Plump (Notevember 2023, #19)

This is the fifth Notevember story to feature Hortense and the Witch. For earlier episodes, see “Dragonflew” (2019),“Potion” (2020), “Leak” (2021), and “Kind” (2022).

Wilgum was beaming as he patted the oversized pumpkin.
“This is the biggest one so far, Hortense. Can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.” His wife, Tannad, patted her not quite pumpkin-sized – though still bulging – abdomen, nodding in agreement.
“It’ll be a pretty harvest, that’s for sure. And better timing, too. Two more months and Wilgum wouldn’t have let me out on the fields to help bring the pumpkins in. That’s one less pair of hands when we’d not be able to spare them.” She sighed. “His brother will be busy in the upper fields, so we’ll not get much help from there.”
“I can help,” offered Elkin, their son. His parents were not all that confident in their three-year-old’s ability to lift pumpkins weighing as much as himself. Tannad was smiling, but the shadows under her eyes were visible. Wilgum’s scruffy beard had not been properly seen to either, so both parents were clearly deprived of sleep. For all his enthusiasm when it came to farming, Elkin was less an able pair of hands, and more a handful.
“I guess I could offer my assistance, if my mistress can spare me,” began Hortense, but Wilgum shook his head.
“No, you’ve done so much for us already,” he assured his friend.
“It was hardly that significant, really,” she protested.
“It was plenty,” Wilgum maintained. “After the spring fiasco” – their entire crop had been infested – “we thought we’d be in for a lean year. But with this, we’ll be back on our feet, I’m sure.”
“Say what you like, but we know you don’t usually offer your magical services free of charge,” added Tannad. “Folks will say pumpkins these early must be unnatural – which I suppose they are – but they taste every bit as good as fall-plucked ones. We really are grateful. Giving you the first few is the least we could do.”
“Well, could be it will pay for itself,” speculated Hortense. “I definitely won’t have any competition selling pumpkin lollies at this time of year.”

The Midsummer Market had officially opened that very morning, and the stalls lined the thoroughfare from the harbor to the town square. Down by the pier, farmers’ children – most of whom had never seen a ship before – were getting tours aboard a merchant vessel docked for the duration of the Market. They were under strict supervision from a surly old sailor, with orders from his captain to stay sober as long as there were children aboard. His mood was only made worse by the fact that the he could see his crewmates sitting in the waterfront alehouse, making merry after weeks at sea. The children were too busy trying to climb the rigging, explore the hold, and giving the sailor a headache to notice his crotchety disposition.
Further up the street, the smell of dried seafood and smoked meats attracted those looking to restock their larders, while the soapmakers sold means to clean that mouthwatering scent off one’s hands. While this was not a large enough town that exotic scents or spices were on offer, certain ships had brought a small selection of specialty tools, modest jewelry and foreign fabrics, all on display in stalls manned by whichever sailors were deemed most adept at haggling.
The town square, on the other hand, was dominated by local vegetables, fruit and other summer produce. New-slung honey, homemade preserves and sugary confections were on offer for those with a sweet tooth.
This is where Hortense had set up shop. The Witch had been set against advertising any wares or services of a magical nature at the Market, but had given her apprentice permission to sell the candy she had made.
“You don’t suppose people assume that your sweets are, well, special?” Wilgum asked. “Bit misleading, isn’t it?”
“The locals have wondered, of course, but I let them know the lollies are just lollies. And the out-of-towners haven’t asked. I guess they don’t know what a pointy hat means.”
“But they aren’t just lollies. They have magic pumpkins in them.”
“That’s not how it works, Wilgum. I told you, they don’t become magical just because I’ve used spells to help them grow. I’m not lying to any customers. My mistress would set me to skin toads for a whole week if I did that.” Hortense mimed retching.
The farmer’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t you say you’re a proper witch now, since that equinox ritual thing last fall?”
“I did. I am. What of it?”
“Then shouldn’t you rightly call her ‘sister’?”
“I could, I guess, but it… I don’t know, it feels wrong. I may be a Sister now, but I’m also still an apprentice.”
“A master candy-maker, though. Might be your true calling,” joked Wilgum.
