by Ron Sexsmith
Even the name Hixenbaugh (which roughly translated into German means “belly of a witch”) did much to cement these dark fables in the minds of young children everywhere. For what child doesn’t enjoy hearing a scary story? Especially at bedtime!
And Crad, who by then had assumed the tandem roles of father and big brother, thought it best to pass on these stories to Mertha and to advise her, as well, on all the many ways of knowing if you were in the presence of a witch to begin with. “First of all,” he said to rapt attention. “You may notice a purplish aura around the pupils and a vague scent of candy floss and clay.” Merthaloy’s eyes were as wide as two moons as her mind raced to commit all this to memory. “Now, what you need to do if you even think you’re in the presence of a witch is run! Run as fast as you can!” he whispered in a serious, yet loving, voice. “Their feet, you see, have these painful bunions on them, so they can’t go very fast.”
Mertha nodded and felt somewhat relieved to know that at the very least she was a fast runner!
“And one more thing,” said Crad. “Witches and water DO NOT MIX! Now this is very important,” he pressed on, his voice becoming more dramatic with each syllable. “For water to a witch’s body is like FIRE, only ten times hotter! This is why you must ALWAYS carry ’round a flask of water!” (Here he paused to make sure she was still paying close attention.) “You do know why, don’t you?” he asked mischievously as Mertha shook her head with the utmost seriousness. “’Cause you never know when you might get thirsty!” With that he laughed merrily as she smiled a bright smile on the moonlit pillow and rubbed her sleepy eyes. “You get some rest, my angel,” Crad softly said, “I’ll see you in the golden morrow,” and kissed her curious forehead before heading downstairs for his customary drink, or nightcap as he liked to call it.
Now, the following segment took place unbeknownst to Crad (for he had to work early that day), but it was later relayed to him by Sallee the innkeeper’s wife, then pieced together from a few other eyewitness accounts. I should also mention that further liberties were taken by yours truly to fill in the gaps where dialogue was unknown and generally embellish the story for the purposes of this book … you’re welcome.
The next morning arrived like any other as Merthaloy woke rested and descended the staircase to wash a stack of breakfast dishes. As she did so, she would often look out the window that faced the courtyard. For she loved to watch the birds and squirrels as they worked tirelessly each day for survival. It reminded her of her big brother in the sweetest way.
Well, it was about this time that a woman’s face suddenly (and quite chillingly) appeared in this very window. “Hello, there! What’s your name?” asked the face.
“I’m Merthaloy,” came her startled response.
“Merthaloy, you say? Why, that’s a lovely name and for such a lovely girl, too!” said the window face, now smiling broadly.
Mertha backed up ever so slightly in an effort to check the eyes for any trace of purple. “What’s YOUR name,” she then asked suspiciously, and for good reason. For, just as she suspected, the eyes HAD come back positive for purple tint!
“Well, you’re a bright child, aren’t you?” said the purple-eyed lady. “You know better than to talk to strangers. That’s very wise. Did your mommy teach you that?” she inquired and continued smiling, though her eyes did not.
“My mommy’s dead,” said Merthaloy flatly. Then, dunking a sly ladle into the dishwater, she splashed without warning a full load into the unwitting face of the witch, who screamed loudly as if burned by acid or scalding hot soup.
“You wicked demon!” she raged with a hole now in her cheek that one could practically see through. “You’ll be sorry for that!” threatened the witch before ducking swiftly out of sight.
A moment or two later, Sallee the innkeeper’s wife came rushing in to see what the matter was while looking frantically in all directions. “What is going on in here?” she asked with eyes wide. Mertha ran swiftly to her arms and pointed to the window, but alas, there was nobody there.…
“What is it, dear? Whatever did you see?” implored Sallee, looking first at the empty window then back at the fully frightened child.
“A witch,” cried Mertha. “I saw a witch!”
“Oh, come now,” said Sallee. “They’re just stories, you know!”
“But I saw her! She had purple pupils!” insisted Merthaloy, whose words spit out in a most adorable way. “I burnt a hole in her cheek!” she added while peeking out from under Sallee’s arms and over to where the face used to be.
