The cottage was surprisingly cute.
Off-white daub supported a thatched roof held down by stones. A dark wood framework sectioned the walls into triangles and squares. Little windows paned with animal hide glowed with warm firelight, near-blinding after three days of darkness. Smoke puffed from the chimney. Flower boxes under the windows held the purple, blue and white darkblooms of the Vale.
I frowned at Miles. “Is this safe?”
He shrugged. “Probably. Neither herdbeasts, stalkers, folk, nor faeries build houses like these. So either it’s a human-”
“-or a trap.”
“-or a witch.”
I blinked, then folded my arms. “That’s just a human.”
“Your herbmothers and herbfathers don’t count as witches. I mean the wildwitches of the Vale. They have magic. And they like humans. Usually.”
“To eat?”
“Now you’re being difficult.” He slipped into his human form, pulling his waist-length hair into a ponytail. “Let’s go,” he said, his rich voice warm after the hollow echo of an arcane.
“You look like a pirate,” I said.
“Shiver me timbers,” he offered.
We strode up to the door. I gave the old wood a tentative tap which was met by a surprised thud. The door opened, revealing a short woman, her brown hair shot with grey. Wrinkles creased her face, but her hazel eyes remained clear. If slightly insane.
“Who are you?” she demanded. I opened my mouth to respond but she cut me off. “Oh no no no, let me guess. Mmm…” She peered at me. “Human girl. Nineteen. Farmers’ daughter.” Her head turned on Miles. “Human boy. Eighteen- oh ho! Very clever- very sneaky-” She opened the door further so she could stick out her neck and survey Miles from top to bottom. “Male arcane. Five hundred and thirty seven, though eighteen works too.” She frowned at my still-damp clothes. “Why are you all wet?”
“He pushed me into a river,” I accused, throwing Miles under the wagon.
The woman let out a cough of laughter. “A dunking! They used to do that to witches, you know. Except they happened in deeper water, and the witches were tied. Well, inside, inside! There’s no room at the table; you’ll have to sit on the floor.”
We followed the woman into the warm cottage. The walls were hung with strange watercolor paintings and mirrors; the ceiling with dried herbs. The aforementioned table was indeed full, the pitted and burned surface overflowing with plants, dead animals and insects, an assortment of feathers, beads, string, and glass, and bottles and bottles of funny liquids. A pot hung over the fire in the large fireplace, bubbling with what smelled like chicken stew. The tiled sink was surprisingly clean, dishes white and washed in the pantry. On the wall opposite the hearth was a little bed, piled high with fur and woolen blankets. As I watched, what I had mistaken for a furry cushion yawned and became a fat orange tabby. From the rafters to the floor jumped a sleek black cat to join the fatso at the foot of the bed, where both of them watched us, wide eyed.
“I made enough soup, yes,” the woman was saying, stirring the pot. “Nearly done, nearly done. Now, what was I doing? Oh, yes-” She scuttled over to the table and began carefully putting the bottles in a box. “Organizing.”
Miles and I stood by the door for a while, watching the old woman mutter to herself about snails and rosemary. She blinked up at us. “Tea’s on the countertop,” she informed us. After I’d poured myself some tea- mint, and surprisingly good- and sat down on a padded chair the woman hobbled over and nodded at me. “What’s your name, dearie? Not your real one, of course. I already know that.”
“Um. I’m Minnow.”
She smiled at that. “Good name for a wet fish. As for me, I am Mother Mallow, the Wildwitch of the West Fang, Ryetsa the Old, Emmiril the Young. I prefer Bluewhen. It’s whimsical.”
I didn’t agree, but I didn’t say so. I wasn’t sure this witch was entirely sound in mind. Besides, Bluewhen the Bonkers had already moved on to Miles. “My my my, you have a name! An arcane with a name. Our little fish gave you one, and you took it! My my my-” She peered at him. He looked rather uncomfortable. “What is it? I can’t see it- too much shadow-”
Miles looked at me sideways. I fought the urge to laugh. “Miles,” he said. “Watch your pot.”
Bluewhen turned to find the stew boiling merrily away and ready to spill over. The wildwitch cackled and stirred. “Nearly done,” she reported. “Nearly done. Minnow, there’s a maiden’s dress in that cabinet, wear it if you like. You can’t be comfortable all wet.”
I agreed that yes, being wet wasn’t comfortable, and dry clothes would be much appreciated. Inside the indicated wardrobe hung a long brown dress, complete with apron and blouse.
Bluewhen directed me to the outhouse, which sat in a corner of her clearing. I locked the door, relieved myself, and began the process of putting on a dress. Underthings on, long sleeved blouse over head, sleeveless dress tied in back, and then the apron, which covered my body like a second dress. This apron had the unfortunate quality of tying tight in front, mimicking a corset. At least, though it was a slightly uncomfortable maiden’s dress, it was the dress of a maiden who wanted to be a maiden for a while longer. The blouse and dress covered me up to my collarbone, the apron only a few centimeters below.
