By L. M. Townsend
(Laesë)
Copyright © October 2001 Laesë
All Rights Reserved
my long, supple branches to sweep the nourishing earth wrapped around my roots. The water would sometimes lap against my
broad, rough trunk. Tiny fish sparkled in the water and brushed against my trailing leaves, sometimes nibbling at them as they
swam by.
I'm not sure how it happened. Daily my memories of being a tree fade and the longer I stand in this closet, the more faded they
become. There are others here with me. They tell such wonderful stories, tales which fill me with longing and envy. Every year,
for one night, they are taken out of this dark place ? oh, how I long to feel the wind in my branches again! They tell me of flying
through the starry night sky with the moon shining down upon them and their riders.
Four years now I have been in this dark closet and each of those four special nights, I have hoped and prayed that this would be
the night I, too, would fly. But I am the smallest one here ? what witch would choose such a meagre brush for her revels this
new year's night?
Tonight, the excitement in the closet is high. It is that night of the year. Perhaps, this time ? but I must not hope too hard. I am
too small to fly these folk to their festival. The door is opening. I can see the flickering candlelight in the room beyond the door.
One by one, my mates are grabbed and carried out. The hope in me begins to wane as the closet empties, and then, a miracle
happens. A tiny hand wraps around my short but sturdy handle. I hear a voice and my heart leaps.
"Here, this one's mine ? it?s just my size!" says the child's voice. "Come, little broom ? this will be our first Samhain ride
together."
It is glorious! It's the little one's first ride, too. I must be very careful with her. She is soooo tiny! Her bones would break if she
were to fall to the earth below. Oh, but the ride is glorious! The crisp autumn air streams through my brush tail. The child's
hands gently grip my handle as she squeals with delight. The night is so beautiful ? I want this never to end. Next year, the child
will be too big to ride me and I will be left behind once more.
But too soon, the leader calls all the riders back and once again, we are all relegated to the closet, but as we are gently placed
within, I see a group of small children all watching the little girl who had ridden me with a mixture of envy and admiration.
"Don't worry," she tells them. "It's a good riding broom ? it won't drop you or let you fall when it's your turn to ride it."
And then I know that as long as there are little witches, there will be riders for little brooms like me.
