The Power of Words: Part 3: END

Brigid had left very soon after my outburst. I couldn’t blame her for her sudden dissapearance. She had looked deeply wounded at my words. Well, those words which I had blurted out

I continued to work doggedly at my father’s smiths. Instead of the glances of approval my father had been giving me of late, he looked at me with confusion. He had even tutted with disappointment as I continued my silence through those days.

Soon enough, I had finished Fernin’s harpoon tip and brigid’s gathering knife. After attempting to pass the job of delivery on to my father – only to be met with a tight-lipped refusal – I was soon on my way to the docks to see Fernin.

On the docks, laughing with the rest of the burly fisherman, he sat, ale in hand. As I dragged my feet closer, the group looked at me. I offered a quick, open, palm to them in greeting.

‘Dag! My friend! Drink with us! You look like you need it!’ The corners of Fernin’s eyes crinkled in affection. I could tell he was aware of what had happened when we had last spoken but was offering the branch of friendship again – without judgement or questioning. I had never felt more thankful for him than at that moment.

His heavy hand fell to my shoulder when I hadn’t responded to his invitation.

‘Are ye alright Dag? We can take a walk if yer like?’ He spoke quietly, his breath was honey ale but warm and kind – making sure the other fishermen present couldn’t hear him.

I squeezed the harpoon tip in a clenched fist, feeling it sting my skin.

‘Ma’be later, eh? You look like som’thing rotten.’

I couldn’t help but huff a laugh at that. Blunt as ever, Fernin.

I nodded, accepting his offer to talk later. Blessedly thankful for his understanding. Hastily stuffing the harpoon tip into his hand, not noting his concerned expression at the blood which adorned it, I left.

The walk to Brigid’s wooden abode took longer than anticipated. While no one in Fimblefoot lived any more than sight’s distance apart, I had decided to take a longer route. Confident in her fury.

I was proven to be correct when, before knocking, her door flew open in a flurry of red hair. She continued as if no time had passed between then and our walk on the docks.

“This is my choice!”

“Well, it is dishonest and wrong in all ways!”

'Oh good, I’m talking again'. I thought with distain.

“What else can I do, Dag? My mother and I cannot live on scraps forever!”

“You are being thoughtless of yourself! You have the right to live better than this!”

My eyes had begun to tear, truly and deeply afraid of losing her.

“You have no interest in living for yourself, no, you want to live for another’s sake! Your mother cares more for gold than your happiness! She infuriates me!”

“She is my mother, I must take care of her!”

“She is keeping us apart.” I stated pompously ‘oh, that’s new’ I thought.

"You need to leave, travel away with me and mother my children!” ‘Also new’ I noted with further panic. I felt my knees fill with that shaky, aching, bubbling feeling - Ready to run as fast and far as they could.

Brigid looked absolutely flabbergasted. Struck dumb by my proposed...union.

She took a deep breath. I prepared myself.

“Mother your children? You sound just like Will-“ She started, pausing.

She froze - eyes wide.

She appeared to be putting together the mystery in her head. How she had enough information to do so, I do not know, but she did. She appeared to frown and raise a questioning eyebrow at the same time. A moment passed but then... she smiled.

Brigid smiled! And brightly! There was a hint of sympathy in it. I dared to hope that she could possibly understand.. .

“Oh Dag, what have you done to yourself?” A laugh bubbled up from her chest, beautiful and comforting. “You made a deal with her didn’t you?” Eyes wide, I nodded, in disbelief of her knowledge. “Come with me, you silly boy”.

She led me into a nearby storehouse made of stone. Here, Brigid had similar equipment and herbs as the witch had. The wooden hut was lined with bunches of hanging plants, swinging low on twine. There were two straw bales on which we could sit, facing one another, which we did. I wondered why she wasn’t saying anything, instead choosing to look at her hands and breathing deeply. I certainly couldn’t use my voice to break the silence, so I waited, eyes darting around the room. I noted a small pot, a stone firepit and a small mouse sniffing around in the corner in search of food.

“When we were children, we came across the stone house in the clearing together, do you remember?” Her voice broke the silence, her eyes meeting mine.

“Of course I do! Do you think I am heedless? I remember it well” My mouth spoke the truth, but in a forceful manner. I shot Brigid an apologetic look. She smirked in response, seemingly amused at my plight.

