by Paul Kater
The viewing of the proceedings in the castle kitchen was interrupted by someone knocking on the door. It was a very delicate, careful knock. Hilda knew who it was by just that simple sound. She got up and went to open the door.
"Quirrin," she said, looking up. "Hello."
Quirrin was a gnome. Not your ordinary, run of the mill gnome. He was large for a gnome. Eight foot and a bit is large for a gnome. He did not wear a gnome's hat, as there were big lumps on his bald head that gave him trouble wearing something like a hat or a cap. His face was mostly round, save for some lumps of flesh that seemed to just have appeared because they had thought it was a good idea. The end result was not so good, so the idea had failed in hindsight.
Quirrin had amazingly narrow shoulders for a giant gnome. They gave his torso the appearance as if it was modeled after a triangle, as his hips were really wide. Quirrin's torso was covered in a large red jacket with sleeves always too short for his long arms. The top four buttons were undone, showing a wild bush of chest hair. A bit odd, really, as the hair was blond. The gnome wore a long, brown kilt-like skirt from under which large yellow shoes with pointy toes appeared. Hilda recalled the day that this had happened to Quirrin. All the other gnomes had warned him not to mess with Baba Yaga, the Russian witch. It needs little elaboration what Quirrin had done with that advice.
"Honourable witch," Quirrin the gnome said, "I greet you on this day."
"Yup, just like every other day you come here, and that's why I appreciate you so much my gnomish friend. Want some tea or are you running late again?"
Quirrin was always running late, yet he never seemed to be in a rush. Which was probably the reason for his being late all the time.
"No, no, honourable witch, I cannot spare the time, I have to rush and hurry," Quirrin said, as Hilda had already expected. "But I do have to ask your assistance, honourable witch, as they are doing it again."
"Again? The stubborn buggers still didn't get it, did they?" Hilda's face changed into a great big frown. "Right. Thanks for letting me know, Quirrin. Now hobble on, I'll look into this."
"Thank you, honourable witch," the gnome said as he backed away from the door, bowing to her as well as his massive plump posture allowed. Hilda then saw him turn and waddle off, his enormous gnomish shape hindering him
Then Hilda heard a soft whistling sound, and with a loud "twack" an arrow pierced the wood of her house, next to the door. Attached to the arrow was a scrap of paper.
"Ah. Mail," she said, pulling the arrow from the boards. Taking the paper from the arrow, she went inside again and closed the door behind her.
3. Poetry
Coming into the room, Hilda glanced at the mirror. It still showed the kitchen, but the queen as well as the cook were no longer there.
"Happy munching, darling," the wicked witch said with a grin. Then she looked at what the arrow had brought her. It was an invitation for a witches meeting, at the next full moon, to be held on top of Scary Mountain. That would be in about a week. Hilda grinned. Full moon had just happened five days ago, so there was another round of confusion coming up for the people in the villages near Scary Mountain.
She then sat down at her large black wooden table and considered the things at hand that needed her attention. First there was the issue that Quirrin had mentioned. Then there was the thing with Snow-White. She'd have to locate that girl and do something about her plans that involved that kid.
"Right then. Let's help Quirrin first." Hilda rose and started to exchange her average witching clothes for the really impressive stuff. She was going to look her best this time.
Hilda did not need a mirror to check on her appearance. She wore her shiny black leather boots that went up to her knees and felt very snug and comfortable around her legs. The long black dress, wide and with an uneven hem, an fabulously eerie sparkling effect when she moved in it, was something Hilda loved to wear. It felt nice and made her feel even more confident than she already was. Then there was the large hood. Simple, black as the night, covering most of her hair and also, if she wanted it to, part of her face. Her long grey hair hung down freely over her shoulders, as a nice contrast to the dress. It also heightening the effect of the dark clothes.
