In the Company of Ogres

by Martinez A. Lee

  “You’re not ugly, child,” she corrected. “You’re quite—” Her long face squished itself into a scowl “—lovely.”

  I had yet to dare looking in the mirror for fear of being driven mad by own hideousness. Now I chanced a sidelong glance through the corner of my eye. It was not the sanity-twisting sight I had expected, but still a far cry from lovely.

  “But what about these?” I cupped the large, fatty mounds on my chest.

  “Those are breasts,” Ghastly Edna said. “They’re supposed to be there.”

  “But they’re so ... so ...”

  “Round. Firm.” She sighed. “That’s how they’re supposed to be. Ideally.”

  I found that hard to believe, but I wasn’t about to argue with the person who’d rescued me from my solitary existence.

  “And that bottom of yours,” she mumbled. “You could bounce a gold piece off it.”

  “But the skin is pale,” I offered, trying to please her.

  “It’s not pale, dear. It’s alabaster.” She circled me twice, looking more disappointed each passing moment. “And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen eyes quite that shade of green. Or lips so full and soft. And your hair. I washed it with year-old soap, and it’s still as soft as gossamer.” She drew close and sniffed. “And it smells of sunflowers.”

  “What about my teeth? Surely they’re not supposed to look like that.”

  She checked my gums and teeth with her fingers. “No, dear. You’re quite correct. They’re a tad too sharp. But it’s not an obvious flaw, and besides that, they’re nice and white. Good gums too. The tongue has a little fork in it, but only if you’re looking for it.”

  She ordered me into a seat, still naked and slightly damp from the bath.

  “Are you certain you spent all your life in that basement?”

  I nodded.

  “No exercise. Dismal diet. Dwelling in filth. Yet somehow you come out like this. Not even half-mad as far as I can tell.”

  “You mean, I’m not cursed, ma’am?”

  “Oh, you are cursed, child, and undead. That much is certain. Curses come in many forms, however, and not all are as bad. Especially death curses. It’s tricky enough to cast a decent spell when you’re still alive. But throwing one out as you’re expiring requires a certain knack. Apparently, the wizard who cursed your family was not as in control of his magic as he should’ve been. The undead part came through, but the hideousness element didn’t quite make it. The magic must’ve had a better idea, as it sometimes does.”

  She handed me a towel. “Cover yourself, dear. I can’t bear to look upon you anymore.”

  I did as I was told.

  “That’s the thing about death curses. One really shouldn’t employ them unless one feels they can pull it off. It just makes the rest of us look bad.”

  She spent several minutes rocking in her chair, mulling over the situation. A dread fell upon me. I didn’t want to be sent back to my cellar if I could help it. Given no other choice, I’d accepted my fate. Now my universe was filled with other possibilities, and I didn’t want to lose them.

  Ghastly Edna snapped up from her chair.

  “Well, dear, the magic called me to you. Far be it from me to contradict it. Your loveliness just means you’ll have to work harder at your witchery. A handicap yes, but not an insurmountable one.” She peeled the wart from her nose. “False, darling.” She winked.

  She proceeded to wipe the greenish makeup from her face to reveal skin that, while rough and haggard, was not especially hideous. She removed six layers of clothing to show that her hunch was nothing more than an illusion of well-placed fabric. When she removed her hat, I realized that Ghastly Edna was a large and ugly woman, but not at all witchly without her full outfit.

  “We all need a little help, dear. You just need far more than I. Now let me see what I have here that might do the trick.” She began digging through various moldy trunks filled with equally moldy clothing.

  My heart leapt with joy.

  Ghastly Edna spent the next six months acquainting me with the ins and outs of witchly wardrobe. Wearing just the right outfit was fifty percent of a witch’s business, she explained. She was not exaggerating. It took a great deal of work to make one look as bad as was expected. Especially for me, my mentor pointed out, as I was afflicted with a form most unsuitable for a witch.

  Once I’d mastered the art of looking witchly, she proceeded to teach me the black arts: necromancy, demonology, the forgotten language of unspeaking things, and forbidden nature lore. The powers of magic that had drawn Ghastly Edna to me had not been mistaken, and in due course, I mastered the craft of the witch.

  And for a while, I was happy.

  Until the dark day when they finally killed her.

  A. LEE MARTINEZ’S

  first novel, Gil’s All Fright Diner, won the American Library Association’s Alex Award and was named a Best Book for Young Adults. Martinez lives in Dallas, Texas.

  Visit the author online at www.aleemartinez.com.