“Far north, away from the mensfolk towns, deep in a forest where the roots, streams and rocks still soak in old magic, there was a shack. Gabled roof, peeling red paint, mossy cobbles at the door, out all the way to an equally mossy stone wall which at some time in distant memory actually surrounded the whole building, but now protected a fashionable fourth of it. Were you to wander deep enough into this forest, while avoiding the bears, boars, and trolls that rummaged about, you would think that some cozy little woman, round, leathery in skin, and sinewy in arm lived there, taking little mind of the world outside and keeping to herself, as eccentric old women are want to do.
To people of the menfolks villages though you would know too well that such a cottage, out so far, dug so deep, rooted so old was doubtless built on chicken legs; enchanted and made of gingerbread held together by pacts with dark powers that made shadows move and struck men dead on moonlit walks. Such a place was a witches house, only they would live so far from man, only in conjunction with such wicked forces as would call the forest home could a person live.
So true, was this little red house, with its triangle roof (sagging some at the middle) a witches house, was a witches house anyway. Past tense is important here, for its current inhabitant was not very much of what one would call a witch. Wiry, perhaps would be the first word to cross your mind at seeing him, and if you didn’t know the word, then no doubt it leapt in there without help. He certainly was lank, raven haired, and despite what day you found him his wardrobe could assuredly be considered ‘ill fitting’ and patchy, save for the two brightly polished shoes on his feet. You’d doubtless comment on them, lovely things they were, easily viewed too, as his pants came to just above the ankle, years too old for him they were.
You’d find him out, hanging his laundry to dry, collecting mushrooms and herbs, tip toing between trees and behind him, always, a small black cat. No, you’d think, no witch, just a lad, living here in the rough of it. Till of course he invited you in, and you saw the skulls, the tinctures, the bones and flies and black crows roosting on the beams, the cauldron, and pointed hat, broom by the door. Warlock then? No, never, warlocks, those aged old men lived in great towers, practiced arts that called on lightning and blizzards, so keen were they on the conquest of men they would form their monstrous armies of skeletal warriors, orc kind, and giants. Caladam loathed the idea, his mother had raised him better than to be a warlock. No, at her death, he promised to follow her, become a witch, a master of potions, spells, moonlit flight and communion with the black forest, and dark denizens who dwelt within it, his was a close bond with the earth, the underworld, and all those who crept in shadow. No, no greed for power he, and though without teacher, without companion, he toiled then, in his little shack, learning book by book, spell by spell, how to fly, how to skry, how to possess mens minds, and change his shape.
So then, now, at this moment, we find him seated in the old rocking chair, beneath the noose of a man hung at the crossroads pouring himself a tonic; which if his estimations are correct will turn him invisible to the eyes of jotun…and if wrong, will temporarily render him invisible to sparrows. The process of testing such potions it can be agreed are somewhat, hazardous.”
annaxmalina
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