by Paul Kater
All that duo-flying of the last days was quite a bigger strain on her than she cared to admit, and she'd be damned before she was going to make a mention about it to him.
William took his time to select the books he wanted to take back. Of course there was the special book in the silk scarf. He had not forgotten it when Hilda had offered to take him along, but clothes and a safe place had seemed more important then. He decided on eight books. From the back of his truck he watched Hilda sitting on the rock. What a special creature, he thought, and such an amazing woman. He sat on his truck for a while, so he could sort out his head a bit.
It suited Hilda fine, it gave her time for the same.
"Well, looks like I am done," he said when he walked up to Hilda, a modest stack of books under his arm.
The wicked witch was secretly relieved to find he only had the eight books with him. "Are you sure that is all you want to take with you?"
"Yes, that will be all. Those are my most precious ones."
"Okay then. Best to put them down before I make them portable," Hilda grinned. "I might forget myself and include you."
Grinning, William put down the books and stood at what he hoped was a safe distance. "I would be curious what it is like to ride along in your pocket, Hilda."
She frowned at him for a moment, then grinned and shrunk the books.
William picked up the dice that remained of them. "Amazing, simply amazing." He slipped the books in the secure pocket, next to the crystal ball. As Hilda did not make any signs towards leaving, he sat down next to her and looked at the barren rocky landscape, with the large boulders, the cracked mountain walls.
"Do you miss your world?", Hilda suddenly asked.
William needed a while to consider her question. Life here, and arriving at this place, had been so overwhelming and filled with surprises that he had not had the time to wonder about that. He then reached a decision. "No. Not really."
Hilda nodded. "I think I understand. But can you explain it to me anyway?"
"I will try. Is it okay if I hold your hand while I talk?" William held out his hand and felt good when she put her hand in it. "My world is not bad. Work, fun, friends and things like that. But it is a solo trip nonetheless. I'm always on my own, since the people I meet are not the people I can connect to . Don't get me wrong, they are nice and friendly and helpful, but they are never what I could call my close friends. Except perhaps Bert, but he is an oddball if ever there lived one. Well, you met him." William grinned. He also felt Hilda's fingers closing just a bit tighter around his hand for a moment. "And now I am here, in this crazy world of yours-"
"It's not crazy!", Hilda threw at him. "Well, not to me. To me, your world's crazy."
"In this crazy world of yours," William repeated, "where everything is new, fascinating. And where you are." This time it was his turn to lightly squeeze his fingers a bit more for a second, and Hilda looked at him. "I can't say that I miss my world. The coffee perhaps. The murky monasteries where I snoop around for books. But if I had to choose, I would gladly trade that for you. Your world, I mean."
Hilda kept her eyes on the man next to her, his words making her heart beat faster again, the feeling of his hand in hers sending a rush into her blood. She noticed all that and still was distrusting herself. "When I hear you talk, I'd almost get the impression that you like it here. Even with me around."
Without any hurry, William raised his other hand and gently knocked the top of Hilda's head.
"Hey, go suck an elf, will you? Why are you doing that?"
"Just testing how thick your skull is. You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?" Hilda wanted to throw up all her defenses, but she couldn't. The way he looked at her, the calmness she felt while he was sitting there holding her hand, all that made it impossible to get totally angry and turn witchy bitchy on him. The tone of her voice apparently made that clear to William, as he did not react immediately.
The wicked witch lifted his hand up and folded her other hand around it. She then rested her hands, holding his between them, on her knee. "I do get it," she said as she kept her eyes locked on her hands. "I really do, William, because I have... I have missed you."
The book salesman looked at her, but her face was hidden from his view by the hair hanging down. He waited for her to go on.
"Damn," the witch muttered, "why is it so hard to say this? Why is it so hard to tell you that I am glad you are here, that I feel happy about it, that I am happy you are living in my house. I'm not good at saying things like that, William, because I am scared." She turned her head, so she could look at him. "Do you understand that?"
He gently squeezed her hand. "I'd be lying if I said I understand you completely, but I can understand that you are scared. You don't have to explain now if you can't, or are afraid to do so."
Hilda held William's hand even tighter as he spoke.
"See, I am scared too. Perhaps for some of the same reasons that you are. I really like you a lot, Hilda, and I am deliberatly avoiding stronger words now. The way things are now, it looks as if I am going to be around for a while, and I am glad that I can be around with you near. Near... and also close. I don't have the faintest idea what I am getting myself into, what more things this world of yours has in store for me. Or, dare I say, for us? But if I have to take on this world, you are the best person for me to do it with."
"Uhuh," nodded Hilda. "Some of that goes for me as well." A shiver ran down her spine, while there was no wind. In fact, a nice bit of sunshine was warming them. Suddenly suffering a shyness she had no experience with, she let his hand slip away. "Maybe, uhm, we should go home again now. I mean, you have your books, and we have talked and all that, right?"
The wicked witch did not wait for his answer. She hopped off the rock and made the brooms lift and wait for their riders.
William nodded. They had talked enough for now. He mounted his broom and looked at Hilda who smiled at him for a split second.
