A BOUNTEOUS BROTH

Who ever heard of slug-slime soup?

Matilda Grimwitch was well named because she was a witch. The day she was dunked in the duck pond proved it because she both sunk to the bottom until she drowned and was declared dead by the Witchfinder (who had earlier been distracted by a truly unpleasant row with his overweight wife), and survived because the very next day she opened her door to Tommy Rascal and clipped him about the ears when he called her a poo-face.

Tommy ran home in tears and when his angry parents hammered on Matilda’s door intent on having it out with her once ad for all, she turned them into toads and told them they’d stay that way until they learned some manners.

“Then we’ll see what she will see,” she cackled, and rubbed her hands together until her finger nails clicked.

Learning manners is an easy thing to do when the alternative is a lifetime hopping around the undergrowth, so they both apologised to her and assured her they would be friends with her for ever and a day. But they both kept their toady fingers crossed when they said it, which meant it wasn’t a genuine promise. Indeed, when they were fully restored to their rather deceitful human shapes they started making plans.

“We’ll see to her,” they said, “we’ll report her to Cedric the Witchfinder.”

But the Witchfinder wasn’t interested because, as he explained in gory detail, she was both dead and her various amputated components had been spread over every village in the county, which was something that had been done at dead of night under the light of a harvest moon by a motley gang of drunken neighbours who were only too pleased to see the back of one of the witches that dominated society in those difficult times. And anyway, he was in the middle of an argument with his gross wife, and although he knew he would lose he had to go through the motions anyway.

“You helped disperse her,” he told them, “you pegged her knee-caps on an elm tree in Lower Swanspottle.”

Which they had done and remembered it well. They had been particularly knobbly knee-caps.

What they didn’t know anything about, though, not back during the dismemberment or before, was Matilda’s slug-slime soup.

She never let a spot of slug slime pass her by without collecting it. She had a pot full of the stuff and she treasured it in much the same way as kings treasure gold and diamonds. In fact, she treasured it even more than that because it was the main ingredient in her slug-slime soup, a far from delicious addition to her diet, but one with the most remarkable qualities.

She cackled to herself every time she remembered finding the recipe inscribed on a sheet of birch bark in a cupboard under the stairs of her cottage, and that cottage had been where it stood possibly since the ice-age had carved the shape of the land and retreated in a bad mood when the weather took a turn for the better. But not only had her cottage been there for that long, so had that cupboard under the stairs.

And the parchment’s instructions were quite clear. It described a soup the consumption of which guaranteed immortality and the main ingredient, besides a few vegetables like turnips and dandelion leaves, was slug-slime in carefully measured quantities.

Once she had brewed up her soup and sipped it’s foulness, she immediately felt immortality surging through her. Which goes a long way to explain how she had survived the duck pond incident, had managed to remain alive whilst her body was dissected and distributed throughout the county and had somehow reformed itself without giving her so much as a headache.

And that was Tommy Rascal’s downfall because he really and truly believed her to be dead (he’d followed his parents and that dreadful pair of knee-caps to the elm tree, but failed to notice the limping witch as she retrieved every little bit of herself, knee-caps included, following close behind.)

So calling her names believing her ancient cottage to be empty of witches, though on the surface of it a daring game, had been the substance of his downfall and responsible for a pair of clipped ears.

But to Matilda’s chagrin and dismay Tommy’s parents were loath to give up when it came to sorting the witch out, and that’s probably hard to believe when you consider that they’d spent time as toads. Tommy was their pride and joy, and the witch had clipped his ears.

So they returned to Cedric the Witchfinder and explained, making sure he would hear them out by nailing his feet to the floor with rusty nails until blood poisoning set in, that the witch was alive and kicking and living in her cottage.

So he went to investigate, limping on account of really painful feet.

Equipped with the king of all defensive weapons, a copy of the Holy Bible in Greek, which he held before himself like a mighty shield, and accompanied by a dozen men at arms for real safety, he knocked her door, and to his surprise she opened it.

“You’re dead,” he informed her when he saw that she was clearly very much alive.

“Really?” she replied, “actually, I feel quite well and it is rather a lovely day.”

“It’s raining, you foul creature of Satan!” snapped Cedric, and he pushed the Greek Bible towards her.

“Let me see,” she said with a hearty cackle, “you might be in a bit of a hurry. Trouble at home maybe? With the little woman?”

Now Cedric might have been a smallish man, little even by the diminutive standards of the day, but his wife wasn’t. She could even be described as a gross creature and he’d only married her because he had been bribed by the Lord of the Manor to make sure that she wasn’t ever accused of being a witch, and nobody would ever dared accuse the Witchfinder’s wife of being a witch, would they?

But she was always, without fail, a hungry woman and he rather hoped that her vast appetite would be her downfall. As a side-line to killing witches he’d noticed that in those days a bloated stomach often led its owner to the graveyard.

But how did this old witch know about his problems at home? Did she have spies in the Witchfinder’s department?

“I accuse you of being a witch!” he snapped, making sure he had the small army of shivering men at arms behind him.

“You’ve said that before and it came to nowt,” she grinned.

“The stake! You’ll be burned at the stake, see if you’re not!” he yowled.

“She must be quite a burden,” sighed Matilda.

“Who might?” he found himself enquiring.

“That good lady of yours,” smirked the witch. “Don’t worry, nothing lasts for ever, though maybe she’ll be lucky and have a good long life!” and she cackled as she drove the point home using her piercing eyes.

That was too much for him. The whole idea that his fat wife might torment him for the remainder of his days was too much for him and he started weeping.

“Dust in my eyes,” he explained to the sniggering posse of men at arms behind him.

“I’ve got a little tonic that might help you in your hour of need,” grinned Matilda, “a nourishing broth that will see to your good lady once and for all.”

“What do you mean?” he barked.

“I think you know what I mean,” she sniggered, “wait there a moment and I’ll get you a nice hot bowl full. Take it to the apple of your eyes and see what you will see.”

“But you’re a witch! It might poison her!” he snapped.

“Now would I do any such thing?” she asked as she handed him a bowl of slug-slime soup, “take this to the good lady and if she drinks it all her problems will be over… And if she wants some more I might have a drop left in my cauldron for later…”

Without doing his duty and carting off an accused witch so that the villagers could have some fun at the duck pond after dark, he carefully placed the bowl of soul on his Greek Bible, which he used as a tray, and made his way home with the posse behind him grumbling that he must have fallen under the witch’s spell.

But he hadn’t. He’d allowed himself to be mislead.

When he got back to the Witchfindery he breezed in and cooed at the huge creature that he was obliged to sleep with every single night.

“I’ve a special broth for you, my love,” he grunted.

“Not like you to give me anything, not even the snot from your nose!” she snapped, but she took the slug-slime soup, sniffed it, thought it smelt truly revolting which meant she’d like it, and spooned it between her rubbery lips into her mouth.

He watched her, his heart beating uncomfortably because although he’d seen enough old women dying at the duck pond he’d never seen a fat one dying in his own home.

Which was just as well because his good lady was sipping immortality, spoonful after spoonful, and she’d be alive for ever.

Lucky Cedric!

© Peter Rogerson 08.08.21

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