"A Witch By Any Other Name"

Once upon a time,there lived a ravishing maid named Clarice. Clarice fancied herself a real aristocrat, having been favoured with milky skin, shimmering black hair and lips the colour of rubies. It is possible that she may have been somewhat proud and disinclined toward a life of labour that her circumstanced demanded.
Clarice might have had all of the accouterments of aristocracy but the painful truth was that she was born the third daughter of a poor cobbler.
Now it would be nice to say that for all her poverty, the radiant beauty that Clarice had was matched by humility and inner loveliness but sadly that was not quite true, for Clarice was filled with self-importance, willfulness and self-centeredness just like a real aristocrat!
One day, when she should have been gathering wood for the fire like her hard-working sisters, Clarice was lollygagging by the stream and day-dreaming of a better life. Perhaps a prince would come by, fall deeply in love with her and take her to his castle to be his queen. Ah yes, a life of luxury and ease. Days filled with wine and roses, to say nothing of chocolate covered caviar!
While she was fantasizing, along came the Magician, Tim fabled in story and song. Tim was just starting out in the magician’s game, having apprenticed until recently with the powerful and deadly Monsieur Nightshade the Malevolent.
Tim was whistling a carefree tune and wondering how he would choose a place to set up his practice.
“Ahoy lackey!” cried out Clarice. “You wouldn’t happen to be a prince would you?”
Tim shrugged and decided to go along with her as a gag. “You may be very sure that I am,” he said, giving her a sweeping bow. “And you, my pretty biscuit, would you happen to be a princess?”
“Oh well, I suppose if you married me I would be,” she riposted cleverly.
“Why should I marry you?” asked Tim, curious to see what the maiden would say.
“You ask me why? Obviously, because I would make an extraordinary queen someday. Did you notice my flawless complexion, my raven tresses and full lips?”
“Oh, but my dear queen-in-waiting. What about a sovereign’s other attributes? Do you have a quick spirit, ready intelligence, compassion and perception?”
“What are those compared to radiant beauty and glowing skin?” asked Clarice haughtily.
“You make a strong case,” said Tim. “I will marry you, but first you must prove yourself to be worthy of my throne.”
“What must I do?” she asked. “Do you not see that I am worthy of your throne? Need I point out my flawless carriage, my alluring dimples and my sparkling teeth?”
“These are very appealing attributes,” said Tim. “But a queen must do more than look queenly, she must also act the part! Thus, you must prove yourself.”
“Oh very well,” sighed Clarice. “What must I do?”
Tim thought for a moment and then something delightful occurred to him: the girl needed a lesson and he needed a job!
“You must prove your intelligence and your creativity!” he announced. “You must dress yourself as an ugly, old woman and your disguise must be so convincing that not even your own mother would recognize you!”
“That doesn’t sound very queenly to me,” complained the maiden.
“Oh, I’m not finished yet,” said the magician. “You must convince the villagers that you are a witch!”
“A witch? But…”
“Don’t interrupt, you must convince the village that you intend to destroy them all.”
“But…”
“You do want to marry me, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do!”
“Then snap to it!”
Clarice snapped to it. She stole rags from the scarecrow in the cornfield, made her nose long and sharp with candlewax and and darkened her teeth with soot from an oil lantern. She ground her fingernails to a ragged edge and pushed her hair under a ragged scarf. When she was done, she had transformed herself into a filthy, horrid-looking hag.
“You must do something about your posture,” complained Tim. “You need to practice walking all stooped over!”
Finally, Tim gave her his seal of approval. “That will do very well. Now take this gnarled stick and go to the village. Tell them that you are Gruzella the Witch and that you have decided to put them all under a spell of suffering and anguish. Then cackle a bit and walk into the forest. If you can fool the village, I will know that I have found my bride.”
Gruzella, the pseudo-witch did as she had been instructed and the village was in a complete state of uproar when Tim strolled onto the scene.
“Good villagers, what troubles you?” he cried.
The village elders surrounded Tim and all began talking at the same time. They explained that a witch had taken it upon herself to curse them and what would they do now?
“You problem is really very easy to solve,” he said grandly. “You need a magician. It so happens that I am rather skilled in the dark arts and for a small consideration, I will submit my not trifling skills on your behalf against this foul witch!”