“I’ll have you know can manage both. Sweet darkness below and sweet lollies above, eh? Hello, miss, would you like to try a sweet pumpkin lollipop? I promise you won’t find them anywhere else!”
As Hortense began negotiating prices with the customer, a steady rhythm started to emanate from the Town Hall porch. A sprightly drummer was soon joined by an old man dressed in his finest, but with a bass that had seen better days. Then a middle-aged woman brought out an upturned apple box to sit on, and a concertina. She was plainly a former seafarer, tattooed and scarred as if she were the sitting counterpart to the stand-up bass. The trio were practiced, if not entirely professional, and soon had a bouncing jig going.
Last to step onto the stage was a young woman in a purple dress, taking her place in front like a figurehead. Tall, dark and slender, her presence had already elicited a number of whistles and whoops from less well-mannered members of the audience. They soon quietened down, though, when she lifted her lute.
The young woman’s fingers danced deftly across the strings; this was not a complete surprise for the local population. But among those who had come from elsewhere to visit the Midsummer Market, jaws were beginning to drop. Once she began to sing, those same jaws quickly finished their journey toward the flagstones.
Hortense had been enjoying the show from across the square, but had to pull her attention back to her own business. A short, broad-shouldered woman with a traveller’s pack was marching straight for the lollipop stand. She had tanned arms and sunburned shoulders, and grey was sprinkled throughout her otherwise carrot-red hair. Hortense recognized her for a farmer – there were enough around to compare with. Still, the woman’s very straight back was a sign that she was not as old as some of her other features would suggest. In her early forties, perhaps?
“You’re the witch’s apprentice, en’t ya?” the woman asked. It was not an accusation, exactly, but neither was it a friendly greeting.
Hortense decided to ignore the tone. “Yes, miss. I’m Hortense.”
“Aye, I know,” replied the woman, as she looked Hortense up and down. “En’t no mistaking you, girl. Still got them freckles.”
For a few seconds, the witch’s apprentice was confused. Suddenly, she recognized the woman. She flinched, stumbled, and fell backwards onto the huge pumpkin.

“So, how’s your girl faring?” Sémia asked the Witch. “Almost five months since your last letter. Is Hortense making the coven proud?”
The Witch was having coffee with her former mentor, who had long ago introduced her to magic, and more recently to the bitter brew. Though the one-time teacher and pupil had been in regular correspondence for well over a century, Sémia had not been to the Witch’s cottage before – nor had she been in attendance at Hortense’s induction ceremony the nearly nine months prior to this visit.
“Oh, she is doing just fine, Mother. Still silly, of course, but that’s to be expected. No doubt you will tell me I was much the same at her age.”
“In your late teens, you were indeed. But you were never as thoughtless a child as Hortense seems to have been. Goddess shield you both – that time when I read your letter about the incident with the dragon…”
“Ah yes. Bluebell, she called him.”
“I daresay you are lucky to be alive. One might think even a child should know to stay away from dragons. How could you not have taught her that?” Sémia admonished the Witch.
“Oh, I distinctly recall having to learn certain a few lessons in safety all on my own, Mother. Pot, kettle.”
“Come now, when I first took you under my wing you were old enough to know a kettle can be dangerously hot.”
“No, I mean ‘pot calling the kettle black’.”
Sémia seemed bewildered by the expression. “Girl, you’re not making sense.”
“Do not tell me you still say ‘coal laughing at the cauldron’s color’. And I am not a girl. Honestly, sometimes I forget how old you are,” sighed the Witch.
“You forget your manners too, girl. And we are less than four decades apart. Very little, in the grand scheme of things, and far less than the gulf of time between your birthday and that of Hortense. How would you like it if she called you old?”
“She wouldn’t dare!” the Witch assured her mentor. “She knows better than that.”
“I should hope so,” Sémia mumbled, before taking a long sip of coffee. “But, as I was saying, what else has she learned?”
“She knows her spells, her rites and her wisdoms – though she seldom heeds the latter,” the Witch admitted.
“What not-quite-eighteen-year-old does? And summonings?” inquired the older witch.
“You know I prefer not to delve into that side of the craft. For Hortense’s sake, I have given her most of the theory, but kept practice to a minimum.”
“Given your history, I might have done the same. I shall trust your judgement on the matter.” It was a rare compliment for her student, who acknowledged it with a smile and a nod. “What about potions?” Sémia continued.
