The Witch's Diary

by Rebecca Brae

  The gargoyle remained unmoved. My kelp essence harmlessly cascaded off his rocky face and down the carved lines of his limbs.

  I felt around for anything resembling a weapon, but there are surprisingly few lethal tools in a baker’s kitchen unless you want to viciously sift or whisk something. The best I could do was an old wooden rolling pin and a pot of caramelized sugar.

  Aware that I’m not the most coordinated of witches, I decided against brandishing the molten sugar. I stepped forward and waved the rolling pin at the gargoyle. It stared impassively back at me as if it belonged in the hut, as if it had always been in that very spot on my counter and how dare I question its presence.

  I glanced around, trying to think of a way to evict it, and noticed another one perched in the rafters. I looked back at the gargoyle on the counter and saw that there were now two. No whisper of sound, blur of movement, or tiniest displacement of air had betrayed the newcomer. Who knew something made of stone could be so silent and quick?

  There was a fluttering noise near the collapsed wall, and closer inspection revealed a parchment tacked to one side of the opening. One of the counter dwellers had relocated to the kitchen table by the time I retrieved the note. Its previously impassive face was now a puzzled grimace as it stared at the door attached to the end.

  To my dismay, the parchment turned out to be a Notice of Condemnation. It explained that the building commission had received a complaint about the state of the hut and had carried out an inspection.

  My flinty interlopers suddenly made sense. They were building inspectors.

  In retrospect, their career choice makes perfect sense. The little buggers are all over buildings in every metropolis.

  Two of the three inspectors disappeared shortly after I read the notice. However, the one on the kitchen table doesn’t appear inclined to follow his comrades. I hope it leaves soon. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, knowing it’s there, crouching and staring and not blinking.

  We also had another unwelcome arrival this eventide. Sophie came home. She won’t say where she’s been, but I smell fermented berries on her batty breath and she’s fallen off her rafter twice.

  The mini vacation hasn’t improved her mood. She’s just as ill-tempered and snarky as before. She keeps looking at the collapsed wall and snickering.

  Herman unilaterally refused to come out from under my cot. This was a happy occurrence until I went to lie down and found myself sprawled on the floor. He must have gotten hungry during his self-imposed confinement. My only consolation is that I landed on him when the cot collapsed.

  So now, I’m sleeping on the floor and need to find the blueprints and recipes for gingerbread cots. Could my life get any worse?

  I hope Magda received my letter. I still haven’t heard anything from her. Not being able to scry is very isolating.

  Wendias, Storm Moon 17, 209

  I STARTED THIS sun with every good intention, determined to keep my nose to the grindstone. Not that my nose needs sharpening or polishing per se, but I unearthed an old grindstone in the basement and decided it might enable me to sculpt some of my deformed gingerbread products. My output will vastly improve if I don’t have to discard as many lopsided bricks, shingles, legs, etc. If I increase production, I can whip the hut back into shape in no time, or at least maintain some hope of fixing it before Althea’s homecoming.

  After I dragged the heavy stone up from the first basement (oh, how I long for the suns when I could cast levitation or conjure a handy imp butler), I started right in, re-shaping my pile of rejects.

  It was slow going. Concentrating with a glaring gargoyle crouched in the centre of my workspace is difficult. I suspect he would leave if he could, but I think he’s stuck to the table. In any case, he looks very disapproving. He must have been carved that way. His eyes had a slightly nervous wideness about them when I brought out the grinding stone, but that could have just been wishful thinking on my part.

  Unfortunately, I have no choice but to use the kitchen table. I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing last eventide and accidently laid the pastry board on it to dry. That thing is not coming off. I tried to pry it loose with various knives, bars, and spatulas, but that was a monumentally bad plan. Now I have to figure out how to get those off as well.

  Even with all the gingerbread dust flying around from my vigorous grinding this morn, the reek of kelp essence was overwhelming by mid-sun. That stuff does not age well. It’s stuck in the inspector’s nooks and crannies. I threw some buckets of water over him and hung pine boughs and cinnamon sticks from his ears (they were the only convenient outcropping to tie things to). It’s hard to tell from his flinty expression, but I don’t think I’ve improved his mood and I can’t say the “eau de seaweed” has lessened.

  Sophie discovered that the table is tacky and is amusing herself by dropping things onto it to see if they’ll stick. Most of the items she’s experimenting with are mine. (NOTE: Add knickers to shopping list.) Herman must have hidden himself well, because I don’t see him stuck to the surface yet and I’m sure he’s on the top of that winged hellion’s hit list.

  I stopped baking long enough to tie down everything that was important to me. It was a quick endeavour as my broom was the only thing of value not already stuck to the table.

  It’s hard to believe that this is my life. I had so many dreams, so many hopes. And now, I’ve got one pair of knickers, an errant cockroach, a chained broom, and the imminent threat of professional humiliation hanging over my head. Little did I know, this was just a taste of the troubles to come.

  A swarm of irate storks descended on the hut shortly after mid-sun and took all the children. I wish they’d taken me too.

