In Pieces, Page 2
Philip Gilliver
The Curious Tale of Hettie, the Possible Witch
Not that long ago…
There was a witch in the village of Scrumply Mangle, who didn’t know she was a witch. She didn’t know she was, until she began unwarily on a trail to what would be her eventual destruction.
It began one blustery autumn morning with a meowing at her front door. She thought nothing of it at first, and then it began to bother her, that there might be something just on the other side of her door that might require help. So, with all the positive will of a thousand Florence Nightingales, she launched herself out of her seat and opened the door and found that she was staring into the sad little eyes of the cutest shiny black cat. Hettie didn’t know this at the time, but this was the first step to Burny Hill, where she would have her bottom set alight to the joy of a gasping crowd.
Regardless of all of this, she kept the cat, as she was sure that it was a stray. There was nothing around its neck to indicate otherwise and she thought it would be something pleasant for her baby daughter, Holly to look at from her cot. She fed it daily and adorned it with a name; Milky. Milky was moulting and shed a lot of hairs on her rug. They stuck as if they had little hooks. No matter how hard she brushed, all that happened was that the bristles fell off her broom and as sure as eggs is breakfast, it was soon time to head off down to the hardware store for a replacement. Hettie returned with such a marvellous broom. It wasn’t often she treated herself to things, but it had such sturdy bristles and a polished birch handle, what more could a girl want? She gave it pride of place by the hearth where apart from being something very useful, it was like ornament.
Soon, the winter came with the most biting winds. At these times she could only ever think of making good, wholesome, stew. Stews are just the thing to have for the cold, and you could keep the pot on the fire and keep throwing things on it. Stews are the gifts that keep on giving. So that’s what she did, she found her pot and threw in pieces of rabbit, vegetables, water, stock and seasoning and watched it bubble away, this was quite soothing, entertaining in a way, especially when you can’t afford a television, and you don’t have a gentleman to escort you to the theatre.
But one day after returning from a shopping excursion, she noticed that something was wrong. The fire underneath the pot had gone out and the cottage was filled with steam and smoke. She looked in the hearth to find the flames had been doused by the contents of the pot because there was a large hole burnt in the bottom of it.
Such frustration, it was, to have lunch fall out of the pot like that, so much work. They say you put a lot of love in a stew.
So Hettie returned to the hardware store where she attained her broom and found there, a sturdy-looking black, iron cauldron. It took her ages to get home, as dragging it along the ground was like pulling a VolksWagon with the brakes on. But she got there after hours. But no sooner that she’d had it in place on the chains, there was a sturdy knock on the door.
‘Hettie Little!’ the cry was painfully familiar, the witch-deviner.
‘Hello?’ Her arms were hanging by her sides like wet ropes and her back had assumed a new shape, but she made it to the door and opened it. Sure enough, there he was, Thomas Hookie. ‘I think you know why I’m here. Or do I need to point it out.’
Hettie scanned the room and then realized. ‘Bugger!’
‘Laws is laws Hettie,’ boomed Hookie. ‘They has to be obeyed.’
Hettie sighed and glanced at her daughter and then at Milky. ‘S’pose that’s so. Can I ask a favour?’
‘You know we can’t Hettie. You are a witch now girl and although you have done such marvellous work for charity and you’re always so keen to help, I’m afraid I am not permitted in my duties to trust you now.’
‘I was just wondering if you could take Hollie and the cat to my brother Leonard at the bookshop.’
‘Very well!’
As they were going through the door Hettie said the thing that had been buzzing on her brain for quite awhile. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in the rest of Britain burning someone for witchcraft has been illegal since the 18th Century?’
‘I know,’ said Thomas Hookie, ‘but the message hasn’t got to us yet.’ Before they left, she approached her daughter’s cot where she lay gazing at the rafters and giggling. ‘Whatever you do,’ she said, ‘always keep your magic in your head,’ and she kissed her forehead.
Hettie Little was taken to Burny Hill and a fire was put under her. But soon as the flames started licking her legs, she vanished as if she was never there.
