Bewitching

by Alex Flinn

  So like my own story.

  “I meant to take a few bites only and leave. I was not raised to steal. But the gingerbread was so good, and my stomach growled so. So I took more. Then more. And then, the witch was upon me. She trapped me in a room and, next thing I knew, was gathering wood to bake me.”

  “I see. And where did she do this?”

  Miranda winced. I could see that the memory still pained her.

  “Please,” I said, “I must know.”

  “Of course. I am sorry. It is just that I can practically feel the flames, licking my arms.”

  Involuntarily, I clenched my own arms. “But I have seen no such oven in her cottage.”

  “No, Miss. ’Tis not there, but over yonder in the woods.” Miranda pointed to a spot beyond the house.

  The woods! I was seized with an idea. To take Charlie to the oven, the witch would have to release him from the spell. Then, we could escape. It was a small hope, but it was the only hope we had.

  “Thank you, Miranda.” I squeezed her hand as hard as possible.

  “Please, Miss, do escape, and if you do…” She squinted. “Perhaps you can tell someone about us. I feared my father, ’tis true, but I wish my mother knew what had become of me.”

  I touched her frosting hair. “If we escape—when we escape—I will tell them.”

  When I returned to the house, I did my best to act natural, and also to keep Charlie quiet. I required time to think.

  That night, I prepared a special potion that put Charlie to sleep, then approached the witch, offering to read to her from her book of Irish mythology, which was her favorite. It had been my practice to read each night until she was quite tired, but on this night, I stopped midway through, saying, “Madam, you have been very good to me, teaching me the ways of witches.”

  She reached to caress my hair. “It is no less than any mother would do.”

  “It is wonderful.”

  “Do you love me as much as you once loved your real mother?”

  I hesitated. I remembered mother, making my dresses, adjusting my hair ribbons, and teaching me not to lie. Still, I suspected she would permit an exception in this one case. “Of course I love you.”

  “Call me mother then.”

  “M…” The word stuck in my throat like spoiled meat from a long-dead cow. I coughed it out. “Mother! But one thing you have not told me about is the gingerbread ornaments which adorn this house. How came they do be here? And why?”

  The witch screwed up her face, trying to decide whether to tell me. “The why is simple. I was lonely and wanted company. That is why I built my house of gingerbread. Soon enough, children did come, the brats of travelers, nibbling upon my walls. I wanted merely to play with them, to hold them, as I could not hold my own. Yet, the children would not agree to this. If you can believe it, they wished to escape my loving embrace despite the promise of gingerbread.”

  “They wanted their own parents.”

  “Exactly! Oh, perhaps you will say ’tis understandable, but what was I to do—bear more children only to see them perish, see them age and die while I lived on for centuries? Besides, once the children escaped, they would alert their parents, who then found the authorities. Soon, the townspeople were upon me with a hangman’s noose or, if I were unlucky, with torches.”

  “This happened?”

  “Aye. More than once. My first gingerbread houses were in Germany. When I was chased out of that country, I built the next here. But this time, I knew better.”

  I nodded. I saw what she had done.

  “Now, when I caught a child, I baked it into gingerbread, the better to keep it here. I may not have my own Adelaide or Karl, but I have Maggie and Henry, Oliver and Em, all around the house. They are mine forever.”

  I shivered. The air had grown suddenly cold. I remembered the reverend saying that colder weather would lessen the plague. Too late for us.

  “But they’re dead,” I said.

  “Not dead. Frozen. Safe. Safe from the world, my own darlings.”

  She smiled, and I knew I must not argue, must not—as Mother said—talk back to my elders. Good advice, as mothers often gave. It would not do to let the witch know that I was disgusted by her doings. I must pretend to agree with her.

  So I clapped my hands and smiled like the sort of insipid girl I hated. “How wonderful! I suppose if you went away on holiday, you might bring them with you for companionship.”

  “Aye. Though I have not often been on holiday. I am an old woman, in mind if not in body. I prefer to stay here, with these, my children.”

