Kind (Notevember 2022, #13)

This is the fourth Notevember story to feature Hortense and the Witch. For earlier episodes, see “Dragonflew” (2019),“Potion” (2020), and “Leak” (2021).

The harvest festival was well underway, and the village market boasted every fruit, vegetable, snack and folk remedy imaginable. That is, of course, if your imagination was limited to what was available in a small seaside settlement. The woman currently browsing the wares at a fruit merchant’s stall was not impressed by the variety on display – but at least the apples were fresh and fragrant.

“Half a pound of these red ones, if you would,” she instructed the stall-keeper. “And mind you give me none with blemishes.”

The merchant nodded and mumbled “of course, miss”. He was strangely eager to help, but not so eager that he failed to see the street urchin trying to nab an apple.

“Oi, you little stinker!” he yelled, and rushed out from behind the mountain of fruit.

However quick he was, his customer was quicker still. She grabbed hold of both the raggedy girl and the apple she had attempted to filch. The child squirmed, but said nothing. The merchant, one meaty hand raised, took one look at the woman – and stopped himself from what would likely have been a loud slap across the girl’s cheek. But he did lean down to put his face two inches from the minute thief’s.

“You have to pay for that,” he growled at the little one.

“No, she doesn’t,” came the response from above his head. “But I do. How much?” the woman asked.

The fruit salesman stared at her in mute surprise, before straightening up to meet her gaze. “Miss, you don’t have to.”

Her gaze turned steely. “I do. Your business is fruit. My business is mine. Now, why not do your business and sell me this apple?”

He grunted, but knew to leave well enough alone. “Fair enough. Fourpence for that one.”

There was the telltale clink of coins changing hands, and the woman lowered the apple down behind her, offering it with a “here you go, sweetheart.”

The urchin, now free of the woman’s grip, hesitated for a moment – but only a moment – before she accepted the apple from her generous benefactor. She was about to take a bite, but remembered to whisper “thank you, miss” before digging into the red bounty. Instead of hurrying away directly, the girl took a closer look at this giver of gifts.

Her eyes fixed on the woman’s pointed hat, and went wide. “Is you a witch?”

The woman smiled. “As a matter of fact,” she replied, “I is.”

Twenty paces down the aisle stood a pair of women. One young, perhaps in her late teens, and the other well into her middle years. The younger one was staring in the direction of the fruit merchant’s stall.

“Is that…?” Hortense didn’t believe her eyes.

“It most certainly is,” the Witch responded, between gritted teeth.

Hortense had not noticed her tone. “She’s pretty.”

The Witch turned her head sharply to her apprentice. “Excuse me, what?”

“And shapely, too,” Hortense continued, still staring at the slender woman in black.

“Get your head out of the gutter, girl!”

“I’d say it’s about three feet above gutter-level, give or take.”

“HORTENSE!” the Witch hissed.

This seemed to wake the girl up. Her attention snapped to her mentor, and she lowered her gaze awkwardly. “Sorry. But those robes are doing some work, I’ll tell you what.”

“That’s not the only thing doing work, girl. Don’t you know a glamour when you see it?” the Witch chided her apprentice.

Off by the fruit stall, the black-robed woman had filled her basket up, and started walking further into the market. The Witch hitched up her dress and strode toward her with much determination, as well as an impressive variety of foul words muttered under her breath. Hortense blinked, once, twice – then ran to catch up.

“Astabel Selwick,” spat the Witch.

The woman in black turned around slowly, just in time to see a young woman – red-faced, blue-eyed, out of breath – arrive to take her place next to the Witch.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Astabel. She flashed a winsome smile, just enough to seem polite, then let it fade away quickly enough to seem anything but. “How are you on this lovely fall festival day?”

“I’m well, thank you,” said the Witch. “And I hope you’re not,” said her expression.

“It’s been, oh, ages, hasn’t it?”

“For good reason.”

Astabel looked past the gibe, instead turning her attention to the awkward girl next to her. “And who might you be?” she asked.

“Hortense,” said Hortense.

“My apprentice,” the Witch explained.

“How unfortunate,” Astabel sighed. “But you’re hardly spoiled for choice out here, are you, girl?”

“No indeed,” agreed Hortense, and before the Witch could say anything, she continued: “Who needs options when you already have the best?” This garnered a nod of approval from the elder witch.

“How would you know what the best looks like, if you haven’t seen what the rest have to offer?” Astabel countered with a smirk.

The Witch had had quite enough. “What are you doing here, Astabel? This place has no need of you, and it certainly does not want you.”