“Well, I continued to visit well after you or Fernin. Something in me just could not let it go! It was as if I would be made untrusting in myself if I could not set eyes on the place again. I rediscovered the stone house one day. I was young and my mother had been shouting at me, I was upset. The woman inside offered to take away my mother’s temper, but I refused. Even at that age, I was too cunning to make a deal with a witch…” She paused at this, eyes glinting in humour. I scrunched my nose up at her teasing, amused but unwilling to voice anything. We were amongst each other as we always had been, playful.

“Instead, I asked the witch for knowledge of the healing arts,” Brigid said, waving her arm at the herbs strung around the storehouse. “My father’s illness was starting, and I thought I could be of help, learning to cure him. It worked well, I was able to alleviate his pain, stop his infections and ease his cough for many years. But it would never be enough. My father was on his way to the gods, and I had no say in their will. One day, five years back, my father’s illness was getting worse by the day and I was afeared for his life and my mother’s future. I went to the clearing again to beg the witch for more powerful healing techniques. She said she was unwilling to give me such power. She said I was too young, too rash, to understand the responsibility saving the dying came with. I would not take that as my answer and decided to steal her more potent ingredients while her back was turned. I cheated her out of extremely rare herbs and bottles of oil that take years to distill. When I got home, I used all of the knowledge she had passed to me over the years to concoct a strong cure for my father. He drank it easily, too weak by then to put up a fight. At first, it appeared to be working. He sat up and greeted me! Then, the whites of his eyes turned an unnatural green, he took one great shuddering breath and keeled over. Dead.” Brigid paused again, letting me absorb the information. I saw no blame in her actions. Trying to save a dying parent is not a sin. I tried to send her a reassuring look, resolute in my distrust of my voice.

“I vowed to never go back to the witch. I was ashamed of my cheat of her, and devastated at the loss of my father - my rash behaviour. Then, months ago, I wandered back to the clearing by accident. I had been worrying about gold. Mother and I had managed to make father’s earnings last as long as possible, not accounting for some needlessly expensive items that she indulged, in, but it would not last any longer. The stone house appeared to me and within, a rather angry witch. She knew what I had done, and scalded me with a sharp tongue, but was still willing to honour her original offer of a spell. I asked for a nobleman’s gold” she smirked in contempt. “I had failed to realise that came with a nobleman, and she sent the worst one possible!”

Ah, there it was. The reasoning behind all of this. Brigid was being agreeable towards him in an attempt to salvage her spell - I had thought to myself.

“Now!” She clapped her hands together, rubbing them briefly. “Restoring a voice is not a difficult task. It is simple magic with a small risk. Nevertheless, in the knowledge that my last healing potion killed my father, I will give you the option to refuse my care”.

‘Oh, Brigid, of course I trust you!’ I wanted to say. Instead, I chose to take her hand in mine and give her a small smile. That was all the permission she needed. With her free hand, she took several springs of herbs from around the room, placing them in her mouth and chewing. She beckoned me over, placing her hand over our linked ones. Before I could wonder what her next move could be, her lips were pressed to mine. Soft and warm. She tasted of bitter leaves, a vapor which leapt down my throat, warming my neck through. My voice had been restored; I was sure of that. Caught in our own little world, our lips stayed together, and our hands clasped tighter.

“I love you”

“I love you too”

#

Deep in the forest, an old woman chuckled to herself, safe in the knowledge that two young people had their fears conquered by some simple spellwork. She never gave anyone what they wanted without a small lesson to go with it. It was simple enough, to make them think their fears were something else entirely. The boy’s fear was not being able to tell the girl of his true feelings. The girl’s, the fear of an unhappy mother. By taking away his voice and her freedom of marriage, the value of those could be seen by them both, bringing them together.

She thought she was very smart, the witch, very smart indeed. Though she couldn’t dwell, she had ingredients to collect. Though, as she walked around her clearing she saw two gifts sat on a nearby rock, a gathering knife and a foraging basket. Newly-forged and newly-weaved. She didn’t have to ask who they were from. Instead, she took her offerings and admired their craftsmanship.

She was glad that the two children she saw all those years ago had fallen together again.

Never, ever, cheat a witch,

If you do you may’be deceived,

Do not let her sew a stitch,

Or your values will be thieved.

- -

But if the witch, perhaps, is kind,

And if you ask little,

The ties that together you bind,

Will never be fickle.

The End

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