Fairy Stories & Other Tales

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 ma...

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

 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.  

 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...