“Just stick it in and stir.” Mad Martha nudged me. Her wild black curls fanned and fumed and spilled onto my arm.
“Don’t be shy, just do it!” She insisted.
“Oh for God’s sake, give me the spoon.” Mad Martha grabbed the wooden spoon carved by her great-grandmother from the branch of a hazelnut tree.
Mad Martha was ordering me to do something I had initiated and there was no backing out. I was not sure why I was hesitant to commence the recipe that would destroy the man and his empire. He was a threat to my family and our community. Chills ran up and down my spine as I relented and lifted the rough-hewn wooden spoon above the boiling liquid. Potions and magic and vengeful witches—for Martha was the last of her witchy line. The person we were casting a spell on had damaged us both. I stirred and stirred, afraid the opalescent goo would splurt and burn me in revenge for the ancient powers that would bring down an entire tyrannical dynasty.
Did I really hate the person I was casting a spell on that much? Hunting down this witch in the wild, mossy woods that could cast a curse on the one I despised. Was it worth it? Three days scrambling over jagged rocks upward to a pencil thin peak wearing a cottony halo of mist blurring the top. “Her cave is up there” was all the herbalist in the open-air market said pointing to the faraway peak. She shuddered and said, “If you really need a spell that works and saves those you love, Mad Martha is the only one powerful enough to fulfill your wish. And she is mad! Bonkers! And you must be a touch mad too! No one, no, one, has done that dangerous journey to the top for decades to visit her. I don’t even know if she is still alive.”
No one threatens my family. No one. No god, no human, no feudal lord. I packed my rucksack with essentials, turned my face toward the mountain, and then my feet.
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