The Witch
Originally written July 2025
Witches aren’t designed to be bad.
Most people think of the Witch of the woods and they see gnarled fingers reaching towards an innocent child, cloying the wide eyed victim with sweet lies of gingerbread houses and juicy apples.
But mothers don’t tell their children stories about witches to inspire blind fear. They do it because the witches distill an important lesson for their children to learn; that the world is hard and cruel, and will swallow them whole if they’re not careful. Straying from reason for something as gluttonous as dessert could get them killed in the wrong situation.
The witches are not exclusively cruel, although they are often simplified to seem that way. They reward kindness and bravery, they weave thickets to protect their wards, and they present challenges for the young heroes to try their hand at. They reward the traits that mothers try so hard to pass on to their children. They say, “if you’re brave, and kind, and clever, you can overcome so much. You can even outfox the Witch. But it won’t be easy. So strengthen your heart, before the time comes for you to face her, and she might reward you.”
The Witch lives alone.
Most of the time, that is. She’s had many hopeful young women pass through her cottage, keeping her company for a short time each. Some are kind, and hard working, and find themselves wandering back home laden with great riches. Others are vain, and selfish, and mean. Those are the girls that are fed to the Wolf, never more to roam the earth. The Witch doesn’t mind letting the girls choose their fate. Live or die, either way she gets a visitor to entertain her.
She’d seen countless travelers pass through her special little spot in the woods. None could escape the forest without darkening her doorstep. If they tried to leave before paying her a visit, the path lead them right back to her front door. They will always find her. As long as the Wolf doesn’t find them first.
She welcomes them all, inspecting her visitors for some semblance of goodness. They each hold their own unique stories within, stories she can’t wait to play her part in. Some are young, rosy cheeked little boys, who politely ask for a drink from her refreshing well. They tell her all about the games they like to play and the love they have for their family as they rest a moment in her grace. Little cherubs, each of them. She sends boys like that home with special balms, like the babe she sent off with a golden goose for his ailing mother.
Others are demanding. Stoic, broad chested men that tromp through the forest as if it were their own land. Like the decorated soldier who ripped her beloved potatoes from the fragrant earth of her garden, long before they were ready to be given up, and certainly without asking the Witch if she would be alright giving them up. He trampled her greens, smashed her fence, and cursed her viciously. For that one, she sent his widow a roasted goose with a familiar golden band cut and clamped around its greasy neck. The Wolf agreed, that wry old dog, ferrying her message across the land with a chipper little spring in his step. She was sure he could have taken the boorish fool away in short order. But clearly the Wolf had thought she was due for a bit of fun.
Time held little meaning for her. The forest flashed its colors and shed its leaves before her eyes, over and over again in an endless dance. The seasons came and passed again and again before her, of little more consequence than a change in the weather.
One day, towards the end of a winter, a young matron, heavy with child, came slipping over icy rocks towards the Witch’s cottage. She fell to her knees, in pain and submission, begging for sanctuary from the powerful Witch. The Witch obliged, on the condition that the matron, who must have been barely older than a maid, care for the house as the Witch’s servant.
The matron did so splendidly, quick and cheerful. A bit chatty, though the Witch found this an attractive trait, as it was a welcome departure from the silent winter woods.
The matron stayed many days at the Witch’s side, tending the hearth, cooking hot meals, sweeping the floor. She birthed her babe just before the winter thaw, under the Witch’s thoughtful eye. The Witch, pleased with the matron’s steadfast kindness, offered her a choice. She could leave the baby with the Witch, for the Witch to raise as her own, and return to her village with a clean slate. The Witch would award her a hefty dowry to deliver to the father of her child, a wealthy son of the local duke, in the hope that she might woo him with her bounty. Or, the matron could take the babe with her, turn her back on the village that shunned her, and wander into a kinder spring.
“How could I choose?” The matron asked, so distraught over the choice it struck the Witch like an arrow. “It is like being asked to choose a favorite lung, or a better half of my heart.”
“Choose the half that didn’t abandon you.” The Witch offered plainly, bristling at the matron’s blind love of a man who cast her out, alone, into the snow.
“My heart could never abandon anyone,” the matron replied, gazing at her sleeping babe with shining eyes. “It would be easier if it could.”