"Ready?" As he nodded, she made them fly up and with a wide circle got their bristles pointing towards her house.
15. Cookery
They had been flying in silence since their departure. As they were passing over a large lake, much different in colour than Mirror Lake, as Hilda suddenly turned to William. "I don't know if this is an appropriate question, William, but have you had female... uhm... friends in your world?"
William nodded. "Yes. There were a few ladies. Quite a while ago. Years." As he thought of it, he could with a sincere heart say 'many years'. "And how about you, if you want to share?"
She grinned. "I can share that, without a problem. There were or are no ladies in my life whatsoever."
William stared at her, then he nearly fell off his broom for laughter.
Hilda grinned widely as she saw how much her remark had thrown William.
"You might be surprised, but I was not actually asking about ladies in your life, Hilda. More about male friends. Boyfriends. And such."
She grinned again. "I thought so, but your reaction was worth the twisted answer. I've had a man, yes. But that is really long ago. Was not a nice ending, so I really don't feel like talking about that. Not now. Maybe another time."
William accepted that, without a moment's thought. "Of course."
After another period of silent flight, the house with the red roof came into view, and Hilda made them land less gently as she usually did.
William picked up his broom and hers also, as they remained on the ground. "Hilda, are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine, just tired. Sorry about the crash." She touched his hand for a moment, smiled a tired smile and walked to the door that swung open.
William shook his head. "Stubborn woman."
"I heard that, and you'd better get used to it!", he heard her yell from inside.
He laughed loudly and with the brooms in hand he walked to the door. He noticed three arrows next to the door. He shook his head, and pulled them from the wood, then he walk
ed inside.
The door remained open.
"Hello, house? We're inside now," William remarked.
"I know," was the door's response. "Is there something wrong with your hands?"
"Nothing wrong with them, but they are full with stuff."
"Oh. Good point." The door closed.
William put the brooms near the fireplace and put the arrows on the table. He looked around but could not see Hilda.
"Bedroom," said the house. "I assume you are looking for the witch."
"Yes, I am. Thank you."
The goldfish silently followed the exchange, wondering why the house was getting so familiar with this strange ordinary.
As William went up the stairs, one of the fish asked: "Why are you talking so much to him?"
The house said: "I think he's okay. He's polite at least."
The door to Hilda's bedroom was wide open. William hesitated to go in, but then he saw Hilda lying on the bed, face down, cloak still over her shoulders.
"Holy Bejeebus," he muttered. "Should have told me you're wearing yourself out, dumb witch."
He undid the button and chain from her cloak, put it on the chair, and then he carefully picked her up, to put her on the bed in a more normal way.
"Uh?", she mumbled. "I'm not dumb." Then she sunk away in sleep again.
William stood by her bed and watched her for a few minutes. The wicked witch remained asleep, which put his mind at peace. He wanted to stroke her hair, but did not. He did not want to do anything that would wake her up.
He'd let her sleep until dinner was ready. Dinner. That would mean another battle with the loony-bin she called her kitchen. William repaired to his guestroom where he first changed into the more normal clothes Hilda had gotten him. If those got messed up, it would not be too bad.
"So, are you winning?"
The sound of Hilda's voice made William turn around. He let go of the spoon that did not want to stop stirring and saw the witch standing in the door opening. She wore her pink nightgown with the skulls and the brooms. She also laughed loudly when she saw William's front side.
"I have my answer," she snickered, "but do go on, I can do with some entertainment."
"Good to see you. Did you get some rest?" William almost instinctively ducked as he noticed a bowl flying to the stove.
"Hey, that was good!" Hilda sounded genuinely impressed. "Really, that stupid thing knocks me in the head at least once a month."
William nodded. "I sometimes feel I get the hang of this." A cloth folded itself around his neck. "Sometimes, see, it's the things like this that get to me." He undid the cloth, threw it on the worktop and said: "And now you stay there!"
"It helps when you put a kettle on it," Hilda advised him.
"Really?"
Shlop said the cloth, and William peeled it from his neck again. This time he held it in his hand until he had located a kettle. Then he put the cloth on the worktop and placed the kettle on it. "Warned you enough." The cloth made a few more attempts to fight itself loose, but it gave up after a while.
"Thanks, Hilda," William said with a wink. "Now, you go in. I'm getting there." He grabbed a large piece of cloth and picked up a hot iron pot. He put that on the massive granite table. The soupbowl that he had put there already started moving over to the other side.
"Don't tell me it has a problem with soup," William muttered, as Hilda watched with baited breath how he was going to handle that one.
"It doesn't. It's just hot stuff it doesn't like," Hilda informed him, feeling that she should assist him somewhat as he was obviously doing his best in her rather selfsufficient kitchen.
"Oh, is that all," William said, making Hilda very curious what he was going to do. He walked to a large cabinet he had discovered in the kitchen. He'd seen it another spot a few times, but for now it remained where it was. "Right, then."