  She glanced toward the window at the cookie children. I could see one, a boy smaller than Charlie. His hair stuck up on his head, and I thought how he must have struggled when stuffed inside the oven. Yet now, his face seemed placid, accepting of his fate. His frosted lips even turned up in a smile.

  “They seem so happy,” I said.

  “Oh, they are. In this way, they too can live forever.”

  I tried again. “Will you teach me to do it?”

  The witch’s brow curled under. “Why would you wish that, my dear?”

  I reached to touch her shoulder. “Because, M-Mother, since you have taken me in, I have felt very close to you. Like all daughters, I wish to be exactly like you. But perhaps…” I stepped away. “I presume too much. You may not feel the same toward me. Forgive me.”

  The witch took my wrist in her fingers. “No, no, I adore you as my own and would teach you all I know. It is only that I have no children to bake.”

  “Truly?” My eyes met hers now. They were still as shockingly green as the first day I saw her.

  “’Deed. Of course, when I first captured you, I did intend—and I say this with every apology—did intend to add you to my picket fence. It would not have worked because, since you are a witch, the flames—even magical flames which keep other children alive—would have killed you.”

  I nodded.

  “However, now, I would no sooner bake you than I would sear my own flesh. So you see, my dear Kendra, I have no dough for my gingerbread.”

  “Ah.” I remembered what Miranda had said about the wood. Could she have been wrong? I needed to test it. “Of course. I know you would not harm, er, bake me, but I thought perhaps … my brother.”

  “Your brother? You would not be angry?”

  I screwed up my mouth as if in thought. “I would miss him … at first, I suppose. But he can be a trial. Besides, he would not live forever anyway. Indeed, were it not for magic, he would be dead already.”

  The witch’s chin twitched. “’Tis true enough. I will admit I had thought of baking him. Boys yell and run about so. But I thought you would be angry.”

  The witch’s fingers felt like worms, crawling, ready to chew my eyes out. I glanced away. It was true what Miranda had said!

  I collected myself. “I have learned much from you, Mother. I will do what you think best. You have lived so much longer than I. Besides, if Charlie is baked, we could have him as part of our family forever. Otherwise, he will only grow old and die. Right?”

  I dared not move. Yet I wanted her hand off me. It was a relief when she finally released her grip.

  “Oh, Kendra! I had hoped you might see it that way. Yet I know children are sentimental. I can tell you all now. I had prepared the oven, and this morning, I gathered the wood. I was only waiting for an opportune moment to take him. I had planned to tell you he had run away, but now, I will not have to resort to such trickery. I am so happy!”

  “I am too.”

  “We can do it tonight,” she said.

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not? The oven is prepared.”

  “Why … yes. That is true.” The sleeping potion I had given Charlie would prevent his escaping if we went tonight. I had to think of a reason to delay. “It’s just that he sleeps. I gave him a sleeping potion. I was tired of the noise.”

  “That is quite all right. It is easier if he sleeps.”

>   “Yes, but…” What to say? “I suppose you were right before, about sentiment. I am not so sentimental as to wish my brother alive at the expense of valuable training. But…”

  “What?” Her disgusting worm-hand once again sought my hair. “I wish you to be happy, Kendra. I wish us to be happy together.”

  “I only want to see Charlie once more, awake. I know it will not matter in a hundred years. Still, I have a childish wish to say good-bye.”

  She blinked, then again. “And yet, you wish to bake him. You wish to see it happen? Perhaps it would be better if I accomplished it without you.”

  “No, no! I wish to learn. It is a childish desire, but please indulge me… Mother?” I made my eyes wide, pleading.

  It worked. The witch stroked my hair. I tried not to shudder. I must not react.

  “Of course, my dear. I forget that you are still a child, for you are so wise. Let us to bed, Kendra, and when morning dawns, I will tell you my last secrets, teach you as only a mother can.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  I went to bed at Charlie’s side, but I did not sleep. What if she had lied to me? Or changed her mind? This could easily happen if she thought I was reluctant.