“Oh, no.” The Witch shook her head vigorously. “No, no, the girl is just shy of a disaster in that department. Set her to charms, spells, rituals – and she does rather well. But I would not let her alone at the cauldron. Give me a stray dragon any day, but not that.”
Sémia’s eyes widened in worry. “Still no improvement?”
“Not a whit, Mother. She can name every ingredient I have ever shown her. But once the time comes for practical potionmaking, she mixes them up. Surprising, really, given her talent in adjacent fields.”
“Oh?” Now the Witch’s teacher was intrigued. “What fields?”
“Cooking. She recently ventured into the world of candy-making. What with sugar having become so freely available… Do you remember how I begged you for a jar of molasses whenever we passed the confectioner’s shop in Aubryville on our way to the coven meet?”
“Of course I remember, girl. Dark sweetness at prices fit for noblemen only.”
“Hardly a luxury anymore. Just last week, Hortense came home an entire sack of sugar richer, and not two silvers poorer. Marisett had to help her carry it, all the way from town. I swear, Mother, it may have been the most physically exhausting thing those girls got up to all year. Well, except for…” The Witch blushed.
Sémia cleared her throat awkwardly. “Marisett, right. Affairs here and there are one thing, but for a member of the coven to engage in something long-term… There are more than a few Sisters who disapprove of that relationship.”
“Then they will have to do so for a long time to come. The way things are going, I expect Hortense will end up marrying that girl.” The Witch sounded quite proud. “She’s not much for tradition, my apprentice, but you cannot fault her taste. In matters of love, if nowhere else, she is both discerning and almost sensible.”
“My dear,” the older witch corrected her, “in matters of love, no one is sensible.”
“I did say ‘almost’,” retorted the (slightly) younger witch.
“Oh, I heard you. But I also heard tell of Astabel Selwick’s troubles after her visit here during the fall equinox, and what brought them about.”
The Witch barely managed not to choke on her coffee. “Pray tell, what did you hear?”
Sémia wore a stern expression. “Do not play coy with me, girl. Some of the Sisters even made a rhyme of it: ‘Selwick’s cheeks were red for weeks’.”
“It was a cold around that time – enough chill for anyone to get ruddy,” countered the Witch.
“This was no natural skin flush. Nor was it the cheeks on her face that were affected.” Sémia’s voice had lowered to a near-growl.
The Witch gave in, but had enough sense of self-preservation to not laugh. “Astabel was in no danger, and Hortense is much too clever to break coven law – and too kind to attempt to do any real harm. She just gets carried away, on occasion.”
“And where has Hortense been carried away to now?”
“Oh! She managed to set up shop at the Midsummer Market.”
“Now I cannot believe you, of all witches, would let her peddle your potions and charms in such a place,” said Sémia in disbelief.
“Nothing of the sort, Mother. Merely pumpkin-flavored sweets of her own making. Speaking of which, we ought to leave now, before they are all sold out.” The Witch drained her coffee cup and stood.
Her mentor did likewise. “Is Hortense’s time not better spent improving her magical craft? She is a bona fide Sister-Under-the-Moon now.”
The Witch shrugged. “Each moon will wax a while before it is full, Mother.”
“Don’t you spout wisdoms at me, girl,” Sémia mock-scolded, then broke into a smile.
As they were leaving the cottage, the Witch fished a piece of paper out of her robes. “I forgot to tell you: I received a letter recently, sent by someone I thought I would never hear from again.”
Sémia tilted her head. “And who might that be?”

“My mother!” exclaimed Hortense. It had come as quite a shock to her – and a far greater shock to the pumpkin, which had cracked audibly under her weight. To its credit, however, it remained mostly intact. And to Hortense’s credit, she quickly regained her composure, even though she had no idea what to say in the face of a revelation such as this.
“You’re my mother,” she repeated, incredulous. Wilgum, standing next to her, looked equally flummoxed – although he was half preoccupied with trying to salvage the impressive pumpkin.
“I am indeed,” confirmed Hortense’s mother. “D’you know my name?”