William opened the top door of the cabinet and grabbed a small sack. Hilda stared as he did so. She knew what it was, and she was absolutely baffled that he had found it. Without a word William walked back to the granite table and dumped the sack in the large soup bowl. The bowl immediately stopped its evasive action, as if it suddenly was a normal, unmagical one.
The sack was ice cold.
"Now stop, William. Tell me how you found that thing," Hilda said as she walked over to him. "Nobody knows it's there!"
He turned to her and smiled, his face smudged with green vegetable streaks, a trace of tomato and some flour. "I banged my finger when I wanted to bang the chicken meat. The damned cutting board jumped away, I guess it took things personal. So I asked the house if there was something around to cool down my finger."
"And the house told you." Hilda looked around the kitchen, her hands on her hips again. "Is that so, house? Are you making things easy on him?"
"How about less difficult?", the house tried.
"Hmmm. I think you and I need to have a proper talk one of these days. Witch to house, you know."
"Hardly," said the house, "it's been so long ago that I am surprised you remember that exists."
As this conversation was taking place, William took the cooling sack from the stunned soup bowl and ladled the soup from the hot pot in it. The weight of the soup then prevented a further retreat of the bowl, hence all things soup were settled.
"Don't you go smart on me, house, after all I am the one that painted you a few years ago, remember?" Hilda walked round in the kitchen, trying to outsmart the house.
"And I am the one who had to bother you for it for some century. Remember?"
William put the soup bowl on the stove to make sure it was keeping warm. Then he tried to open the door of the oven to see how the chicken was doing, but the door would not yield to his pulling. He yanked the door a bit harder, and was warned not to do that again by a deep metalic moan that seemed to come from inside the oven.
"Do you think it is such a fun thing to paint you in the same boring colours every few centuries?", Hilda argued. "Why didn't you go for purple? The door will open when the stove thinks it's done, William."
"Oh, thank you." Shaking his head for the umpteenth time he got up and stood leaning against the cupboard, following the verbal battle between the witch and the house.
"Purple really is not a colour for a house," said the house, "we have had this discussion before. It is also the only real discussion we've had in the last six or so centuries, so I am refraining from saying it is a meaningful one."
William decided it was time to cut up the salad. He had found real salad, that did not move, talk or fly, and he was very excited about that. He picked it up, rinsed it in a bucket that always seemed to contain clean water and shook the water off it. Then he carefully approached the cutting board, the same one that had jumped away from him before.
"I'm going to use a knife, okay, but it's nothing personal. I'm the cook, you're the cutting board. It's as simple as that." The board remained where it was, as William looked for a proper knife. There were many knives. But not the one he had in mind.
"Next time, house, you are going to be purple in all colours of the rainbow," Hilda stated, proving that she had not slept enough, "and not matter what you say or do is going to change my mind. Got that? I am the witch and you are the house. It's as simple as that."
"Oh. Really. And do you already have an idea where you are going to sleep then? And where you will store your clothes?", the house threatened her, "because if you paint me purple, you've slept the longest time of your life under my roof."
"We'll see about that," spat Hilda.
"I need a salad-cutting knife," William said calmly, as not to upset anyone. Or anything. Something whizzed past his head. It touched his ear. It ended up in a wooden beam in the wall. It was a knife for cutting salad.
William closed his eyes, swallowed hard and breathed in and out a few times. He watched. The knife was still there. Carefully he examined his ear. It was still there, and there was no blood coming from it. "Holy Bejeebus, a kni
fe-throwing house."
"Kitchen," said the house.
"Oh. Right." William reached out and was relieved the knife did not give him a hard time while he pulled it from the wooden beam. Also the cutting board cooperated, so after not very long the salad was cut up and in a bowl of its own. A bowl that had no visible problem with being filled.
During that time, Hilda and the house had taken their discussion into the living room and the stove door was banging wildly, making a racket that would have woken the dead.
"Alright, alright," said William who raced to the stove with a couple of rags to hold the cast iron plate with the chicken. His intentions were noble, but the door kept banging open and shut, making it impossible for him to get to the chicken. The book salesman was getting very fed up with this kitchen. He took one of the rags and slapped that agains the noisy door, really hard. "And now you cut it out, or you're going to be replaced by a campfire!"
It was not clear if the door had gotten tired of the banging at that moment, or if William's approach paid off, but the door opened and remained open. As William reached inside, the fire retreated so he would not burn his hands, and the chicken was out of the oven.
From there on it was a matter of cutting up the chicken into handy pieces, which was quickly done by a big cleaver that took honour in its trade. William stood by and watched as the sharp metal object went crazy for a while, delivering the chicken in chunks that McDonalds could only dream about.
The now tame soup bowl kept calm as William carried it to the living room and put it on the table. He saw Hilda sitting in her chair already, a disappointed look on her face. "What's wrong, Hilda?", he asked.
"Hmmf. Nothing."
"Really... you could have fooled me..."
"Argh, stupid house, that's all. Next time we'll paint it red, white and black." She frowned as she looked at William. "Now, honestly, those are not colours for a house, are they?"
"Don't ask me, honey, I'm just visiting," William bailed out and retreated to the kitchen for the rest of the food.