“You want gold?” asked one of the sharper elders.
“Not at all!” he responded. “I want the witch as a wife!”
“You must be mad!” said the elder. “Why would you want to marry a witch?”
“I am a magician. I need a wife who understands the stresses of supernatural living.”
“But why do you need our permission?” asked the stupefied elder.
“Do we have a deal?” said Tim, ignoring the inconvenient question.
“Yes! Yes!” cried all of the other villagers.
“Right then, I will need some certain magical substances to defuse this crisis,” he announced.
“You shall have whatever you need!” cried the villagers. This thought was most appealing to Tim and he rather let himself go a bit.
“First, I must have roast fowl, served with dumplings and bit of cheese, well aged but not too well aged! (It had been some time since his last good meal.) Also a bottle of red wine, but it doesn’t have to be a Grand Cru.”
“But that’s not magical!” protested the villagers.
“Who’s the magician here?” thundered Tim and all of them raced off to prepare his meal.
Meanwhile, the lovely Clarice was hiding in the forest until she had more instructions from Tim. Being a girl of spirit, she soon chafed at being left alone. She was used to the mooning stares of the village men and the jealous sniffs of their wives. She was not accustomed to being ignored.
“Where is he?” she wondered. “What’s taking him so long?” She was half tempted (perhaps even three-quarters) to just go back to the village without her disguise to see what was up. Once the thought occurred to her, it was well nigh impossible to ignore. Finally, after three minutes of inner debate, she rose, scrubbed off her disguise and stalked to the village. She would give the magician a generous serving of her mind!
When Clarice reached the village, she met her own sister Gertruda racing to fetch some cheese and breadsticks for Tim’s feast.
“What’s going on?” asked Clarice.
“Can’t stop to chat,” puffed then full-figured Gertruda, “Magical business!”
“What magical business?” shouted Clarice, but Gertruda was gone.
She stormed into the town centre to see Tim seated at a table, working his way through a roast duck.
“What’s going on?” she hissed.
“Patience, patience, my little princess,” mumbled Tim, wiping the grease from his moustache.
“I was patient half a day ago, now I’m ticked off,” she growled.
“Have some duck,” he said, noting how she looked pointedly at the carcass.
Just then the village cobbler, Clarice’s father, appeared on the scene.
“Clarice! What are you doing with our magician?”
“Nothing Father,” she said curtseying.
“Well, you best be off to help your mother with the dumplings!” he said. “You should not be disturbing our village’s savior,” and at this he tugged a soiled forelock and dragged her home.
Clarice wanted to shriek at her father and beat him with her fists, but the cobbler had a grip like iron and a short temper besides. Tim just smiled and went back to his duck.
The village gathered together watching Tim as he picked his teeth and belched.
“Don’t you need anything more magical than food?” asked the elder.
“A meal like that was magical!” said Tim grandly. “But yes, I need some specific things: a spool, a thimble, and some scarlet silk thread. Also, I will need a colander, an egg whisk and a white rabbit. It would be very helpful if you had two goose eggs and a cup of dandelion tisane.”
The villagers put their heads together and divided up the list among themselves while Tim sipped a glass of wine. If he played his cards right, it might take the villagers the rest of the day to gather his wish list!
Just then, Clarice hissed at him from a nearby bush. “I want to know your plan!”
“What are you doing in that bush?” asked Tim.
“Hiding, you fool! What do you think I’m doing?”
“Why are you hiding?” wondered Tim.
“Because my father will beat me if he catches me talking to you!”
“Well, never mind all that, you need to get your costume on in case I need to throw another scare into the village.”
“Now, wait a minute!” snarled Clarice. “I think I have fulfilled my half of the bargain. I have proven to you that I am resourceful and intelligent!”
“That you have, my dear,” said Tim in a placating tone. “But another appearance of Witch Gruzella will seal the deal! Off you go!”
Grumbling, she went back to the woods to resume her disguise. (And who could blame her? This was vexatious behavior indeed!) No sooner had she gotten all of her hideous make-up on then Clarice heard a savage voice.
“Ha!” said the savage voice, “Competition!” It was a terrifically unpleasant-looking old woman. Clarice was not the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer, but even she could tell that this old hag was a real witch.