“Terry,” said Hortense. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“No, and I’m glad to ‘ear it. Though it’s properly ‘Aster’. You only called me Terry ‘cause you were little,” she explained. “And we used to call you Tense, because, well…” She trailed off. “Anyhow, that don’t matter. You’re ‘Ortense now.”
Hortense recoiled slightly at the familiar omission of her name’s first letter, and what that used to mean. Nowadays it was used only in jest, and yet something in the way her long-lost mother spoke the name made the young woman uneasy.
Aster noticed her daughter’s expression, but could hardly understand the significance. “If you prefer, I mean. They don’t call you Tense, do they? A girl your age ought to ‘ave her full name.”
“They call me Hortense,” came the flat reply.
As she collected herself once more, a hundred questions welled up inside her. The most salient one quickly made itself known, as she blurted out “Where have you been for the past ten years?” quite a bit louder than intended. Even with the musicians close by reaching a crescendo, a couple of heads turned towards the young witch and her mother.
“We’ve been tending to the farm,” said Aster. “What else could we do?”
“Write to me? Ask about me? Visit me?” Hortense suggested, increasing in pitch with each one.
“We knew you were better off where you were, learning the mystical arts and such with the, um, wise woman who took you in.”
“Witch.” Hortense’s eyes narrowed. Her mother’s reluctance to use the word did not sit well with her. “She is a witch, and so am I.”
“As you say, girl. And what good would it do to bother you as you were becoming… that?”
“What good? I was seven years old, left on my own with a stranger. Seven! How could you not–”
“And I did write just a fortnight ago,” Aster interrupted her. “En’t your mistress tell you I was coming?”
“One measly letter in ten years? Wait, what?”
This revelation had the young woman stunned. Fortunately, her blank mind was saved from having to formulate an answer – by a voice coming from behind her.
“I meant to tell you, but I needed time to figure out how best to do so.”
Hortense spun around to find that the Witch had arrived at the stall. Next to her stood a wiry-looking woman, wearing robes much like her own, and with short, grey hair poking out from under a pointed hat. It was obvious to the girl who the guest was, as this arrival – unlike that of her mother – had been no secret.
Under normal circumstances, Hortense’s curiosity would have directed her attention immediately towards Sémia – but these circumstances were not ordinary.
“You knew!” she shouted at the Witch. “You knew my mum would arrive, and you didn’t say anything?”
By now, quite a number of passers-by were starting to wonder what the fuss was about. A sailor, who had been sniffing the plums at the next stall over, had stopped and was openly staring at the emotional scene. Even Sémia, otherwise so measured and controlled, was anxious about the commotion.
The Witch took a deep breath – while Hortense was almost hyperventilating – and tried to explain:
“I only received the letter the night before last. And you” – she pointed an accusatory finger at Aster – “failed to mention that you were arriving so soon. You should have waited for an answer.”
“And you should have let me decide, mistre– fuck, Sister! What kind of sister wouldn’t let me decide for myself if I wanted to see the woman who abandoned me?”
Hortense was close to tears now.
“I would have,” the Witch assured her. “Of course I would.” She crept slowly towards her apprentice with arms reaching out, hoping to offer a comforting hug. A furious glance made her stop short.
Now Aster spoke up. “We never did abandon you, girl.”
“We?” asked Hortense.
Aster nodded. “Your father and me. And your brother, too. Abandoned, that’s ‘ardly fair. We gave you away so as to educate you. And look ‘ow you learned, eh? Sure, you talk a bit funny now, but you got yer spells and suchlike, don’t ya?”
Wilgum, who had been quiet until then, for some reason chose to chime in. “Oh that’s right, you used to sound like an inlander.” He immediately regretted his decision, as the angry eyes of three witches and one Aster let him know he had no part in this conversation. The farmer shrank back behind his broken (but still ample) pumpkin.
The Witch took two decisive steps, positioning herself between Hortense and Aster. “You lying heap of second-rate shit. You did not give her to me – you sold her for a goddess-damned spell!” she spat.
“I… We…” stammered Aster, her gaze flitting from her daughter to the Witch and back. “We were terribly poor. Desperate.” This last word she directed to Hortense. But it was not so much a plea for forgiveness as an attempt to defend herself.
Now it was Sémia’s turn to close ranks, planting herself next to her former pupil. “You must have been desperate indeed for such a low act. What was the spell?”
