Tales of the Witch

A MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM BOOK

The Witch and the Fishmonger’s Wife

The Witch and the Curse on Black Dan Harrington

The Witch and the Rock Star

The Witch and the Vampire

The Witch and Upright Maxwell

The Witch and Uncle Harry

The Witch and the Painter of Nudes

“Y
OU SEEM TO BE
the only person I ever run into at this infant hour, Mrs. Elias,” Mrs. Risk murmured, not disguising the sharp edge of her opinion of that fact. “Except your husband, of course.” She examined the young woman standing two stories above her through eyes that only appeared sleepy and slowly added, “And the milkman.”

The draperies of Mrs. Risk’s garments lifted in a sudden breeze. Her dark figure appeared doom-laden on the pale boardwalk already shimmering with heat.

The woman up on the flat roof of her house looked sourly down upon her fellow villager. The same breeze that had disturbed Mrs. Risk’s clothing was the breeze the young woman had come to her roof seeking this morning, hoping to catch it for a few blissful minutes before descending into the heat and work of the day. The wind stroked one strap of her tattered nightgown from her shoulder, and she left it hanging. With a raw hand, she pushed back from her face a mass of black hair marred with dull patches. As soon as she took her hand away the heavy hair fell back to where it had formerly hung. It was as if all the world held contempt for this woman this morning, including her own hair.

She perched her hands on her hips and arched her ripe body up towards the sun as if her back ached, as well it might. The milkman had just dashed from her back door seconds before the witch had arrived.

“Well, Ike has to get up early, no help for that,” she merely said. Her expression was a dam behind which lurked many other things she preferred to say and the witch knew it.

Mrs. Elias’ husband was one of the village’s hardest workers, daily leaving his house before dawn to bargain with the fishermen for their catch as their boats first touched shore.

The sun moved higher, and the witch turned to keep from squinting, positioning herself for a clearer view of the woman on top of the house. Her mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile. “More credit to you for getting up with him, my dear. A devoted wife…”

“He likes a hot breakfast,” she said dismissively. She turned her head towards the open sea and lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The young woman sighed when she glanced down again and found the witch still there.

“Your roses, they’re doing well,” the witch said.

“Well, thanks to your gardening advice,” said the younger woman. She stirred restlessly in the growing heat.

The older woman’s shoulder could be seen to shrug beneath the several folds of black gauze she liked to wear in public, however hot the day. Nobody knew if the material made up a robe, a dress, or was merely several yards of stuff wound around her tall, gaunt body. Nobody had the nerve to ask.

“You didn’t need it. You seem to have acquired a touch for growing things. Your garden thrives, even now when everyone else abandons all effort in this heat. And I see you’ve added some things. Henbane? How enterprising. Did you know the hellebores you have there were used in old times to counteract witchcraft?”

The witch gave Mrs. Elias a slow smile before resuming her inventory. “And lily-of-the-valley, I see…Monkshood and the Christmas Rose…you’re attempting something not quite the usual. You’ll give these lazy cottagers something to strive for.” She eyed the younger woman with an interest that disconcerted Mrs. Elias.

“I put some foxglove for height against that wall, where the roses had been before you advised me to move them more into the sun.” Mrs. Elias wafted a lethargic hand at the narrow garden below. “I couldn’t do those herbs and things you suggested, though. You know, to attract ladybugs to eat the aphids and the other pests? My husband complained that doing it that way was too time consuming. So I have to kill the bugs with the canned stuff.”

The witch sighed, for she loved the natural ways of doing things. “That’s a shame. But it’s understandable.”

The fishmonger’s house was a two story box, with the living quarters arranged above the fishmarket, which took up all of the first story of the building. The garden made a bright barrier between the market and the boardwalk built above the burning sand. No tall trees shaded the miniature rooms on the top floor, and so they were uninhabitable during the day. Only the market at street level had an air conditioner and fans and wide shaded windows. It was as if the fish had to be comfortable, but the people had been given no consideration.

“Yes, roses grow bored with too much tender handling. They become lazy and begin to lose interest in blooming.” Mrs. Risk watched the heavy blossoms thoughtfully. “When they have to struggle a bit, it’s good for their character…as you see.” She considered the young woman, who didn’t look like her own struggles had benefited her in any way.

“I just…early mornings don’t agree with me, I guess,” Mrs. Elias said, as if reading Mrs. Risk’s mind.

“No. You’re lovely. No wonder your husband keeps you so tenderly beside him all day in his fishmarket. And how is Ike? His blood pressure behaving itself?”

“The heat is hard on him. I watch carefully to make sure he takes every drop of his medicine. He doesn’t like to take it, you know.” She made a wry face that only emphasized how delicate and pure her features actually were. “You know how men can get dumb about not doing what they’re supposed to. Like it’s an insult to their manhood to take care of themselves.” She made a wifely click with her tongue.

