Witch

by Patrick Logan

  Without their house, the one that Wallace had built with his own hands, they really would have nothing.

  She shook these negative thoughts from her mind.

  At least we are healthy. At least we don’t have the spots like the natives in the swamp.

  “Terry? Did you hear me?”

  The girl glanced up at her with her big blue eyes.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Disdain—how can a three-year-old be filled with disdain?

  “Okay, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”

  Anne pulled the door open with her foot and stepped out into the hot sun.

  Unlike the Thomases’, their house was at the back of their plot and not vice-versa. As Anne made her way past the porch swing and down the wooden steps, she gazed out over her muddy front lawn. Their plot was roughly twenty by thirty feet, with part of her land extending from the front to the side of the simple house. Marking the front of her property was a packed dirt road, and beyond that was the swamp. Stumphole Swamp—a murky bog that often filled the air with its foul regurgitations, its stinking feces, and was dotted by the tall indigenous trees that were lush with leaves. The swamp was the problem; despite the vegetation that was but a stone’s throw from her house, nothing would grow on Anne’s property.

  She made her way to the corner of the house and squatted, preparing herself to turn the bucket over, emptying it, when her eye caught the simple white cross near one of the few trees by the side of her property.

  Things would be different if you were still here, Wallace.

  People, like the Veronica Thomases of the swamp, whispered that the reason why nothing grew on Anne’s land was because she had buried her husband in the yard, and that this had poisoned the soil. But the truth was, nothing had grown on the land even before Wallace had been buried. When her husband had first passed and she had made the difficult decision—the financially motivated decision—to bury him here rather than at the cemetery three miles down the packed dirt road, she had made this fact abundantly clear.

  In fact, she remembered distinctly telling Veronica this very thing.

  ‘Veronica, nothing ever grew on my land. It’s the swamp, it’s too close, making the soil underneath too wet, turning all germinating seeds to rot.’

  Veronica just stared at her before a placating smile appeared on her thin lips.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she had replied as if Anne were a child.

  Shortly after this conversation, two days, maybe three, she had overheard Veronica telling her closest friends that it was Wallace’s corpse that was poisoning the land, angered by the fact that there was now a husbandless woman and a child living on his property.

  In hindsight, confronting her about these rumors probably hadn’t been the best course of action. But that had been more than two years ago. Couldn’t Veronica just forgive and move on?

  Anne’s mind turned the riches of the Thomases’ garden.

  Would it kill the woman to bring a few fruits over once and a while? A cucumber? Tomato? After all, Anne couldn’t work, not with having to take care of Teresa all the time. And Teresa was still a good number of years away from being able to work herself.

  And with no crops...

  Would it fucking kill her to bring me a goddamn eggplant?

  Anne flipped the wash basin over, and mud splashed up from the ground and splattered her dress.

  Great, now I’m going to have to wash this, too—wash this in clean water that I don’t have.

  Her anger surprised her, and she tried her best to calm her emotions by breathing in deeply and slowly, recalling what Wallace had told her once.

  ‘The difference between us and them,’ he had said, clearly indicating the rest of the citizens of Stumphole swamp, ‘is that they react. Like animals, all they do is react. You, me, Terry? We are thinking people, Annie. Think, then act. Don’t react.’

  Anne swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

  If Wallace were here—

  The sound of hooves on dirt drew her eyes up. A large gray mare trod carefully down the path that was the only physical separation between her property and the swamp.

  It was the Thomases’ horse, that much she knew, that much she recognized, but the carriage... that wasn’t the Thomases’. She had never seen it before.

  It was a wooden structure, simple by any measure, just four thin wheels supporting a wooden frame with large beige cushions, but it was new. And new things rarely appeared in the swamp.

  I wonder—

  But the horse suddenly stopped, and the door to the carriage burst open.

  “Anne!” Veronica shouted as she stepped out. She had to hike up her dress—a brilliant white laced outfit, also new, it appeared—to make sure it didn’t make contact with the mud.

  Anne couldn’t help but glance down at her own soiled dress. The grimace remained plastered on her face.

  “Anne! I have the greatest news!”

  Anne tried to feign a smile as she stood, but failed.

  Did you come here to bring Wallace back from the dead?

  Chapter 6

  “Veronica? What can I do for you?”

  Anne dropped the empty basin, making sure not to step in the soft mud where the dirty water had soaked in.

  The woman said nothing—instead, she walked over, dress still hiked high, her steps large, her gait bouncy, joyful even.

  “Veronica?”

  The driver sitting at the front of the carriage stared straight ahead, both the horse and man stoic and unmoving.

  What the hell is going on?

  A quick dart toward the window showed that Terry was still inside, but instead of looking at the wall, she was now playing with one of the scarecrow figurines.

  The sight made Anne smile.

  They didn’t have much, but they had each, which had to be good for something, didn’t it?

  “Anne? Anne! Over here!” Mrs. Thomas waved. It was all Anne could do to avoid rolling her eyes. The woman was less than twenty paces away; announcing her presence was hardly necessary.

  “Yes?”

