Fairy Stories & Other Tales

 There was once a woman weighed down. She felt the weight of her cares as strong as if she were Atlas himself, though perhaps her sky was a different one. Atlas' heavens might carry the fear of wars, chaos and the troubles of the gods, but his purpose was decided and though his shoulder might wrench, he would carry on. The woman, on the other hand, did not carry the cares of a purpose, for she was lost in crowds, and little did anyone care if either she had a purpose or if she did not.      Her responsibilities, what little of them that were allowed her, were filled with small decisions that ate away at her until she herself grew quite small.      Then came a day when she wandered the woods and met a witch.       The witch had, quite naturally, a cottage. It was filled with potions and poultices and remedies of all sorts. Her scrubbed oak table was laden with tinctures that were passed off to various people throughout the day. Thoug...

 The witch stepped into the city, and flinched. She thought about stepping back out, but she'd only have to step back in again. After all, she had business.      But there was a ways into the city to go until she got to her business. The question, then, was how best to manage.      Crying, certainly, felt like an option. Humans, she was certain, were never meant to be packed in tight like sardines. Anchovies, more like, as more could fit in the can. And an ugly can it was, too.      She could scream. That was another option. Just to join in the noise. No one would notice.      But, of course, the witch got on with it. That was what witches did.      Her business complete, she left the city.     And didn't think about it anymore.

The little girl had no interest in money. Most small children don't until a grownup makes a big deal out of a little coin. She did have an interest in sweets, though. And those cost money.       So she worked for the witch. Doing odd jobs, milking the goats, making cheeses. Gardening. Tending the hives.      The witch paid in goods, and the little girl could sell them or eat them as she chose. Honey, she discovered, was sweet. Add the cream from the goat's milk over high heat, and it made a very good sweet indeed.       It was an interesting day when the girl discovered that she could make her own sweets without money. It was an even more interesting day when she realized she could exchange her sweets for a new pair of socks, or to the cobbler for patch on her boot, or to the shopkeeper for a new book.     The little girl grew up, and found she cared very little for money.       But only, perhaps, becau...

 There is only one way to meet a witch.      You must come along at a normal gate - dragging feet will not impress, and speed will only cause her raise a brow.      Make visible enough pride to look intelligent, enough to recognize her value (read: won't burn her). But there should be nothing haughty in the mix. Humility is key. A humble stead recognizes skill; skill that can only be found in a witch.      Do not come ill. Send someone else. A witch does not need to catch cold.      Bring a part of the best of what you have. If you have nothing, all the better.      Do not look frightened. But be a little afraid.      And never ask her to tell your fortune. It will be accurate and you won't like it.       To sum up: hold your head high and keep it bowed, with a confident gait and palms outstretched, and ready you are to meet a witch.