.

  She’d heard the stories of Mementons—mostly from Granny Flossy. They were part elf, somewhat spirrot, and sort of human, like a distant cousin no one liked to mention (but if you squinted, you could see the resemblance, almost). They were over nine feet tall, very hairy and slim, and had an aversion to cutting their toenails shorter than seven inches, believing that was where they kept their power. It was certainly why others kept their distance.

  “We mustn’t stay for lunch.”

  Willow frowned. “Oh? Why?”

  Moreg shrugged. “Because they take hours at every meal—and we really need to keep moving.”

  She saw the look of incredulity Willow shared with the tops of Oswin’s narrowed eyes, which were peeking out of the carpetbag, and scoffed, “Oh, you’re thinking about that silly thing about them eating humans? I wouldn’t worry. That went out of fashion some time ago. . . .”

  Willow gulped. That was a rumor she could have done without knowing.

  By midmorning they had entered a wood filled with trees that towered above their heads. Through the branches she glimpsed the broom makers and gasped. They were incredibly tall, like slim walking and moving trees themselves, and they were all hard at work. They had long curly nails, which matched the color of their hair. Some had hair in strange electric colors, like the brightest blue and green, which glinted in the dappled forest light. As Willow watched, she saw that there were hundreds of workstations with different Mementons all involved in various stages of broom construction.

  News of their arrival spread quickly. Within seconds a rather short Mementon (at just below nine feet) came forward to greet them. Willow’s first impression was BLUE. Followed quickly by HAIR.

  He had very bright and very wild, bushy blue hair that trailed from his head, met at his triangular beard, and seemed to end somewhere by his waist.

  “Moreg!” greeted the Mementon, blinking rapidly. “Er, what brings you here?” he asked a little nervously, darting a look at Moreg, who, as far as Willow could see, was trying her best to appear friendly. She wasn’t frowning, at least.

  The Mementon’s eyes were strange. They were deep dark blue with white flecks in them, so that they looked like small chips of the night sky full of stars. Willow wondered if he saw things differently with eyes like that.

  Moreg introduced Willow to the Mementon, whose name was Chopak, and said, “Well, we need your help, you see; speed is of the essence, and we’re in the market for two of your brooms.”

  Chopak’s pointy ears shot up in shock. “You—you’re looking for a broom?” It sounded like he couldn’t believe his ears.

  Moreg sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

  Which seemed a little rude . . . but neither of them dared point that out to the witch.

  Willow couldn’t help marveling at all that she saw. Seeing this, Chopak, who was at heart a born salesman, said, “Come with me—I’ll give you the tour.” They followed after him through the Broom Woods.

  “That’s the Twigging Depot—mostly suitable for the young ones,” he said, pointing a curling fingernail at a group of around twelve Mementons. Willow watched as a Mementon with bright-orange hair and nails to match tied up a bunch of twigs the size of a small boulder with what looked like yarn on large trestle table.

  “Delicate work, see—suitable to their small fingers,” said Chopak, holding up his own sausage-like digits.

  From within the bag Willow heard a faint mutter. “Little ’uns? Little ’uns, ’airy nutter! Them curly-clawed beasts are the exact opposite of little!”

  “Shhh,” hissed Willow, giving the bag a little shake. The truth was, as friendly as these Mementons appeared, while they might have given up on humans, she wasn’t sure if a kobold might not actually find itself as dinner. . . .

  “That’s Assembl
y,” said Chopak, continuing. “Self-explanatory really—that’s where they are put together.” He pointed to a small area where a group of Mementons was carefully attaching the twig bundles to the broom handles. “That’s Strimming,” he said as they passed a group of very tall and thin-looking Mementons, who were examining brooms parked in midair from all angles, making adjustments here and there. “We try to keep it down here, as they need the quiet,” he said in a whisper.

  They walked past on tiptoes. “And here,” he said, as they came to the heart of the dark woods, “is where the real magic happens; this is Awakening, where the broom comes to life . . . and tells you what it will become.”

  There was a still quality to the air, as if it were waiting for something.

  “They tell you?” asked Willow in surprise.