“Oh, nothing major,” the Witch sneered.
“So that’s what you bought me for?” Hortense cried. “Nothing major. You gave a poor farming family a pittance to give up their daughter.”
“Girl, they had enough to get by if they would just spend it wisely. They could certainly clothe and feed you.”
“That’s not enough!”
“PRECISELY!” roared the Witch. “They lacked in other ways. I gave you what they never would, even if they could!”
“Magic?” sobbed Hortense.
“A home, Hortense, a home. Not just a house with you at the bottom of the pecking order, dirty and just waiting for the next slap – that is, if they saw you at all. I saw you. You were bright… you are bright. To them, you were just fuel for their fire, to keep them warm that little bit longer.”
“And what was I to you?” asked Hortense, wet-faced and shaking.
“The fire itself. The fire that makes a home warm. There are thousands of orphans out there, Hortense. Of them, hundreds could prove capable in the ways of witches, given time and the right teacher. But I wanted you.”
The Witch paused to catch her breath. No one seemed inclined to get a word in edgewise – except Aster, of course.
“Wasn’t too long ago they burned witches,” she muttered.
“Wasn’t too long ago I burned anyone dumb enough to try,” Sémia growled. Aster made for a sharp intake of breath, but kept her mouth shut.
No incantation had been spoken, but every person within earshot seemed spellbound by the heated conversation. The noises from nearby market stalls had become muted, and even the musicians had ceased performing.
“I chose you,” the Witch continued, in barely more than a whisper. “And all dark spirits bite me if this is a lie, my girl: I chose correctly. At times, and in certain endeavors, I have failed you, but I try again, and again, because I know I picked the right girl.”
As things appeared to have calmed down somewhat, Aster attempted a new strategy. “You still en’t her blood,” she reminded the Witch. “And her family needs her.”
She turned to Hortense again. “We’d welcome you back with open arms, girl. Think what you could do for your dad, and me, and your brother. We should’ve never gave you… Should never ‘ave sold ya. And when you come back, we don’t even ‘ave to tell no one you’re a witch. Better if we didn’t, actually,” she added. “You’d ‘ave no chance finding a husband, then.”
Again, Hortense was spared having to answer this insult. Marisett had left the stage to join the fray, her purple dress sweeping the stones behind her. She hardly noticed; she was holding her lute by the neck as if she was ready to clobber someone with it
“Why would she ever want a husband when she has me?” she asked, seething with indignation. She cosied up to Hortense, who laid her arm around Marisett’s shoulders.
Aster’s eyes could have popped out of their sockets. “Oh, I never should’ve let you go, girl!” she huffed. “With a mother to take care of you, you’d know better. But it en’t too late, I promise.”
In Aster’s defense, she had absolutely no sense of the magnitude of the mistake she had just made. (Then again, no one who witnessed it had any desire to see to Aster’s defense.)
Hortense let go of Marisett’s shoulders. She slowly stepped forward until her face was scant inches from Aster’s.
“I HAVE A MOTHER!” shouted Hortense, reaching out to grab the Witch as she did so.
“And near thirty sisters,” added Sémia. “Some of whom are nasty pieces of work, but all of whom would bleed for her if asked.”
“And a few hundred cousins, if we count the other covens,” said the Witch.
“And a wife, soon enough,” said Marisett, who managed to muster an actual grin as she showed off her left hand – where an engagement ring was glinting in the summer sun. (Her right hand was, naturally, still firmly clasping the lute in a threatening fashion.)
To Aster’s credit (though no one present wanted to give her any), the woman did not miss a beat. She simply took a step back, coughed a “hah”, and noted: “Good luck with that wedding, girl. I am still legally her mum, and she is still legally underage, and I en’t giving no dispensation.”
Hortense surprised everyone by bursting out laughing. “Oh, I think we can survive waiting another two years. Can’t we, Marisett?”
Her fiancée was equally unperturbed. “I daresay we can, Hortense. And what fun activities we can engage in while we wait…” And with that, she planted a sloppy kiss on Hortense’s freckled cheek, much to Aster’s chagrin.
