Ol' Jessie's Jelly Roll

The jelly hadn’t set, and that was a problem. Ol’ Jessie stomped through the cottage as if she could awaken recalcitrant cherry pectin with the rhythms of her feet, the grinding of her teeth. Her Jelly Roll would be an abject failure without the titular jelly, and there was no time before the village fete to create another batch. The chocolate sponge on the sideboard was a perfect warm brown, so fluffy that finger depressions rebounded like a milkmaid’s lips after vigorous kissing. Jessie dunked a finger into the cherry brandy jell and tasted it. The ruby-red concoction was rich and redolent with the deep sweetness of ripe cherries and just a zing of brandy. It had been properly boiled, why wouldn’t it set? Shaking her grizzled curls Jessie turned a resolute chin towards the planked door and followed it out into the scratch yard. Either the cake would be a triumph or not; fussing and worrying would not set the jell, and there were chickens to see to.

Outside, the skies lowered in mockery of the old woman’s humor. A storm was coming. Let the bastard come, Jessie thought. Rain-out the damn fete and cancel the need for bloody jelly. As if in answer to her half-grumbled thoughts, the heavy clouds dropped their burdens in a sudden deluge, creating instant lakes for Jessie’s stomping feet. There was something immensely satisfying in the act of splashing through puddles as she corralled the laying hens into the safety of the coop. Take that, uncooperative fruit, she thought, slamming her foot down and striding through the resulting up-splash. Feel my wrath dratted neighbors, she raged as she dashed the mud from her cheek. The fete wasn’t important after all, it happened every year and she won first prize in baking each and every year – no matter what she entered. Treacle tarts, madeleines, banoffee cakes, trifles – for 49 years Jessie had created a new baked wonder, practiced it until it was perfect, entered it in the baking competition at the annual fete, and triumphed.

This year would be her 50th medal – a record unsurpassed in written history. The jelly-roll must succeed. The thought of failure was a goad. She had won more firsts than any person in village history, and at eighty-two years she only had a short time more to solidify a record that was unassailable. Jessie took great delight in the idea of sitting in heaven and watching comer after comer fail to supersede the legend of Jessica Alma Edith Hume’s baking mastery.

With the last hen safely ensconced in the coop, Jessie turned her attention to the milch cow. Jezebel was more placid than the chickens by far, and stood waiting at the bower door, the only sign of her impatience a rapid swishing of tail. “There, there, old girl,” Jessie said absently as she lowered the rail and swung back the gate, “let’s get you in out of the blow.” The sweet brown cow stepped smartly into the barn, moving easily to her stall against the west wall. Jessie checked her feed and water, then left the bovine to her own devices. From the sounds of the wind, Jessie knew she would need to drop the storm anchors for the thatch.

Stepping once again into the kale yard, Jessie was struck by icy fingers of wind, which howled with a personal fury at the small farmstead. Like a rejected lover the storm tore through the glade, carrying away anything that could be lifted, taking wild swings at the rest. Clutching her shawl close around her bony shoulders, Jessie ran to the lee of the cottage yanking with gnarled fingers at the ropes holding rocks up under the eaves. As she jerked loose the knots, the rocks fell to the ground, pulling a web of rope tight over the thatch. Jessie shook the ropes to ensure they were placed correctly and then hurried around the wee cottage dropping the storm nets on the other sides.

Once she was sure the thatch was secure Jessie spared a thought for the pig. She was about to cup her mouth and issue the soooo-eeeeee call that would bring the sow home when she looked at the sky and realized with a sinking dread that the pig was on her own. The lowering clouds had changed from bog-standard cannon-barrel grey to an ominous roiling purple, cut through with flashes of electric green. Wizard’s clouds! The storm was not natural, and that meant natural defenses would not suffice. Ignoring the treacherous footing of the barnyard Jessie sprinted for the front door. She slammed through, practically tearing the leather hinges from their nails, and rushed to the fireplace. She reached up and pulled a black velvet bag from a hidden niche in the chimney. She undid the cording closing the bag as she crossed the two steps to the table and spooled the contents of the bag across the surface amongst the jelly jars.

