by Rebecca Brae
I wasted a fair amount of time shooing him off the pages. He has a knack of sitting right where I’m reading. And pooing. That’s definitely one of his talents. Possibly, the only one. I stared at this one section of text for the longest time, trying to identify the language, only to discover when I moved the book that he had left a trail of poo across the words. It was slightly more understandable after that.
I eventually managed to shut him up by asking him to read out the instructions while I baked and assembled. We worked pretty well together after that. Maybe we just need time to get used to each other.
The new table seems sturdy, though it’s heavier than the old one and its surface is quite tacky. Hopefully that will decrease once it’s fully dried. Herman claims it should be better than the old one because of the extra binding agent he added. Somewhere, in the back of my mind while I was mixing, I knew beetle spittle shouldn’t be in the list of ingredients, but I was too tired to argue.
Guess we’ll see.
Tydias, Storm Moon 2, 209
NOTHING MUCH TO report over the past while, except lots of baking and reading. It’s like being in college again, only more boring and with worse food (didn’t think that was possible).
Most of Althea’s tomes are old. I mean, really oooold. The ink is faded (though from the smell and what’s left of the colour, I believe some passages were written with something of a more biological origin), the parchment is foxed and delicate, and the handwriting is scrawled to a degree I suspect a number of the contributors must have been writing it on their deathbed. I’m going to need to see a hedge witch for sight correction soon.
One tome is even written in an obscure language. I tried to ask Althea about it, but she just told me to use a translation spell. I think she’s forgotten that I’m sans magick. I dropped the subject. If nobody’s bothered to translate it in however many hundreds of season cycles it’s been around, how important can it be? It’s probably just another recipe book and I have more than enough of those.
I’m not even certain where she keeps them. The hut isn’t big enough to hold the inexhaustible volumes that keep materializing. She stores the baking supplies in the first basement and the kids’ rooms are in the second basement. Maybe there’s a third basement? If so, perhaps there’s room for me to put a cot down there. Althea’s snoring and the subsequent lack of sleep is starting to get to me. My temper is shorter than usual.
It doesn’t help that Althea orders me around like a first moon Apprentice and then, whenever I break down and ask for help, all she says is, “Look it up.” She treats her familiar’s meals with more respect (never thought I’d feel lower than a mealworm). Oh, that’s another thing. Her familiar doesn’t get along with Herman.
If Sophie was just a regular bat, I could understand there being confusion about whether Herman was food or not. He is a pest in every sense of the word. But she’s not a normal bat. She’s a familiar and bloody well knows that Herman is one too. And yet, she persists in terrorizing him.
Herman keeps muttering about job safety regulation breaches. He left a section of the union policy manual open on my scry mirror documenting how and when to report an antagonistic workplace environment. I managed to close it before Althea saw it. I think. I’ve spoken to him about how important it is that I keep my position here, but I fear my pleas are ignored.
He still refuses to go outside, and now he’s moaning about not being able to stay inside because Sophie is Hel-bent on making him bat brunch. I don’t think she actually would, and I told him as much, but he disagrees. According to him, all bats are devious brutes.
I don’t know what to do about Sophie. I tried talking to Althea about her companion’s behaviour, but all she did was laugh and say, “They do have their little games.” I told her that Sophie’s “game” wasn’t one Herman wanted to play, but she laughed that off too.
I also caught Althea using my toothbrush this morn. She didn’t even bother to be sneaky about it. Given my precarious employment situation, I decided not to say anything. I have a spare in my broom bag. I’ll make sure to keep it out of sight from now on.
Althea spent a good portion of this sun rummaging through an old chest, taking out all manner of strange garments, and trying them on. One of them was an odd kind of shirt, covered with garish flowers. I can’t fathom what purpose she has for it. No self-respecting witch would be caught dead in such a thing. I got woozy just looking at it.
I’m starting to get an uncomfortable feeling that something is up, but the old witch is staying mum and I know better than to ask her about it.
