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A Kind of Justice

 There are some people to whom badness clings like stink to that one pair of socks that won't stop smelling no matter how many times you wash them. These are the kinds of people that aren't the ringleaders of fault, but are just close enough to try and get whatever apples get dropped on the ground. That's, of course,  when they find out that the dropped apples were themselves stolen and if the ringleader gets arrested or doesn't, you can bet everything on red that the people rooting around on the ground will be. 

    The problem comes when that kind of person has been arrested, gets set free, goes back to rooting around the apples with the vague notion that they're probably still stolen, but, hey, maybe not.

   I know the type. More often than not, they still come out ahead in the same way that a politician has all that stuff that makes him a politician and still gets to keep his job. It's not justice, to my way of thinking.

    It was in this vein that I saw the stall at the market. The one with the guy who had watched as another man hurt those boys, and hurt them badly, not too long past. He had watched, and did nothing. Yet, there he was, selling is candles in the center of the market. A prime location, I can tell you. And on the chief summer market day. You don't just get a spot like that out of hand. It's an award from the squire. The squire knew that the man had stood by. There had been a penalty, though not for him. But the offending man was a friend of the squire's, God plague him. The squire doesn't like to see his friends get caught. And a friend of a friend... Nothing makes my blood boil more than the squire giving out privileges to those who ought to act better. Well, maybe there's one thing. Those who know they ought to have acted better and don't refuse the award. The man, if he had had any gumption knowing he had done a wrong by doing nothing, could have refused the squire. He could have let his place go to Nanny Gordon, with the bent hip who needed the extra for her ailing daughter. But, there was nothing I could do about it, save for not buying his wares. 

    I went about my business, mostly buying for the cottage. Some herbs can't grow in this soil, and if I'm lucky someone will have come from somewhere exotic and can add to my stash. Not everyone will talk to a witch, but pretty much anyone will take a witch's potion. At the market, none of this matters if you have the gold. Which made me all the sadder that the unfeeling fellow would profit.

    Except, I wasn't the only one not buying from him. As the morning went on, the buyers past him by. There were others that sold candles, even if they were more tallow than beeswax. By mid-morning the man wore a frown and had the grace to look abashed. By noon, the fellow was gone.

    I smiled. That, I thought, was a kind of justice. It restored a bit of faith in humanity, that. 

    It was enough to be going on with, anyway.

Choosing

 There are rivers and there are rivers of blood. The witch thought both dangerous. The one was too hard to cross, the other too hard to squelch.      In a sense, she'd prefer neither. If she had the choice, if she could make her own destiny, there would be nothing that soaked through. But that presupposed she had not chosen her lot in life. And that was something with which she would not hold. She had chosen to be a witch, and she would have to take the lot that came with it. One didn't often have the luxury of choice. She had. It was exhausting to think that choice could just keep going.      Thus, she plunged into the river and waded across to the other side where she staunched the wounds on several fallen men, and then went home, soaked on both fronts.      The cottage that awaited her was small, but clean and mostly empty.       She changed into her other set of clothes, and boiled the kettle over the fire. ...
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The Little Girl who Breathed Properly

 Once upon a time there was a little girl who read fairy tales as though she was breathing.      She loved them so much, she began to believe that fairy tales would happen to her.      And so they did. 
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Go Forth the Witch

 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...
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Where a Witch Dare Not Linger

 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.
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