  There was only one other Mementon present, a female with sleek auburn hair that flowed to her waist. The nails on her hands and feet were green, which matched her very large, luminous eyes.

  “My wife,” whispered Chopak, “Ybaer.” Ybaer was concentrating on the important task at hand, and he went on whispering, so as not to disturb her. “We call this the Spark—when the broom touches the hands of an Awakener, it releases the magic, telling the broom maker what type of broom it will become. You see, like people, wood has a personality, and no broom is exactly the same as another.”

  Ybaer’s long fingers slid along the sapling, which lifted slowly into the air. After some time a very faint blue outline shone all around it.

  Chopak explained, “When it glows blue like that, it’s a Stealth.”

  “A Stealth?” asked Willow, her eyes reflecting the glow from the broom.

  “Yes, while no two brooms are exactly the same, they tend to have one dominant personality trait—like people. Some people are reserved, some confident, some exacting . . . ,” Chopak said, eyeing Moreg. He cleared his throat and then continued. “In the same way, a broom’s dominant personality lends itself to different uses. Brooms tend to be Racers, Stealths, Torques, or Jaunters. Racers are for those covering long-distance terrain and requiring a bit of speed; a Stealth is best for those who would prefer to pass unnoticed. Torques offer a rocket-like getaway, and Jaunters are for those who enjoy a Sunday-afternoon sort of glide. There are the rare few that combine their qualities. You can get weird combinations, though, just like people. We had a Jaunter-Racer once, a very bumpy stop-start ride. It reminded me of an old racing horse who occasionally remembered his victorious youth!”

  Ybaer turned now to face them and gave a small bow in greeting. She didn’t seem that surprised that Moreg Vaine was there. In fact, it was as if she were expecting her.

  “Moreg,” she said, nodding, her green eyes wise. “I wondered if you’d come to us. Strange things have been happening; I have been reading the signs.”

  “As have I,” agreed Moreg. “What have you seen?”

  “Brooms that have appeared, which none of us remember making—and yet they seem to be some of our best yet.”

  Chopak nodded. “We’ve tried replicating the process, but without knowing what was done to begin with . . . it’s impossible.”

  Willow and Moreg shared a look.

  “There’s other things too,” continued Chopak. “Well, my nephew, Raymar—he’s been walking around in a daze for days; he was supposed to be married—it’s so bizarre, because we’re just not sure if he actually was. All he keeps saying is he can’t remember.”

  “The trouble is, neither can we,” said Ybaer.

  Moreg nodded. “That makes sense—it matches what we’ve seen too.” And she explained to them about the missing day and her fear that it had been stolen.

  Ybaer gasped. “You believe it was taken away? And all the memories with it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Moreg. “But we are going to try to get it back.”

  As Willow listened, a giant purple hat with a long green feather swam before her eyes, her grandmother’s face turned away from her, and she felt something inside her clench in icy cold fear; but just as quickly as the image appeared in her mind, it was gone. She couldn’t help wondering, if all the others had forgotten something, something that happened last Tuesday—had she?

  Ybaer seemed to stare at Willow for a long moment, as if considering her. Then she nodded. “We can help you with this,” she said, snapping a small twig from a sapling that gleamed with a blue haze and handing it to Willow. “This is a stealth sprig, and it will help you to become invisible. As it has been taken from its source, it will only work the once. Use it wisely when the time comes. You will know when that is.”

  Willow blinked. “You want me to have it?” she asked. “Not . . . Moreg?”

  The Mementon nodded. “Only a child can use it.”

  Willow looked at Moreg, who seemed unsurprised; in fact, she looked rather pleased—as if it were only natural that she’d been given a strange magical twig to help her become invisible. Willow stuttered her thanks and put the twig inside a small pocket inside her carpetbag, sharing a puzzled look with Oswin as she did.

  Ybaer smiled. “Come, follow me—we’ll get you matched to a broom.”

  Willow blinked and a frisson of sudden excitement sprang inside her.

