The Witch's Brew

Ethel was old. Old old, older than this town, older than living memory. No one really knew how old, as she replied with the same thing every time she was asked: “Now, you know it isn’t polite to ask a lady her age!” You wouldn’t know it, looking at her. She looked to be maybe in her late sixties, soft wrinkles and a tumultuous cloud of curly gray hair peeking out from veils in every shade of the rainbow. She liked to match her veils to her socks, said it “tied everything together.” She knitted each sock herself, blindingly fast, or else used her beloved enchanted needles. She would set them up and let them go as she busied herself with the customers in her coffee shop downstairs.

It was widely known that The Witch’s Brew had the best coffee and pastries in town. After all, Ethel had spent lifetimes perfecting her techniques. Her kitchen was a bizarre mixture of modern timers and hundred-year-old brick ovens, brand new knives (because her old ones had gotten so worn down) and cast iron skillets that had generations of seasoning baked into them. It was not uncommon to go searching for Ethel in the kitchen and find her asleep in a chair while the dough kneaded itself and invisible hands poured coffee. One did not wake Ethel in this moments, but merely picked up one’s coffee and returned to the dining room quietly. Old women need their rest.

I had the pleasure- or, I was told it was the pleasure- of being her newest “adoption.” Ethel liked to take in strays, and that was not limited to cats, of which she had several. I had found myself sitting at a table in the back corner of her shop one morning, sipping the best latte I had ever tasted, when she eased herself into the seat across from me.

“Now, honey,” she began, “I haven’t seen you before, and I’ve seen everyone here.” She had a full voice, gentle and warm, but firm, like she was accustomed to dealing with stubborn children.

“I’m just passing through.” I smiled brightly at her, hoping that she wouldn’t notice my poorly patched sleeve or the grease in my hair. I had been “passing through” towns for a year now, and free showers were few and far between.

“Oh, I bet you are.” There was a glint in her eye and the corner of her mouth lifted just a bit. I had never seen a grandmother look so knowing and so amused. “They all are. But you…” She stared me down until I started to squirm in my seat. Those soft brown eyes were alight with a startling intelligence. Ethel was old, but time had stolen nothing from her but the color of her hair. “You are done.”

With that, she stood up and began to walk away. A man at the next table laughed, then leaned over towards me.

“You’d best follow her, kid. She gets impatient.” I hesitated, clutching my latte like it would grant me clarity. “Go on! She ain’t gonna kill you.”

Ethel was waiting by the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me expectantly. She thumped her cane on the floor once, and I felt something almost pull me out of my seat. My feet began to move of their own accord. Somehow, this wasn’t surprising to me. The moment I walked into the coffee shop, I could feel the oddness, the air of something other. The locals around me barely spared me a glance, chuckling to themselves like it was an inside joke. I heard someone say something about “Ethel’s new victim,” which did nothing to ease the growing knot in my stomach.

I followed Ethel across the dining room and into the kitchen. To my left, the lattice on an apple pie wove itself. A coffee pot floated through the doors to a table, invisible hands refilling a mug. The Witch’s Brew suddenly made sense, and I wanted to kick myself for not seeing it before. I’d heard stories about witches, guardians and healers of strange little towns, but I’d never really believed them.

Ethel busied herself with what seemed to be an herb blend sitting on a windowsill. She scattered it into a bowl of self-stirring dough, not looking at me as she spoke.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Uh, Anna. Anna Marvik.” She paused, turning to me with that tiny smirk again.

“You don’t seem sure about that.”

“It’s Anna.” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans and stared at my sneakers, no longer white or even tan. They had long since been covered in dirt and Sharpie doodles to match the cuffs of my jeans. Ethel hummed a gentle tune that I could swear I’d heard before. She seemed to dance around her kitchen with the grace of a young woman long grown up. She beckoned me to another doorway, this one leading to a narrow staircase. I was guided to a small bathroom, cluttered with hairpins and lotions, bottles of herbs and oils, and what could only be spell jars. Ethel took my latte before I even realized that I was still holding it and replaced it with a soft towel and the first clean change of clothes I’d held in weeks. An overweight tabby cat brushed past my ankles.

“Get cleaned up, Anna. The tap is backward- hot is cold, cold is hot.” Ethel smiled gently, scooped up the cat, and shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a creeping sense of dread.

Ethel, of course, was a sweet old woman with a talent for coffee and a big heart. But every alarm in my head was ringing. Stranger danger stranger danger stranger danger stranger danger. Ethel was a witch and a stranger and I didn’t know where I was but there was something so disarming and comfortable about her and beggars can’t be choosers. The tap is backward. I turned the knob and took the shower.

***

I very quickly learned that nothing in Ethel’s home was quite as it seemed. The tiny bookcase always had the book you were looking for, even if it wasn’t there the day before. The steaming cauldron by the fireplace was just beef stew but the pot on the stove was some strange concoction that I was not allowed to touch under any circumstances. The fat tabby was just a normal cat, but I was almost certain the calico could talk. The first thing I was taught was how to make bread dough, the second was how to protect myself from the many energies and spirits that surrounded Ethel at all times. Amethyst is for protection, clear quartz for healing. Licorice root tea will soothe a sore throat, chamomile will ward off dreams.

Ethel had two altars. One, in the living room, was for offerings to the many, many deities she had worked with over her very long life and for simple spells. The other was in her “office”. She wouldn’t tell me what it was for, but the few glimpses I’d gotten of it had filled me with an inexplicable coldness. It was covered in what Ethel called sour jars and return-to-senders- hexes, really. Ethel was a sweet old lady, but no one lives that long without accumulating enemies. She sometimes spent entire days in that room, the door shut and not a sound coming through the cracks. When she emerged, she was exhausted and would hobble straight to her bed. I brought her chamomile tea and soup with rosemary in it, then returned to the coffee shop. The locals never asked when it was just me running the shop for the day. They seemed to know, seemed to feel the coldness seeping through the ceiling from the apartment upstairs. Those days, I kept a fire roaring in the dining room and took extra care that coffee mugs stayed fresh and full.

Months passed and the urge I usually felt to leave a place never came. I grew to know Ethel’s regulars by name, learned their stories and their drama, all the ins and outs of this tiny town with no name. My bread got softer and more fluffy, my coffee richer and darker. I grew accustomed to leaving a few coins or a pretty rock that I had found on the altar in the living room. I learned the names of each deity that Ethel worked with, how to know if one was reaching out to me. She showed me how to see if I had been hexed with an egg cleanse, how to make protection charms and dress candles.

She never taught me retaliation, said to leave it to her. I was not allowed into the office, and I had no desire to be. Ethel kept me far away from that coldness. She sat me down on the couch one day with a cup of tea and stared deep into my eyes, that same analytical stare she’d fixed me with the day we met.

“Anna, you are doing wonderfully here.” She smiled warmly, but there was a solemness behind it that I only saw when she stepped into the office. “But the longer you’re with me, the closer you are to the danger in that room. I don’t want you mixed up in my problems, do you understand that?” I nodded, clutching the tea close to my heart. “But I can only hold you so far away from it. There may come a time where you do get caught in the crossfire. I need you to understand this: you are not to come near a sour jar, a hex, a return-to-sender. Leave it to me.” She leaned in close, put a hand on my shoulder. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

And with that, she returned to the coffee shop.