  I asked under whose authority they were acting and they advised me to read the fine print on the Notice of Condemnation. Some minuscule lettering at the bottom, which I initially mistook as a streak left by a crash-landed aphid, stated that the occupants had one sun to vacate the premises. You’d think they’d make such a time sensitive condition more visible, but noooo.

  They gave me no time to arrange alternate accommodations for the little tyrants (not that I even knew where to begin with that). All I could do was watch as the storks flew off with them.

  It’s my understanding that the kids will be returned to their parents. Given their past level of care at home, I have no doubt I’ll see them again, but if Althea comes back before they do, I’m done for.

  In order to remain on the property, I had to sign a form stating that I understood the premises was condemned. The last stork refused to leave until I set up a lean-to at the edge of the clearing and agreed to wear appropriate protective gear while working near the hut. I have no clue what type of gear that is, but I’m sure some creature will show up and fine me when I’m not wearing it.

  ADDENDUM: Raining heavily this eventide. River running through lean-to. Very uncomfortable. Festering snot beast is not an inanimate model and appears to be water activated. FSB is also grumpy when woken. Moving back into hut.

  Cerridias, Storm Moon 18, 209

  THE FESTERING SNOT beast is an invaluable addition to my defensive perimeter. It can best be described as an enormous (the rain also stimulated significant growth), bipedal virus which zeros in on anything that moves and encases them in a snot cocoon. It’s formidable, to say the least.

  Owing to the recent monsoon conditions, there have been no child trespassers, but the FSB handily dealt with a gnome who was pilfering mushrooms from our garden. The only issue is that it either can’t or won’t differentiate between friends and foes. It’s making excursions difficult, which exacerbates another major issue.

  Our roof icing is disintegrating at an alarming rate. The hut looks like it’s melting. According to the books, icing should be replaced every moon, but I just redid the south side and it’s already half gone.

  Herman saw me investigating ways to make the icing more water resistant and, in a rare flash of helpfulness, offered to assist m
e in developing a new recipe. Turns out, cockroaches exude water-impermeable grease when they are cold.

  We experimented and came up with a concoction that nicely repels water. I taste-tested it and it’s not too revolting. Admittedly, I’m not the best judge as I find regular icing disgusting, but with the kids gone, I’m the only game in town.

  I only had a pinch of grease, so my test batch was small, but it was enough to ice one roof tile. I’ll keep track of how well it holds up. Hopefully, it’ll do the trick and I can approach Althea about investing in a tub of cockroach grease when she gets back.

  ADDENDUM: The new icing recipe is a no-go. Cockroach grease is a very effective laxative. I am extremely uncomfortable. I don’t even know where all this is coming from. It’s not like I’ve been eating much lately. Yeesh. I can only imagine how awful the mess would be if the kids got at it.

  NOTE: Scry the info imp once my mirror is recharged and see if it can find contact info for Prof. Bloodroot, the hedge witch who taught potion classes at Grimoire College. I believe her first name was Peuturella. See if she’s interested in a partnership to patent the laxative icing formula.

  Freydias, Storm Moon 19, 209

  IF ANOTHER INFERNAL Demon ever shows up on my doorstep with an envelope marked “Defendant”, I’m not only going to lodge it up the fiend’s rear end, I’m going to personally shove the little devil up his supervisor’s posterior.

  Imagine waking up to a knock on your doorframe. You pull aside the tacked-up blanket where your door used to be, expecting to find an elemental bearing much-anticipated funds, and instead, a flaming jerk in a gaudy tie shoves a sheet of white-hot parchment in your face. I mean, come on. The letters were still aflame, for Goddess’ sake.

  The worst part is, Infernals sound threatening even when you don’t understand what they’re saying. And you know what they’re saying must be important, otherwise someone wouldn’t have hired them to stand there charring your doorframe. It was just dumb luck that the recent rainfall rendered the gingerbread damp enough to be flame retardant. Sadly, bats are not. Sophie is singed and seriously ticked off.

  I tried to read the parchment, but all I could make out was Defendant, the, and and. I had the option of taking an Infernal language course in college, but I couldn’t fathom what good it would do me. Nice one, Hester. Now, I can’t even cast a measly translation spell (not that it makes Infernal that much more understandable, but it’s better than nothing).

  But, hey, I’m fluent in ancient Trakak—a dead language. That’s sure to come in handy. Curse my short-sightedness. What was I thinking? Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking. I’m terrible with languages and needed a course I could coast through. It was a common tactic. Anyone learning a dead language was allowed to summon their own testers. It’s amazing how pleased thousand-season-cycle old ghosts are to come back, even for one sun. Very good for the marks.

  I’ve never heard of Infernals using a language other than their own, though they’re perfectly capable. It’s a calculated move so that you have to hire another Infernal to act on your behalf in negotiations. Once they’re involved, nobody has any hope of figuring out what’s happening. You inevitably end up with two or more demons, depending on how many parties are involved, furiously arguing with each other . . . or so their tone and manner suggests. For all you know, they’re exchanging old family recipes.

