seemed to snap out of her reverie, gave a small nod, and said, ‘Back the way we came, I think. We can go round, and still get to Radditch that way.’
They crept backwards 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 beyond seven inches, believing that’s 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 rumour she could have done without knowing.
By mid-morning they had entered a wood filled with trees that towered above their heads. Through the branches she glimpsed the broom-makers at work 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 colour of their hair. Some were strange electric colours, 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 it 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 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 marvelling 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 ginger hair and nails to match tied up a bunch of twigs the size of a small boulder with what looked like yarn on a 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