You know, it isn’t easy being a witch. I mean, living in a gingerbread cottage might sound like a good idea, especially if you don’t mind a monotonous diet of children and aren’t too fussy about eating the offspring of peasants, but have you ever considered the maintenance involved? Every day is just a continuous round of sweet making, baking and icing, and as the oven’s on non stop, all the chocolate trimming melts into sticky brown puddles on the floor.
And then, when you’ve enticed some snot-nosed brat inside, effecting the exchange of half-baked cake for a raw infant can be a bit tricky. There’s always the danger that some precocious little sod is going to push you into your own oven, and then what do you do?
What I’m saying is there’s always two sides to a story and when you’ve been riding for weeks and you’re lost in a forest, a little hospitality goes a long way.
*****
“Cup of tea, deary?”
I watched in fascination as my hostess poured steaming Darjeeling into a Wedgwood cup from a matching pot. Both were decorated with a suitably seasonal motif of spider webs and mystic runes. The cup was trimmed with a discrete black band around the lip. Despite the ambience, the sound of the liquid cheerfully slopping into the porcelain was extraordinarily soothing, the very mundanity of it overriding my initial dread at being confronted by a real live witch.
“And then there’s the woodcutters.”
The harridan fixed me with a beady eye and gave me a long hard look, as if she suspected that the colloquial term for my troubadour’s instrument meant that I habitually carried a well honed blade with a stout, hickory handle, concealed within its case. The hairs on her nasal wart bristled alarmingly.
“You just can’t trust woodcutters,” she continued, “Always butting in when they’re least expected and decidedly unwelcome. The number of werewolves I’ve lost to bloody woodcutters you wouldn’t believe. One lump or two?”
“Two please,” I said, trying to break free from the hypnotic trance the whine of her querulous voice induced.
“But then,” she continued, “Living deep in an enchanted forest, like I do, it’s woodcutters what tends to be my best customers. Them and charcoal burners. Always popping in for an ointment for their chilblains in wintertime they are, or a love philtre in spring. Little devils.” She couldn’t resist a little cackle after this. “I suppose losing an occasional werewolf goes with the territory. If I was living in town my pets would get run over. As it is they gets their heads cut off by woodcutters. Milk dear?”
At the mention of milk, a large, somnolent, black cat opened a lazy eye and yowled demandingly from its velvet cushion on the window seat.
“Yes please,” I said, and she added a creamy splash to my beverage.
“It’s that bloody Red Riding-Hood. Now there’s a girl who’s no better than she should be, and that’s a fact. Always tempting them she is, with her coy little ways and a basket full of fresh meat for granny. I could tell you a thing or two about her too! Now you’d have been right up her street. Always had a thing for musicians did Granny Riding-Hood, the strumpet! Would you like a little gingerbread with your tea dear?”
She offered a fragrant slice on a plate and its aroma was irresistible. Suddenly I felt quite ravenously hungry. I reached out and took it. The witch beamed at me and her single tooth glinted mischievously in the firelight as I bit into the moist confection.
“That’s right, deary, you tuck in. Plenty more where that came from,” she said, and I just caught her disparaging glance round her home before she returned her gaze to me.
For some reason it made me feel a little uncomfortable. She was looking at me the way my mother had looked at the larder when she was trying to work out how long the provisions would last.
She must have picked up on my unease because she suddenly changed tack and pointed to the spinning wheel in the corner.
“Of course, the witching isn’t all bad,” she said. “Sometimes you get to mix with royalty and you can do some godmothering on the side. I don’t need much of an excuse to get stuck in to a good enchantment and princesses are suckers for spinning wheels. You can get up to all sorts of mischief with one of those, but you are in competition with the more cantankerous kind of Dwarf though. I mean, I just wants to give a prince a bit of a challenge, but Stilzkin’s a money-grubbing old git. I mean, I ask you, what’s spinning straw into gold going to do to the rural economy?”
I had to agree that it probably wasn’t a good idea, long term. I washed down a mouthful of gingerbread with a sip of tea.
“Nice brew?”