  Veronica hustled over, her face starting to redden with the effort, sweat forming on her brow. It made Anne feel good to see this woman, a woman who likely hadn’t worked a day in her entire wife, put considerable effort into something, even if it was only to bound across her muddy lawn.

  “Please,” she huffed, grabbing Anne by the arm. “We need to go inside. I have great news.”

  “But the—”

  Basin, she wanted to say, but Veronica’s grip was strong and she yanked Anne through the thick mud.

  “Don’t worry about that; I have great news, please, you must hear it right away.”

  At least it’s not about the stolen produce, Anne thought as she allowed herself to be pulled back into her home.

  “Tea, Anne. Remember last time?”

  Anne bit her tongue.

  “Yes, of course. Right away.” She hurried to the counter and again lit the burner. It was like déjà vu; their interaction was so similar to the last time Veronica had been by less than a month ago.

  That came as no surprise, though; Veronica always treated her the same way. And it was all Anne could do to not lash out at her. After the stolen fruits and vegetables had been consumed, Terry wasn’t the only one that had become short-tempered.

  It wasn’t Anne’s fault; hunger had the capacity to make anyone short.

  “What’s the great news, Veronica?” Anne asked with her back to the woman, waiting for the last of their fresh water to boil in the kettle.

  “News?” Terry repeated. Now that there was little to no chance that Veronica was here to accuse them of stealing the produce, Anne felt no need to send her to her room. It was fine to be in the kitchen playing with the wooden figurines, provided she listened to Anne’s instructions: for no reason whatsoever was she to mention any of the food—the tomatoes, cucumbers, or squeaky eggplant—that they had eaten.

  Veronica sighed so deeply that Anne turne
d, concern on her face. The woman’s gaze was downcast, her head casting a shadow over the table.

  Anne immediately moved toward the woman.

  “Veronica? You okay? Veron—”

  Veronica raised her head, the massive smile on her face giving Anne pause. A thin-lipped woman to begin with, smiling the way she was now, it looked like her lips had entirely disappeared and she was all teeth. Big, white teeth. Teeth like the horse’s outside.

  If it weren’t for the woman’s shining brown eyes, Anne would have thought the look sinister as opposed to one of complete and unadulterated joy.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said simply.

  Anne nearly dropped the mug in her hand.

  “Wh—what?” she stammered.

  For all of Mrs. Thomas’s makeup and hair and pomp and circumstance, Anne knew that she was well past her child-bearing years. Back around the time when Wallace died, there had been rumors going around the swamp that Ken Thomas was frustrated that Veronica was unable to bear a child. No children meant that there were fewer hands to work, be it gardening, at the Mill, or at the blacksmith’s. The rule of the swamp was that the more children you had, the more prosperous you were. Having many children was not only a way to ensure financial stability, but also to continue the Thomas name. Anne herself had once begged Wallace to try for a boy, knowing the facts as she did, but Wallace had wanted to wait.

  And, well, that hadn’t work out, had it?

  But now Veronica... she must have been near forty, and pregnant?

  “You can close your mouth, dear,” Veronica said, but she was still grinning.

  Anne’s jaw snapped shut.

  “Really?” she whispered.

  “Oh, now you’re just being rude. How about that tea, hmm?”

  Anne glanced to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “Congratulations. I know that Ken wanted a child.”

  The response was cold and immediate.

  “Who told you that?”

  Anne was in the process of turning back to the kettle, which had started to whistle and whine, but the viciousness of the question caused her to freeze.

  “Anne? Who told you that Ken wanted another child?”

  “No one, I—I—I—it’s just that Wallace wanted another child, a boy, you know, so I thought—”

  “You thought? You thought? Do yourself a favor, Anne, and don’t think. Ken is not Wallace. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Anne swallowed hard and turned back to the kettle, taking it off the heat. Some of the steam billowed up to her face, but she barely felt it.

  Her face was hot already.

  How dare she? Come in here, treat me like I’m a child?

  Anne ground her teeth.

  To come in here and tell me that Ken isn’t Wallace. No shit; Wallace was ten times the man that Ken will ever be.

  “Anne? The tea?”

  Anne poured the near boiling water over the tea leaves and turned back to Veronica, plastering a weak smile on her face.

  “Almost ready.”

  “Good,” Veronica said, the corners of her lips turning up again. “And then you are going to tell me how you did it.”

  Anne put the pot on the center of the table and sat down.

  “Tell you how I did what, Veronica?”

  “Tell me how you did it.”

  The fake smile fell of Anne’s face and she stared, stupefied.

  “Oh, don’t give me that look. You told me a moment ago that you knew Ken wanted another child, and—”

  “No, I didn’t—”

  Veronica held up a hand, immediately silencing her.

  “For more than ten years, we’ve tried. Every month it was the same, during my blood; we did the same thing over and over again. But nothing worked. I was afraid that he would—well, never mind about that. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I came here a month ago—to your house, Anne—and that is the only thing that I did differently before I got pregnant.”

  Her eyes flicked to the pot of tea, while Anne just continued to stare.

  What the hell does this have to do with me?

  “Earl Gray, you say?”

