A Child's Wish

Elizabeth had a tendency to be a strong willed child. The elders would sit around the fireplaces late at night and complain that she was more trouble than she was worth. The men were concerned she would bring a pox upon their families, whereas the women of the small town worried she would never find a man to force her to settle down.

Elizabeth’s mother had died several years back during a particularly nasty freeze; the fields had been difficult to harvest, so food was scarce. Her mother would share her portion with Elizabeth, knowing full well there wasn’t enough to eat. Elizabeth had found her mother’s body the morning before Christmas, wrapped in a thin shawl with purple lips. She couldn’t even cry, she’d been so cold and hungry. Elizabeth’s father was a gruff man, and angry that his wife would abandon him with a useless little girl; he drug her mother’s body outside and stuffed it into a barrel to bury when the ground was soft enough.

They never spoke of her mother after that. Elizabeth went about the duties of the household, quietly assimilating the role her mother played with no outward sign of sadness. But inside she was furious. She couldn’t wait to grow up and run far away from this horrible place.

The only solace she’d ever found was in the beautiful woods just north of the small village. Many of the townsfolk had warned her not to step foot inside the forest, but Elizabeth was stubborn. She’d listened to the stories of the witches with rapt attention, showing none of the fearful alarm her friends did. If witches were real, then on the soul of her dead mother, she was going to meet one.

This Sunday was her day. After another long, grueling three hour session at the local church, Elizabeth sprinted home to prepare a small meal for herself and her father. He sat at the table, his eyes never leaving the plate as he gobbled the food up, belched and swiped his sleeve across his scruffy face. He pushed the empty plate across the table, stood up, grabbed his jacket and left. She knew his routine to the minute: eat, belch, leave, sneak to the widow’s house for cakes and coffee, stay out until dark. She loathed him for his indifference, but today she was glad that he barely noticed her.

The day was sunny, and the race to the forest’s edge was quick. Ducking her head inside, Elizabeth wandered around until she came to an obscured foot path that led deeper into the woods. She saw fresh footprints and knew she was headed the right direction. The path took her deeper into the woods; the canopy of trees made it impossible for the brightness of the sun to fully penetrate.

Shafts of light finally broke through a clearing and landed on the rooftop of a tiny cabin. There was a hunchbacked old woman standing at the fence line; she had her gaze firmly fixed on Elizabeth as she tiptoed through the bushes toward the clearing.

Elizabeth stopped, her feet firmly planted just at the edge, her eyes wide with trepidation. But there was something else stirring within her: excitement. Her heart pumped wildly as she realized she’d actually found the witch’s cabin!

“I’m not a witch,” the crippled old woman said, seeming to read her mind.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but the old woman waved her off with a flick of her weathered hand.

“Come inside child, tell me why you’re here,” the crone said as she turned and stepped into the cabin, leaving the door wide open behind her. Elizabeth couldn’t get inside fast enough and hopped through the soft grass like an eager bunny, pausing only to wipe off her feet before stepping inside.

The interior of the cabin was cluttered, but smelled like fresh flowers and warm baked bread. There was a tiny bed in the corner that was lined with hand-sewn blankets and a pelt of wolf’s fur that looked amazingly soft. Elizabeth was in awe of the light that seeped through every nook and cranny; she had assumed a witch’s house would be dark and smell of blood but this one was breathtaking.

“Not what you expected, girl?” the woman asked.

Elizabeth shook her head in awe and breathed a wispy “It’s so beautiful” to the air.

“It is. Now, why are you here?”

“I...I don't know. I suppose I want to teach my father a lesson…” Elizabeth began retelling the story of the death of her mother, the indifference of her father and his choice to take up with a widowed whore in the village.

“I’m so angry with him,” she continued, “he hates me and I can see it. I just want him punished somehow.”

The old woman nodded and pointed out the window of her meager kitchen. “Do you see that tiny pear tree over there?” Elizabeth nodded. “Go and fetch the largest pear you can find on it and bring it to me,” she said with a gruff voice.

Elizabeth ran to the tree, pulled an enormous, pale green pear from it and rushed back inside. She extended her hand to the old lady, but instead of taking the pear, she folded Elizabeth’s hands over it, closed her eyes and began to recite a recipe. Elizabeth listened enraptured and committed the entire recipe to memory.

The old woman stepped back. Elizabeth stood there, clutching the fruit until the woman spoke again. “Make sure this is what you want, child, ‘tis a hard thing to do.”

Elizabeth only nodded fervently as she spun on her heel and ran from the cabin.