In the end, she chose to leave with her baby. “There may be better out there for you.” The Witch assured with a knowing glint in her eye.
“How can there be?” The matron asked sadly, rocking her sleeping child. “What could be better than that which we have lost?”
The Witch fought back a snicker, and called on a kind wind to dry the matron’s tears. As she did, the Witch saw in her mind’s eye a kindly young widower, doing his best to care for his young daughter. She knew the two young parents, soon to be young lovers, would cross their paths soon enough.
A smirk came to her lips. “There’s only one way to find out.”
With that, the Witch pressed firmly on the matron’s back and shoved her out onto the forest path. The matron quickly caught her balance, and looked back to yelp at the Witch. But the cottage was gone, nothing but an empty clearing behind her. She had made it past the Witch, after all. And may she never find her way back, but forge ahead.
The Witch latched the door against the wet cold of early spring, and lit a fire. She thought on the sad look in the matron’s eyes, when she spoke of what she’d lost. The Witch scoffed. Compared to what lay ahead of her, the Witch knew that the matron hadn’t lost much else but the dead weight of a shameful man. In fact, almost anything would be better than that which she left behind. How could the woman have so little faith in the future, when it was effectively assured?
But the Witch knows that the world is cruel. She herself is the cruel in the world. And yet, she wonders about the dread the matron so clearly felt. What must it be like to truly dread?
She pondered this question as days bled together, flying past in a blur. Delivering her quickly to a set of strangers who would guide her to an answer.
The wind was peculiar on the day they each came to her cottage. Hot and dry, drawing sweat to her brow as she moved about her cottage. And yet, too wet to let the sweat dry. It left her sticky and uneasy as she worked, unaware of the sort of visitors that would soon darken her door.
The first was the youngest.
A little girl came across the cabin, peering wide curious eyes into the Witch’s windows. She seemed almost illuminated, standing bright and pure against the dark night around her. The Witch swung her door open and beckoned the young girl readily, offering her a soft place to rest her weary legs. Though the girl was polite and clever, there was something about her that the Witch didn’t quite understand. Was it a glint of malice, or a selfish bone? Whatever it was, the Witch couldn’t say for sure. She pried the girl with every temptation, gluttonous sweets and potions of magic and golden eggs.
But to each, the girl said no. “I have my sisters and my mother and my songs,” the girl explained. “What more could I ever want?”
And the Witch answered, “Perhaps a little girl of your own, to give songs and sisters to. Perhaps a partner, or a grand adventure with soaring castles and riches beyond belief.”
“Perhaps,” the little girl responded, “but perhaps not.” She stood from her place before the Witch, with a chilling certainty. “I suppose there’s only one way for me to find out.”
And with that, the young girl left the Witch’s cottage empty handed.
The Witch pondered this girl, a few days slipping by as she thought. Of all the visitors she’d had, none had eluded her like this little girl. Taking nothing, offering nothing, unsurprised to see the Witch and yet unsure what would come after. And that certainty...it was like watching a ewe wander into the butcher’s shop.
Soon enough, another strange night descended on the Witch’s cottage. The wind blew hot, somehow wet and dry all at once, and the Witch felt goose flesh prickle her skin.
It was then that a young woman came across the cabin.
She knocked politely at the Witch’s door, asking for entrance into the sheltered home. The Witch obliged, looking her over carefully as the young woman sat delicately on the floor, mending her cloak. No teary gaze or haughty sneer betrayed the woman’s disposition.
The Witch prodded her with ominous suggestions of the future, and knowing hints to the past.
“This world can be unkind to kind young children, after all.” The Witch sighed, seeing in her mind’s eye an image of the young woman before her when she was merely a girl, already burdened with terrible knowledge of the wicked ways of men.
She promised the woman power, great and terrible. Power enough to shield her family and blacken her soul, to keep her children from the same hardship she faced, for a price. But the woman shook her head.
“I have a lover and a home and two children, with a third on the way.” The woman knotted her stitch as she spoke, unconcerned. “What more could I ever want?”
And the Witch answered, “the joy of seeing your babies grow into beautiful people, unburdened with such terrible knowledge. The freedom of their freedom and the pain of their pain.”
