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The Witch, the Thoughts, and the Harvest

As the witch laid out the harvest, her mind drifted. There was a satisfaction in her work. A great satisfaction. She was feared, if not loved. This was not always so.

    She remembered that time, the time before. When the men would show up at the door and barrage her with insults beyond belief for unsuccessful outcomes courtesy of them calling her too late. When eggs would soak the outside of her cottage, a treat of an insult given the cost of an egg. When small poos were carefully laid out in rude faces on the outside of her door, smoking slightly.

    It took a muttering, just a few words. Ones that sounded pointed. Dropped under her voice, but loud enough so the nasty man could hear. From then on, all his misfortunes had a cause. From a knowing of the cause grew respect. Or fear. From a certain point of view, one is much the same as the other. The people in the village couldn't tell the difference. They didn't have the time.

    But maintaining the fear required a sternness from the witch. An implacable severity. No one was to see it slip, for that way lay the past. The witch had little desire to step in turds again.

    Still, there were nights like the last one. When the witch would be called into the child's chamber. She'd give the potion that opened the lungs, and prop up the child with her own body until the airway cleared. The child would breathe. And breathe again. And when the breathe became a pattern, the witch would allow herself the smile. The one that wondered what it would be like to be loved. The one that knew that she would never choose any other life but the one she lived. The one that loved humans for themselves. 

    Her mouth made a line as the witch nodded sharply to herself, her fingers hovering over the herbs. Enough of that, she thought. Enough of thoughts. She had life to be going on with.

Content

 The woman wondered if this was all there was.      Then nodded.      This was fine, she thought. Just fine. 
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Brambles and Light

 Once upon a time there was a woman who could not bear to carry on, for her path was dark and narrow.      And so, she turned aside and swept into the brambles. There she cut and forged and ambled on where no path could be forged, nothing narrowed, and where darkness only grew like blooms on dark hellebore.      She turned again.      And again.     Until she climbed a tree.      Which is where the light poured in.      Down she came, into the brambles for awhile. Until she needed the light, and then up the tree she'd go.      And so on and so forth.     Where her way was wide and pocketed with light, and she found she could carry on.  
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The Escape

 When autumn sorted itself out and decided to arrive, the woman had some thoughts. Mostly, she was tired of examining her own aging, marking the entrance of each wrinkle, of each new dark mark that made a home on her face. Signs of deterioration. Signs of death.      She'd tried all the potions. Why not? After all, they were there. It cost her little, on average, to try them.      Except it cost her more, in the end.       Every little examination until she was too tired to examine any longer.      She stopped then. All the potions. To her horror, she saw that they had worked, a little. They had offered her some grace. Still, she was too tired to visit the witch for such things. There were other needs to visit witches for, at her age. Other potions to take. Other pains to ease.      And then, a curious thing occurred. Without the potions, she had no cause to examine herself so closely. No need to see if...
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Of a Migraine

The trouble with witches, from time to time, is that they tend to have no offspring. They do, however, have apprentices. Now, there is nothing that precludes a witch from a wedding. Witches are occasionally known to have a jolly kick-up of a day and evening in such an affair. They tend to make the most of the drink. They even, on occasion, make the most of the groom. But such states are rare.      The witch knew this was the case.       She explained that this was the case.      She even offered a slightly distant, rather rhythmic pat on the back.       None of it did any good for the apprentice weeping uncontrollably on the couch-cum-bed that made up the potion-making-cum-kitchen-cum-spare-room. Indeed, the young lady didn't seem to quite grasp the fact that young gentlemen weren't often wont to wed a woman of a witchly persuasion. It was a simply matter of mathematics. Men liked to know a certain amount of things. M...
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