“No, this backwater village is rather too small for two witches, I suppose.”

“There are two of us! Or there will be, soon enough.” The Witch regarded her apprentice with pride. “Hortense is to be inducted into the coven.”

“Yes, I heard. Why else would I bother to make the journey here?” offered Astabel, as if the very idea insulted her.

“A little early, aren’t you? The equinox isn’t for three days yet.”

“Oh, I just have a few things to sort out between now and then.”

This earned her a narrow-eyed look from the Witch. “What mischief are you planning?”

“Mischief?” Astabel gave a faux laugh, entirely void of mirth. “Why must you always think the worst of me, sister?”

“When have you ever given me reason to do otherwise, sister?” the Witch sneered.

“Now, now. Us coven girls should try to get along, don’t you think?” This question was directed at Hortense, who, this time, was at a loss for how to respond.

“Well, ladies, I must be off,” said Astabel. “But I’ll see you at the ceremony, if not sooner. It was awfully nice to meet you, Hortense.”

“Likewise, miss,” the apprentice replied, without thinking. The look her mentor shot her made Hortense instantly regret it.

The next afternoon’s coffee break in the Witch’s cottage was unusually quiet. The older witch was moping, and the younger hadn’t yet mustered the courage to broach the subject very much on both their minds.

Suddenly, the Witch spoke.

“Oh, just ask, girl. Your furtive looks are getting on my nerves.”

“Well, mistress, I was just wondering why you dislike Astabel so.”

“Plenty of reasons. She serves herself more than the coven, more than her customers, more than anyone ought to, really. Dabbles a bit too much in the darker of the dark arts. Meddlesome, too, and none too discerning with her clients. She’s sixty, did you know that? Sixty, and acts like a reckless twenty-something.”

“I never would have guessed,” Hortense admitted. “She doesn’t look a day over thirty.”

“If her wisdom matched her perceived age, at least she’d be better off than she is.”

“But I’ve heard you speak of witches who use their magic in all sorts of unpleasant ways – never with such disdain. Why do you take such an esseption – sorry, exception – to her?”

“Trust me, Hortense, I’ve only mentioned half of it. And half of that should be enough reason to cast her out of the coven.”

“Sure it’s not something else? It’s just… You bickered like rivals, so I thought it could be, y’know…” Her voice petered out.

“No, Hortense, I don’t know. Pray tell, what could it be?”

The Witch had draped her voice in a sickly sweet tone, and Hortense recognized the trap for what it was. But she was, as always, guided by her curiosity.

“A disagreement over a man?”

“HAH!” The Witch was genuinely amused. “As if Astabel could compete with me in that arena.”

“Well…” Hortense began. “She is gorgeous. Even a glamour couldn’t do all that.”

The Witch snorted. “This again? I’ll be sure to tell Marisett you said that.”

This mention of Hortense’s girlfriend made her choke on her coffee. Once she had finished coughing, she scowled at the Witch.

“You would not,” she whispered ferociously.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” came the reassuring answer. “Because it meant nothing, did it?”

“You know it didn’t.” Hortense thought for a moment. “And so would Marisett. So go on, tell her whatever you want.”

And with that, she picked up her cup and stomped off to her room.

The Witch and her apprentice were exiting the tailor’s when they crossed paths with Astabel. The newly arrived witch was walking arm in arm with – oh dear – Marisett.

“Ah, gone to fetch your initiate’s robes, have you, Hortense?” Astabel asked.

“What of it, Astabel?” was Hortense’s terse reply. She pointedly did not look at Marisett.

“What are you up to?” the Witch demanded.

“Oh, nothing in particklar,” Astabel said with a wink towards Hortense. “We’re just out for a stroll in town, perusing the finer shops. We do want to look our best for the big to-do tomorrow. How do you like my hair? I’m thinking of wearing it like this for the ceremony.”

Her hair did look spectacular – not that the Witch would say that out loud. There was also something awfully familiar over it.

“Marisett did it up for me. She’s ever so talented,” Astabel praised the girl.

That was it! Astabel’s hair was braided just the way Marisett usually did for Hortense. And what was worse, it was threaded through with the sort of ribbon that Hortense used to make when she was younger. Surely this one must have been a gift from the apprentice to her girlfriend. Hardly surprising, Hortense was fuming.

“Well, we have to prepare for the ceremony,” the Witch spurted out, uncharacteristically, and dragged Hortense away before the young woman did something she would regret. Oddly enough, the girl made no effort to resist.