There is one positive thing that happened recently. The table Herman and I made is still sound, albeit stickier than I’d like. At least we managed to do something right.
Cerridias, Storm Moon 11, 209
WELL, HEPHAESTUS’S PROVERBIAL anvil has dropped and it has landed squarely on me. I awoke this morn to find a note from Althea stuck to the kitchen table . . . and I do mean stuck. That parchment is not coming off.
It read:
Gone to Hawaii. Maintenance instructions in the .
Back in ½ moon. Don’t screw up.
No “please.” No “thank you.” Just “don’t screw up.” Without those thoughtful words, I might have botched everything. But now, I’m safe for sure.
What was she thinking? I’d like to believe it means she has confidence in my ability, but I know that isn’t the case. I can barely bake basic bricks, let alone the numerous other hut pieces. So far, the table is my greatest accomplishment, and I’m starting to worry there might be something wrong with it. It shouldn’t still be this sticky.
What am I going to do? I can’t even read part of the note she left, though the characters do seem vaguely familiar.
It took me a while to find out where Hawaii is. It’s a popular Outerplane vacation spot where people go to cook their skin and stare at what can generously be described as the island’s occasional flatulence and fiery reflux. What is the appeal? It’s not as if Althea doesn’t experience an abundance of personal flatulence. And she certainly doesn’t seem that excited when I join in. Maybe it’s different when it comes out of the ground?
Most witches wouldn’t consider visiting the Outerplane because it’s a Level Seven Null Zone. Elementals are rare and our spells don’t work properly, if at all. This is of particular note for me at the moment because it also means communicating with someone on the Outerplane is problematic. Especially when you don’t have contact information for scrying, which Althea conveniently failed to leave.
If something goes wrong, I have no way to reach her. Pixies charge an exorbitant long-distance fee for Outerplane message deliveries, and air elementals need specific arrival coordinates—which wouldn’t be a problem if I was familiar with the area she’s visiting (I’m not) or could cast a location spell (I can’t). I’m totally on my own. Well, sort of.
That’s really the worst part. Sophie didn’t go. Althea told her bats weren’t allowed in Hawaii without something called “vaccinations” and a “quarantine period.” Personally, I think she made it up to get time away from the little terror. Sophie’s in a right snit about the whole thing, not that she has even a passing acquaintance with a good mood as far as I’ve seen.
What is it with familiars? Herman and Sophie seem to go out of their way to disrupt what I’m doing. I thought familiars were supposed to be helpful.
I don’t know how much longer my sanity can withstand Herman, let alone Herman and Sophie together. I went to open the basement door this morn and the damn thing disintegrated as soon as I touched it. It’s Herman’s fault. All he does is eat. I’ve put out piles of gingerbread rejects for him, but he isn’t interested.
If he keeps this up, the hut will be a pile of rubble by the time Althea gets back. I’m going to have enough trouble fixing it as it is.
The pressure is really starting to get to me and this was just my first sun alone. I should be sleeping, but every time I lie down, I start thinking about e
verything I need to do and everything that could go wrong.
If I fail at this and Althea fires me, what are the chances of Ouleah finding another employer willing to take on a magickally-impaired witch? Not great. I was surprised she found this job. Then I’ll have to move back in with my parents and endure their disappointed sighs and desperate advice about how to properly adult. Good goddess, what will they think of Herman? Their daughter couldn’t even manage to get a normal familiar.
Freydias, Storm Moon 12, 209
I HATE GINGERBREAD. That is all.
Pandias, Storm Moon 13, 209
DEAR MAGDA,
How are you? Are you still enjoying working for the Magick Emporium’s Hexes and Vexes Division? You must love being somewhere you can make a difference. Nothing makes a wrongee feel better than inflicting a few well-placed boils on the wronger. You’ve always been such a giving person. I knew you’d end up doing something amazing.
You are probably wondering why I scribed a letter instead of scrying. Truth is, I’m broke. I need help and you have always been my truest friend.