“I am not your competition,” cried Clarice, falling on her knees before the real witch and hoping that she would not be turned into a newt.
“What do ye mean?” growled the real witch. “You’re a witch, ain’t ye?”
“Not at all!” said Clarice, averting her eyes. “I’m just dressed like one!”
“Why does a pretty gel like you want to dress like a Witch. Tis not Carnival, and sure, tis not Venice!” The Witch barked with dry laughter and hawked up a mass of rheumy phlegm.
“I’d better tell you the whole story,” said Clarice.
“Ye’d be wise to,” nodded the Witch.
When Clarice had finished her tale the Witch nodded and chuckled in a mean sort of way. “Yer not terrifically bright, er ye? Well, no mind, my child, I have a plan to will take your friend the prince down a few notches.” The Witch rubbed her knotty hands together cracking her knuckles and cackling, “Ha! That gives me a nasty ideer!”
And so say, the hideous hag transformed herself into the most beautiful maiden that the world would ever see. Her nose would have put Cleopatra’s to shame and as for her comely shape, the Greeks would have ignored Helen of Troy if she was around!
“Why you’re beautiful!” gasped Clarice.
“Ah ‘tis but surface, no?” said the Witch.
“But what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Come and watch!” suggested the Witch.
Clarice hid herself in the bushes and watched the Witch enter the village square. (It would not do for her father to find her out of the house being a busybody.)
Tim rose to his feet with a gasp of amazement. “My lady, you are very welcome here! But, if I may ask, why are you so far from the glorious courts of the Capital, for there in no doubt that you are a princess of a most profound noble house.
But the princess merely smiled. “Are you a worthy man?” she asked the magician.
“Well, I hate to brag, but I am fairly worthy. I am a powerful magician!”
“How thrilling for you!” said the princess in a delightful silvery voice. Tim blushed with pleasure and he had a strong inclination to impress her with his artistry.
“Look to that bird flying over the village green,” said Tim. He raised his left hand and spoke a loud spell. Suddenly the unlucky bird found itself vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Very impressive,” smiled the princess. “But destructive spells are so very simple and not very interesting.”
“Oh, I can construct as well, your majesty,” bowed Tim, a bit perturbed that his exploding bird bit went over so poorly. Tim picked up a smooth white pebble and rubbed it on his forehead while chanting a spell. He set down the rock and it quickly grew to the size of a small cottage.
The princess clapped her hands together and cried for delight. “What a wonderful spell. I do believe that I have found my soulmate!”
“You have?” grinned Tim, not believing his ears. “You want to marry me?”
“If you’ll have me,” simpered the princess.
“I will! Shall we travel to the Court and tell your father now?” asked Tim.
“I cannot wait!” declared the princess. “Let us summon the village priest and commit ourselves this very day!”
In the bushes, Clarice began (very slowly) to realize that her prince was nothing more than a shady magician. Well, he would get his comeuppance, marrying a hideous witch! Serve him right. But meanwhile, what about her? Would she ever find true happiness?
The princess and her magician quickly found the priest who agreed to pronounce the banns that very day.
It was a shocking honeymoon for poor Tim. But in time he learned to appreciate the witch’s magical skills and they became an excellent team. And every so often, for special dates, the Witch would again transform herself into the princess that so captured her husband’s dark heart.

the Story Circle

I am writing a collection of short stories right now. Partly, it is a matter of necessity and partly it is to do something short and bursty. It's necessary because of John and Jill Enns. They invited Diane and I to RV with them in Oliver BC in the middle of writing the Unlikely Accomplice. When I got there, I really wanted to write but I didn't have my manuscript with me. What to do? What to do? I borrowed a laptop and imagined a campfire scene where the beasts of burden could stand around telling stories. It was so much fun and the stories tended to such length that I had to cut them from the book and put them in a book of their own. The story tellers are Goldie and Death, two sensitive mares who speak to the issues of the heart and then, for contrast, I created a black stallion named Hoss. Hoss lives to tell tales of action, violence, gore and the supernatural. If it involves zombies or werewolves, you can bet it's a Hoss-tale.

Here then it the first story from the Circle.

