“It is rather
unnatural for me to be here right now, but there are not natural times,” the
farmer said with a grim countenance. “I have come to you because I am going to
die.”
The witch leaned
forward, surveying her guest. He was not unlike the other men who regularly
came to her for advice, with simple clothes that were slightly torn and ragged
but still adequate, tanned skin from his outdoor labour, and strong calloused
hands from his work in the field. “And why do you believe that?”
“I have seen omens,”
the farmer replied. “My crops, you see, which I constantly tend to ensure their
prosperity, that were grown on the same field that had grown many plentiful harvests
in the past, have failed without reason. And last week I went down to the paddock
where I keep my cows to find them all lying on the ground, strewn about, as
they would have been standing before their lives were taken so suddenly and
with no discernable cause. My farm is dead. And it is all in preparation for
when I will join it.”
The witch
frowned. “I do not understand. Bouts of misfortune are not unheard of. What
makes you sure that they are precedents for your own death?”
“There is more. Yesterday
I heard someone throwing rocks at my house. However, when I went to look for
the culprit I found that the rocks were coming from the sky, and when I went
out later to inspect the damage. I found that they had turned into water. And
then that night, I went to light a fire, but found that my coal, though
completely dry and ordinary, would not burn. This, all of this, can only leads
to one thing. I will die by water, and it will happen in three days time.”
The witch raised
her eyebrows, her curiosity aroused. “Why three days time?”
The farmer
sighed. “In three days it will be time for me to check the fish traps I set in
the river. The river is currently swollen, almost to the point of bursting its
banks, and in three days time I will go to check my traps, lose my footing,
fall in, and drown.”
“And you wish for
my help?”
“I cannot argue
against what the Fates have decided, but I wish for an explanation. Why is it
that I must die at this time? Can you tell me?”
The witch
hesitated, deep in thought. Finally, she said, “The Fates are mysterious and if
your death has been decided then it does no good to question them, but only if
your death has been decided. There is still a chance for you.” The farmer leaned
closer, listening attentively. “I can prepare something for you, something that
will tell you for certain whether of not your death is inevitable.” She stood
up from the chair. “Wait here. I shall be back soon.”
The witch
disappeared into the backroom of her cottage, returning several minutes later
with a small stone bowl of a strange substance the likes of which the farmer
had never seen before, and a glass phial with a thick clear liquid. She handed
both to the farmer. “Place the bowl on the windowsill of a room that you do not
enter as much as the others. Do it today and do not set your eyes upon the
liquid for three days. And this,” she held up the phial, “you must drink before
you sleep on the third night. In the early hours of the morning before you
believe you will die, one of the Fates will visit you in your dreams. You will
wake straight after. Go to see the bowl, if the liquid is dull, you will die
that day. If it is shining, then you will live. Take it, and see.”
* * *
Three days later
the witch was in the backroom when she heard a knock. She smiled to herself,
knowing who it would be as she went to open the door.
“I did exactly what you said,” the smiling farmer exclaimed, not even giving
himself time to move from the doorway. “I had the dream of the Fate, well, I
did not remember it, but I woke up so I knew I must have had it. And the liquid
was shining! And then today, I was checking the traps when I lost my footing. I
almost fell in, but then I remembered that I would live, and managed to pull
through. I am afraid I cannot stay today, I just wanted to come here to thank
you and to apologise for ever doubting your magic.”
The witch waved
as the farmer walked away, then closed the door with a wistful look.
Magic. That was
just what people called the unknown. She had travelled much in her life, and had
been extremely surprised to have her wisdom mistaken for sorcery upon her return
to her home town. In the distant lands, she had learnt that the same field,
planted on year after year, would naturally loose its prosperity and fail to
support more crops. She had heard of the strange phenomenon of a clear gas
called methane bursting from the ground to mysteriously suffocate any living
thing close by. She had witnessed the rare occurrence of hail, and knew of the
substance called graphite which did not burn but was commonly mistaken for
coal. Her spells and potions were nothing special, just a liquid she had
acquired from far away with the odd property of glowing in the dark, and a drug
which would knock someone out for several hours only to have them wake up as
alert and vigilant as if they had been sleeping.
A sigh escaped
her lips as she made her way to the backroom where she kept her assortment of
exotic substances. There was no reason to doubt her magic. She did not have
magic. Magic is just what you believe.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