“Yes, it’s very good,” I managed. I was finding it difficult to concentrate but I managed to bludgeon my senses into submission with a super-human effort of will. “I was just admiring your besom…”
She interrupted me with a piercing shriek of laughter, “Cheeky devil, I haven’t heard a remark like that from a young man for many a year. Must be true what they say about minstrels, always an eye for the ladies, ay?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
She roared with laughter and I grinned sheepishly, wondering if I might be able to save my skin with flattery. Anything would be worth a try in order to escape from under her spell. Her calculating stare had disturbed me and she had a lean and hungry look. I wondered how far I’d get if I tried to run. Probably not far if her broomstick was a runner. I thought I’d better find out.
“I see you go for the traditional look in broomsticks. Does it work?”
“Well, I don’t have much call to use it these days but I like to take it for a spin now and then. When I was a gal it were different mind. I won the coven cup at four pines, five years running. I’ve got nothing to prove now though, but it wouldn’t do to turn up at a sabbat in a taxi even if they ran where I wanted to go. Blasted heaths and mountain tops ain’t what you’d call taxi terrain.”
Obviously running wasn’t an option and tonight was All Hallows Eve. I had a sneaking suspicion that she’d really enjoy the thrill of a moonlit chase. It was time to turn on the charm and fight fire with fire, for music has a magic all of its own. I reached down and picked up my lute.
“Would you like some music?”
The witch smiled indulgently, the way a cat does when it plays with a mouse.
“Why not?” she said, “They say it’s good for the soul, and there’ll be plenty abroad this evening.”
I picked some gentle chords as I limbered up my fingers and then I eased into a love song from the Languedoc that I’d learned many years ago. I sang of courtly love, of queens and heroes, the trysts of peasants and shepherdesses beneath the autumn moon. I sang the song of the two magicians, which brought a smile to her face. Then I extemporised a love song to her, praising the sheen of her hair, the light in her eyes, the delicacy of her hands and the sweetness of her smile.
And all the while I sang and played, she listened.
In the candlelight her features softened into youth and the girl I described in my song watched me with her chin resting in her hands and a love-light in her ancient eyes. When at last the final note had faded into silence, she sighed and reached for the cup I’d drunk from. Within its dregs my fate was a book only she could read.
She read it.
“Well I’ll be buggered,” she exclaimed with genuine surprise.
Perhaps, but not by me, I thought.
Then she caught sight of her reflection in the window. It was full dark outside and the glass made a good mirror. Her skin was smooth and fair and her chin was quite fetchingly pointed. Her lips were full and soft and her eyes bright and sparkling. The tresses, which cascaded from beneath the brim of her pointy black hat, were lustrous as raven’s wings, while her nose was seriously cute and wartless. She stood up and did a twirl. No one in their right mind would have criticised her figure.
“Hello stranger,” she said to herself, “Long time, no see.”
I guessed this was the woman she’d always been, only my songs must have let her out. She looked at me and I don’t mind telling you that it was no chore looking right back, but I hadn’t quite bargained for what she said next.
“Well, minstrel, I don’t know where you learned your craft for you’ve the touch of magic in your art. But if you think I’m going to let you go after this, you must be pixilated.”
I must have looked alarmed because she sashayed over and sat on my lap, putting her arms round my neck.
“Don’t worry, troubadour, I’m not going to eat you, well, maybe just the occasional nibble,” she giggled seductively as her lips opened on mine and illustrated her point with a demonstration. I must admit, I found it rather enjoyable. “Here’s the deal. You stay here with me for ever and sing to me, and I’ll give you a home you’ll never want to leave. How does that sound to you?”
It sounded good then, just as it does now, and I’ve lost count of the years we’ve been together. But in all that time we’ve never told each other our real names. I think we’re both afraid of losing the magic.
Of course, the cannibalistic diet takes some getting used to, but the woodland creatures are all her friends and she won’t countenance my hunting them for meat. Gingerbread and vegetables can get pretty boring after a while, so when we want meat there’s only one place to get it. The villagers breed like rabbits anyway. They can spare an occasional child and as we only take the stupid ones. It’s better for the bloodlines.
In the end, everybody wins.
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Originally Posted by Hawkman
. Never mind.