Whatever damn fool had his Thunder Shoes on now, the day of the village fete would hear from her, thought Jessie as she sorted the casting stones into order for the Bumbershoot spell. Wizards had plagued the countryside for decades, ever since Abelard McCrory had created the Thunder Shoes spell two generations back. Once bloody wizards had learnt how to travel with the speed of thunderstorms, they hadn’t stopped stomping around, flattening everything in their paths, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins in their wake. The cities and larger towns were shielded, of course, but the villages and farmsteads were left to fend for themselves. Outside, the inexorable sound of the unseen wizard’s approach boomed in time with the flashes of lightning, echoing around the glade, drowning out the wailing of the wind.

Fee… Fi… Fo… Fum… Jessie sang under her breath in time to the horrid footfalls. With shaking fingers, she sorted the casting stones into position, flicking aside those she didn’t need. Slicker, blinkers, granite, shite (this one out of spite), canopy, and float. Float. Where in all the seven hells was float? In near desperation, Jessie pawed through the stones looking for the missing element. Without float to raise the spell above the farm, it would cover only her person. The thunderous footsteps loomed closer; close enough for Jessie’s weak ears to pick out the shattering of trees in the forest, the frightened bellowing of Jezebel in her byre. Fee Fi Fo Fum, closer and closer. Not this one, not that one, she sorted the stones as fast as she could. There! In her haste, Jessie’s arthritic knuckle knocked into the float-stone as she reached for it, sending it flying off the table and scuttling across the floor.

"Oh, for the love of all that is holy," she swore as she hopped after the rolling stone. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Squish. Jezebel’s plaintive mooing cut off with a sickening sound and Jessie realized she could not save her farm. With an agility born of terror, Jessie threw herself towards the table, sweeping unset cherry brandy jell to the floor in a cascade of viscous red as she attempted to save the cake. She slid through the mess, outstretched fingers reaching for her spell. The house behind her imploded as the wizard’s giant foot crushed her front stoop and mudroom. Jessie cursed herself for not adding time-slow to her spell as the world narrowed to tunnel vision and her grasping fingers closed over the row of spell stones. Momentum carried Jessie forward, cake pans in her arms, across the room until she fetched up in a heap against the hearth. She curled into the fetal position, a quivering comma protecting the spell and the sponge held against her belly. She shook with silent rage as the final footfall fell, crushing the heart of her poor cottage. The stench of manure flooded her senses, and she cackled with malicious glee as she heard the wizard above her gag with the power of her ensorcelled effluvium.

It was over in seconds. Before the stench could be dispersed by the howling wind that tore through the void which once was her home, before the tumbled stones of the chimney stopped rattling into the hearth, before the heat of the now extinguished fire could penetrate the tattered defenses of her shawl, it was over. Jessie used the shattered remains of a joint stool to pull herself to her feet. Her lovely home was nothing but a cherry brandy smeared smudge, a splotch, a maculation that could not be cleaned. She stumbled past the mess and into the kale-yard to be greeted by more destruction. In the distance, the wizard storm moved off, the green flashing no less menacing for the fact it was diminishing. To the East and West, she could see the green flashes of other Wizards, striding carelessly across the landscape of the downs. The distant hills echoed back the thunder with a dirge-like regularity.

Jessie stumbled to a stop, her chest heaving from sobs that would not rise above her clavicle, her eyes burning with furious tears. Her first coherent thought was as piercing as it was pathetic. If the village fete was destroyed, then who will care that Jessie McGinty held the record for firsts in home baking?

The heat of her rage warmed her as the storm passed and a cold plan formed. She would gather her casting stones and journey to Kerrickmore to take down the council of Wizards. Jessie had hidden on her farm her entire life, practicing only the small magics, staying hidden, calling no attention. Well, enough with that. The Wizards had gone one step too far and Jessie was on the warpath.

She found the black and white splotched pig standing placidly next to what once was her byre. The numbskull sow was completely unperturbed by the devastation surrounding her and grunted with pleasure, nudging at Jessie’s arm to dislodge the cake pans she still clutched unknowingly. Jessie scratched the pig’s ears idly as she surveyed her collapsed cottage. She would need to comb through the wreckage to find her full bag of casting stones and any food or tools worth saving. She should check the remains of the chicken coop to see if any eggs survived. She should dig under the stones of the stable to unearth the door to the cold cellar. She did none of these things. Instead, she pulled a tattered blanket from the rubble, lay down next to the pig, and ate fistfuls of perfect chocolate cake.