The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2)

by Jeff Jacobson

  “Help!” he cried, unable to comprehend what anyone was yelling at him, let alone how to stop his crazy lurching across the grassy field. Finally he made out one adult shouting, “The Words, Charlie! The Words!”

  The Words! He had completely forgotten.

  He opened his mouth, letting the Words find, then move, his lips. The broom stopped pulling him along. He barely caught himself from sliding forward off the end of the handle and landing on his face. He stumbled to a standstill, then collapsed down into the grass and lay on his back, the dead weight of the broom in his hand. As everyone crowded around him, laughing and clapping, he began to giggle, thinking how he must have looked, running the length of the field and unable to stop.

  Several of the younger WITs, filled with excitement, dove on top of him in a pig pile. He laughed harder, until someone accidentally kneed him in the stomach.

  “Ouch! You’re killing me!” he grunted. The adults pulled the kids back up on their feet.

  He looked up and saw Sean’s face smiling down at him.

  “A really good job, Charlie,” the man said. “A fine first solo flight.”

  * * *

  Hidden behind an illusion of mist and cloud banks, two witches circled above on their brooms, watching the people in the field below and exchanging glances with each other.

  “One little, two little, three little witches, fly on broomsticks, soar over ditches …” Tony began singing.

  “Shut it. I hate that song!” barked Claudia. “Let’s get back and report in.”

  “Someone put on her cranky pants today, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s just that …”

  “I know, I know. She isn’t going to be happy about this. All right then, let’s get back,” Tony said, then looked again at the commotion below. “So mama’s little baby has learned to fly. The plot sickens.”

  The two broomsticks became dark streaks as they sped off through the afternoon dusk.

  CHAPTER 4

  Stories ’Round the Fire

  THAT NIGHT MALCOLM MADE a fire in the big fire pit on the front patio. The rain had let up enough to sit outside, though the adults placed tarps on the still-wet benches surrounding the pit.

  After Charlie’s unexpected breakthrough, many of the other kids were able to activate their brooms. With varying levels of success, six of them flew around at varying heights, shadowed by two or three adults each. The thrill of flight was thick among the new witches; even those who couldn’t activate their own brooms were given rides from some of the adults, and the experience of the entire group racing and dipping in the air had broken the frustrated mood from earlier in the day, elevating it to excitement and focus.

  As the flying lessons came to an end and everyone was gathering up the helmets and kneepads, Charlie watched as several of the adults threw their own brooms with great force to the ground. He heard a cracking sound and saw the sticks shrink to narrow pieces of wood less than twelve inches long.

  “Makes it easier to lug it around. Though you gotta be careful not to accidentally sit on it if you forget it’s in your pocket,” said Roberto, who must have seen Charlie staring at the brooms.

  The last session of their training, just before dinner, had also been much more successful.

  “It usually happens this way,” Malcolm told them after they had watched Malcolm Paulsboro, whom they called Little M in deference to their teacher, make words appear on paper like a fast-developing Polaroid image. Nine years old, he was the youngest in the group, and after the sentence “Malcolm is a rad name!” finished materializing on the page, he had hopped up from his kneeling position in front of the table and started jumping around on one foot in delight. His spontaneous expression of joy and triumph was so infectious that some of the other WITs joined him. Everyone laughed and clapped, and Charlie saw Little M’s mother dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Charlie’s success with the broomstick earlier in the day unclogged you all,” said the teacher, smiling at him. Charlie blushed, not wanting the attention. But he was still so enraptured by the sensation of flying on a broomstick that it was hard to stop smiling.

  “It always seems to spur on a group of WITs. Helps them believe they can do it, and also starts to create some competition,” he said, winking at them all.

  “Have you ever had a group where no one could do anything?” asked Jenna, much more focused on the lessons now that she was one of the WITs who hadn’t been able to make any of her spells work.

  “Yes, it happens. Though what that usually means is kids get it when they go home. I’ve also had groups who make the spells work on the first night. It doesn’t mean anything really. It’s like babies learning to walk. Some take to it faster than others, but they all get it eventually.”

  The fire spat and sizzled in the large pit. Adults and kids alike made s’mores, though they were unlike any Charlie had never eaten. There was chocolate with lavender, chocolate with bacon, chocolate with sea salt, and chocolate with chili peppers. There was even a white-chocolate raspberry combination that was a group hit. The marshmallows were soft and gooey, unlike the dusty things he was used to pulling out of plastic bags at his friends’ homes. In place of graham crackers, they grilled halved croissants over the fire. Charlie was sure he had never tasted anything so delicious.

  The mood between the adults and Malcolm had changed. Where it had been tense before, with Malcolm in charge and the grown-ups doing what they were told to do, it was now collegial. At dinner many of the adults gathered around the kids and chatted with them, and some of them even teased Malcolm about his strict ways.

  Rose, the witch who’d flown with Charlie earlier in the day, sat with him at dinner and told him about her first time riding a broom, about her son David who worked in Europe as a witchcraft researcher, and about the Words. Charlie liked her gentle manner and soft voice, so different from some of the louder, cockier adults at Malcolm’s cabin.

