The Writer And The Witch (2 page)

He hadn’t moved one step, but he was healthy, at
the height of his powers, and he was famous.

And then she returned.

# # #

IT
WAS
ON
A
COLD
AFTERNOON
that a jet-black carriage pulled by two jet-black
horses clattered across the bridge and shuddered to a halt in front of the
writer’s house. The driver, a tiny toad of a man, scrambled to open the carriage
door, and a woman stepped down. She was young. She was beautiful, with pale
skin and jet-black hair. And she was angry.

She glared down at the writer, and her voice was
sharp: “Who are you?”

The writer said nothing, only gazed up at her.
She looked completely different now. Of course, so did he.

Her lips drew tight.

“
Do you realize,” she
said, “that in a thousand years of curses, no one has ever done this?”

Now, I need to tell you: the writer was terrified.
He knew the witch could snap her fingers and bring her curse to a sudden
close, or simply cast a new one. She could transform him into a fish or
a fern.

But, even so, he rose to his feet. And he bowed
low. Time had taught him a few things.

“
Thank you, kind witch,”
he said. “I did not realize, a hundred years ago, that your curse was a blessing.
Without it, I would be long dead, and I would not have lived as I have lived.
I owe you a great debt.”

Now, I should tell you about the witch: This was
a woman who had lived as long as the trees, who was born of rock and ice on a
far-off mountaintop, who was filled with the same power that
lit the stars. She had coursed from one end of civilization to another, by
carriage and by crow’s wing. She had enchanted kings and queens and cursed
whole kingdoms. But something inside of her was still jagged, unsmoothed by
time. She was almost always on the edge of rage and tears.

She had, quite literally, seen it all. And it
had all disappointed her.

But now, before her stood something entirely
unexpected.

There was a silence. It seemed, to the tiny toad
of a carriage driver, to go on forever. The two horses stamped and snorted
on the narrow road.

Finally, the witch said, “I am glad you realized
my true intent.”

The writer sat. “I ask travelers on this road
to tell me their stories,” he said, “and I imagine you have the best stories
of all. Would you care to sit, and tell me a little of what you’ve seen?”

The witch’s lip curled. The air smelled like a
thunderstorm.

With a
crack!
her carriage and horses
fluttered into the sky, three crows spiraling away. Her driver croaked and
hopped into the river.

She sat, and the writer poured two cups
of tea.

# # #

NOW
,
THIS
WOULD
BE
A
STRANGE
ENOUGH
STORY
if it ended here:
the tale of two long-lived foes who found a quiet reconciliation,
there where the river met the road, just beyond the bridge.

But it’s not over yet.

The writer and the witch talked and talked. The
sun set and the moon rose.

He told her the tale of the
river-spirit and how he’d invented it, on the spot, a hundred
years ago. She leaned her head back and laughed—more of a cackle, really, which
sounded strange coming from those lips.

She told him about her apprenticeship in the
sweltering swamps, learning the art of potions and poisons and honing her
talent for transformation.

He told her about the books he’d collected, and
about one of his favorite ancient writers, a poet from the north. He even
recited one of his poems.

She told him about the time she led an army
defending the Old Capital, wearing jet-black mail and a cape
of crow’s feathers, throwing lightning bolts left and right.

He told her about his friends the monks and the
merchants, and the dinner he’d once tried to organize, inviting all of
them. It was a disaster.

She told him about her time in the court of the
Old King, where art and music flourished. She told him about meeting the poet
from the north in person. “He was entirely full of himself,” she said, and
cackled.

The witch was beautiful when she cackled. And
even in this young form, there was a depth to her eyes: tiny crow’s feet that
betrayed all the things she’d done, all the places she’d seen.

The writer was sharp and attentive, and he held
court like a king in his tiny house.

A very strange thing happened that night, there
where the river met the road, just beyond the bridge.

The writer and the witch fell in love.

# # #

THE
WITCH
MOVED
IN
, which strained their
relationship at first, as it usually does—but even more so in this case
given the size of the writer’s house. And he felt self-conscious
about his strangeness—which is to say, he felt young again.

With gold he had saved over the years, he paid
the woodcutter’s great-grandson to build an addition, with space
for a closet, a kitchen and a witch’s workshop.