The Story Circle: A Collection of Short Stories with Good Morals Attached (Mostly)


“Who has a story for us?” whinnied Goldie, the strong palomino mare.
“I have one,” said Hoss, the big, black stallion.
“Oh no!” cried Goldie, “Your stories are always so crude and tiresome. I would like to hear something uplifting.”
“How about ‘Giselle and the Fortune teller’?” asked Death, the diminutive white mare.
“The very thing!” said Goldie.
“I don’t think my stories are all that crude…” said Hoss, “You can’t call ‘The Dung Beetle’s Wedding’ crude!”
“I most certainly can and do! Now hush, Hoss, and let Death tell her story.”

Giselle and the Fortune Teller

“Once upon a time, (said Death) there was a fine blood mare named Giselle. She belonged to the most prosperous farmer in all of Lincoln County and she was greatly loved by all of the children for miles around. She bathed in sugar and fine oats. There was nothing but joy in her life and blue skies as far as the eye could see.
Well, they say that nothing good lasts forever and luckily for us, they are quite correct or else we would have a short, boring story.
One day, the Travelers came to town, led by their swashbuckling leader, Carlo. Carlo had flashing eyes and teeth and a general disregard for the niceties of civilized behavior. His motto was “I see it, I like it, I take it.”
He saw Giselle, liked her (and who wouldn’t?) and took her for his own.
Poor Giselle, taken far away from all she loved, hitched to a cart like a common dray animal and forced to eat grass like any village nag. How she cried! Her proud spirit absolutely rebelled at this sort of treatment and she gave Carlo a nip on the shoulder. He laughed and bit her ear in turn. She was shocked. What sort of a man was he?
Carlo was Carlo, proud, confident, and utterly committed to his own pleasures. The only thing that Carlo feared was the loss of his freedom, so he and his people were always on the move, camping here one day and the next day moving on, always moving on.
Giselle felt like she had not a friend in the world and she would cry herself to sleep every night. And then, one day, Carlo came back to the encampment with an old woman.
“She is a fortune-teller!” he announced to all and sundry, “I took her so that she can tell her fortunes for us!”
“I told you,” said the old woman, “I am not a fortune-teller, I am just a somewhat wise old woman!”
“Wise Woman, Fortune-teller…it is all semantics! For us, you will be a fortune-teller for silver!”
“My gifts are not for hire!” she said sternly.
“Your attitude will change over time,” said the evil Carlo, hinting heavily.
“My attitude is as unchanging as the mountains and the heavens,” she insisted.
“If Carlo says to the mountain, move, the mountain moves!” said Carlo with complete assurance.
The old woman was beaten and thrown into a trailer. She wept not a lick and stayed completely composed which irritated Carlo not a little.
“You can stay there all by yourself until you come to your senses!” he thundered.
Giselle went to the old woman’s trailer and softly whinnied at her door.
The old woman opened a window and called to the young mare. Giselle stuck her muzzle in and the old woman caressed her and spoke kindly to her.
“You are a lovely horse, aren’t you?” said the old woman.
“Yes,” said Giselle.
“He has stolen you too, no?”
“Yes, I hate him!” (For Giselle was a horse of spirit.)
“Hate? That is an ugly word. For myself, I dislike his actions.”
“Not me, I hate him. He is a horrible man and I wish he was dead!”
“Oh, my dear foolish young horse. Don’t you see that hating makes you hateful?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become what we offer to others. If you offer love, you become loving and lovely too. If you offer peace, you become peaceful. But if you go out in hate, it scars your spirit and makes you hateful. Do you understand?”
The horse tossed her head and said nothing. The old woman just smiled. She could tell that the mare was thinking it over.
One day, Carlo came to the old woman’s trailer and opened the door. He beckoned to her and out she came.
“Now, you will be our fortune-teller?”
“Oh, I suppose that I could give it a try,” she said serenely.
“Good, good…you are pleasing Carlo today. We will go to the fair and you will tell fortunes. Please put this on.” and so saying, he handed her a dress. She lifted it up and clucked her disapproval. The dress was black with silvery stars, moons and planets on it.
“It’s rather gauche, isn’t it, my good Carlo?” she suggested.