My boss unexpectedly went on a vacation without leaving contact information, and I have no idea where she keeps the hut funds to cover our operating expenses. Certain events arose that required creative problem solving and I had to dip into my savings . . . actually, I exhausted my savings. I don’t even have enough left to pay someone to recharge my scry mirror. (I won’t go into how embarrassing it is to have to pay another witch to do something so basic. I’m sure you can imagine.)
Without going into too much detail, let’s just say the Gingerbread Hut isn’t all it was cracked up to be. Whoever thought it was a good idea to build an edible hut should be forced to work here for eternity. I can think of no more suitable punishment. Everything I own reeks of vanilla and sugar. It’s disgusting.
A princess happened by the other morn. She looked pale and exhausted, so I offered her an apple, thinking she might be concerned that the gingerbread would affect her ability to fit into the ridiculous corset she was wearing. I must have said something wrong because she became quite upset and accused me of trying to murder her. Princesses! Always so dramatic.
The diet of fatty bratwurst, gingerbread, and frosting is certainly wreaking havoc with my figure. My robes are tight in all the wrong places and I don’t think it’s because they shrunk in the wash. My stress eating is out of control.
Also, I’m getting a toothache. The nearest tooth fairy is two suns away—I’m obviously not the only one who can’t stand the noisy kids gallivanting around these parts. Ever see an overpopulated anthill with a spoiled apple beside it? Yeah, it’s like that. The woods are crawling with the tiresome little twits; kids, that is, not ants. Someone must be importing them. I ran out of rooms a few suns ago and had to double bunk the last batch. I can’t take in any more.
I tried everything I could think of to stop the kid gangs from tearing the hut apart (at their current rate, I have no hope of repairing the place before Althea gets back). I hung no-trespassing signs around the forest, laid a few skeletons around the hut clearing, and attached a poison symbol to the front door—all of which did nothing to dissuade the cheeky vandals. I even put out a “trespassers will be baked and used as building material” sign, but to no avail.
Then it hit me. This was like any other hostile invasion. What I needed was a strategy to prevent their advance across the clearing to the hut. I spent a sun scrying for supplies (which is how I depleted my mirror’s charge). I’d forgotten all the wonderful things you can find in scry markets. Unfortunately, I also forgot that what you see isn’t always what you get. I thought the festering snot beast was cheaper than it should have been. It turned out to be a miniature replica. Nicely painted though. In retrospect, the FSB was probably overkill. I managed to acquire a number of exploding cycadia scum pods, rodithium vitriolic creepers, and purple heathtrobe fungi—you remember, the bouncy ones we accidently planted in the school herb garden.
Long story short, the clearing is now sufficiently battle hardened. All I have to do is fix the existing hut damage before Althea gets back and my job should be safe.
The only downside is that everything was more expensive than anticipated. Delivery fees are astronomical out here.
I used the last of my funds to get this message to you. I know you’ll help if you can. If you can’t, I’ll understand and make do with what’s on hand.
Your best friend forever,
Hester Digitalis Wishbone
P.S. Sorry about the air elemental. Hope it didn’t cause too much damage. I tried to hire a pixie, but all the union ones were too expensive and the only freelancer who responded ran afoul of a scum pod.
P.P.S. If you hear about a familiar being murdered, send bail. Another of the hut’s walls is looking wobbly, and I’m not sure if it’s because of Herman or the elemental’s arrival and departure.
Moondias, Storm Moon 15, 209
I’M HUNKERED DOWN in the hut flipping through old issues of The Burnished Cauldron and Modern Hag, hoping to wait out the remainder of this Moondias without more serious incidents or injuries than I have already endured.
Moondias is a rest sun for good reason. No hag-born hex or pestilence can compete with its intrinsic malice. Witchy blessings and charms fall flat. One person’s folly becomes a problem for everyone near and possibly far. And when those affected take steps to fix things, Moondias makes sure that doesn’t happen. Thus, the curse passes, spreading as fast and wide as the most virulent of plagues.