  They followed Ybaer and Chopak to a small wooden workshop where several of the new brooms were suspended above the floor of the workshop. He rubbed his beard while he eyed Moreg, a shrewd look on his face. Finally he nodded. “Perhaps something modern . . . something that doesn’t play around? It doesn’t happen often, but, like I said, every now and then you get a broom that is open to a little bit of experimentation. A bit of modification.”

  Eyes shining, he raced off to the back of the showroom, returning with a monster of a broom, a wide grin spreading across his face.

  Willow had never seen anything like it: it had a low-slung broom handle, spikes for footrests, and on either side was an engine, which roared to life when Chopak pulled a cord from each. Bright-orange flames shot out behind as the broom streaked off, doing a thunderous loop around them and making them all duck for safety. It came to a halt right in front of Moreg. Chopak handed her a pair of flying goggles. “I call it ‘the Business,’” he said with a wide smile, which to everyone’s shock Moreg returned. She ran a hand along its polished length, saying, “Perfection! A broom, but not a broom.” Her eyes were alight.

  There was a hushed silence. After some time he closed his mouth, then turned to Willow. “Now, yours . . . I already know. As soon as I saw you I thought . . . this is the girl.”

  He came forward with a midsize broom that glided as light as a feather. Its wood had a silvery sheen, and mixed in with the twigs were long white tail feathers. It was simply beautiful. While she stared, it appeared to disappear before their eyes, blending in with the surroundings.

  “This,” said Chopak, leaving the broom to suspend next to Willow’s hip, “is Whisper. It’s a very rare Stealth-Racer. This one is most unusual; we found it last Wednesday, and no one remembers making it—which is odd, as it has these unusual tail feathers. They remind me a little of a cloud dragon’s feathers, but that’s impossible of course; cloud dragons have been gone from Starfell for years. Go on, give it a whirl.”

  Heart pounding, Willow gripped the sleek handle, swung a leg over, and sat astride. The broom hovered very slowly off the ground, but when she touched off with her toes, it shot up faster than she could blink. She soared high, past the trees, her carpetbag clamped between her knees. Oswin’s green eyes peered over the handle as he gasped, “Oh no!”

  She did a loop, then rejoined the others (and her stomach, which had plummeted to the ground). It was without a doubt the best moment of her life and she couldn’t stop smiling.

  But reality came crashing down hard as Willow mentally calculated her spurgles and knew she didn’t have a hope in Starfell of being able to afford Whisper.

  But when they asked the price, Chopak insisted that the brooms were free of charge. “We want to aid your quest, so co
nsider it our gift—our way of helping you to rediscover the missing day. Good luck, young Willow,” he said as she stuttered her thanks.

  Despite their better intentions to press on with their journey, it was noon when they finally left Radditch. Not that Willow minded. She’d loved her time with the Mementons—and now, wonder of wonders, she was leaving on her very own broomstick.

  The only one who seemed resolutely unimpressed was Oswin, who had found his voice now that they were far away from the Mementons. “Go on a journey, she said,” he muttered darkly. “Save the world, she said,” he harrumphed. “She didn’t say nuffink about flying on no blooming brooms.”

  On the edge of a forest, not very far away, a boy sat by the campfire planning his vengeance against the people who had tried to thwart him. His face was shrouded beneath his hood, his eyes dark as they stared at the flames. His fingers touched the box he had once been imprisoned for possessing.

  He was anxious to have it be done with now. To stop with the pretense once and for all.

  An old man clamped a hand on his shoulders. “We will find them, boy,” he said. “And what a glorious triumph it will be.”

  “Yes, Father,” said the boy, quickly stowing the box out of sight.

  The man smiled indulgently, then turned back to the others. He longed to return to the fortress, to his comfortable bed . . . but the rumors that had reached them—that the witch would finally be breaking the law and might be seized—were too important to miss. He picked up his flagon and joined the others in prayer.

  He didn’t see the way the boy’s mouth twisted when he’d left the campfire. Or the look of revulsion that had marred his features at his father’s touch. He hadn’t seen how the boy’s heart had turned to stone. If he had, he might have suspected what lay inside that dark heart, and how it vowed that the triumph would be his alone. . . .