Moll, Witch of the Dragons

There never used to be dragons in the Valley. There never used to be anything much in the Valley, to be fair. Although, I’m not sure that is fair because the Traders used to house their stock there, shivering and sodden creatures, half-frozen and chained to the cliffside of the Valley. The rags the Traders gave them to cover their nudity did nothing to keep the cold out of their bones.

I’d rather be sacrificed to the dragons than picked by the Traders. Not that either is a fate I need be particularly worried about. I’m too old to be of interest to the Traders, and the dragons don’t seem interested in the sacrifices the Town deigns to send down to them—regularly sending them back carrying buckets of rocks and tales of being terrified of the sheer scale and heat of the beasts.

The Traders claim the dragons ate all their stock when they took up residence in the Valley and that we should be making siege to drive them away. The stock are certainly nowhere to be seen, but it seems a little strange to me that so-called human-hungry dragons send back so many human sacrifices—unharmed, I might add—with nothing to show for their ordeal but a bucket of rocks lugged up the mountainside.

It’s always rocks. Black rocks, blue rocks, red rocks, rough rocks, smooth rocks. Like they think we don’t have enough rocks already. Every month a sacrifice is sent down and every month they come back knocking at the knees with these confounded rocks. As the town Witch, these bloody rocks always end up on my doorstep. As if they think I can look at the things and somehow interpret what’s happening in the dragons’ minds—and make them leave.

I just pretend to remove the ‘hexes’ from them and then polish them up to make ‘protection charms’ against the dragons. Which, I s’pose, means I should really be thanking the dragons for keeping my belly full. Their arrival—and continued strange behaviour—have been stoking the superstitions of the villagers enough to have them turning once again to Witchcraft.

My lot are a dying breed, indeed. The creak in my back when I work these bloody rocks in the cauldron is enough proof of that. I feel a little piece of the magic inside me die as each remaining sister takes her last breath. My turn will come, soon enough. Little do these simple villagers know what real magic is. It’s like their generational memory is broken and they’ve forgotten how long I have actually been residing among them.

What does it matter, really? The time I have remaining is much less than—

“Yeeeeeoooowwwwwlll!”

“Curse of the Gold Dragon! Merlin! Leave the bloody cat alone!”

The idiot of a young Wiggan is standing in the door, his ridiculously handsome face frozen in a wince of terror as I turn around holding my ladle above my head. Whisper is still spitting in a ball of black puff at his feet.

“I did nothing, Moll! I swear I was just trying to walk through the door.”

“That’s what you get for not knocking,” I say with a sniff and turn back to my rock churning, sending a puff of air to slam the door in his face. And that’s what I get for letting my thoughts run away with themselves. When did standing here over the cauldron become a time to ponder the meaning of life? Pssh.

A knock at the door as it slowly creaks open again on its leather hinges. “Ah … Mistress Moll? Can I come in?” Merlin says above the low, mewling growl that Whisper is still sending his way from under the potion rack.

“Well, you’ll be more use in here than standing out there like a dead tree.” He shuffles quickly past the cat before sidling up next to me. I hand him the ladle—“stir”—before sinking onto my stool with a relieved sigh. This whole magic-slowly-fading business is going to be the death of me. I chuckle. Of course, it is, you idiot.

“Are you okay, Mistress?” Merlin is looking at me with concern in those gentle eyes of his that have the young villagers melting. I’d be lying if I said they wouldn’t have melted me if I was three hundred years younger.

“I’ll be better when you pay attention to what you’re doing instead of letting the bubbles knock the pebbles together. No one wants a scratched dragon ward.”

“You could tell them it’s a sign it’s working. Like the ward has protected them from being chosen as the sacrifice.”

Smart lad. “Pfft, you could sell your own dog if it suited you.”

“Speaking of the sacrifice—it’s Choosing Day today.”

“I know that, idiot. Why do you think I’m working on a new batch?” Bloody hell. Was I standing there in that reverie for three days? No wonder my back aches.

Merlin flicks his eyes sideways at me like he knows that was exactly what I had done.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Hurry up and drain them off so we can set up the stall before the town arrives.”

***

There are two types lining up at our ward stall. Those who seek protection from the choosing and the dragons in the form of my polished rocks, and those who seek a mere moment of attention from my handsome apprentice. I’m beginning to think he’s the real reason I sell so many useless charms.