“Well, whoever it was, dear, she’s gone now. I promise you!” For Sallee had this wonderful way of reassuring people with a comforting voice that Merthaloy, as well, had come to trust without question. “Why don’t you run upstairs and collect yourself, and I’ll have a look around … okay?”
So as fast as her tiny feet could fly, young Mertha raced up the ten steps to her chamber and rushed over to the window. Which was exactly when she saw the witch again. Only now she was glaring upward at her from underneath a willow tree across the way, her face still smouldering from the dishwater wound. Her eyes still mad with rage. Her smile every bit as broad as before! Then in the blink of a purple eye, with fingers raised to the sky, she began the chanting of words that poor Merthaloy could not hope to hear from that distance behind the glass. (Nor would she have understood them even if she could.) After which the dishwater-disfigured woman simply turned and walked on, leaving behind her a sad space in the window where a little girl used to be.
People claimed that after her disappearance, they could still see her in the window most nights waiting for her brother’s return. Crad himself would see her, too, and go rushing up the stairs only to find that she wasn’t really there at all. It seemed she wasn’t really anywhere anymore.…
Most nights he’ d spend looking over at the willow tree, imagining her sweet face on the pillow and praying for her to come home. But as with most prayers, it too went unanswered, and so he never did see her again. Not in the window and nevermore on the pillow. For it had truly become The Lonely View Tavern, as though it were predestined to be so. And as you’ve no doubt gathered by now, Grimsby would eventually leave the town of Hixenbaugh with all its heartbreak and never look back. Until very recently, that is.… But strangely enough, it was Merthaloy now who smiled down at his face on the pillow. Had she come to reassure him or to warn him of future trouble? It took but a soft rap on his chamber door to rouse him from his memories. “Tea’s ready, sir!”
They say that everything happens for a reason. More often than not, the reason becomes apparent only in hindsight. But hindsight, as we all know, waits on the brush stroke of time to show us the big picture and put our past in a frame. And certainly the scene awaiting Deryn in the clearing would make for one very sad painting indeed. For Jupiter lay dying, as seemingly unaware in death as in life, with Eleanoir providing what little comfort she could offer her friend. Deryn peered through nearby branches, the full weight of realization sinking his heart like a shipwreck. “Oh no,” he gasped through fingers that covered all but his left eye. And setting down his guilty rifle, he pushed quietly through the brush and nearer to the tragic scene that lay before him. Approaching on foot, though, would prove much easier than approaching the right words. For what could he possibly say that would make any difference now?
He didn’t wish to disturb the solemn moment, and, what with being the cause of it and all, words seemed especially meaningless and even harder to come by. Even so, Deryn removed his woollen cap, held it to his heart, and began to speak in earnest.
“Ma’am? I just wanted to say that it was I who … well, you know, and I feel just awful about what has happened. I didn’t mean to, of course, um, what I mean is, I thought it was a deer … truly I did. And I really should have, well, I guess I just don’t know how I could’ve been so …” (and words to that effect), Deryn struggled on
through real tears until finally arriving at the heart of the matter. “I just wish there was something I could do or say to show you how truly sorry I am,” and hung his head in a genuine display of remorse.
Throughout the entirety of this heartfelt speech, Eleanoir sat hunched over the now lifeless body of Jupiter, and she neither looked up nor uttered a single word to acknowledge his meek presence. But now she turned at last to catch a glimpse of this remorseful dog murderer.
Her eyes did not seem at all wet from crying, though it appeared (at least to Deryn) that the twilight descending on the forest seemed to originate from somewhere deep within them. The unusual beauty of her face, as well, was unlike anything he’ d ever seen before, and though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, something sure seemed odd about her! And much to his surprise, Eleanoir then smiled warmly at him in an effort to put him at ease, I suppose, though it had the opposite effect. “I believe you,” she said, somewhat reassuringly at least. “It was just a mistake, I know. I can tell you’re a good boy. You probably don’t believe me, but I can tell.” And she rose to her feet as though she were made of smoke and then fanned in his direction. “Jupiter,” she said, now standing eyeball to eyeball with him.