As she walked up to the black broom, which she had made especially for this outfit, she reveled in the sound the hard heels of her boots made on the stone floor. That sound in a dark alley, she thought, was bound to scare the creeps out of anyone. The mere idea made her smile. Maybe, some night, she'd actually give that a try.
Hilda looked at the broom and as quickly as she could, she made her wand appear, swooping her hand up. Damn. That was the only bad thing of the wide black dress: fast movements almost always got her hand caught in the wide folds. She tried it again, with the same rotten result. Hilda had to be swift enough to be convincing, yet slow enough to keep the wand from ripping up the dress. She sighed. "Crap. Will have to do it the usual way again. I have to dream up something for that..." She looked at the black broom. "You. Come with me." She snipped her fingers and walked to the door, the broom floating along behind her.
Outside, in the sunlight, she looked at her house. "New paint job this year," she declared.
The top floor of her house nodded. "Like you promised last year," it complained.
"Oh, shut up you!" Hilda swung herself on her broom and flew off.
It did not take very long before she reached the area that held the unsuspecting objects of her attention. The area was a small meadow along which a brook trickled. There were low reeds among the water, the grass always looked as if it had just been mowed. A few trees stood here and there in strategic places to supply shadows to each and every dweller that rested his or her weary head here. Hilda saw the neat arrangements of flowers in perfect watercolours, that stood exactly right to catch the proper amount of sunshine. It was so idyllic it made her shudder.
Obviously some young witch had been at work here, someone who had way too much time on her hands, or was in dire need of some friends in convenient places. Why (and how) on earth that twit had gotten involved with the people who were occupying this place regularly, was an absolute riddle for Hilda.
The wicked witch landed her broom on the edge of the meadow furthest from the brook, and put her broom against one of the perfect trees. Her arrival did not go unnoticed. It was, in a whispering way, accompanied by statements from the assembly, such as "Shit, there she is", and "We'd better not say another word."
Hilda arranged the hood again, that had been blown off her head during the flight over. Then she turned to the group. "Well, well...", she said. Then she slowly walked up to the people. There were about a dozen of them, sitting or lying on the grass, some in the sun, some in the shade.
Hilda stopped in front of a small, perfect setting of flowers. She looked at it, shook her head and sighed. "Okay. Who's the creative one here?"
Her question did not trigger an answer. It only provided a ripple of unease that went through the group.
"Listen, folks," the wicked witch said, looking everyone in the eye in turn, "we've been through this before more times than I care to remember. You said you were not going to show again. And that went well for what, a whole amazing four days?"
She held out her left hand and snipped the fingers of the right, as there was only silence in response to her question. The arrangement of flowers in front of her feet jumped up from the grass and landed in her hand. Hilda looked at the faces of the five young women who were there. One of them had to be the witch, she knew. Obviously that woman had a lot of self-control, as nobody flinched.
Hilda took one flower. It turned black. She tossed it in the lap of the first young woman she saw. "So..." She tossed the second one, also turning black, in the lap of the next one. "Who is..." Another black flower. "The creative one... among you... liars?!" During each pause she tossed a black, stinking flower which landed in a lap.
There was no reaction. Quietly she admired the stamina of the witch that tried t
o hide. Tried, because Hilda had located her already. It was the only one who did not hold her nose because of the stinking flower; the witch had simply removed the stench from the black thing, and the experienced wicked witch had picked up the short, badly shielded flare of magic.
"No one, eh? So all this grew by itself." Hilda slowly walked up to a man who sat leaning against a wide birch. She looked at the tree.
"Abomination," she muttered.
"Hey, I resent that," the man said as he got up. He was almost a foot taller than Hilda and looked down at her. "I am not an abomination."
"So people say, so don't get your knickers in a knot, Anton. You're just the leader of the liars." Hilda looked around, entirely unimpressed by Anton. "So nobody has a fucking clue what to tell me? Nobody has the guts to say something?" Her voice was calm and chilled. Not yet cold. "Come on, guys, you are here for your rhymes and prose and stuff, you're good with words. Invent something to make the evil witch happy so she goes away!"