“If by ‘gauche’ you mean convincing and realistic, you are quite correct!” he said grandly. (He was a showman after all.)
“If I must, I must,” she conceded.
“You must.”
“Then you must do something for me.”
“What?” he said guardedly.
“Let me have Giselle to ride to the fair.”
“Why not?”
She went back to her trailer and put on the foolish dress and then off they were to the fair.
Carlo had set up a large blue and red tent emblazoned with the words: “Madame Cleo, Fortune-Teller, Predictor, and Clairvoyant! Reasonable Rates and Satisfaction Guaranteed! She sees all and tells all!!!” She sighed, patted Giselle on the nose and thanked the young mare for carrying her.
The old woman’s first client was a beautiful girl named Carmena Conchita Alonzo Alveres who was all of 17 years old and already fixated on her future bliss. Specifically, she wanted to know when she would marry and to whom and how many children she would bear so that she could do what it took to be happy, happy, happy.
The quasi-fortuneteller took her fine white hands in her, looked deeply into her eyes and told her the following:
“You will be happy only when you stop looking to things outside of your soul to make you happy. Happiness is a spring that leaps up from within, it is not a river that flows to you from without…”
“What kind of a fortune is this,” cried the lovely Carmena, “I want to know if I’ll be married!”
“Do you want to be married?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
“Because that is what makes a woman happy!”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snapped the lovely Carmena.
“Was your mother happy?” asked the old woman.
“She has no complaints…” she said hesitantly.” Was her mother happy? Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she really was.
Carmena left the tent without paying and wandered off, lost in thought. Carlo noticed and his temper flared up.
“She didn’t pay! Why not?”
“I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.”
“Tell the customers what they want to hear!” he counseled, “You’ll never see them again!”
“I’ll try,” said the old woman.
“You’d better!”
Her second client was the town baker, an ugly man named Georges Hubert La Croissette. Georges wanted to know if she could tell him if his mother, the late Katherine was in heaven with the angels or not.
“Was she a good woman?” asked the pseudo-fortuneteller.
“She was faithful to the Church,” asserted the baker.
“Was she loving?”
“She went regularly to all required religious meetings.”
“Was she kind?”
“She was always saying the appropriate prayers.”
“Did she love God?”
“She certainly feared Him.”
“Did she enjoy God?”
“What? Enjoy God? What kind of a question is that?”
“Would you want to go to Heaven if you didn’t enjoy God? Heaven is all about basking in the light and pleasure of God.”
(“What kind of a story is this anyway?” asked Hoss.
“Will you please hush, Hoss.” murmured Goldie.
“But there hasn’t been any action since the beginning. It’s all talk, talk, talk!”
“Let Death continue her story, Hoss. You can tell one of your stories when she’s done!”)
Death continued from where she was so rudely interrupted:
The baker stormed out of the fortune-telling tent leaving no fee behind. Carlo raged at the old woman: “I swear old woman, I believe that you are doing this on purpose. Two unhappy clients and no cash!”
“But I am no fortune-teller, my good Carlo, all I can do is tell the truth.”
“Anybody can tell the truth,” he cried, “it takes genius to tell convincing lies. You are simply not trying to lie.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“If you don’t tell a good fortune for the next person who comes to your tent, I will take the horse away and sell her to the glue factory!”
“That would be foolish,” countered the old woman, “everybody knows that a horse like that could command ten pieces of gold. The factory will only pay you two.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, alright,” sighed the Old Woman, “I’ll try to do it your way!” Giselle gulped with relief, she didn’t know what a glue factory was but it didn’t sound very promising.
Madame Cleo’s third client was a middle aged woman named Alice. Alice was clearly no longer a spring chicken but she went to superhuman efforts to give the impression of youthfulness: her make-up was immaculate, her hair was just-so, and she dressed in the height of fashion (for a much younger woman). She came in clutching a jeweled purse and opened her heart to the old woman.
“Will I die alone?” she asked quietly.
The old woman knew that the approved answer to this question was a resounding “No! Love is just around the corner for you.” But instead, the following words came out of her mouth: “My dear, you aren’t alone; even now you are surrounded on every side by all the hosts of Heaven and God himself.”
“I’m not religious…” said Alice.
“That’s quite alright, neither is heaven’s bright host.”