“Jupiter?” he repeated, more than a little confused.
“The dog’s name,” she reiterated slowly, “was Jupiter.”
“Oh, I see!” said Deryn, whose eyes seemed neither willing nor able to meet hers for even a second.
“Won’t you be a dear and help me to bury him?” she then asked (and rather abruptly, or so he thought). “We must bury him quickly!”
Sensing that here, perhaps, was a golden opportunity to make amends in some small way, Deryn gathered up most of his wits to energetically rise to the occasion.
“Yes, of course!” he said brightly before running off to fetch a small shovel he had just remembered packing that morning.
“Now where the devil is he going?” wondered Eleanoir, craning her neck ever so slightly to the left. But in less than a heartbeat all became clear as he returned, shovel in hand, and got right to work digging a suitable grave for a beautiful dog who he assumed deserved much better. And as he toiled away with the best intentions, all the while digging himself a deeper hole, Eleanoir sat watching from a nearby stone and smiled unnervingly at him. Though he tried not to show it, Deryn was starting to feel a little put off, quite frankly, by how well she was taking it all.
“Would you like to say a few words, ma’am?” he inquired while tramping down the last shovelful of dirt on the grave.
“Words?” she asked. “What good are words at a time like this?” she berated him and cackled harshly. “He’s dead, he can’t hear us!”
“Well, I just thought,” he said with a look of bewilderment unequalled in all be-wilderness. “That is, I mean, he was your friend! Well, wasn’t he?” Deryn asked innocently before searching her eyes, but to no avail.
“Friend?” scoffed Eleanoir. “Oh, come now, he was a dog! A stupid, slobbering dog! Do you even know what a friend is?” she rudely inquired, all the while moving malevolently toward him.
“Well, no, I mean, yes, of course I do,” he nervously spoke, now having become quite flustered by the whole situation. “I’m sorry, I’m just confused is all,” he said, backing up slowly (for she was standing a little too close for his diminishing comfort). And also, he couldn’t ignore for much longer how fast the night was approaching. “I-I really should be going,” he stammered. “It’s getting late, and my mother, well, she’ll be beside herself with worry if I’m not home in time for supper.”
At this Eleanoir glared, completely unmoved by this small dilemma. “I’m sorry to have caused you so much grief and pain,” he added before turning and walking briskly in the direction of home. (Although he’ d begun to wonder if she even knew what grief meant.)
“A deer, you say?” her voice rang out, stopping him in mid-stride.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked without facing her.
“I believe you said that you mistook my dog for a deer?” Eleanoir cheerfully interrogated him. “Well, did you or did you not?”
“Yes,” said Deryn, sounding much less cheerful. “It’s true, I mistook your dog for a deer. I don’t know what else to say. It was all a terrible mistake. One I’m sure I’ll regret for as long as I live. But now, I really must be going,” and he continued on his less than merry way, this time with even more determination.
“Just an innocent mistake then, was it?” she mercilessly taunted. “Well then, what choice do I have BUT to forgive you?” she added with even more sarcasm and then laughed, which hardly seemed appropriate. Despite all her teasing, Deryn pushed on ahead, though with each step he could feel her twilight eyes burning a hole into the back of his brain. “You know, it’s kind of funny,” she continued. Her voice now sounded strangely musical, bringing Deryn’s march to an abrupt halt.
“What could possibly be funny about any of this?” he snapped as Eleanoir moved in closer to where he stood on the path. “Personally,” he said, his voice rightfully simmering, “I don’t find anything amusing about this at all.”
“Oh, really?” replied Eleanoir. “Well, you see, the funny thing is … that I mistook you as well.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Deryn. “You’re not making any sense!”
“Then allow me to explain,” replied Eleanoir calmly. “You see, at first I thought you were a man … but you’re not, are you? In fact, you seem much more like a deer to me, if I’m being totally honest,” she said (while trying not to laugh at the bemused expression glaring back at her).
