Flash Fiction Contest
Grand prize winner
MEDICINE or POISON
T
by ELLA ARROW
he wise woman knows when she's called a witch. They called my mother “a cunning woman,” gladly buying her elixirs and simples on market day. But the village has changed since I took her place. Now more whisperers than customers pass my cart. A woman who lives alone has become a specimen strange and not always good. Simple people see what they want, the best or worst they can imagine. Salt is essential to the life of a man but kills the poor slug that eats the same cabbages. Poison or medicine. Witch or wisdom. Perhaps apple tarts with elderberry and feverfew will sell as a remedy for the chills. Slip medicine in with the mead. I lean deep into my bread oven and ash catches in the back of my throat, clings like a bat to the sore folds there. I hold my breath until the tarts are out and I can finally cough. The windowsill is already brimming with market day pastries, but as I set down the tarts, I noticed a gap in my pile of scones. "Nibble, nibble, little mouse. Who's been nibbling at my house?" "Never mind. It is the wind." I'm so shocked at the tiny voice that answers, I have to gather my wits along with my shawl over my head before rushing out the door. Two children stand outside my window, mouths agape, cheeks hollow, twigs in their hair. I'm not used to visitors, much less youngsters. The best thing about living alone in the woods is solitude. It’s also the worst thing. The little girl steps back as if I were the one who frightened her. The boy's fist clutches a green sponge. Are they so starved they would eat gutter growth? "What is that? Don't eat that!" My throat is dry; I creak like a crow. "You must be a witch," he whispers, "to have such a magical house." Medicine or poison, witch or wisdom. "Come inside," I say. "Eat and rest, whatever sweets you want." They sidle past me, too exhausted to argue, eyes wide and glassy. They fall on my food like wild things. I imagine them biting my fingers as I deliver extra pumpkin muffins. I’ve only one bed but I tuck them in, mother's quilt up to their chins. They seem nervous, thin arms around each other. Unsure how to talk to children, to help them feel safe, I stroke the girl's cheek and say, "Such sweet faces. I could eat you up." In the dark of night, a crash awakens me from my chair. The boy’s out of bed and has stumbled over the garden tools. He wrestles a rake, raining down crumbles of fragrant sage and henbane from their perch in the rafters.
15