They walked for a few minutes in silence before the Witch decided to stop. “What was that?” she queried Hortense. “I thought you would ask Marisett to be your guest tomorrow. Now she’s going with that hag?”

“I did ask her,” said Hortense quietly. “She said someone else had already asked her.”

“This is just Astabel trying to get to you, girl. Don’t let her. And if she tries anything at the ritual itself… Well, not even she would be so stupid. You’ll do fine, Hortense.”

“Oh, I know I will,” said Hortense. And when she looked at the Witch, it was not with anger, or sadness, or doubt. It was pure confidence, and entirely too much of it. The Witch raised an eyebrow, but did not ask.

The ceremony was mere minutes away. The torches were lit, the moon was full, and a whopping twenty-seven witches were in attendance, not counting Hortense – who, of course, did not count until after the ritual was complete. Also not counted among the sisters present was Astabel.

However, Marisett had turned out in her finest dress. She was the only non-witch there, and so earned quite a few stares from the coven members. But, being Hortense’s guest, she had every right to attend – and anyone who would have dared challenge that right was dissuaded the moment they saw the Witch standing next to her.

“Astabel is conspicuously absent,” noted the Witch.

“Yes, I know,” said Marisett, giggling.

“You know? What does that mean?”

But there was no time to worry, because at that moment, Hortense stepped out of the shadows and into the ring of witches. And she was glorious.

“Cheers to the new witch!” yelled the Witch, then took an uninhibited swig of her ale. Hortense and Marisett shouted “cheers” in chorus, then dove into their own tankards.

While there was always alcohol at hand in the cottage, it was only on rare occasions that actual drinking took place – and rarer still that it wasn’t done in moderation.

“Sweet darkness below, girl, what did you add to this? Goddess spare me from tomorrow’s cataclysmic headaches.”

“It is rather strong,” admitted Hortense, “but it’s only spiked with diverse herbs.”

“What herbs?” wondered the Witch with some trepidation.

“And certain mushrooms,” added Marisett.

“WHAT?” The Witch was truly aghast now.

“Just kidding!” The young women laughed, and for a moment, the older one felt every day of her two hundred and twenty-three years.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing. After all, I am a fully fledged witch,” bragged Hortense.

“Still an apprentice, and a silly one at that,” the Witch pointed out.

“But a witch nonetheless. And never as reckless as Nastybel Smellwick.”

“Speaking of,” the Witch pondered, “what kept her from attending last night, do you think?”

“A wardrobe malfunction, to be sure,” answered Marisett. The girlfriends exchanged a look, then broke into uncontrollable laughter. A good few minutes had passed before it died down.

“That sounded less a guess than a certainty, Marisett.” The Witch was equal parts curious and anxious now. Then she recalled Astabel’s hair.

“Hortense…”

“Yes, mistress?”

“Was there something, oh, I don’t know, special about that ribbon in Astabel’s hair? Because if it happened to be, say, ever so slightly cursed… That would mean you had done magical malfeasance against a fellow sister of the coven. And that would be a big, BIG problem.”

“Well, mistress, it certainly would be a problem if the ribbon were mine, and cursed, and I gave it to Astabel to wear.” Hortense held the silence for a moment. “And I’m not saying it wasn’t mine, or wasn’t cursed – but I most definitely did not give it to Astabel.”

“Whereas I, a mere mortal, coven-less and unbound by witch law, did,” Marisett declared.

“And if she had been less preoccupied with her glamour – not that it had any effect on a woman already in love–” Hortense quipped.

“Of course not.” Marisett was grinning.

“– that hag might have noticed.” Hortense was grinning, too.

The Witch was not grinning. She was, however, grimly triumphant, and terribly proud of her apprentice. “Not that it matters much, girls, but what exactly did you do to her?” 

“What, essackly?” asked Hortense. “Marisett, would you care to answer that?”

“With pleasure,” said Marisett, and picked up her lute from the table next to her. She strummed a few chords, then stopped to wink at the Witch, before starting up a song:

Astabel, oh Astabel

How have you been coping?

Are you now under my spell?

For that is what I’m hoping

What is that on your bottom, witch?

Is it a rash? A horrid itch?

If it’s stinging like a bitch

Then all is swell, oh Ass-tabel!

Marisett’s voice was utterly lovely, as always – but throughout the song she clearly struggled to keep from laughing.

“Well, ‘Ortense,” said the Witch in mock anger, “you’re in trouble now.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hortense, and drained her tankard.