“Perhaps,” the young woman responded, “but perhaps not.” She smoothed her skirt, and stood to face the Witch with a terrible calm. “I suppose there’s only one way for me to find out.”
And with that, the young woman left the cottage empty handed.
The Witch was stunned, watching as the door swung shut behind her. She rushed to the window, staring in amazement as the dark night swallowed the young woman whole.
The Witch returned to her seat, now more puzzled than ever. Two wandering travelers, one after the other, each peculiar in the same way. They wanted for nothing, and they gave nothing. How could they have come upon her in her woods, without a wish in their hearts? Why were they sent there, as if to be tested like all her other visitors?
She sat in her cottage, casting spells and conjuring in her mind’s eye, looking for some hint as to where the two visitors went when they left her home. A glimpse into what sort of future they found. But the Witch saw nothing.
Only a third strange night, hot wind blowing into her home, could pull her away from her scrying. She might not have noticed if it hadn’t blown through her window and scattered her cards across the room.
She didn’t bother stooping to collect the cards. She simply faced the door, ready to receive her guest.
And an old woman came across the cabin.
She didn’t peek in the windows, or knock at the door. She simply pushed, and it swung open freely. The Witch had never seen it do that before.
For the first time in her endless memory, the Witch was stunned into silence.
“May I enter?” asked the old woman.
The Witch nodded, beckoning her forward.
The old woman approached, grateful. She planted her feet, just over the threshold of the cottage, and stared defiantly into the Witch’s eyes.
“I have had a long, happy life, a loving husband, and children who have borne children of their own. What more could I possibly want?”
And the Witch was afraid, because she did not know. A long, low howl sounded from the darkness outside, a sound the Witch knew well. She looked at the old woman, and though no words found her throat, her eyes betrayed sorrow.
The old woman took her silence for an answer. “I hope you don’t mind if I wait here with you.”
The Witch thought a moment, and waved her arm. Two plush chairs appeared before the hearth, and a table set with fresh tea.
“Please.” The Witch asked.
So she waited with the old woman for the Wolf to come. When he did, she helped the old woman onto the Wolf’s great back, watching as she sunk lower and lower into its black fur, until she had completely vanished.
The old woman was gone.
And yet, the Wolf stayed. He gazed at the Witch, considering her.
“You have power, influence, and insight.” said the Wolf. “You have a home and forest that bends to your will. You have endless companions, and infinite puzzles to solve. What more could you possibly want?”
And the Witch sighed, “I…don’t know”.
She approached the Wolf, staring at its massive form. Then, after a moment, she pressed her face into its chest.
Down, down, down. She peered into the fur of the beast. It was warm, and soft, and never ending. Her breath turned shallow. Her pulse quickened, and then became thready. Chills ran through her, and she shivered in spite of the heat.
The Wolf seemed to go on forever, in warm pressing nothingness. Except…there, just ahead. A rattling moan, not of her own making. What was the moan for? Was it of relief, or of despair? Of anguish? Of pleasure?
The Witch had to know. She reached a hand out before her.
The gnarled fingers of the old woman lashed out, wrapping around the Witch’s palm in a vice grip. She held on for dear life, clinging to the frightened Witch for a long moment. The Witch had never felt her heart pound so, banging against her chest as if begging for its life. After a few agonizing seconds, the old woman relaxed her hold on the Witch. Slowly, deliberately, she shook the Witch’s hand.
And then she let go.
The Witch awoke, laying on the floor before the Wolf. It sat curled up next to her, as if it were merely a sheepdog watching as its master dozed.
“Welcome back.” The great Wolf greeted, raising its broad head above her. “Was it enlightening?”
“Quite the opposite,” the Witch said blithely, patting the dog’s pitch dark fur.
The Wolf laughed, a deep, coughing laugh.
“So,” he asked, standing as the Witch did, “do you still ponder dread?”
Her stomach clenched. The Witch peered into the endless blue night, cool and dark and filled with the chirp of cicadas.
“No,” she admitted, “I’m afraid I don’t.”
A snort, as the Wolf padded towards the door. “I see.” He shook his head at her, breathing in the cool night air. “Until we meet again.”
And he was gone.
To this day, the Wolf breathes. The wind howls. The mind changes. But the Witch and her hut are still there. And as long are there are lessons to teach, they always will be.