MEDICINE or POISON

by ELLA ARROW

Thewisewomanknowswhenshe'scalledawitch.

Theycalledmymother“acunningwoman,”gladlybuyingherelixirsandsimplesonmarketday. But the village has changed since I took her place. Now more whisperers than customers pass my cart.A womanwholivesalonehasbecomeaspecimenstrangeandnotalwaysgood.

Simple people see what they want, the best or worst they can imagine. Salt is essential to the life ofamanbutkillsthepoorslugthateatsthesamecabbages.Poisonormedicine.Witchorwisdom.

Perhapsappletartswithelderberryandfeverfewwillsellasaremedyforthechills.Slipmedicine inwiththemead.

I lean deep into my bread oven and ash catches in the back of my throat, clings like a bat to the sorefoldsthere.IholdmybreathuntilthetartsareoutandIcanfinallycough.

The windowsill is already brimming with market day pastries, but as I set down the tarts, I noticedagapinmypileofscones."Nibble,nibble,littlemouse.Who'sbeennibblingatmyhouse?"

"Nevermind.Itisthewind."

I'm so shocked at the tiny voice that answers, I have to gather my wits along with my shawl over myheadbeforerushingoutthedoor.

Twochildrenstandoutsidemywindow,mouthsagape,cheekshollow,twigsintheirhair.

I'm not used to visitors, much less youngsters. The best thing about living alone in the woods is solitude.It’salsotheworstthing.

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;Icreaklikeacrow.

"Youmustbeawitch,"hewhispers,"tohavesuchamagicalhouse."

Medicineorpoison,witchorwisdom.

"Comeinside,"Isay."Eatandrest,whateversweetsyouwant."

Theysidlepastme,tooexhaustedtoargue,eyeswideandglassy.

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'scheekandsay,"Suchsweetfaces.Icouldeatyouup."

In the dark of night, a crash awakens me from my chair. The boy’s out of bed and has stumbled overthegardentools.Hewrestlesarake,rainingdowncrumblesoffragrantsageandhenbanefromtheir perchintherafters.

I cry out and grab him. He raves and shouts, slapping me. His eyes are still unfocused, seeing nightmares or gingerbread houses. I wrap him in a bear hug and drag him toward the back of the house wherethechickencoopopensbyalittlegrate.

“Wolves will devour us!” he shouts. “In the woods, wolves and witches will devour us.” He looks straight through me, naming me as wicked. I shove him in with the chickens and slam the grate shut.Callandscreamashemight,Idonotlethimout.

I search my books for what fruit of the forest could give them visions of sugar plums and baby-boiling witches. Finally, near dawn, I find the concoction. Purge and purify, thyme and burdock. Thenrestore:redclover,prunella,lady’smantle.

I know the girl heard the ruckus last night. She only comes out for porridge, hunger overwhelming fear. I get her to tell me through tears how they heard their stepmother’s plan to abandon them in the woods. No wonder they’re mistrustful. On the second day starving, they ate white berries that looked like dolls’eyes. They stumbled onto my little house, mistaking sweet smells and a window bakeryforacandycottageconjuredfromastarvingchild’sdreams.

They purge. I clean. If this is what having children entails, I'm glad my mothering is temporary. Mymagiccanhealthebodyandsalvethespirit,butitdoesn’tmendtheirtinybrokenhearts.Marketday comes and goes. They've eaten my stores anyway. I try to think what to do with them; they clearly cannot go home. I try to put meat back on their bones, but my throat has gotten worse, my eyes are red andrunny.Idon’tspeakmuch,butwhenIdo,mytemperisasbrittleasadriedstalk.

The girl weeps on the little pallet I've made for her bed.The boy screams whenever I come near. I fear for my safety if I let him out. It doesn't matter that the visions have passed, the toxins purged.The poisonideashaveleftascar.

I've decided I'll take them to the village. Someone there will help, take them in, someone who isn’t me. I haven’t told them, because I plan to give them a sleeping tea and put them on the cart. That wayissafest,sotheydon’trunawayandgetlostinthewoodsagain.

While I still have the extra hands, I ask the girl to help me clean my oven. I show her the brush and how to lean far in. I promise her a cookie if she helps me, but she knows I've got a secret. These children have no trust left to give. She pushes me with tiny might and mountainous fury. My head thumpstheovenandIrollbehindthedoor,moaning,outofsight.

Sheopensherbrother'scageandcries,“We'refree!Theoldwitchisdead!”

“I’mnotold,”Imumble,holdingmyhead.“I’m37.”

Knowledge is a knife that cuts both ways. People see what they want. You can’t feed them medicineiftheybelieveit’spoison.