  Regrettably, festering snot beasts are not effective against demon intruders. Fire trumps snot. I’m sad to report that the FSB is no longer with us and my rodithium vitriolic creeper has thus far been unable to digest its remains. On the plus side, they are considered a cockroach delicacy (I suspect very little isn’t). After Sophie’s smoky departure, Herman ventured out from under my cot long enough to scamper under the expired FSB.

  Nothing in my tactical flora buffer zone slowed the Infernal. There’s a burnt trail leading right up to the hut and the jerk had the gall to munch on a scum pod as he left. Tossed it into his mouth like a giant piece of popping candy.

  I have no idea what to do about this Infernal situation. What did it want? Was I the intended recipient, or was it looking for Althea? The timing of her vacation suddenly seems suspicious.

  I talked it all through with the gargoyle and haven’t come up with any conclusions or solutions. Although it felt good to get my anxieties about what’s happening out in the open, my stress level remains astronomical.

  I’ve decided to name my stony guest Bob. He’s a fantastic listener and I’m starting to appreciate his presence. At least he doesn’t interject snide comments when I talk to him about my problems, unlike Herman.

  My bowels seem to have settled, though even the thought of sugar sets them rumbling and the smell of it makes me dry heave. Hopefully, I’ll get a better sleep this eventide. I spent most of last night wallowing in misery in the outhouse.

  In the meantime, I will keep on, keeping on. Or rather, keep on, baking on. By the Triple Goddess’ six breasts, I’m tired of slaving over a hot stove and digging icing out from under my fingernails.

  NOTE: FSBs give cockroaches gas that would curl a Gorgon’s hair. Herman has been banished to the lean-to for the remainder of this eventide.

  Pandias, Storm Moon 21, 209

  WELL, I FIGURED out why the Infernals were summoned. I received a letter this morn.

  To: Gingerbread Hut Managing Witch

  United Parents of Unsupervised Roaming Spawn (UPURS) has filed a lawsuit in the Infernal Court against the Gingerbread Hut and Staff (Gingerbread Hut et. al.) for contract violations regarding the substandard housing and unlawful return of children.

  A verbal contract that children be provided accommodation in a safe and timely manner has existed between UPURS and Gingerbread Hut et. al. for two hundred season cycles. Due to building code violations, a full baker’s dozen of children were returned to UPURS and members have incurred significant expenses.

  Gingerbread Hut et. al. is directed to reimburse UPURS as outlined in the attached invoices (including but not limited to general maintenance, room, board, entertainment, Infernal fees, etc.) and for damages resulting from emotional distress and physical hardship.

  Any delay in reimbursement will be met with strict measures, up to and including fines and termination (assassin contract fees to be added at the time of court settlement).

  Sincerely,

  UPURS

  This is the beginning of the end, for my career and possibly me. There’s nothing quite like receiving a death threat thinly veiled in official language. And their group’s name . . . it’s possible I’m paranoid, but UPURS? Really? Well, I say UP THEIRS! The Gingerbread Hut provides a useful public service and all we get in return is grief. No “thank-you for the two hundred season cycles of service.” No “can we help.” Just “fix it or die.” Same old, same old.

  Despite how I feel about UPURS, I also know I have failed here. All I can do about it is keep patching the hut. If I get it back in shape, I can at least petition the storks to return the kids, but there’s no way they’ll be back before Althea. This isn’t a mess that can be swept under a carpet and ignored.

  I don’t think I can save my job at this point, but maybe fixing the hut will make me feel like less of a loser and distract me from my crippling fear about the future. I still don’t have access to my magicks, and after Althea gets back, I’ll only have two moons to find another job.

  One task I’m not looking forward to is disarming my defensive perimeter. It was an inspired plan, but perhaps it worked better in theory, than in practice.

  And I really must do something about the kitchen table. Bob the gargoyle is still stuck to it and Sophie keeps filling up any bare spots she finds. I caught her affixing a pair of my stockings to the edge and using them as a slingshot. I don’t think Bob appreciated being the subject of her target practice.

  Herman also lost a leg on the table while evading his dive-bombing tormentor. He doesn’t seem overly upset about it, more irritated. I don’t have enough m
agick to re-grow it, or even give him the use of an illusionary leg. Luckily, he has a natural excess of them and it’s not hindering his movement too much.

  Ooo . . . interesting thought. When/if I get my magick back, I could cast a transmutation spell and transform Herman into something less buggy. That would solve his leg loss and my cockroach issues in one fell swoop. I remember there being rules about not altering your familiar to look like another type of familiar (especially one in a higher tier, which they all are since cockroach isn’t even on a tier), but I don’t remember if there are rules about turning them into creatures that aren’t on the union’s approved list. Interesting. Definitely warrants further investigation.

  The only good thing that happened this sun is that the same elemental who brought the UPURS correspondence also brought a much-needed care package from Magda. She is such a good friend. She sent enough coin to recharge my scry mirror and added in a few extra goodies. I’ve never been so happy to see spiced grasshopper poppers and kartak larva tea. It’s the small things that bring the greatest comfort. That, and actually being able to call for help in an emergency.

  Moondias, Storm Moon 22, 209

  SOOO, I’M WRITING this entry from the job bank waiting room. Big surprise.