By Fallon Clark

The old woman had few concerns and fewer possessions in the quaint cottage hidden within the great forest. Among the towering evergreen trees next to a sparkling river, the home was unassuming and purposefully forgettable. It was peaceful there in the forest, blanketed with fresh snow in the cold of winter. Except for the smoking chimney, nothing stirred. It was a fine afternoon for a rest.

An urgent rap at her door startled the old woman awake from her impromptu nap. She grumbled to herself and blinked through clouded eyes. She cast off the thick wool blanket that covered her tottery legs as she rose from her rocking chair and hobbled toward the door. The thick cloak wound tight around her bony shoulders. Expecting to shoo away a particularly ornery squirrel who liked to pester, the woman further startled to see two small persons. They stood on her front porch and peered at the door with wide eyes and cold-purple lips.

“What is it?” she croaked as the door swung open, her voice too loud for the proximity of the young children, who visibly recoiled at the angular, crooked nose and sunken cheeks before them. The woman stepped back into darkness so as not to frighten the children, who had likely heard the whispered fables of the witch.

The pair of them, a boy and a girl, seemed to shake uncontrollably. Their red hands were chapped, and they hadn’t bothered to wipe away bubbles of snot from under their noses. The children’s eyes followed the old woman as she peered into the trees beyond. The children would have endured quite a journey to find themselves at the door of her home without mittens or proper coats to ward off the dreadful cold. A life of intentional seclusion and self-sufficiency left one with little to offer, but the woman stepped back from the door and waved in the children. They sighed with relief and stepped inside the cottage.

“A b-bit of food, ma’am, if you p-please,” the boy stuttered through chattering teeth, his lips blue. The girl nodded and gave a small squeak before snapping closed her blue mouth and licking her lips. The woman squinted at each child, assessing the ingredients needed for proper cups of hot tea: black pepper for warmth, chamomile to calm, and lemon balm to soothe.

She waved for the children to follow and hobbled toward a wide sink for a bucket of water, relishing in the small gasps that came from the children as they passed the hot cauldron and made their way to a modest counter. The woman pumped water from the spigot into a bucket, sloshing fat drops as she carried the bucket to the cauldron. The cold water created a plume of steam that rose from the cast-iron pot before knobby fingers replaced the bucket on its hook. Then, she hobbled to a table full of rows of jars to choose herbs and flowers, placed the ingredients in a silk bag, dropped the silk into the simmering cauldron.

While the tea steeped, the cloaked old woman prepared a plate of cheeses, winter berries, and sweet jams, which she promptly set before the children on a small table neither had noticed, for their eyes had not left the steaming pot. As they each reached for the food, the woman frowned at the angry scrapes and blooming scratches on their small hands. A simple poultice would soothe and protect.

With little need for baking, the woman stored books full of recipes and herbal medicines inside her oven. The woman reached for a particular book, but her crooked arms could no longer touch the binding to pull it forward.

“Fetch me that book, will ya?” The woman’s voice crackled in the dry air. The children obliged without hesitation, their cheeks stuffed with berries and jam, eyes twinkling in the firelight. There was a book with a leather binding and worn-smooth embossing. The girl reached in first. Her pudgy fingers brushed the spine, though she could not pull the tome forward. She grunted in frustration and leaned into the deep space as the boy made his attempt. The woman took a wooden spoon to the cauldron scenting her home. It would be ready soon. The children would go back to their home.

The woman yanked the tea bag from the pot as her door burst open in a rude interruption. She turned in exasperation and brandished her wooden spoon at the second intrusion of the afternoon. A formidable man with wild, darting eyes rushed into the cottage. His expression changed from fear to horror as he turned toward the children, both of whom had crawled into the cavernous oven space. The old woman held a dripping spoon above her head. Her toothless mouth was agape, and her knobby fingers clutched a dripping pouch over the steam.

“Witch!” The old woman could not speak before the man attacked and sent her reeling toward the simmering pot. Her head struck the edge of the cauldron with a sickening thwack, and her body crumpled to the floor, eyes whitened and faded.

The children hurried out of the oven, their faces bright and cheerful before their smiles disappeared. They regarded the silent woman buried in her cloak and the triumphant man before them.

“Hello, Papa,” the boy muttered. The girl began to wail.