  “I watched you today out in the field, Charlie,” Rose told him while they finished the last of their meal. “It was interesting. At first I could tell that you were trying out the Words, saying them and hoping that they would work. But then something changed. Even when Malcolm was telling you that your turn was over. The look on your face told me you understood how the Words worked.”

  “I don’t think I understand them.”

  “No, you don’t fully. You have a lot to learn about them. But you understood that it’s less about saying the Words and more about letting them be said. Through you.”

  “Yes! That’s what it felt like. I … I didn’t know.”

  Rose nodded. “It can be a difficult transition to make. I appreciate that Malcolm didn’t come flat out and tell you young people to ‘let the Words speak through you.’ I think that would be too confusing. It takes trial and error, as well as a certain amount of self-discovery, to understand it.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I haven’t been to a new witch training in a long time. It was a delight to see you catch on the way you did. It reminded me of when my son was little and even of my own discoveries of the craft so long ago. Congratulations on your breakthrough today. It will take you far.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for all your help with the broomstick today.”

  “You’re welcome, Charlie,” she said and then fell silent as she looked out the window. Charlie joined her gaze, and together they sat quietly together, surrounded by, but not joining in, the raucous chatter of the others. He wondered if this is what some friendships were like: enjoying silence together, rather than having to talk, like so many people tended to do. It was strange, but also pleasant, to imagine being friends with a much older grown-up like Rose.

  After the s’mores were finished, Malcolm stood up.

  “We have a treat for you tonight. Something even better than this delicious fireside dessert. Rose Patchke, community historian, famed storyteller, and one of the few people who can keep me in my place, is here tonight to sha
re her gifts with us.”

  Rose stood up as the other adults clapped for her.

  “Malcolm, please, you are too kind. As I was telling Charlie earlier,” she said, nodding in his direction, “I haven’t been to a training weekend in a long time. It has done these old bones some good to be among you new witches as you discover your talents and abilities.

  “I’ve been asked to tell you a story tonight about a young witch and her exploration of the craft. Please keep in mind the spirit in which it’s being told: as a reminder that with your new abilities comes great responsibility. You can no longer pretend that you are a single human being with merely personal consequences. You are part of a community of people who must make hard choices about how to interact with the greater world, sometimes on a daily basis.

  “There was once a young woman named Catherine, or Cat, for short. She was from a rural town in the southern state of Kentucky, born in 1943. She had long red hair, a lovely face, and a good head on her shoulders.”

  “Is this really about Grace, that red-haired lady who …” asked Little M.

  “Malcolm Rudolph Paulsboro!” scolded his mother. “What have I told you about interrupting?”

  Little M’s face fell, and he looked down at his lap. “Sorry,” he said.

  “That’s all right, Malcolm,” said Rose.

  Charlie looked around and saw the expressions of unease on the adults’ faces, as well as many of the WITs, at the mention of Grace’s name. He had forgotten that everyone else knew who she was too.

  “No,” continued Rose. “This is not about Grace. She’s not the only witch with red hair,” she said, winking at Little M. “It’s about someone else. Now I invite you all to sit back and listen.

  “As I was saying, there was a young woman named Cat. From the South.”

  As Rose spoke, Charlie saw the fire grow brighter out of the corner of his eye. He looked into the flames and was surprised to see an image of red hair emerging, then the face of a fair-skinned girl. Soon the flames, as well as his surroundings, disappeared. He found himself transported to the edge of a garden patch, watching the young woman weed flowerbeds near a quaint-looking cottage.

  “Like many of our kind, Cat lived alone on the outskirts of town. She worked mostly as a healer for the local community. Her parents died when she was very young. For a while she lived with a great aunt, who taught her things about healing, medicine, and plants, until the old woman passed away. Cat grew herbs, made unguents, helped with midwifery. The townspeople had a love-hate relationship with her, like they do the world over with people like us. Tall tales about her family had been passed down from generation to generation. Many publicly ridiculed Cat, all the while visiting her secretly in the middle of the night with their worries of money, health, and love.

  “As you can imagine, Cat’s existence was rather lonely. She did not have the support and camaraderie of a vibrant community like ours and had to learn most things on her own. Though she hadn’t been popped, she carried strong echoes of the blood in her.”

  Charlie watched as the young woman trimmed herbs and gathered plants from her garden. He followed her inside her orderly pleasant home.

  The scene changed. Cat sat in a wooden rocking chair by the fireplace in her living room talking to a young man in a white T-shirt and jeans who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head in his hands. His dark hair was combed back from his forehead and shiny with hair gel, like someone in a movie from the 1950s or ’60s.

  “It’s okay, Tom. It’s okay.”

  The man looked up at Cat. “But what if she is pregnant? What am I gonna do?”

  They spoke with strong southern accents. Cat seemed to be trying to placate the man, all the while keeping her distance from him.

  “You always have choices, Tom. You know that.”