“I just want an answer to my question: will I ever find true love?”
“Yes you will,” said the Old Woman.
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The old woman hesitated and said, “I don’t know.”
“The sign says that you are a Predictor.”
“I know.”
“Can you see my future?”
“No, but I can see your present.”
“My present? What do you mean?”
“You are in your middle years, but you are clutching a youth which has already left you. You are filled with fear and yearning for something on which you can pin hope. I tell you, Alice, if you can let go of your fear, love will come to you.”
“That is the most interesting fortune I’ve ever heard.” said Alice thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s worth a piece of silver,” and she handed over the fee. “How do I let go of fear?”
(“This story is boring and pointless!” cried Hoss, “You can tell it was written by a mare. Where is the adventure, the pointless violence?”
“Hoss, you can tell your stallion’s tale when she’s finished,” said Goldie calmly.)
The old woman gave Alice a long look and said, “The first step is to admit you’re afraid. Healing comes when we admit we’re sick.”
Alice thanked the old woman and left with a thoughtful look on her lovely face. Carlo noticed the thoughtful look and stomped over to the tent. “You are killing me, old woman! People are supposed to smile when they leave you, happy to believe your lies!”
The old woman said nothing; she simply gave him the silver.
“She paid the fee?” asked the dumbfounded Carlo. “You lied to her?”
“She paid for the truth,” said the old woman.
“A highly novel way to do business…but I can’t argue with results!”
So all day long the old woman told the truth. Some stormed off without paying but many were content to ponder what the old woman said.
At night, the old woman and Giselle rode back to the encampment under the eagle eyes of Carlo.
“We will leave under cover of darkness,” whispered the old woman to her mount. Giselle said nothing but her heart was racing. Where would they go? Would Carlo not try to find them and punish them? She shivered as the words ‘glue factory’ played across her mind.
That night, the old woman, untied Giselle and they were off!
(“Pinch me!” said Hoss, “This almost sounds like action!”
“Be quiet, Hoss, or we won’t let you tell your story!”
“Sorry!”)
They rode throughout the night, finally stopping off at a small inn. The old woman stabled Giselle and collapsed on a feather bed.
Late the next morning, after a good meal, they made for the coast reasoning that Carlo would hardly pursue them overseas. Of course, this just indicated how little they understood the Chief of the Travelers. His rage burned hot and riding his own black stallion, he pursued them wherever their trail took them.
The problem with going on board ship was that the old woman had no more money. She refused to sell the mare to the many who offered but how were they to raise money?
Finally, she decided to offer her services to the inn-keeper as a fortune-teller. She saw the irony in her decision but argued with herself that the end justified the means. Her soul was appalled at this sort of rationalization, but it was overruled by her mind and the pleading eyes of the mare.
She sat at a table at the back of the inn with a colorful scarf around her head and a pot of tea in front of her. She wondered if she would get any business that day. If only she knew!
At that moment, in stormed Carlo breathing fire and demanding beer from the inn-keeper. The old woman hunched down behind her table and covered her face with the scarf.
Carlo drank deeply from several pitchers of foaming black ale and wiped his mouth with his greasy sleeve. In a state of advancing inebriation, he looked over at the fortune-teller’s table and his mind tried to churn out a cunning plan.
He lurched over to the fortune-teller and plunked himself down in front of her.
“I wanna fffortune,” he slurred.
The fortune-teller said nothing, just held out her hand. He dropped a silver coin into her hand, and belched.
“What do ye wish to know?” she asked in a querulous voice striving for an Irish accent.
“I’m lookin’ for an ol’ woman an’ a horshe. Dey gotta be shomewhere!”
“Drink this tea,” ordered the fortuneteller. Carlo drank it down and burned his tongue. The old woman pretended to read the tea leaves.
“Ah…I see it all now…you are a man of authority…”
“Dam’ shraight, I am…”
“You seek a harmless old woman and a horse named…something that starts with a G…”
“You’re amashzing!”
“The leaves say that they have already boarded ship for the islands of the Northern Sea.”
“I’ll geddem!” he bellowed and staggered out of the inn to find a ship captain who could take him there.
The old woman laughed and went out to find her horse. They lived happily ever after!