Dragons and Witches

by Madeline Smoot

  “Your hands are mine, you work for me

  This day is mine, you shall not flee.”

  The day broke, golden rays shooting like arrows through the pristine glass. Cunning black eyes opened and twinkled in the rising sun. “And what would you have me do?”

  “What you promised. I want to be with him.”

  “As you wish, Princess.” The witch rose and strode to the cauldron with a vigor she rarely showed her customers. Nothing tangible went into the cauldron: a sigh on the wind, a beat of the young girl’s heart, a cry of longing that rose from the Underworld.

  Swirling mist rose confidently from the cauldron and enveloped Iris, caressing her skin and drawing her outside with insistent fingers. The door slammed behind her, and a violent click of the lock echoed throughout the forest.

  Iris shook with rage. The Wood-Witch had tricked her, stolen months of her servitude and then abandoned her when it was time to pay. The world swam as her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. Angry tears that swallowed the despairing ones. She rubbed them all violently away with her palms and found that the world still wavered.

  Everything had changed. The trees shimmered with transparency beneath a cold and distant sun and the ever-chirping birds were silenced. Since the click in the lock, there had been no earthly sound, not even from the wind or the deer that bounded past. She reached out her hand to touch one as it leapt, but it was nothing more than mist in her hand. Were they ghosts? Or was she?

  Warm arms encircled her waist, and familiar lips brushed her hair. She turned and saw him, for the first time since the hunting accident that was no accident. The witch had kept her end of the bargain. She had given her a day with her lost love.

  “Harper …”

  “Iris, how?”

  Instead of explaining, she kissed him. Maybe next year, she’d tell him about the witch and the magic that joined them between worlds. Maybe the year after that, she’d tell him how she’d defied her father and refused Prince Edgar’s proposal. And maybe the year after that, she’d tell him about how she’d left the castle, spitting in the face of the king and father that had murdered her love.

  But here, now, in this place between living and dying, there was no room for that. No room for bitterness or rage. No room for the old roles of princess and pauper. No room for regret, or even sadness. In this place, they were their truest selves. In this place, there was room only for love.

  And that was how Iris spent her longest day, loving and being loved.

  The phantom sun set, washing the sky with orange and pink until it deepened to the purple of a summer night. Iris clung to Harper’s hands, gazing into his eyes as he faded away and the forest returned to normal. When the evening’s first stars had taken the place of his eyes, she dropped her empty hands and returned to the hut.

  The Wood-Witch, rocking by the fire, smiled ruefully at her. “I expect you’ll be leaving in the morning?”

  Iris was surprised out of her sadness. “What? No. I started in winter, I owe you more days.”

  “Most of you leave once you get what you want.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. And besides what about the spell?”

  “Oh, I usually snip the strings once the silly girl runs off. I don’t want a lying ninny bound to me. I’m better than that.” The old woman waved the fireplace poker like a magic wand. “So, you’re free! No worries—I shan’t roast you in my oven. And, besides, aren’t you tired of working? Don’t you miss the castle? The jewels? The parties?”

  Iris almost snorted. Do I miss the prison? The fools? The betrayals? “I promised you 364 days, and I mean to give them to you. If, after that, you’d like to dismiss me, you may. But I’ll tell you now, I’d rather stay on.”

  The Wood-Witch swiveled in her chair, gently stirring the dying embers. Iris could have sworn she heard her mumble something about responsibility over riches.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, that cauldron is not going to clean itself.” This time, Iris caught the scrub brush.

  The months passed happily for Iris. She gained a greater understanding of the witch’s craft as she watched her. She began to see the things that cannot be seen—the Shades, the moods, the fears, the dreams. As she began to see these things, she also began to see the Wood-Witch more clearly. Most saw her as a wishing well or an evil, gnarled crone—but she was neither of those things. She was a gruff old woman, but also a brilliant artist, weaving creations of healing and magic for those in need.

  It was autumn when Prince Edgar arrived. Iris was washing dishes, daydreaming about the Summer Solstice, when he galloped up on his oversized charger.

  “You’ve got company, Princess.” The Wood-Witch smirked from her rocking chair. “Quite a handsome fellow. Very princely.”

  “How did he find me here?” Iris threw her rag into the sink, with enough force to send dishwater and bubbles raining down on her head. She brushed them away impatiently. “I despise him.”

  “Oh, I know, mortal boys are so overrated. You prefer otherworldly lovers—not as much impertinence.”

  Iris watched in irritation as Edgar dismounted and marched towards the door, which he proceeded to kick in with unnecessary violence. He put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest, awaiting a Hero’s Welcome. When it didn’t come, he grabbed Iris by the wrist and began pulling her roughly towards the door. She recoiled. “Iris, quickly. Come with me,” he grunted in frustration.

  The Wood-Witch stood. The air around her crackled like lightning from a storm cloud, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m thinking the girl doesn’t want to go with you.”

  “I don’t!” Iris shouted. Right in his princely face.

  “I’m rescuing you, girl,” he thundered. “You must be bewitched. No matter, we’ll remedy that soon enough.” He grabbed the witch by the throat and slammed her against the wall. His other hand reached for the dagger at his belt.

  Iris’s palms began to itch, right where the witch had sewn the invisible threads so long ago. She had been the woman’s hands long enough that she knew what to do. She sprinted towards the cauldron and filled it with intangible things: a crow’s caw that cut the air, the hunger of the fox that hunted the woods, the sharp intake of breath that filled the witch’s lungs.

  As the cauldron hissed, dense grey smoke poured forth and rolled over the neatly swept floor. When it reached Edgar’s ankles, he released the witch and looked about him in confusion. He stumbled to the door, and Iris pushed him through it.

  “Never come back!” she shouted.

  “I’ll never come back,” the prince responded, his voice docile and disoriented.

  “And tell my father I wasn’t here. That you couldn’t find me.”

  He bowed stiffly, in bewildered acquiescence. “I will.” Then he mounted his horse and galloped off into the darkened wood.

  The Wood-Witch smiled softly. “Well, Princess, you’re three for three. Brains, commitment, and the desire to rescue rather than be rescued.”

  “Please, stop calling me Princess.” The word was like a pinch.

  “What shall I call you then? Apprentice?”

  Iris pretended to think it over. “Do I get a day off?”

  “Certainly. Which day would you like? Tomorrow, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. I choose the longest day. I choose the Summer Solstice.”

  J.G. Formato is a writer and elementary school teacher from North Florida. Her short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues including Persistent Visions, Luna Station Quarterly, and Syntax & Salt Magazine, as well as the previous Fairy Tale Villains Reimagined anthology, Giants and Ogres.

 

 

 
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