The witch was not always beautiful. Some days
she was the young queen; some days she was the old crone. Some days she inhabited
a spectral in-between space, and the air smelled like a thunderstorm
and her black hair floated up over her shoulders as if she was underwater.
She would go wandering up and down the banks of the river on those days, and
she would scare people, because they thought she was the
river-spirit come to steal their children away.

One afternoon, the writer finally spoke the
silent question. The witch looked away, and softly said: “I cursed you in the
name of the rock and the ice. It cannot be undone.”

The writer and the witch were happy together. I
mean, really happy. He taught her patience, thoughtfulness, and how to make
soup from grass, nuts, and river-rocks. She told him more
stories—stories far stranger than the ones he’d heard that first night, stories
you would never believe, if it wasn’t a witch telling them by the light of the
moon, curled up next to you on your thick straw mat.

She made the writer realize he had been much
lonelier than he’d been willing to admit, there where the river met the road,
just beyond the bridge.

They had a baby.

# # #

THE
WRITER
’S
SON
WAS
PLAYING
with snails on the bank of the river, within sight of the house. The boy was
very small, just two years old.

The writer was watching him fondly—that’s what
he did most of the time, watched his son fondly—and daydreaming about all the
things he could do, all the places he could see. It was all laid out before
him, like some magical feast.

There was a dark shape in the water.

At first the writer thought it was a fish, but it
didn’t move like a fish. It wove its way through the water like a snake. It was
aiming straight for his son.

He called out to him, but the boy didn’t hear. Or
couldn’t hear. The air was heavy and damp. Something strange was happening.

The shape was closer now, and it lifted its head
up out of the water. A giant, leering serpent’s head, with deep black pits
for eyes.

It is important that you know the writer did not
stop to think. He did not stop to calculate the number of steps it would
take to reach his son.

He simply leapt to his feet and raced along the
riverbank. The first steps he’d taken in a century, and each one was a
gallop.

Every stride carried the weight of years and
fell across his back like a hammer. He left his house a
middle-aged man and by the time he reached his son, his beard was
white. He placed himself between the boy and the serpent, and the thing
struck him. It was huge. With unnatural speed and strength it wrapped itself
around his body and it squeezed.

He struggled and pulled at it, and with each
stumbling step, another year jolted through him. His joints tightened and his
heart pounded in his ears.

He fell to his knees, but he got his hands around
the serpent’s neck. It was a shocking sight: the monster’s mouth, yawning
wide with rows and rows of jet-black teeth, and below it his shaking
hands, white as paper, thin as bones. He leaned and swung with every shred of
strength he still possessed, and he bashed its head against the
river-rocks, again and again.

The serpent loosened its grip, and died.

The witch was there now, cradling their sobbing
son in her arms. She bent low over the writer. He was very, very old.

“
My love,” she wailed.

The writer said, softly: “So there was a
river-spirit after all. That monster was probably as old as
I am.”

“
You saved our son,” the
witch said. She squeezed his hand. She could barely make words.
“My curse…”

“
No, no,” he said.

His voice was very faint.

“
All blessings.”

# # #

IF
YOU
PASS
THAT
SPOT
NOW
, where the river meets the road, just beyond the
bridge, you will see that that the tiny house is still there. The additions
have fallen away, and the garden is no more, but the main structure still
stands, and so do the strange shelves in the leafy trees that bow in around it.
They’re filled with books, which people borrow or steal. Sometimes they
leave new ones, too.

In one of those books, you’ll find the story of a
boy, the son of a powerful sorceress, who grew up in the court of the New
King. He went on to roam the world, hiking the rocky northern reaches and
sailing the warm southern sea. He was, variously, an explorer, a pirate, a
diplomat, and a poet. He had one of the all-time
great lives.

Inside the house there is a statue of a man sitting—yes,
it really is a statue now, covered with moss. Its form is lean, and its face
carries the rough shape of a beard. Its eyes are closed, and there is a smile
playing on its lips.

Pilgrims still come from far away to seek his
blessing. He is the keeper of traveler’s tales, patron of the patient, and protector
of small children.

And all who pass know they must slow and say
hello. Here, no one hurries along the path.

# # #

# # #

# # #

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Andrew Fitzgerald and Kiyash Monsef
for providing valuable feedback on an early version of this story.

* * *