I sit back and watch the steady stream of young people surreptitiously smoothing hair and batting eyelashes as they wait for their moment. It’s most amusing that Merlin seems completely immune to most of them, though I’m watching carefully to see if any do catch his eye. He’s a ready flirt and gets most of them to spend more money than I’m sure they were planning on spending, his eyes twinkling and his smile guileless, but his gaze never lingers long after the sale.

Smoothing my hand over the polished quartz crowning my cane, my eyes drift to the milling crowd beyond our stall. The Trader’s minions are out looking for their next targets, strolling around like they already own the whole town—which they pretty much do. If the Traders pick you, there’s no negotiating. They give your next of kin a fixed price and a moment to say goodbye under guard. Yet the fickle townsfolk are worried about dragons who like rocks. Gah.

The crowd murmurs as the drums signalling the beginning of the Choosing echo across the square. Merlin ushers through the last few sales before deftly packing up the stall. It all folds down into a framed pack he can sling across his back before he comes and sits by me as the crowd turns in toward the fountain and the Residence, waiting.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sit with this hag instead of your fan-club?”

“And miss your commentary? Don’t be daft, Moll.”

His grin is so wide I’m sure it will push his ears off his head. I scoff and knock his shoulder with my cane. “That’s Mistress Moll to you, young Merlin.”

He opens his mouth, to say something along the lines of him being over one hundred now, I’m sure, but the sudden ceasing of the drums has us both turning our attention to the centre of the square. The Chieftain is waddling his fat arse down the steps of the Town Residence with chummy nods to the head Traders who are assembled in their gilded finery, waiting to say their piece about driving the dragons out.

If the dragons didn’t keep stealing their stock, they’d be finding some way to spin their presence to their advantage. But the scaly dogs are bad for business, so they need to make them the bigger villain in town. And the townspeople bought it … a little too well to the Traders’ liking. Now, the people are more scared of the dragons than they are of the Traders, so they would all rather continue to take their chances at the Choosing than face a sure end in a fight with a dragon. Pfft.

“What did you say, Moll?”

“*Mistress* to you. I said nothing.” Apparently it takes about five hundred years for your inner thoughts to become outer thoughts. Dammit.

The Chieftain flops into the wooden ‘throne’ erected for him by the slimy Traders with an audible *oof* before folding his hands over his belly—probably in an attempt to hide how out of breath he is after such a short walk. He waves his hand and I expect the spokesperson of the Traders to step forward and say his monthly piece about what we should all be doing to remove the dragons. Instead, the clerk with the Choosing envelope steps up straight away.

There’s agitated murmuring amongst the crowd as the Chieftain unceremoniously shreds open the envelope and reads out the name.

“You’ve got to be joking!”

Merlin is looking at me with wide eyes and his plump mouth is frozen in a wide “O”.

The crowd before us parts and it’s clear to me that, once again, my inner thought has become an outer thought … and that I didn’t imagine the words that just came out of the Chieftain’s mouth.

***

“The Choosing is no laughing matter, Moll. Your ward charms have been such an amazing success saving the last few sacrifices—we thought that perhaps it’s best if we simply send *you* down to rid us of the creatures once and for all.” The Chieftain couldn’t be more bored with this situation. The only reason he cares at all is because if the Traders pockets are suffering, then so is the lining of his.

“Saving one sacrifice is very different to shifting a whole colony of dragons who are clearly very determined to stay exactly where they are,” I splutter. This is what I bloody get for bothering with the townsfolk. I’ll be lucky to shuffle my sorry, stiff arse down into the Valley, let along lug up two stupid buckets of rocks.

“Mmm, yes. Well, a Witch of your calibre should be able to work some kind of magic, I’m sure.”

“Pfft. A bother with you all.” I stand up and wave my cane in his and the Traders’ direction as Whisper flutters with a squawk onto my shoulder in her crow form. “You’ll find the dragons to be nothing but puppies in comparison to the curses I’ll be throwing your way as I drag my creaking bones down into the bloody Valley.”

To illustrate my point, I make sure the envelope bursts into a puff of smoke in his pudgy hands—and take *great* satisfaction in resounding yelp that follows—as I hobble towards the Valley Road.