First Witch's Tale

Father studied me for a long moment. I looked back at him. We made an odd pair. It was easy to see why the old woman muttered darkly about just who, or what, my mother had slept with, nine months before she died giving birth to me. Father was just like the rest of the villagers. He had fiery red hair and pale skin, a short and muscular body, and a practicality that sometimes made him appear cold and uncaring. I was tall and willowy, with dark hair and darker slanted eyes that made me look very different, compared to my siblings and step-siblings. If my mother had lived, Father might have wanted a few words with her about just what she’d been doing before conceiving me. There were plenty of stories of young girls who found themselves courted by the Other Folk - or, more likely, by passing peddlers. It spoke well of Father that he had accepted me as his daughter, right from the start. No one would have blamed him for casting me out to die.

“It’s a long walk to the mountains,” Father said, finally. “Are you sure you want to go?”

I blinked in surprise. I had envisaged a hundred versions of this conversation, but none of my imaginations had suggested it would go this way. Father would have been within his rights to march me back home and lock me up, before selling me off to anyone willing to take me. Or to turn his back on me and tell me to get lost. No one would blame him for that either. The chatterboxes who insisted I was an unnatural child would tell him I deserved little else.

“There’s nowhere else to go,” I said. The magic burned within me like a fire. The idea of trying to quench it was unthinkable. So too was the idea of replacing Hilde, the local hedge witch. I knew the price she had paid for her power, the isolation that came with her role. “I have to go.”

Father said nothing for a long moment. I wished I knew what he was thinking. He had five children and seven stepchildren, all of whom were more inclined to spend the rest of their lives in Bramble Fire or the neighbouring villages. The farm would not die without me. Indeed, my absence might even help. It was unusual for a daughter to inherit her father’s farm, but her husband might stake a claim on the lands. I wondered, not for the first time, if Father had been concerned when I’d started walking out with David. It would have complicated his life, and his children’s inheritance, if David had had a claim to a share of the farm.

“I don’t fit in here,” I said. “And you know it.”

“Yes, but you are still my daughter,” Father said. “Are you aware of the dangers?”

I nodded, curtly. The roads outside the villages were known for being dangerous. The forests were even more inhospitable to passing travellers. We knew little of what was happening beyond our villages, but it was clear there were risks in travelling beyond the known world … particularly for a woman. The peddlers were about the only people who travelled far from home and while their lives seemed wonderful, I knew they were often precarious. It was quite easy, I had been told, for a peddler to discover his trade goods were worthless, or to be robbed by poor or desperate villagers. And very few - if any - peddlers were women. It was young men who fantasised about becoming peddlers, not young girls.

“Yes, Father,” I said.

I wondered, suddenly, how he had known I was planning to leave. I had thought he was fast asleep, along with my stepmother and the rest of their conjoined brood. Where else could I go?

Father met my eyes. “Is this about David?”

I shook my head, not daring to speak. Father had always been good at sniffing out lies. The truth was … I was ashamed of what I had done to him, and yet I was unwilling to give up practising magic. And that meant the villagers would eventually drive me out or kill me if I refused to go. I understood their feelings - everyone knew magic was dangerous, and doubly so if a woman had magic - but if I was going to leave I want to go on my own terms. The idea of living alone in the forest, publicly shunned and privately consulted by everyone, simply didn’t appeal. I wanted to be something more.

“Very well.” Father reached into his pocket and produced a dark leather pouch. “I told myself I would give this to you the day you left, either to marry or … something else. Take it with you, and go with my blessing.”

His lips quirked. “And if you do become a great lady, give us your blessing in return.”

I took the pouch and swallowed, astonished, as I felt the money inside. It was unusual for any of us to have more than a couple of coins, if any, and there was little use for it in the village. We bartered with our neighbours - near or far - trading goods for services or vice versa. I had wanted to take a little money with me, when I left, but I had none. The idea of Father giving me money he didn’t have was just laughable. And yet, he had put a pouch in my hand … where had he even gotten the money?

It wasn’t until much later that I figured out the answer.