  The matter of escape consumed me also. I knew I would likely have to kill the witch in order to free us. It should have been a trifle. I had now little fear of death, after all I had seen. But death was one thing, murder quite another. Killing the witch was justifiable, but would that make a difference when I was forced to impel her into flames? She was a human being after all.

  Or was she?

  She was. If she was not, I was not either, for we were the same. She was human, but she was evil. She meant to harm Charlie. I had to stop her.

  As the dawn broke, I squeezed Charlie’s hand. He stirred in his sleep.

  “Dear brother,” I whispered, “there is something I must tell you. Listen carefully, for I cannot repeat it or speak too loudly. Nod if you understand.”

  Charlie nodded but made no sound. I had cast a spell upon him to bring about his silence. I could take no chances.

  “Good.” I tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and looked out. The witch was not to be found. I returned to Charlie and whispered, “The witch intends to cook you today.”

  Charlie turned a bit white but still said nothing. I continued quickly. “Of course, I will not allow this to happen. I will protect you as I have so far.”

  Now Charlie’s expression indicated I had not done a very good job so far.

  “She will take us out to the woods. You may get an opportunity to run, but remember, she is powerful. If you fail, there will be no second chance. You must wait until I distract her.”

  He nodded. I heard a noise, the creak of a door. The witch was awake. I gave Charlie one last look, then laid back and pretended to sleep beside him. I was so weary. Yet my pulse pounded, and I hoped this would serve to keep me alert.

  The door opened, and the witch came in. “Wake up, dearies. You are in for a treat.”

  “We want no treats from you, Madam,” I said. “Our last treat got us trapped here.”

  The witch winked at me. She was dressed in what must have been her finest, a green satin gown with a purple feathered hat. “Ah, you will like this treat then, for you will be untrapped. Free. It is a fine morning. We will have a walk in the woods. Get up.”

  I did not want to go. Thoughts of all that could go wrong flew around me like so many blackbirds. I wished that I could stay right there. Or, better yet, since I was already wishing the impossible, I wished I could turn back the strangling hands of time, not a day, not a week, but two years, to before our capture, before all the death, before the wretched plague. Had we only known! I wished to be a girl of twelve, concerned only with my weaving and whether I was being given more than my fair share of chores.

  But I was a witch, not a genie. My life, once lived, could not unlive itself.

  I stood. “That does sound fun. Come, Charlie.” I tugged at his arm, and slowly, he rose.

  The path we walked was covered in pine needles, but clear of grass and weeds. The witch had walked this way often; once, at least, for each child-picket in her fence. I squeezed Charlie’s hand. Several times he tried to break away, but I tightened my grip. Not yet. I only hoped I was correct in anticipating a better opportunity. Pine trees marched on all sides of us, like threatening guards. Finally, we reached a clearing. I knew it by the smell of gingerbread. Gingerbread and something else. Seared flesh. I thought of little Miranda and the others. Would that there were a spell to quell my emotions, silence my thoughts. There was none, only my own talent for artifice. “So this it is?” I asked the witch, smiling.

  “Indeed, it is, love.”

  I turned to Charlie. “This is where she makes the gingerbread.”

  The oven, made of black iron, was the size of our lean-to at home. The door had a lock upon it. Charlie’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “Perhaps you should stand over there, Charlie.” I pointed to a spot far away.

  “No!” The witch grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “I need him beside me.”

  “Of course.” I laughed. “How silly of me.”

  “A bit too silly.”

  “I apologize.” I made my face pretty. “Will you teach me how to do it, Mother?”

  “Of course.” The witch gestured toward the oven. “Perhaps you and your dear brother could crawl inside and light it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Me and Charlie? Light the oven?” In a tree high above, a crow sang its homely song. I looked up. When I finally found it, I noticed its feathers were not solid black, as I had been used to thinking, but rather reflected purple and green. As I watched, its song changed from its usual caw to a different tune, one Mother had sung:

  Dear love, call in the light;

  Or else, you’ll burn me quite!