  The man leaned forward and rested his head in Cat’s lap. The young woman looked uncomfortable at first but then began to pat, and finally stroke, the man’s hair. For a long time they sat in silence. Eventually, Tom raised his head and looked into Cat’s eyes. He moved his face closer to hers until she leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss on the mouth. Tom pulled away, then threw his arms around her. The two stayed locked in a passionate embrace, kissing each other deeply, he upright on his knees, she sitting on the edge of her rocking chair.

  Charlie felt extremely embarrassed, thinking that he shouldn’t be watching this, and yet unable to pull his eyes away.

  Tom broke the embrace first.

  “Ah, Jesus, I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, I …” he said as he stood up and backed away from the rocking chair.

  “I shouldn’t have,” Cat said, looking horrified.

  “Don’t tell Miriam, for God’s sake!” Tom begged, his hands up at his head, walking in quick small circles.

  “Of course not! It was a mistake. Tom, I’m so sorry.”

  The scene faded, and Charlie found himself looking at Cat, asleep in her bed, with a storm raging outside. Two cats slept at the foot of the bed while lightning flickered outside her windows and raindrops pelted the roof.

  Cat’s eyes flew open as a large crash came from somewhere in the yard.

  She sat straight up in bed and fumbled about in her nightstand until she found a flashlight. Gathering a raincoat around her and slipping on an old pair of shoes sitting near the back door, Cat stepped outside to investigate.

  A large tree had fallen onto a storage shed in her backyard.

  She walked around the building to investigate, shining the light here and there to assess the damage.

  A strong gust of wind blew through her yard, and Charlie heard a loud crack from somewhere close by. Before she could react, a branch ripped free from the fallen tree and struck her in the back of the head. Cat fell forward into the mud, the light spinning as her flashlight flew from her hands. She lay in the mud, face down, not moving.

  Charlie heard someone gasp, and remembered that a group of them were sitting around a campfire, as the story progressed. Somehow Rose was showing them the story, as if they were actually in the small Kentucky town, not at Malcolm’s cabin in Washington state.

  As the wind died down, the light changed, and Charlie found himself back inside Cat’s house. It was daytime, but all the shades were drawn. The woman sat upright in bed, her red hair spilling down her shoulders, a bandage around her head.

  Rose’s soft voice carried through, as if coming from inside the living room.

  “Cat was lucky she wasn’t killed. She sustained no brain damage from the injury, but the violence of the accident served as her own private popping ceremony, surfacing all of the witchcraft in her blood. She had always known she had abilities that other people didn’t. Her great aunt had taught her to keep this a secret and to serve others well. But she had no idea how much more potential ability she really possessed.”

  Several books floated near Cat’s face, and scrying bowls filled with water showed scenes of people and places. Cat’s brow furrowed in concentration, her mouth forming small soundless words. A knock at the door startled her. The books fell to the floor and the surface of water in each bowl once again turned clear. The knocking continued.

  “Cat, you in there?” a man’s voice shouted from outside. Charlie wondered if it was Tom.

  “I just want to know if you’re all right!”

  The young woman sat still in bed, staring at the door and making no sound.

  “Cat!”

  Eventually the knocking stopped. Footsteps crunched on the graveled path leading away from the front door, and a shadow passed by one of the windows as the visitor left.

  Rose continued narrating. “The young woman stayed away from people until her wound healed. When she was back on her feet, she discovered that she was more capable than ever to help the townspeople with their ailments. Her lotions and salves were stronger, her ability to spot trouble for them was more accurate, and she was able to imbue certain objects with protective qualities. Even though she was untrained a
nd had no one to guide her, she was determined to learn as much about her abilities as possible.”

  More scenes, this time of people coming to her home at night, sitting in her living room, giving her money in exchange for bottles of liquid and other items. In some scenes Cat placed her hands on people’s heads. In others, she looked into scrying bowls and offered advice.

  “But her loneliness and isolation began to catch up with her. Having no one with whom to share her discoveries, a part of Cat began to foment and fester. She had been attracted to the young man Tom since she was a girl, and on the day they kissed, a seed of hope was planted inside her. Had her abilities stayed the same, her feelings for him would have remained quiet. Under the surface.

  “Cat found herself spying on Tom and his young fiancée Miriam, watching their time together, learning how Miriam loved the man, hoping to copy her acts to woo him away. Her attempts led nowhere.

  “She spent more and more late evenings in town hoping to get closer to Tom. She discovered ways to stay hidden behind shadows and to ride the wind for short distances.”

  Charlie saw Cat darting through the woods, then standing unnoticed near a car parked on a secluded lane, watching as Tom and a young woman sat kissing inside the vehicle. He watched as Cat changed her appearance and followed the young couple through a grocery store. And he saw her alight atop a modest home, then slide down a wall and peer in through a window.

  “Cat convinced herself that she could change Tom’s heart, making him love her and have no more desire for Miriam. She didn’t know that witches cannot directly affect a person’s heart or mind. Failing at this, she attempted spells to dissuade Miriam from loving her fiancé.

  “Faced with more failure, nearly crazy in her desperation, she experimented with a most dangerous idea: to inhabit the body of the young Miriam.