The witch was not always beautiful. Some days she was the young queen; some days she was the old crone. Some days she inhabited a spectral in-between space, and the air smelled like a thunderstorm and her black hair floated up over her shoulders as if she was underwater. She would go wandering up and down the banks of the river on those days, and she would scare people, because they thought she was the river-spirit come to steal their children away.
One afternoon, the writer finally spoke the silent question. The witch looked away, and softly said: “I cursed you in the name of the rock and the ice. It cannot be undone.”
The writer and the witch were happy together. I mean, really happy. He taught her patience, thoughtfulness, and how to make soup from grass, nuts, and river-rocks. She told him more stories—stories far stranger than the ones he’d heard that first night, stories you would never believe, if it wasn’t a witch telling them by the light of the moon, curled up next to you on your thick straw mat.
She made the writer realize he had been much lonelier than he’d been willing to admit, there where the river met the road, just beyond the bridge.
They had a baby.
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THE WRITER’S SON WAS PLAYING with snails on the bank of the river, within sight of the house. The boy was very small, just two years old.
The writer was watching him fondly—that’s what he did most of the time, watched his son fondly—and daydreaming about all the things he could do, all the places he could see. It was all laid out before him, like some magical feast.
There was a dark shape in the water.
At first the writer thought it was a fish, but it didn’t move like a fish. It wove its way through the water like a snake. It was aiming straight for his son.
He called out to him, but the boy didn’t hear. Or couldn’t hear. The air was heavy and damp. Something strange was happening.
The shape was closer now, and it lifted its head up out of the water. A giant, leering serpent’s head, with deep black pits for eyes.
It is important that you know the writer did not stop to think. He did not stop to calculate the number of steps it would take to reach his son.
He simply leapt to his feet and raced along the riverbank. The first steps he’d taken in a century, and each one was a gallop.
Every stride carried the weight of years and fell across his back like a hammer. He left his house a middle-aged man and by the time he reached his son, his beard was white. He placed himself between the boy and the serpent, and the thing struck him. It was huge. With unnatural speed and strength it wrapped itself around his body and it squeezed.
He struggled and pulled at it, and with each stumbling step, another year jolted through him. His joints tightened and his heart pounded in his ears.
He fell to his knees, but he got his hands around the serpent’s neck. It was a shocking sight: the monster’s mouth, yawning wide with rows and rows of jet-black teeth, and below it his shaking hands, white as paper, thin as bones. He leaned and swung with every shred of strength he still possessed, and he bashed its head against the river-rocks, again and again.
The serpent loosened its grip, and died.
The witch was there now, cradling their sobbing son in her arms. She bent low over the writer. He was very, very old.
“My love,” she wailed.
The writer said, softly: “So there was a river-spirit after all. That monster was probably as old as I am.”
“You saved our son,” the witch said. She squeezed his hand. She could barely make words. “My curse…”
“No, no,” he said.
His voice was very faint.
“All blessings.”
# # #
IF YOU PASS THAT SPOT NOW, where the river meets the road, just beyond the bridge, you will see that that the tiny house is still there. The additions have fallen away, and the garden is no more, but the main structure still stands, and so do the strange shelves in the leafy trees that bow in around it. They’re filled with books, which people borrow or steal. Sometimes they leave new ones, too.
In one of those books, you’ll find the story of a boy, the son of a powerful sorceress, who grew up in the court of the New King. He went on to roam the world, hiking the rocky northern reaches and sailing the warm southern sea. He was, variously, an explorer, a pirate, a diplomat, and a poet. He had one of the all-time great lives.
Inside the house there is a statue of a man sitting—yes, it really is a statue now, covered with moss. Its form is lean, and its face carries the rough shape of a beard. Its eyes are closed, and there is a smile playing on its lips.
Pilgrims still come from far away to seek his blessing. He is the keeper of traveler’s tales, patron of the patient, and protector of small children.
And all who pass know they must slow and say hello. Here, no one hurries along the path.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Andrew Fitzgerald and Kiyash Monsef for providing valuable feedback on an early version of this story.
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Robin Sloan, The Writer and the Witch
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