The witch reached down and stroked the head of her cat which had suddenly thrust open the lid of the basket on her mistress’s arm. She was accustomed to ride within, swaying breezily along the boardwalk and peering through the holes in the wicker sides. She yowled in complaint at the long pause in the morning’s entertainment, then huffily withdrew.

“Jezebel adores your husband. They share lunch every day in your shop. He gives her lovely pieces of salmon and bluefish, sometimes shark.” The witch chuckled softly down at her pet. “She would be devastated if anything happened to your husband…if, say, he would carelessly forget his medicine or some such,” she glanced piercingly at the strange garden, then up at the watching wife. She lifted a bony shoulder in a shrug, then turned to resume her walk. The younger woman’s body sagged in relief and she began to reenter her house. Suddenly the witch stopped and swerved around on her heel.

“Mrs. Elias.” Without raising her voice, the element of command was so strong that Mrs. Elias heard her clearly and hastened to pay attention.

“Yes?”

“Does your husband like yogurt?”

“What—why—”

“I noticed you two seem to consume a great many dairy products for a childless couple,” Mrs. Risk said, dryly.

Mrs. Elias stiffened.

“I feel impelled to repay in a small way the generosity you and your husband display toward my pet. Jezebel has become quite pampered with his attentions and I adore my Jezebel.” She touched the small basket hanging from her lean arm briefly, but the object of her affection remained hidden and silent. “A yogurt pie, perhaps. A sweet dessert, but still healthy. Good for Ike and good for his waistline, too. I’ve noticed it isn’t getting any smaller,” she said in a dry tone. “Yes, or—.” She laid a finger to her lips. “I shall think on it.”

“No, please, don’t both—”

But it was too late. The witch had continued her poised stroll down the exact center of the boardwalk and was now gone. After a puzzled moment, Mrs. Elias turned away and faded back inside like the shadows before the morning sun.

Later that same day, the witch appeared again before Mrs. Elias, this time in the shop, late in the morning, when business was hectic. Mr. Elias sold not only fresh fish, but also deli salads and cooked fish dishes to the locals and the tourist trade. A huge cooler inside the door kept bottled and canned drinks icy. Ike’s Fishmarket was a popular place around noon.

The bustle in the small market became dampened somewhat by Mrs. Risk’s appearance. After she slipped inside the door of the refreshingly cool room, she stood watching for a while, a pleasant smile on her face. After the first nervous moments, however, people resumed shouting their orders to Ike and reaching across each other to grab napkins and other items.

Mrs. Elias appeared wan and tired, but that was to be expected with the hours she kept. Often she would disappear into the back of the market to reappear soon after with new salads to replenish the depleted bowls in the display case, or new buckets of ice. The customers soon learned to ignore the witch, merely nodding politely as they moved about or went out. Jezebel patrolled the floor in front of the fish cases, yowling with relish at the delicious odors, anticipating her treat at Ike’s hands when the crowds slackened.

As two o’clock approached, Ike gave a great sigh, wiped his ham sized fists on a clean paper towel and brought out a large covered plastic container from the cooler behind him. This he handed to his wife, who appeared not to want it, but he insisted, kissing her on the forehead. “Yes, you’re getting too thin. You waste away before my eyes and I want you healthy and strong.” He patted her behind to hasten her away to the back room of the market. With a sigh she yielded and as she went he added, “To please your Ike, okay, Sweetheart? Just for me, eat it all.”

Wiping his hands again, he turned, beaming, to confront Jezebel. Lifting three small silvery fish from the ice, he laid them on a china plate with a flourish possibly inspired by the witch’s close scrutiny. “Sweet and fresh, just for you,” he remarked. Jezebel greedily pounced, then began nipping at the fish with finesse. Glancing at Mrs. Risk, Ike grinned. “She loves me only for my fish. If I stopped giving them to her, she’d never visit again and would break my heart without a second thought.”

The witch began a leisurely approach to the counter. “That was very touching, just now.”

“What, feeding the cat?”

“Feeding your wife. What was it? Is she ill and is it medicine?”

The fishmonger waved away such suggestions. “No, no. She’s just so pale these days, with the heat. I fix her lunch every day, just like she fixes my breakfast. It’s only fish and pasta, with chopped potatoes, peppers, and vegetables. Things that’re good for her. She’s not as strong as me, and it’s a lot of work, running this business every day, even with help. I take care of my wife.”

“She’s always seemed quite robust to me.”

“It’s just the heat, just the heat.” Ike pulled his apron from around his immense middle, and with the clean side of it wiped his face, which was red from exertion and sweaty despite the extreme coolness of the air in the shop. “Affects me, too. I try to keep her from working so hard, but she won’t listen.”

“I noticed how she tries to wait on customers, but you won’t let her…”

Ike shrugged. “The men’re rude, half of ’em. I won’t have them talking to my wife that way.”