I hiked back to the cottage, damp shirt, pants, and jacket over one arm. As I kicked skirts out of my way, I began to remember why I hadn’t worn a dress into the Vale. Running from a pookha in this would’ve been certain death.
Bluewhen was serving food when I got back. I placed my bowl on the counter and hung my clothes and socks up by the fire. My boots I placed on the hearthstones, hoping the insides would dry quickly.
Miles raised an eyebrow as I sat on the chair next to him, looking so human it was almost creepy. “You make a right decent maiden,” he noted. “Farmer’s daughter.”
“And you make a strange pirate. Matey.”
The soup was fantastic. I was beginning to suspect that Bluewhen wasn’t nearly as nutty as she let on.
While we ate, Bluewhen fluttered around the table, piling things into assorted stacks. The slim black cat trotted at her heels, and the orange puddle of fur curled around my legs, hoping for stray chicken. I noticed that the cat avoided Miles and wouldn’t come within half a meter of his feet. Out of the sake of conversation I asked the cats’ names.
“The black one is Osprey, my familiar. The orange one is her brother, Caligro. He’s quite chubby, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I had noticed.
“I give him the same food I give her,” Bluewhen sighed, tying bundles of feathers together. “But he’s fat. He must be finding food elsewhere.” She shook her finger at the cat. “Naughty, naughty.” Caligro blinked slowly at her and went back to chicken scrounging.
“So, little fish,” Bluewhen asked later as I helped her clean the dishes, “why would a little fish like you venture into the Shadow’s Vale?”
I debated whether to lie, but settled on the truth. The wildwitch was probably a lie detector, anyway. “I’m searching for magic.”
“Oh!” Bluewhen’s eyes widened with sadness. “Little fish, no.” She whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at Miles, who was sorting seaglass by color. “You! You should know better than to let someone seek the darkness in the Maw.”
Miles frowned. “I should?”
Bluewhen paused, and there was the awkward silence in an argument that occurs when one person realizes the other has no idea what the first person is yelling about. Bluewhen turned back to the bowl she’d been scrubbing, grumbling. I glanced at Miles, who shrugged and shook his head.
“Erm, Bluewhen?” I ventured. “What are you talking about?”
The wildwitch sighed. “Let’s finish the dishes, dearie. This will take a while.”
Off-white daub supported a thatched roof held down by stones. A dark wood framework sectioned the walls into triangles and squares. Little windows paned with animal hide glowed with warm firelight, near-blinding after three days of darkness. Smoke puffed from the chimney. Flower boxes under the windows held the purple, blue and white darkblooms of the Vale.
I frowned at Miles. “Is this safe?”
He shrugged. “Probably. Neither herdbeasts, stalkers, folk, nor faeries build houses like these. So either it’s a human-”
“-or a trap.”
“-or a witch.”
I blinked, then folded my arms. “That’s just a human.”
“Your herbmothers and herbfathers don’t count as witches. I mean the wildwitches of the Vale. They have magic. And they like humans. Usually.”
“To eat?”
“Now you’re being difficult.” He slipped into his human form, pulling his waist-length hair into a ponytail. “Let’s go,” he said, his rich voice warm after the hollow echo of an arcane.
“You look like a pirate,” I said.
“Shiver me timbers,” he offered.
We strode up to the door. I gave the old wood a tentative tap which was met by a surprised thud. The door opened, revealing a short woman, her brown hair shot with grey. Wrinkles creased her face, but her hazel eyes remained clear. If slightly insane.
“Who are you?” she demanded. I opened my mouth to respond but she cut me off. “Oh no no no, let me guess. Mmm…” She peered at me. “Human girl. Nineteen. Farmers’ daughter.” Her head turned on Miles. “Human boy. Eighteen- oh ho! Very clever- very sneaky-” She opened the door further so she could stick out her neck and survey Miles from top to bottom. “Male arcane. Five hundred and thirty seven, though eighteen works too.” She frowned at my still-damp clothes. “Why are you all wet?”
“He pushed me into a river,” I accused, throwing Miles under the wagon.
The woman let out a cough of laughter. “A dunking! They used to do that to witches, you know. Except they happened in deeper water, and the witches were tied. Well, inside, inside! There’s no room at the table; you’ll have to sit on the floor.”
We followed the woman into the warm cottage. The walls were hung with strange watercolor paintings and mirrors; the ceiling with dried herbs. The aforementioned table was indeed full, the pitted and burned surface overflowing with plants, dead animals and insects, an assortment of feathers, beads, string, and glass, and bottles and bottles of funny liquids. A pot hung over the fire in the large fireplace, bubbling with what smelled like chicken stew. The tiled sink was surprisingly clean, dishes white and washed in the pantry. On the wall opposite the hearth was a little bed, piled high with fur and woolen blankets. As I watched, what I had mistaken for a furry cushion yawned and became a fat orange tabby. From the rafters to the floor jumped a sleek black cat to join the fatso at the foot of the bed, where both of them watched us, wide eyed.