Deryn could not recall anyone ever trying his patience as much as this woman, but now she had truly gone and upset the apple cart! “You’re insane!” he spat out in frustration. “What were you doing out here, anyway, with that enormous dog? Don’t you know there are hunters in these woods?” He scowled awkwardly, which only made her laugh harder, as she buckled over in a fit of cruel mirth.
“Silly boy,” she said upon regaining her composure, prompting a strange bout of déjà vu as Deryn, clearly perplexed, took a moment to recall Claira Hinterlund saying those exact same words earlier that morning!
But looking back, he noticed how Eleanoir’s face had, in an instant, become as serious as the forest was dark. “You really are a deer, you know,” she whispered, all the while biting her lip and nodding her head slowly, ’til all at once, with hands in the air, she began the chanting of strange words. A language, though, that the forest seemed to understand fluently. For as she spoke, it circled madly ’round him as an intense queasiness overtook his belly. In the next instant he began to heave violently and vomit in a most unholy way. Through it all, Eleanoir’s laughter echoed down the corridors of his brain, shaking his very foundation until the life he’ d come to know and love came to a screeching halt and everything went pitch black.
When Deryn finally came to, he was all alone in the woods. And looking down into a completely different puddle from the one he had dove into earlier that day, he noticed yet again how the overhanging branches had somehow created the illusion of antlers. “I’m a deer,” he said. Only now he had no voice. And there were no trees overhead.
The Fist and Firkin was hardly the place for a woman like Maggie Hedlight to be caught dead in. But Deryn had failed to make it home for dinner, so, as predicted, she was beside herself with worry. The only person she could think of who just might know something of his whereabouts was, of course, Jacques Tourtière. And this being his local and all, it seemed a logical place to start. Unlike most people in Hinthoven, Maggie wasn’t the least bit afraid of Tourtière. She saw him as little more than an overfed bully long overdue for a smack in the behind from a wooden spoon. (Come to think of it, she had brought one with her just in case!) Maggie had passed by The Fist and Firkin on many occasions but had never ventured inside, nor would she have, if it wasn’t such an urgent
mission. The bar itself, having been built into the side of a hill with its main entrance situated in the wall of a bridge, was every bit as dark within as it was without.
There were always raucous noises and rough voices emanating from inside, and many a drunken brawl would ultimately crescendo with some poor soul crashing through a window and on to the street below (where, naturally, it would pick up right where it left off). This was in no way ideal for the neighbours who were trying to sleep, but for the local window maker, business was booming!
As she reached the entrance to the tavern and being of diminutive stature, she would soon find out that just grabbing a hold of the door handle would be a challenge in and of itself. But after she had bounced up and down a few heroically unsuccessful times, the door flew open seemingly on its own, unleashing a roar of commotion unlike anything she’ d ever heard in all her days. For at that moment, a rather boozy-looking red-haired man was in the process of being physically ejected by a couple of bald bouncers wearing dirty aprons. So, taking advantage of this small window of opportunity, Maggie strolled in casually as though she were walking through her own front door.
Once inside the smoky din of The Fist and Firkin, she looked around in all directions until she spied what could only be the rotund silhouette of one Jacques Tourtière. He was sitting alone at his usual table with a bottle of brandy and a half-eaten loaf of bread. Without hesitation, Maggie made a beeline straight for him, which, as she would also find out, was much easier said than done. For just walking across the floor of the pub was akin to charging through a raging battlefield. Between the darkness and the smoke, it was next to impossible to get to where you were going without bumping into a table or two or tripping over a few bodies along the way.
Even so, brave Maggie sallied forth until she arrived safely at the place where Tourtière sat slumped over his umpteenth glass of brandy, mumbling to himself. “Mr. Tourtière?” she yelled over a chorus of rowdy conversation and positioned herself so that he might see her better through the haze. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded. Tourtière creaked his neck stiffly toward her, and she could’ve sworn she saw a flicker of recognition in those bloodshot eyes, but no such luck …