Hilda turned and looked the unfortunate young witch in the eye. "You. Get up."
The young woman slowly rose to her feet, avoiding Hilda's eyes.
"Now fix that tree." The wicked one pointed at the birch with its unnatural shape.
"Why should I?", the young woman asked. "What makes you think I did that anyway?"
Hilda snipped her fingers, making the scentless flower jump in her hand. She smelled it and then said: "Wrong reply." She stepped up to the young witch, took one of her hands and slapped the flower in its palm. "Hold on to this. It might help."
"Help? With what?" The young witch was puzzled.
Hilda spread out her arms (so she would not get caught in the folds of her dress), made her wand pop up in one of her hands and pointed it at the girl.
"Hey, Hilda, you can't put a spell on another witch!", the young woman exclaimed, as she understood what was about to happen.
Hilda smiled. "Grimhilda for you, kid. And who says I can't? Perhaps I shouldn't, but since when I am bothered by that?"
"Coloris flavens ab aqua." The Latin, combined by an adequate portion of magic, worked immediately. With a satisfied smile Hilda turned to Anton again.
The young witch let out a scream as she discovered that she was now completely covered in yellow watercolours. Her hair, her dress and her skin, everything. A whining sound crawled up from her throat as she rubbed the back of her hand and the colour did not come off.
"Now, what were we talking about," Hilda said with an amiable smile that gave Anton the creeps.
Anton stared at the young witch who had by now watercoloured tears streaming down her yellow cheeks. The man was afraid to speak. Who knew how a wrong answer would make him end up.
"I think," Hilda said, pressing the tip of her wand against his cheek to make Anton look at her instead of the yellow girl, "we were talking about liars."
"Were we?", Anton dared.
"Ayup, we were. At least I was, and you should have picked that up. It looked to me as if you were paying attention, Anton!" She whacked him on the head with the wand, then held it to his cheek again.
"Oh yes, I was!" Anton blushed.
"You really like it here, don't you?" Hilda waved at the surroundings, "with the grass and the trees and the water and the girls and such."
Anton nodded carefully, to prevent the wand from taking out one of his eyes.
"I thought so," Hilda smiled. "I can see you're one of the big boys, a born leader, and probably quite a poet also."
"Yeah, well, uh...", Anton enthusiastically confirmed her words.
"A poet who likes trees too," Hilda said, the smile still on her face.
"Yeah, trees are great," Anton took a dare.
"And you love this place so much that you get a witch to turn it into this farce. This mockery of nature." Hilda's tone became less sweet and understanding. "And you remove all the shrubbery and herbs. Which, of course, is not a big deal for you, Anton, for you and your friends here..."
Her eyes slowly went past each person on the grass.
"But it is quite a big deal for the gnomes, you know... They usually have their houses under the bushes. But these are no longer here. They have no place to live now the bushes are no longer here. Just so you and your miscreants can sit here once or twice a week with your fucking poems and what not?"
The wand was by now leaving a serious imprint on Anton's cheek.
The large man attached to the cheek, said: "Hilda- Ehm, Grimhilda. The forest is large enough. There are plenty of shrubs and hedges where the gnomes can live. And when you're talking about Quirrin... I mean, please, he's not the kind that lives under a hedge. We need our space, to let the fine art and poetry live. Only this tiny piece of land..." Sweat was forming small streams that ran down his face.
"Oh, Anton, you're sweating," Hilda said in a caring voice. "So this is all for the arts and for poetry?"
"Yes," Anton nodded, not sure about what pile of dung he was getting himself into. It sounded like Hilda was beginning to see his version of the light.
Sadly for Anton, she didn't. Hilda took her wand away from the sweating face and wiped it off on Anton's nice white shirt. "So the poet by the tree is in love with poetry..."
"Yes, very much!", Anton confirmed, "very much!"
