by Brianne Simone
A moss-covered cottage, nestled in the meadow, was obscured from sight by overgrown wildflowers. Fireflies perched on its cobblestone walls as a steady stream of steam drifted out of the chimney. There was a path that led to this cottage, but none traversed it, for parents warned their children never to visit the meadow witch, for she was dangerous, wicked, and cruel.
This suited the witch just fine, of course, since she’d never particularly liked children and often found their presence distracting. Without the stress of hosting visitors, she was able to study spells to her heart’s content and dabble with potions at her leisure. Her current project was increasing the overall health and vibrancy of her potted plants, which tended to suffer the most from her knack for losing track of time as she worked.
She wasn’t expecting to hear a knock in the hours before dawn, when her protection spells were at their strongest. Oh, sometimes the ravens rapped impatiently for breadcrumbs and whatever scraps of meat and vegetables she could spare, but this knock was too gentle, too purposeful, to be a greedy little bird.
The witch grabbed a broomstick and cautiously approached the door, creeping on the tips of her toes so she wouldn’t make a sound. Deepening her voice to a more menacing tone, she called out, “Who goes there?” and peered out the eye-shaped peephole.
Though at first she could only see the meadow, a tiny voice piped up, “Are you a witch?”
It was a boy. A small boy with unkempt hair and dirty knees and a bright red nose that he wiped on the cuff of his sleeve.
The witch opened the door a crack so the boy could feel the full force of her displeasure. “That I am, child. Now get lost.” The too-thin boy slipped through the crack and stepped inside her cottage, leaving her dumbfounded. “I’m sorry?”
The boy, who’d been staring slack-jawed at her cauldron and herbs, looked back at her quizzically. “Why are you sorry?”
“I’m sorry,” the witch repeated as she fixed her wide-brimmed hat to her head and glowered, “did I say you could come in?”
The boy cocked his head. “You’re forgiven.”
Bristling, the witch demanded, “Are you doing this on purpose?”
“Doing what?” the boy asked innocently.
The witch placed the broom against the wall. “I’ve admitted it. I’ve told you I’m a witch. Now run back to your parents so they can do what’s done to witches.” To her surprise, the boy’s
guileless features were starting to take on a hint of distress. His cheeks were turning colors and
his brown eyes were dewy. Taking pity on him, the witch explained, “Now that I’ve admitted it, they’ll tell me to blame someone else who will hang in my place. Because witches are bad, you see.” She reached out to gently caress the drooping leaf of a hanging fern, already mourning its loss. “But I won’t do that. I’m proud of what I am. I keep to myself. I don’t hurt anyone.” She fixed the boy with stormy grey eyes that churned and swirled. “This is my home and I won’t be run out of it for keeping to my own.” As she spoke, her voice surprisingly steady despite the anguish in her heart, a black cat with a sun-bleached feline skull for a head slinked out from under the table and curled around her ankles. She stared down at her familiar, adding sheepishly, “The necromancy, on the other hand…”
Slowly, the boy approached the cat, his arms outstretched and his expression desperate as his fingers hovered over the cat’s silky fur. Meanwhile, the witch’s familiar kept one eye socket trained on the boy and the other closed.
She could feel herself softening towards the child and she didn’t like it. “Go ahead,” she said brusquely. The boy stiffened. “Charles won’t scratch you. He’s much too lazy.” The cat let out a hiss, but even that was lackluster.
Those words were all it took for the boy to bury his hands into the cat’s coat and scratch at its scruffy neck, drawing out a happy, relaxed purring that the witch hadn’t expected to hear from her cat. For months after she’d brought him back, he’d refused to let her touch him, and she had the scars on the backs of her hands and arms to prove it.
The boy scratched his nails against the top of her familiar’s skull. “Who would you blame?”
The witch’s mouth stretched into an unpleasant smile. “Maybe I’d tell them you’re a witch.” She wouldn’t. She’d never. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Can I?”
“Can you what?”
The boy looked up at her with a sort of desperate yearning. “Be a witch.”
The witch propped her hands on her hips. “Now why would a silly thing like you want to be a witch?”
“I don’t want to be a boy. Boys are dumb and mean. All the girls say so.” The boy stood, leaving her traitorous feline bereft, thrust his hands into his pockets, and solemnly scuffed his shoe against the ground. “I don’t want to be mean.”
Biting her cheek, the witch tried to think of something comforting to say. It’d been a long while since she’d had company and she was more than a little out-of-practice with being kind. “Being a boy doesn’t make you dumb and mean, child. Are you not proof of that?”
“But I’ll grow up,” said the boy, hushed and sad. His sleeves rode up as he squirmed where he stood, revealing pink welts and multi-colored bruises.
The witch plucked her lavender hat off her head and dropped it on the boy, who wasn’t quite big enough to keep the hat from falling over his eyes. As he scrambled to lift it, she turned towards the cauldron, tossing over her shoulder, “We’ll start your training after sunrise, little witch. You best be ready.”
AUTHOR BIO
Brianne Simone is a fantasy writer with a love for folklore and mythology. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys piecing together book nooks, researching polar expeditions, and watching horror movies with a steaming cup of cocoa. She lives in Massachusetts with her book collection and her lofty aspirations.
Instagram: briannesimone93
