A Recipe for the Care of the Aged Village Witch

The baker had made a perfect loaf. She set it aside that day, and even after all the rest were sold, she kept it back. She knew it was perfect by the sound, the sight, the smell, and a fourth sense — a tingle of magic that made her certain. She had been taught that secret once, a long time ago.

    After closing the bakery, she warmed the loaf, wrapped it, put on her cloak and scarf, stepping out into the cold, dark afternoon. 

    Her feet stopped in front of the oldest cottage. It had just a few patches of thatch missing. That would need fixing. A tilted door frame. But that had been there for years. There were no holes in the mortar. And while the garden had died it's annual winter death, it would come back just fine.

    The baker knocked at the tilted door, then entered. 

    The one room had a single bed, and in it a woman whose face had skin so deeply etched it was hard to find other features. Her hair was grizzled grey, though not matted. Her nightgown was made of clean linen. Under a thick quilt and several blankets were feet too swollen to stand, knees with too much bone showing, hips so bruised as to make each black. But her stomach was alright. It was used to filling up, and letting out.

    On the hatstand was a pointed black hat. It had been some time since it had been worn.

    The baker emptied the chamber pot under the bed. She pumped water from the pump outdoors and put the kettle on. She pulled out two pots, one of honey, the other of butter, and two packets, one of dried peppermint leaves, the other eggs already boiled. She built up the fire, and dusted where she could. The kettle whistled. The dried leaves went in it. Honey went into mugs. She poured the tea. Then the baker went and carried the old woman to the table.

    Perhaps it is too obvious to say that they had tea. But they did. As they did every day, and in the same way since the woman lost her way with work.

     There was a knock at the door. A man came in with nuts and berries and some wood, tipped his hat and went out again. Another knock, and a small girl, with a parcel of buns thick with honey and nuts, delivered the wares and left. A knock again, and a small boy and his mother placed a basket of cream and a fresh linen gown on the table, then departed.

    Perhaps it is too obvious to say that the gnarled woman whose body hurt so badly was cared for today. As she was every day. Done so simply. Offered gently and without fanfare. And deserved.

    A recipe, perhaps, for the care of the aged village witch.


    

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