"I see. I think we can come to some kind of arrangement, Anton." Hilda stepped back, not taking her eyes off the man. The other people, including the yellow witch, continued their silent presence.
Hilda calmly pointed to Anton with the wand, calmly mumbling words under her breath.
"What are you doing?", Anton asked, not feeling sure about the situation.
"I am making...", said Hilda, "poetree..." A big grin showed on her face.
Nothing happened for a few seconds. Anton carefully filled his lungs with air.
As usual, it took a while before the English spell took hold. Then the spell and the magic slammed Anton in the chest, threw him against the tree and next there was a flash of green light.
When the light had vanished, which did not take long, so was Anton. His silhouette was clearly outlined in the birch. The outline was, as everyone saw, all that remained of the poet.
Hilda turned to the shocked people. "Anyone care to belong to that poet's society?", she asked. "If so, do stick around. If not, get your asses off this field and never come back again. Except you, young lady," she added for the yellow witch.
"Me? Why can't I go?" The yellow face turned a bit more pale.
"Because you are going to fix this field, as soon as these losers have packed up their junk and left. I want every bush, every shrub, every herb and every heap of birds hit back where it was. And every tree too. Except that one." Hilda pointed with her thumb over her shoulder, to the poetree. "That one stays. Have I made myself clear?" Her voice was of such a tone that it would easily cut through iron.
The yellow witch stared at Hilda's thumb, dumbstruck, and nodded, as her former friends scrambled to their feet and disappeared in the surrounding forest as if... well... Hilda was after them.
After several hours, the young yellow woman was exhausted. She had drained herself while she was converting the field back to its original state. She was whining, complaining that it was too hard and too much, but finally it was all done.
"How do I get home now?", the girl asked, sitting on the rough floor. "My friends all took the carts and horses."
"Friends," Hilda smirked. "But I'll drop you off," Hilda said, summoning her broom. "Come. Get up."
With the girl in front of her, she flew her broom to the part of the village where she hardly ever came. Too decent people for her taste.
"What will my family say when they see me like this?", the young witch asked, rubbing her yellow arms.
"Don't know, kid, I am not your family."
"But when will I look normal again?", another thought made the young woman's heart jump.
"We'll see..."
As the broom came over the square of the village, Hilda kept her prom
ise to the girl. As they hovered over a large cart with hay, she gave the girl a good push, dropping her into the hay. Before the young witch got there, though, she had plenty of time to let out a heart wrenching scream.
"Drop off service, please scream again," the wicked witch said.
As the good citizens of the village ran to the young witch's rescue, Hilda turned the broom and headed back home.
4. The kid
In the evening, the fireplace was burning with green flames just because Hilda felt like that, the wicked witch sat staring at the mirror. Despite the cracks and the lousy imagery, it wasn't half bad, she thought. Every place she wanted to see was accessible. Just a bummer that the sound was missing.
The problems that the yellow witch had had, explaining her colourful appearance to her fellow villagers, had amused Hilda for a while. Hilda had noticed some of the people who had been on the field being near there, but none of them had stepped up to help the girl. She memorised the faces of the cowards. For crappy behaviour like that they deserved a small reminder, and Hilda was just the person to supply that.
Quirrin had been overjoyed with the news that the field was the domain of the gnomes again, and he had hobbled off to 'inform all his brothers immediately'. Hilda still wondered if the giant gnome had actually gotten to talk to anyone of them. Knowing him, he probably had gotten sidetracked again.
And now Hilda was trying to locate the princess who had run off into the woods. Not getting killed by the huntsman had looked like a pretty good thing, but getting hunted down and captured by one of the big wild creatures in the woods wasn't exactly a prospect one would look forward to. At least, a stabbing by the huntsman's knife would have been a quick and merciful end. Wild creatures usually weren't that swift in their killings. Some of them, Hilda knew, liked to play with their food for a while before dinner.