Not that long ago…
There was a witch in the village of Scrumply Mangle, who didn’t know she was a witch. She didn’t know she was, until she began unwarily on a trail to what would be her eventual destruction.
It began one blustery autumn morning with a meowing at her front door. She thought nothing of it at first, and then it began to bother her, that there might be something just on the other side of her door that might require help. So, with all the positive will of a thousand Florence Nightingales, she launched herself out of her seat and opened the door and found that she was staring into the sad little eyes of the cutest shiny black cat. Hettie didn’t know this at the time, but this was the first step to Burny Hill, where she would have her bottom set alight to the joy of a gasping crowd.
Regardless of all of this, she kept the cat, as she was sure that it was a stray. There was nothing around its neck to indicate otherwise and she thought it would be something pleasant for her baby daughter, Holly to look at from her cot. She fed it daily and adorned it with a name; Milky. Milky was moulting and shed a lot of hairs on her rug. They stuck as if they had little hooks. No matter how hard she brushed, all that happened was that the bristles fell off her broom and as sure as eggs is breakfast, it was soon time to head off down to the hardware store for a replacement. Hettie returned with such a marvellous broom. It wasn’t often she treated herself to things, but it had such sturdy bristles and a polished birch handle, what more could a girl want? She gave it pride of place by the hearth where apart from being something very useful, it was like ornament.
Soon, the winter came with the most biting winds. At these times she could only ever think of making good, wholesome, stew. Stews are just the thing to have for the cold, and you could keep the pot on the fire and keep throwing things on it. Stews are the gifts that keep on giving. So that’s what she did, she found her pot and threw in pieces of rabbit, vegetables, water, stock and seasoning and watched it bubble away, this was quite soothing, entertaining in a way, especially when you can’t afford a television, and you don’t have a gentleman to escort you to the theatre.
But one day after returning from a shopping excursion, she noticed that something was wrong. The fire underneath the pot had gone out and the cottage was filled with steam and smoke. She looked in the hearth to find the flames had been doused by the contents of the pot because there was a large hole burnt in the bottom of it.
Such frustration, it was, to have lunch fall out of the pot like that, so much work. They say you put a lot of love in a stew.
So Hettie returned to the hardware store where she attained her broom and found there, a sturdy-looking black, iron cauldron. It took her ages to get home, as dragging it along the ground was like pulling a VolksWagon with the brakes on. But she got there after hours. But no sooner that she’d had it in place on the chains, there was a sturdy knock on the door.
‘Hettie Little!’ the cry was painfully familiar, the witch-deviner.
‘Hello?’ Her arms were hanging by her sides like wet ropes and her back had assumed a new shape, but she made it to the door and opened it. Sure enough, there he was, Thomas Hookie. ‘I think you know why I’m here. Or do I need to point it out.’
Hettie scanned the room and then realized. ‘Bugger!’
‘Laws is laws Hettie,’ boomed Hookie. ‘They has to be obeyed.’
Hettie sighed and glanced at her daughter and then at Milky. ‘S’pose that’s so. Can I ask a favour?’
‘You know we can’t Hettie. You are a witch now girl and although you have done such marvellous work for charity and you’re always so keen to help, I’m afraid I am not permitted in my duties to trust you now.’
‘I was just wondering if you could take Hollie and the cat to my brother Leonard at the bookshop.’
‘Very well!’
As they were going through the door Hettie said the thing that had been buzzing on her brain for quite awhile. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in the rest of Britain burning someone for witchcraft has been illegal since the 18th Century?’
‘I know,’ said Thomas Hookie, ‘but the message hasn’t got to us yet.’ Before they left, she approached her daughter’s cot where she lay gazing at the rafters and giggling. ‘Whatever you do,’ she said, ‘always keep your magic in your head,’ and she kissed her forehead.
Hettie Little was taken to Burny Hill and a fire was put under her. But soon as the flames started licking her legs, she vanished as if she was never there.