On the flight home, Elizabeth’s feet barely touched the ground, the pear clenched tightly in her hands as she dashed to her tiny house and started scrambling for the ingredients. Carefully slicing and mixing, breathing life into the tiny stove, she assembled the pie exactly as the old witch had instructed and put it in the cast iron skillet to bake.

The aroma of the dessert filled the small space as it bubbled and browned to perfection. She turned her eyes to the small window by the table and could see the sun dipping low; she knew her father would be returning home from the widow’s house soon and would be hungry. As if the thought of him was enough, he materialized along the narrow pathway to the house, staggering and weaving his way to the front door.

Elizabeth ran to the door to open it for him and once he stepped inside, he could smell the delicious pie she’d baked for him. His eyes, usually dark and brooding, flickered with a twinge of light as the corners of his mouth turned upwards in almost a smile. As quickly as the look came, it was gone. He walked over to the skillet sitting in the middle of the table with a wooden spoon resting on top, and started scooping the delicious pie into his mouth.

She stood there by the door watching him, her mind racing with tremendous emotion, as he finished off the entire skillet and then sat staring at the empty dish. Without even a glance in her direction, he pushed himself away from the table, dropped the spoon, and teetered his way to his bed before flopping unceremoniously on it.

Elizabeth was speechless, confused. She had expected him to take one bite and spit it out, but he didn’t; he finished the whole pie and then just went to bed. He hadn't reacted at all. “Damn witch tricked me,” she thought to herself as she started cleaning up her hard-earned mess and drug herself to bed.

“Damn witch,” she muttered again before drifting off to sleep.

The moaning started a few hours later. She could hear her father twisting in bed, the sounds of his pain coming in waves. She laid there petrified, hearing him try to call out a name...but it wasn’t her name. She lit the small candle by her bedside and walked toward his whimpering form, placing the candle on the kitchen table.

Elizabeth snuck closer to her father’s bed. His moans turned to wails, with a hollered name peppered in between: “Alice….Alice…”

The word made her blood freeze. She hadn’t heard him utter that name in many years; he was calling out for his dead wife...Elizabeth’s mother. Panic set in as she ran to her father’s side and grasped his hand.

“Father, what’s wrong?” she asked, knowing full well what was wrong.

“Elizabeth…” he breathed. “Elizabeth, forgive me.”

“For what? Father please, what’s wrong?”

“I’ve been horrible to you child, forgive me. I…” he rolled unexpectedly to vomit in the chamber pot by his bedside.

“It’s alright, please just relax,” she told him.

“No, I’ve treated you badly Elizabeth. When your mother died, I was heartbroken. I know I didn’t show it, but I was. And you,” he lifted his weak hand to stroke her cheek, “you look just like my Alice. My heart breaks all over again when I look at you.”

Huge tears slipped from her eyes as she brought his hand to her lips. “I’ll get help,” she told him.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, but she had already rushed from the house and was tearing towards the forest by moonlight.

She didn't slow down, and soon she was banging on the door to the witch’s cabin, screaming “HELP ME! Help me please!”

The old woman opened the door as if she knew Elizabeth would be back.

“Please, help me! I’m so sorry, I didn’t want this! He’s dying, please!!” she sobbed.

The old woman had already prepared a small vial and held it out in her hand. “Mix three drops of this in a cup of water and have him drink the entirety of it,” she told Elizabeth. “And when he’s resting, read this note, but not a moment before, understood?”

Elizabeth nodded, impatient to flee and save her father’s life. She spun on her heel and raced back home, crushing the vial to her chest the entire way.

She could hear his wailing from the forest border and increased her pace until she slammed through the door. She immediately mixed three drops of the sweet smelling liquid with water and rushed to her father’s side.

“Drink this, the whole thing,” she said, helping him to sit up so he could force the mixture into his stomach.

Within moments, he was calm, the pain abated, and his eyes fluttered closed. Before he drifted off to sleep, he reached for Elizabeth’s hand, squeezed it gently and said “Thank you, my sweet girl.”

She covered her father with a rough and ragged old blanket and then turned to the kitchen table where the vial and the forgotten note were laid. She replaced the cork, sat down in her mother’s chair, and turned to read the note by candlelight.

“Child, your father will survive this night. The fruit of that pear tree is not poisonous, but it does cause pain. The mixture I gave you was peppermint and it eases the gripes of the stomach. What you wanted is not what you needed, dear girl, and you need your father. Never forget that.”

The old woman’s words rang true. Elizabeth fought back tears as she breathed a sigh of relief.

She woke her father in the morning and never, ever went searching for witches again.