“But you won’t be around to see any of that,” said Hortense menacingly, as she stepped around the woman who was no longer her mother, placing herself so that Aster was between Hortense and the street leading out of town. Then she raised her voice theatrically:
“I am Hortense, Sister of the Coven of the Moon. Hear me, Aster, as I lay my curse upon thee.”
Aster visibly flinched, and she was not the only one. The Witch and Sémia were both taken aback. The latter shot the former a troubled look.
Distress evident in her voice, the Witch uttered a warning “Hortense!” but was ignored. Her apprentice continued unabated:
“I name thee unwanted, unwelcome, unloved. I lay this curse upon thee with no power, for it is not needed. With no hatred, for you do not deserve it. With nothing but my word, and it is the last thing of mine I shall every give thee. So you can forget about a lollie! Now go! As the moon-made tide washes the sands clean, I wash thee from my life.”
During all this, Aster had been staggering backwards. When she realized Hortense had finished speaking, she looked her dead in the eye and barked: “To ‘Ell with you then, girl.” And then she turned and walked away as fast as dignity would allow, tossing one final dose of vitriol over her shoulder as she went: “May the darkness below swallow you up!”
“…and cradle me softly until I rise again,” mumbled all three witches in unison.

It did not take many minutes for the Midsummer Market to (mostly) return to business as usual. After all, there was money to be made, friends to be found, and delicious smoked lamb sausage to be sampled. Marisett, however, was not so easily distracted. After several minutes spent in contemplative silence, she had to ask.
“What does it mean to lay a curse upon someone, but ‘with no power’?” she inquired.
“It means,” the Witch said between bites, “that gullible bitch can get fucked – but it won’t be Hortense’s doing.”
“So she’s not actually cursed?”
“Think on it,” Hortense urged. “The woman ran a viable farm into the ground, bought a perfectly decent spell to help her get it running again, losing me in the process, failed again despite magical aid, came running to her daughter in hopes of getting more assistance – only to wear her greed on her collar and spoil it all. She’s cursed alright, but by her own lazy hands and tainted heart. No magic required.”
The three witches and the songstress returned to the pumpkin lollipop stall, which Wilgum, his wife and son had been dutifully tending in Hortense’s absence. The sailor who had seen the spectacle earlier in the day was just about to leave with a bag full of pumpkin treats when he saw the quartet of women coming. He doffed his hat and nodded in greeting, taking a second to ponder before tendering his opinion:
“Oonpleasant, them enlaanders. Caan’t even speak properly. How you coasties oonderstaand a sengle word they say es beyond me.” Then he nodded once more and shuffled away.
“My dad was an inlander,” Wilgum said as the man had left.
“And was a right fucker,” Elkin piped up, earning a stare of disapproval from each of his parents, and from Sémia as well.
“So he was, Elky dear, but you shouldn’t swear. Where did you even learn that word?”
Elkin pointed to Hortense, whose visage made for an unconvincing imitation of innocence. “And where, I wonder, did auntie Hortense learn it?” Tannad continued her investigation.
“Oh, not from me, goddess forbid,” claimed the Witch. “What sort of mother do you take me for? Now, I heard there were unseasonably early pumpkin lollipops for sale. Sémia, these are a treat. Hortense made them completely without magic. Unless you count what she did to make the pumpkins grow – which she tells me was not much.
“A little magic goes a long way,” Hortense agreed in a singsong voice.
“And you’ve certainly come a long way to learn a little magic, Sister,” Sémia noted.
“I seem to have ended up in the right place, though. Here, mistr– I mean, here, Mother,” Hortense said in a grave voice as she offered the Witch a pumpkin lollipop.
“Mother? Oh, no, I don’t think we’ll be doing that,” the Witch cautioned her.
“Why not… Mother?” This time the title was accompanied by a cheeky smirk.
“Say, ‘Ortense, how would you like to spend a day as a pumpkin?” the Witch asked. “I have just the spell.” To which Sémia added: “She really does, girl. Did she ever tell you about that boy who couldn’t keep his hands to himself?”
“What, no, when was this?” wondered Hortense, her usual curiosity making itself known again.
The Witch already regretted her choice of words. “Sémia, she doesn’t need to hear–”
“Oh she’ll love it. Now, Hortense, this would have been – oh, this has a lovely flavor! – around two hundred and five years ago, two hundred and ten, maybe…”