Of all Moondiases I have survived, I really felt this one had potential to not be awful. Sophie took off two suns ago and hasn’t been home since. She must be seriously miffed about Althea leaving her behind because she’s never been gone for more than a night at a time. Herman and I have been enjoying the peace and some much-needed uninterrupted sleep. Hence my incautious optimism.
The first catastrophe hit before I even made it out of my cot. I awoke in a pool of sweat staring at the ceiling until my brain registered that a scum pod explosion had interrupted my usual stress-induced nightmare about leaky cauldrons. The explosion knocked down a wall I’m rebuilding and blew in the front door (which is now stuck to the table).
After burning my breakfast and wrestling my bowl, utensils, and sleeve off the kitchen table (it keeps getting stickier), I decided not to clear the rubble or attempt any reconstruction.
Herman, however, had other plans. He insisted it was too drafty with only three walls and that if I wouldn’t fix it, he would. His strategy consisted of trying to eat his way through the wall debris, which predictably led to more collapses. I had to rescue him. Twice. Cockroaches have a very poor grasp of natural consequences.
So now, I am staring out at the forest where a wall used to be, hunched over my lap as I scribe, unable to use the kitchen table because a door and everything else is stuck to it. I will be very grateful to see the backside of this sun.
Tydias, Storm Moon 16, 209
LAST NIGHT WAS mercifully Sophie-free. I woke up this morn rested and ready to work. I spent some quality time baking bricks to fix the collapsed wall, hoping I might actually make some headway.
As I baked, a prickling sensation started at the base of my neck—the kind that happens when your body knows someone is watching but your brain hasn’t caught on yet. I felt a presence, but couldn’t tell what or where it was. Then my nose twitched and I knew something sinister was afoot.
It warned me just as I bent over to pull a rack of gingerbread bricks from the oven. This was the first batch I hadn’t burnt and I was feeling rather proud. I turned around with deliberate slowness, certain someone or something was behind me but there was nothing.
Assuming my nose was on the fritz like my magick, I went back to work. I jumped slightly as it gave another great jerk. This time, I spun around quickly and caught a grey blur of movement outside the collapsed wall.
I threw the full tray I was holding at the opening out of shock, but there was nothing
there. How I miss my magick, those blissful suns when I could conjure up an illusionary dragon to scare away my foes. Will I ever get used to this mundane existence? Will I have to?
I double-checked the clearing to make sure the hut’s perimeter defences were active. They were. Then, I set out to find my scattered bricks. Thankfully, they had bounced nicely and were only minimally injured. I believe I’ve finally mastered the recipe!
As I gathered my little beauties, I kept my head down and surreptitiously examined the woods. There were a few areas of deeper shadow in the cloaked browns and greens. I could not make out any details.
I returned to the hut and kept half an eye on the shifting voids while I baked. They changed locations, sometimes closer, sometimes to one side, but always there.
Whoever or whatever they were, they never ventured into the clearing, so I logically assumed my intruder calming measures were keeping them at bay. That’s the tricky thing about logic. Something can be perfectly logical, but also perfectly wrong.
I turned around after checking the oven temperature and found the answer to my uneasiness crouched on the counter. A gargoyle stared back at me as steadily as only a hunk of stone can.
There is a raw, primitive awareness born of fear and burned into our bones that takes over when our mind goes into shock. By completely bypassing mental processing, our body is usually able to respond more effectively to dangerous situations. I say “usually” because sometimes it backfires. At least that’s what I choose to believe happened when the pathetically shrill scream burst from my lungs and I threw a handful of kelp essence.
Don’t get me wrong. Kelp essence would have been an effective binding agent, if I had access to my magicks. And screaming can be a perfectly reasonable response to danger. It warns anyone near about a potential threat and lets them know that someone is in need of help. Unfortunately for me, the only relatively friendly being nearby was a cockroach, whose response to my cry for help was to leave a trail of excrement from one end of the hut to the other as he scuttled under my cot.