  Burn! Was I delirious? Or was this bird warning me away? I needed no such warning, but perhaps the bird was suggesting a strategy by reminding me of Mother.

  Or perhaps it was Mother?

  “Indeed,” I said to the witch. “I wish to help, but I cannot light the oven.”

  “Cannot? Of course you can.” The witch grabbed my elbow. “You are a big girl and must be able to accomplish such work.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot. My sister Sadie always did it. I never learned.”

  “You will learn now.” The witch pulled me toward the oven. Charlie followed along. I could not let go of him, else the witch would surely throw him inside alone.

  Above, the bird sang:

  My bonny lass, she smileth;

  When she my heart beguileth.

  Beguile.

  “Please.” The tears in my eyes were real. “Please, Mother, I am afraid of the fire. I was burned once as a girl. You are so much wiser. I know you can show me how to do it.”

  “Silly girl!” The witch reached for the oven door. “Any fool could do it.”

  “Then I am less than a fool, for I cannot. Please, show me. We shall be together many years, forever. If you show me now, I will do it many times henceforth.”

  The witch sighed but said, “You need only take a stick, make fire as I have shown you, then light the wood inside.” She plucked a branch from the tree. “Crawl in, and do it.”

  Now, the crow flew down from its perch. It circled around, singing the refrain:

  Fa la la la la la la la la

  It dove at the witch’s head.

  “Oh! Horrible creature!” With the hand that didn’t clutch my wrist, the witch battled the crow. This gave me an idea. I let go of Charlie’s wrist and nodded at him to run.

  Yet he did not move. Why did he not? The witch was engrossed in fighting off the swooping, singing bird. He could escape.

  He waited for me, I realized.

  The oven door was fully open now, and I said to the witch, “Perhaps if you made the fire, I could light the oven.”

  “Oh, of all…” Yet she obliged,
waving the stick in the air. It burst into flame. As she did this, the bird swooped again, causing her to duck and stumble. “Oh!”

  Only then did Charlie move out from behind me. With both hands freed, he shoved the distracted witch through the oven door. The flame inside had not lit, but as she was propelled into the oven, her skirt caught, glorious red and orange. She shrieked, “I’m on fire! I’m on fire! Kendra, help me!”

  I stood, frozen, until Charlie stomped on my foot. Then I flew toward the oven door. The witch turned back, clawing at me, but it was too late. Her hands, even her face, were melting before my eyes like butter. I slammed the door and threw my back against it. Charlie locked it. All the while, the witch’s screams echoed through the silent wood. Black smoke belched from the sides of the oven door.

  I stood there a long time, feeling the heat on my back, until the witch’s shrieks waned, and I knew she was dead. I touched my eyes then, and found I was crying. Then I was wracked with sobs. I did not speak, nor did Charlie. Finally, there was silence but for the cawing of the crow above. I glanced up. It flew down and perched upon my shoulder, singing:

  When she her sweet eye turneth;

  Oh, how my heart it burneth!

  Fa la la la la la la la la!

  I was shaking, but I stroked its head. “Yes. Yes. You are a good bird.”

  I remembered the crow at Lucinda’s house, the day I’d saved Charlie. Probably just a coincidence.

  I turned to Charlie. “Why did you not run?”

  He gestured toward his mouth, and I realized he still could not speak. Quickly, I uttered the words to the counterspell. He said, “Had I run, the witch would have cooked you.”

  “Not true. ’Twas I who persuaded her to light the fire.”

  “But ’twas I who stuffed her into the oven.”

  I sighed. “I suppose. But, Charlie, if ever again I tell you to run, you must run.” I had a premonition, as I had stood with my back to the oven, of the difficulties that lay ahead for a witch like me. “Promise, Charlie.”

  “I will protect you.”

  “No. You will protect yourself first. Promise.”