  Anne nodded slowly.

  “Yes...”

  “Hmm. Well, you are going to tell me how you did it.”

  An awkward silence fell over them both. Eventually, Anne broke it.

  “I’m really not—”

  Veronica sighed heavily.

  “Look, Anne. You’re going to tell me what you did, or else I’ll have Ken come and give you a talking to for all the fruits and vegetables you stole from our garden.”

  Chapter 7

  The only thing that spread faster than disease in the swamp was rumors. And Anne would’ve argued that the latter might actually be more dangerous.

  At first, however, she couldn’t believe her luck. As Veronica’s belly grew, so did the baskets of fruits and vegetables that mysteriously arrived on Anne’s doorstep. And this all came after Veronica forced her to tell her the truth about the tea.

  At first, Anne had denied everything.

  Nothing, it was just Earl Grey.

  No, just water. Water and milk and tea.

  The tea was from the market—traded two wooden scarecrows for it.

  No, the mug was clean.

  But Anne couldn’t hold out forever, and eventually the constant threats of the drunk Ken Thomas visiting, especially with Terry sitting and playing silently on the floor in plain view, broke her down. The truth about the milk came out, as embarrassing as it was. ‘A coincidence,’ Anne said between apologies, but Veronica was having none of it. When the fancy women started to eyeball her, Terry, and the scarecrow figurines, all hinting in not so many words of witchcraft, Anne did the only thing she could: she latched on to the idea that her breast milk was some sort of magical elixir. And when Veronica stopped visiting, and instead sent her horse with the same thin driver to drop off a basket overflowing with produce every week, who was she to complain?

  And then, as predicted, especially considering the socialite that was Veronica Thomas, Anne’s ‘magical elixir’ rumor spread. It wasn’t long before Christine Porsette came by, eyes downcast, cheeks red with either wine, embarrassment, or both, mumbling something about being unable to conceive. Anne’s initial reaction was to deny everything, to send the woman home. But that was before Christine produced two silver pence coins from behind her back.

  What could Anne say to that?

  Thinking of Terry, Anne said what came most natural. She wouldn’t make any promises, but she would give Christine some of her milk, as she had Veronica. She went on to add some instructions, which were essentially a rehashing of Veronica’s experience: drink the milk, go home, and then lay with her husband during her blood.

  And then Christine left, gone on her merry way, her cheeks no longer red, her face no longer twisted in a frown.

  Although Anne didn’t hear the words from Christine’s mouth, rumors, if they were to be believed, suggested that the woman was indeed pregnant.

  While Christine was the second woman, Patricia was the third. And her story was much the same, only this time Anne asked for three pence, which were promptly paid. And unlike Christine, Patricia, her smile so wide that it pained Anne just to look at her, returned less than a month later with another pence.

  She too, like Veronica and Christine before her, was pregnant.

  Anne was skeptical—‘Thinking people,’ Wallace had said, ‘me, you, and Terry are thinkers’—but the proof was in the mud, as the saying went in Stumphole.

  When Susan, Margie, and Laura all came and drank her milk, paying subsequently larger sums with each visit, and they all became pregnant in time, Anne started to believe.

  She believed that perhaps there was a life for her and Terry after Wallace. After all, the money that she had made in three or four short months was more than Wallace had pulled in working two full years at the Mill.

  And so Anne spent most of
her days on the porch swing, listening to the rare breeze that rustled the leaves above amidst the sounds of the swamp and the creaking of the chains that held the swing to the wooden roof.

  So many women visited Anne on a weekly basis that she had commissioned the local potter to come up with a ceramic device that cupped over her breast to help express the milk into containers. There were so many bottles in her cupboard that she had to label them to make sure she didn’t give the very old ones to any of her more important clients.

  Suffice it to say, the milk business ran good in Stumphole for a while.

  The present day was cooler than most, and Anne was forced to wear her new sweater, a white wool sweater that was made specifically for her, with buttons on the chest so that the front could be pulled down to expose her breast. The air was cool, but the sun was still warm on her skin. Which was all fine for Anne, as she always felt a little warm when expressing.

  As she sat on the swing with the ceramic device cupping her right nipple, she heard Terry talking to herself inside. A quick peek through the window revealed that the girl, not quite four yet, was playing with the scarecrows, talking to herself. Anne had started giving these away to each of the women she helped along with the milk, as a sort of calling card. She only had maybe a dozen left.

  Terry was running out of toys to play with.

  Anne couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face.

  “Terry!”

  Her daughter’s head poked up.

  “Terry, come here, would you?”

  The girl scrambled to her feet and made her way to the open door, a look of concern on her face.

  “What, Mom?”

  The blue dress that she was wearing was crinkled at the knees.

  “Terry, I told you not to kneel in that dress. If you want to kneel, put on your other pants, the ones with the holes in the knees.”

  The girl made a face.

  “But, Mom, it’s too hot in those pants.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Terry. Besides, it’s not hot out; it’s actually quite cool.”

  Terry just stared with her big blue eyes as if to say, Sure, Mom.

  The smile returned to Anne’s face.