“I made enough soup, yes,” the woman was saying, stirring the pot. “Nearly done, nearly done. Now, what was I doing? Oh, yes-” She scuttled over to the table and began carefully putting the bottles in a box. “Organizing.”
Miles and I stood by the door for a while, watching the old woman mutter to herself about snails and rosemary. She blinked up at us. “Tea’s on the countertop,” she informed us. After I’d poured myself some tea- mint, and surprisingly good- and sat down on a padded chair the woman hobbled over and nodded at me. “What’s your name, dearie? Not your real one, of course. I already know that.”
“Um. I’m Minnow.”
She smiled at that. “Good name for a wet fish. As for me, I am Mother Mallow, the Wildwitch of the West Fang, Ryetsa the Old, Emmiril the Young. I prefer Bluewhen. It’s whimsical.”
I didn’t agree, but I didn’t say so. I wasn’t sure this witch was entirely sound in mind. Besides, Bluewhen the Bonkers had already moved on to Miles. “My my my, you have a name! An arcane with a name. Our little fish gave you one, and you took it! My my my-” She peered at him. He looked rather uncomfortable. “What is it? I can’t see it- too much shadow-”
Miles looked at me sideways. I fought the urge to laugh. “Miles,” he said. “Watch your pot.”
Bluewhen turned to find the stew boiling merrily away and ready to spill over. The wildwitch cackled and stirred. “Nearly done,” she reported. “Nearly done. Minnow, there’s a maiden’s dress in that cabinet, wear it if you like. You can’t be comfortable all wet.”
I agreed that yes, being wet wasn’t comfortable, and dry clothes would be much appreciated. Inside the indicated wardrobe hung a long brown dress, complete with apron and blouse.
Bluewhen directed me to the outhouse, which sat in a corner of her clearing. I locked the door, relieved myself, and began the process of putting on a dress. Underthings on, long sleeved blouse over head, sleeveless dress tied in back, and then the apron, which covered my body like a second dress. This apron had the unfortunate quality of tying tight in front, mimicking a corset. At least, though it was a slightly uncomfortable maiden’s dress, it was the dress of a maiden who wanted to be a maiden for a while longer. The blouse and dress covered me up to my collarbone, the apron only a few centimeters below.
I hiked back to the cottage, damp shirt, pants, and jacket over one arm. As I kicked skirts out of my way, I began to remember why I hadn’t worn a dress into the Vale. Running from a pookha in this would’ve been certain death.
Bluewhen was serving food when I got back. I placed my bowl on the counter and hung my clothes and socks up by the fire. My boots I placed on the hearthstones, hoping the insides would dry quickly.
Miles raised an eyebrow as I sat on the chair next to him, looking so human it was almost creepy. “You make a right decent maiden,” he noted. “Farmer’s daughter.”
“And you make a strange pirate. Matey.”
The soup was fantastic. I was beginning to suspect that Bluewhen wasn’t nearly as nutty as she let on.
While we ate, Bluewhen fluttered around the table, piling things into assorted stacks. The slim black cat trotted at her heels, and the orange puddle of fur curled around my legs, hoping for stray chicken. I noticed that the cat avoided Miles and wouldn’t come within half a meter of his feet. Out of the sake of conversation I asked the cats’ names.
“The black one is Osprey, my familiar. The orange one is her brother, Caligro. He’s quite chubby, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I had noticed.
“I give him the same food I give her,” Bluewhen sighed, tying bundles of feathers together. “But he’s fat. He must be finding food elsewhere.” She shook her finger at the cat. “Naughty, naughty.” Caligro blinked slowly at her and went back to chicken scrounging.
“So, little fish,” Bluewhen asked later as I helped her clean the dishes, “why would a little fish like you venture into the Shadow’s Vale?”
I debated whether to lie, but settled on the truth. The wildwitch was probably a lie detector, anyway. “I’m searching for magic.”
“Oh!” Bluewhen’s eyes widened with sadness. “Little fish, no.” She whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at Miles, who was sorting seaglass by color. “You! You should know better than to let someone seek the darkness in the Maw.”
Miles frowned. “I should?”
Bluewhen paused, and there was the awkward silence in an argument that occurs when one person realizes the other has no idea what the first person is yelling about. Bluewhen turned back to the bowl she’d been scrubbing, grumbling. I glanced at Miles, who shrugged and shook his head.
“Erm, Bluewhen?” I ventured. “What are you talking about?”
The wildwitch sighed. “Let’s finish the dishes, dearie. This will take a while.”
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