Duke Takes Flight

by Charles C. Cole

As a rule, Juni wasn’t a fan of picking up hitchhikers, inscrutable strangers in close quarters, for a long, conversationless ride, but she was tired and gloomy by recent changes in her personal life. She needed the distraction as much as the man below needed the lift.

Yes, he could rob her or assault her, but she was a witch on a broomstick flying high in the air. What mortal would want to risk supernatural retribution under those circumstances?

The gentleman standing with his thumb out on the shoulder of the turnpike on-ramp was in his thirties, clean-shaven, in a suit (no tie). No backpack. No lit cigarette. She slowed, navigating the broom earthward.

“You serious?” he said, sounding less than grateful, as she pulled alongside.

“Where you headed?”

“Rockport.”

“I can get you close. Hold onto me, and you won’t fall off. Don’t worry about the wind; witches and the unseen elements have a special arrangement.”

Once in a lifetime opportunity. “I’m in.”

“If you ride sidesaddle with your feet on the left, we’ll be on our way. Word to the wise: until you get used to the height and the absence of seatbelts and doors, don’t look down.”

He mounted his hobbyhorse, the broom bouncing ever so. Compensating for the additional weight? He slid forward and placed his hands around the witch’s black-robed waist. “Apologies for invading your personal space. If there’s another method, let me know. The name’s Duke.”

“You’re fine, Duke. I’ll speak up if there’s a problem.”

They climbed steeply but the broom was always level. With nothing better to do, Duke settled on staring at the back of the witch’s head. “You do this often?”

“Fly? Yes. Pick up strangers? Not so much. But I heard there was rain heading your way, and I felt like being nice. Why? You a serial killer?”

“Not me. I love cereal! The sweeter, more colorful, the better.”

“Hah. Dad jokes. I knew you’d be more fun than being burned at the stake.”

“Did people really do that? I thought that was just Hollywood melodrama.” Silent response. “Can I ask a question? How do you know where we’re going?”

“It has a built-in GPS,” replied Juni.

A joke? Not sure, he commented: “Very modern,” hoping it didn’t sound condescending. Then he pushed on: “Is it rude to ask your name?”

“Not at all,” she said, without elaboration.

“How fast can this thing go?”

“Fifty times faster than walking,” she said. “One hundred times faster than standing still. I never go top highway speed; too many bugs in my teeth. Or I swallow them.”

Prolonged silence during which they weaved their way over the highway. The witch slouched a little and her head drooped forward toward her outstretched arms, her steering hands. Was she asleep? They descended. A very tall tree unexpectedly tickled Duke’s dangling feet.

“I don’t wish to be an ungrateful passenger,” Duke managed, “but is there an ideal, recommended height for this sort of thing? I can read license plates. Wouldn’t want to be another distraction for already distracted drivers.” No response. He gave her waist a slight squeeze.

Juni snorted awake. “What’s up?”

“Not us. I mean: Are we almost there? It feels like we’re landing.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Juni sat up straight and stretched her neck, alert for the time being. They ascended, back into the quiet night sky. Further to fall, true, but at least he couldn’t see details on the hard ground from this height.

“I can sing if you want me to,” said Duke, “but, believe me, you don’t want me to.”

“Why are you dressed up?” asked Juni. “Not typical hitchhiking attire. Your date make you walk home from the prom?”

His turn to snort. “It gets better results.”

“What’s in Rockport?”

“An old flame.” Heavy cloud of self-consciousness. “Sorry. No offense. Bad choice of words.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve always loved campfires and roasting marshmallows. The stories you’ve heard are true, but it never happened to anyone I knew. In fact, it mostly happened to the wrongly accused.”

“Back in the bad old days,” he added, helpfully. “Nothing like that happens now.”

“I always wear a fireproof robe, just in case.”

“Say it isn’t so.”

“Just kidding, Duke.”

He sighed, almost in her ear.

“By the way, you can call me Juni.”

Silence as he debated calling her by her name, during which he could see them descending. Was she asleep again? What if he couldn’t wake her up? Would the broom listen to him?

“Juni?”

“Yes, Duke?”

“We’re descending again.”

“That’s the only way to land. Unless you’ve changed your mind about Rockport.”

They came to rest just a few feet above the ground in the back row of the large parking lot behind the now-closed Thomaston Cinema.

“Solid ground,” he announced.

“It may feel funny, too solid, when you first step on it; a side-effect of flying on a broomstick.”

Duke hopped off. “Ouch! My feet! You’re right.”

“Warned you.”

Duke stepped to the front of the broom, to look Juni full in the face. She was younger than he thought and prettier. So much for gothic stereotypes.

“Will you be okay for the rest of the ride?” he asked.

“It’s not far now. I think I can do it.”

“When are you heading back?” he ventured.

“Looking for another ride?”

“I can understand if you preferred to go it alone. But, still, it must be awfully quiet sometimes. I can only imagine what might have happened if I hadn’t—”

“Same time and place Sunday night. Does that work?” she asked.

“I can make it work. And I might even sing on the trip back.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, smiling warmly. “See you then.”

Then, without arching her back or cheering on her tired horse, quiet as sunrise, Juni lifted into the sky and floated toward the horizon, a rider one with the open air, a small black shadow and, in her way, a good Samaritan.