Let Me Tell You the Story

It has always been so easy for people to forsake witches as wicked.

In every fairy tale, we are cast as the villains, and hunted for the hero’s noble cause. They call us monsters and demons, accuse us of making deals with devils when all we have done is possess a set of skills they lack. But in the dark of night, they come running to us, to knock on our doors and beg for help with their terrible, secret shame.

And what choice do we have? We always let them in.

A long time ago, I wearied of their demands and hypocrisy. I helped them, of course, but I no longer felt like a healer. There is no joy is there in helping those who would spit at your very feet. All day the only people I encountered were the entitled and repulsed, the jealous and vengeful. It would be enough to drive anyone to despair. But that, my daughter, was when I met your father.

He came to me in a storm, his dark hair so drenched it was pasted to his face.

“I – need – sanctuary,” he spoke through gasping breaths I could scarcely hear over the gale, “Hunting – attacked me!”

He collapsed shortly after on my front porch. I examined him – I did not wish to, but a witch’s skills are there to be used. So, I carried him inside, although he was heavy and his wolfskin coat soaked with rain and blood. I laid him down on my worktable, and quickly discovered the cause of his injuries. A bite mark from some malignant beast had almost cleaved his torso in two, the blood splattering…but perhaps this is not the part of the story you wish to hear. 

I could not understand what possessed this fool to hunt in such weather, but I bandaged his injuries regardless, using potions and poultices my mother taught me. Yes, I will teach them to you. But wait until you are older.

He slept for days, like a princess under a spell, and I watched over him. He seemed so peaceful in sleep, his face serene, devoid of the embittered glares and frowns of the villagers who usually came to see me. I applied treatments to his wounds and sang to him – silly little songs, but they seemed somehow to relax him. I knew it would not last. When he came to, he would be just as cruel and vindictive as the rest. 

I still remember the day he awoke. It startled me, silly though that may sound. But I had not expected him to wake so soon. Even with the skilful care of a witch, some men fail to survive such brutal wounds. In my fright, I dropped a potion I had just decanted, and together we watched as the bottle loudly smashed on the floor.

“I suppose it is you I may thank for my survival?”

Thankfully, I managed to pull myself together long enough to nod before he spoke again.

“In that case, I am in your debt.”

He kissed my hand, and I remember thinking even then that it seemed such an absurd gesture. I was no courtly lady, and he was certainly no knight! Yet I found myself charmed all the same. I remember feeling his gaze on me as I bent to clean up the potion I had spilt, and each time I entered his room after that. I remember how he never wrinkled his nose at the medication’s acrid scent, as so many other patients had. I remember how, when I came in to replace his bandages, his fingers brushed mine. 

Once he was well enough to walk again, he seemed… unwilling to leave. He followed me around, collecting wood for the fireplace; asking about my craft, as though he truly cared. Each day I found myself growing more and more intrigued by this unusual man. Suspicious at first – but I do not fault myself for that. The world can be a scary place, little one; it does you well to be cautious. But somehow, for all his strangeness, and the danger he might have posed, I began to relax – his blade was only to cut firewood, his clever mind simply to capture his next meal. Despite all my misgivings, I trusted him.

One day, while I was preparing a stew and he stoked the fire, he turned to me – and I shall never forget what he said:

“I fear you have enchanted me, fair witch, for I find myself in love with you.”

Child, do not roll your eyes at me! I may be an old crone now, but I was young and beautiful once, and though I had never felt such feelings before, I knew I had the same love for your father that he had for me. 

I told him how I felt, but I had been alone for a long time, and words did not come as smoothly to me as they did him. Yet still, he accepted me. We stayed in that house for a time, just the two of us. He would find us food, and occasionally journey to buy me presents from the village, where I had never been safe to go. 

I continued my work, as I always had, except now I had someone to assist me. My potions were always organised on their shelves, and it was no longer up to my enchantments to keep the house dry during the winter rains – your father would have fixed the roof before I had even awoken. 

And eventually, you were born. And your father may have taught me to love, but you taught me how to keep it burning. I had never dreamt of having a child, but you were a blessing. A terrifying, beautiful blessing. Your father loved you instantly – from the moment you were born, you were his world. He always knew just what to say to make you smile. I still remember the moment you said your first word – dada, you said, smiling and clapping your hands. That was the only time I ever saw him cry. He bought you presents too– do you remember that book I used to read to you when you were small? Yes, that one. With the leather cover. That was from your father. 

The insults people threw my way began to mean less and less. After all, I had no need to face the villagers when your father could do so in my stead. Why would I need to leave the house when inside it was a family who loved me so deeply?

But then your father went away. To hunt, as he often did. When he did not return, I grew anxious, but you were so small, so frail. I could not leave you to search for him, and I dared not take you with me. 

Some days later, a package arrived. When I heard the knock at the door, I assumed it was a villager or traveller, seeking aid for some malady. I hoped it was your father, though he would have had no need to knock. But when I opened the door, there was no one there. I looked down and saw nothing but his wolfskin coat, bloodied and covered in dirt. I knew at once what had happened. It was a fate I had always feared for myself, but had never occurred to me as a danger to my lover. They had attacked him, killed him as though he were nothing more than a beast. All because he had fallen in love with a witch.

We had to run, my darling. That house was not safe anymore. I do not think I could have stayed there regardless, not with all those memories lingering in the corners like cobwebs no magic could brush away. He meant so much to me; I did not want to go back to the life I had before him. But there was no time for my grief. I still had you, little one, and I knew that above all else I had to keep you safe, from anyone who may hurt you. Now, now, don’t cry. I did warn you it was a sad story. Perhaps it is time I read you something else. Let me tell you the story about a handsome prince…