A Witch's Order

 There was once a boy who, at times, tended toward the depths of despair. The tendency made itself known around 4pm on a Wednesday, which was the day and time his father sent him each week with bread for the old witch. The boy was not at his best around old witches.

    He had seen that a witch's potion could bring back someone from the brink of death. Too, he had seen what a witch's curse could do. Just last year the blacksmith had been cursed for letting his wife suffer illness without remedy too long. He would get an anvil to the foot, the witch had said. It was no surprise when it happened three weeks later. And just last week, the tailor had turned away a widow who could only pay half. The witch had given him a verbal shake down, and the next day he had sewed himself by both trousers and drawers right into the suit he was making for a lord. His assistant had to cut him loose. What, the boy often wondered, might she do to him? 

    The boy took care not to give offense to anyone, and to give extra bread to those who could only pay half. Just to make sure. But you never knew, did you, just what might spark the ire of a witch...

    His feet dragged as he approached the cottage. The old witch opened the door. She smiled a toothless grin, and the boy breathed a sigh of relief. The bread was accepted with thanks, a sweet given, and the boy walked away with light feet. He often had light feet around 4.15 on a Wednesday.

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