When they found the witch she was sitting in the courtyard at the very center of Enchanted Hollow Retirement Community. Her back was hunched; her eyes downcast. The hair on her head was a bird’s nest of spun silver. The open space was tranquil except for the occasional hushed whisper of the caretakers as they spoke to the patients and the clatter of the needles as the witch knitted a blanket of yellow in front of her. Next to her was a small table with a picture on it.
Bethel stepped backwards until she felt the press of her mother’s hand on her back.
“She won’t bite,” her mother, the Queen, whispered. Bethel wasn’t worried about being bitten. She was worried about being turned into a frog. That was what witches did after all. The hand on her back was firm however, and with a gentle push she found herself, clutching a book to her tiny breast like a shield, trudging forward and into the realm of the witch.
When she was close enough to be seen, for the witch had failing eye sight, but not close enough to be grabbed by her gnarled hands, she stopped. The witch remained focused on her work.
“Hello, witch,” Bethel said, sounding smaller than she had hoped she would. She glanced back at her mother who nodded towards a bale of hay across from the woman’s wheelchair, one of several in the courtyard in preparation for the autumn festival. Bethel rolled her eyes even though her heart was racing in her chest, and she climbed onto the makeshift bench. The hay was rough against the bottom of her dress, poking her and scratching at the backs of her legs.
“My mother says I have to read you stories. She says it will help break the curse on you.” Bethel opened the book in her lap. The cover dangled over each of her legs like an oversized roof. She glanced up cautiously at the ancient woman sitting across from her before returning to the table of contents. The needles clicked continuously.
The young princess scanned through the collection of stories filled with tales of knights and dragons before closing the book.
“You don’t care much for these types of stories, do you?” Bethel asked. She waited for the witch to say something mean-spirited, something her mother always complained about. The woman said nothing.
“Once upon a time there was a nasty, scary witch who lived in a castle of needles.” She started the story softly, partially for effect and partially so the Queen wouldn’t hear her. She wasn’t supposed to say wicked things, even if the witch said them back. “Ugly words make an ugly woman,” the Queen would often chide. The bale of hay was firm under her, and she straightened up so she wouldn’t end up hunched over like the old crone.
There was a small picture on the table next to the old witch, and Bethel glanced at it. In it was a beautiful young woman, dressed in an elegant white gown, next to a young man in a fine black suit. She couldn’t have possibly been that woman at one point, but it made for a good story.
“She didn’t always used to be so scary though. In fact, she was once the prettiest woman in the land,” continued Bethel. “She was so beautiful, in fact, that a sorceress soon became jealous of her.”
It was then that the witch finally spoke.
“Did you finish your chores Melissa?” Her voice was grating and thin, like a nail being dragged over wood. Bethel looked back at her mother, for the witch had spoken the Queen’s name, but she was talking with a healer and looking the other way.
When she turned, the witch was looking directly at her, even though she had called her by her mother’s name. Bethel remembered that her mother often talked about how the witch sometimes got confused, or saw things that weren’t there.
“The witch’s mind had been poisoned by the sorceress, and that’s why she lived in the castle of needles, to protect herself.”
There was silence between the two of them. From across the courtyard there rose a swell of laughter and Bethel turned to see a few other patients, three old goblins, all sitting around a board and slapping each other on the back. Bethel turned back to the frail woman. She sat alone in her wheelchair, trembling like a newborn deer, clattering away at the tangle of yarn in her lap, and Bethel, even though she was only ten, had the feeling that this was how she spent her days.
“And she didn’t always used to be mean,” the young princess said, “but she couldn’t remember things, so she was scared. And she was very lonely.”
She sat there, small, swinging her legs that couldn’t quite touch the floor over the side of the hay bale. And even though it hadn’t changed, the hay wasn’t as prickly as it had been. In fact, it was quite soft and comfortable. The book of fairytales lay forgotten on the tops of her legs. She was aware then that the courtyard had gone eerily quiet and, when she looked up, she saw that the old woman was looking at her. She had put her needles down.
“Until one day, when a princess came to free her,” Bethel continued. “She brought her stories, because stories could cure her of the curse.”
She continued, telling tales of her own childhood, her school, her friends, and their adventures. The old woman watched her, attentive to every word she said. It wasn’t until Bethel felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder that she came out of her story.
“And they lived happily ever after?” the Queen spoke, ready to finish her daughter’s tale.
“No,” the young princess said, watching the witch with a twinkle in her eye. “Not yet.”
Genre: Fairy Tale
Location: Retirement Home
Object: Bale of Hay
The Word and The Song 