Bootha
by Diana Metz
“This can’t be real!” Bootha slid off of Harold, her gray mule, and stared at the cottage in front of her. Of course she had heard stories, but she hadn’t believed them. Bootha looked around, hoping she had taken a wrong turn, but the jagged sign on the dead, skeletal tree was very clear: “BEWARE OF WICKED WITCH!” With a sigh, Bootha turned back to the cottage. She squinted and tilted her head; perhaps there was something wrong with her eyesight. No one could possibly have meant it to look like that.
Harold could not resist nibbling on a paving stone. A crow flew down and landed on the mule’s back.
“I hope this sorry-looking beast isn’t going to make a habit of eating us out of house and home.”
Bootha was not startled by a talking bird. “That would seem to be a hazardous side effect of making your house out of gingerbread. What was my sister thinking of?”
The crow picked a flea from Harold’s back. “I believe she read about it in some magazine and just had to have one. She spent a bundle on the peppermint ceiling beams.”
With a heavy sigh of resignation Bootha walked up the rock-candy path to her new home. She did not doubt that the gingerbread cottage might have been very stylish at one time, with sugar-paned windows, chocolate shutters, lollypop fence posts, gumdrop roof trim, and a licorice smoke stack. But after years of damp weather and hungry animals there was little left of its former glory. The chocolate had melted in the sun, the windows were cloudy, the roof had visible holes from hungry birds, the chimney was slanting dangerously, the cottage walls bowed slightly and were covered with green fungus, and any color the assorted candy decorations had faded long ago.
Maybe Hagatha had let the cottage run down to keep visitors away. She had never been one for informal tea parties or chats with neighbors. Bootha liked spontaneous luncheons and gossipy chats with the women of her village. Bootha gripped the sticky doorknob and braced herself for the mess she expected to find within.
To her surprise, the inside of the cottage was totally opposite to the run-down appearance of the outside. The bed was neatly made, the table was set for some expected meal, firewood was precisely stacked in the hearth, the potion workbench was scrubbed and organized, the kitchen very nearly sparkled, and the floor looked newly mopped. Bootha stood at the door, her mouth agape. She could not recall a time when her elder sister had ever picked up a wash rag; much less used a broom for anything other than flying.
The crow flew in and landed on its perch above the workbench. “You don’t have to look so shocked; Haggy knew how to cast a good cleaning spell. This place can take care of itself for months. It’s best to stay out of the way on Tuesday afternoons, if you don’t want to get caught in the dust storm.”
Bootha took a step inside. A little whiskbroom whisked her dirty footprints from the landing. Bootha stared at the crow. “Will you be staying long?” she asked.
“Why, got something against crows?”
Bootha put her carpetbag on the bed and began to unpack her clothes. “I prefer my familiars to be cats, or at least mice. Hagatha was allergic to them, though, so I understand why she chose you. I just never cared for chatty birds. Esmerelda has a whole flock of yellow things that like to sing to her in the morning.”
The crow flapped its wings irritably. “Fine! I don’t stay where I’m not wanted.” It flew out the window. “Better watch out for the…” Whatever it was warning Bootha about was lost in the wind.
Bootha began to arrange her belongings. She had left most of her things behind for whoever took her place as the village hag. She sat solemnly at the kitchen table. She really didn’t want to be here. Bootha didn’t want to be the wicked witch, she wasn’t supposed to be the wicked witch, she hadn’t been trained to be the wicked witch. Bootha was the middle child. Hagatha, the eldest, was brought up to be the wicked witch; cursing princesses, tempting little children, stirring vile brews over the fire. Esmerelda, the youngest, was the good and benevolent witch; aiding lost girls, mending broken hearts, and blessing princesses with beauty beyond compare. And Bootha was supposed to be the kindly village hag, who distributed potions, forecast futures and made the best gingerbread cookies ever. But Hagatha just had to go and get herself killed by a falling house!
Now Bootha had to move up in the ranks. Esmerelda was given the choice to stay in her glassy cottage by the seashore, but Bootha had to give up her comfortable mud house and now sat in a flashy pastry bit in the middle of a dark, damp, unfriendly forest. Life was not fair.
Bootha sighed miserably and decided to turn in early. She slipped into her red flannel nightgown and blue striped socks then climbed into bed.
The awful smell of coffee greeted Bootha the next morning. She craved a cup of black-beetle tea. She reached for her purple housecoat, but it had been moved from the chair. In its place was a long black robe with fluff around the hem. Bootha groaned and pulled it around her plump shoulders. She sat down at an immaculate table and ate an awful breakfast of mince pie and marmalade toast, when what she really wanted was clotted gruel and gravy. While scraping orange bits from her toast a bird flew through a hole in the roof and landed on the bedpost. She decided she’d better make a trip into town and get some supplies to make repairs.
Bootha was annoyed to find her bright flowery caftans had somehow been used to start the morning fire. The only thing left for her to wear was one of Hagatha’s long black dresses that buttoned up to her chin and made her skin look sallow. The pointy black hat did not fit well until Bootha took her hair out of it’s tightly wound bun and frizzed it into a tangled mass. Her brown, sensible shoes were now being used as planters for purple petunias, which left only her sister’s toe-pinching, ankle-twisting, high buttoned torture devices. Looking like a lumpy piece of charcoal, Bootha grabbed her shopping tote and went outside to look for Harold. She tried to slam the door, but the stale cookie paneling only thudded.
Bootha thought she might find her mule crunching happily on the hardened licorice trellis, but the ornery creature was no where to be found. When an obliging broom tapped Bootha on the shoulder, she got the sneaking suspicion that the cottage was plotting against her. She snatched up the broom and swung her leg over the handle. “You’re not going to enjoy this,” she told the broom. Bootha didn’t ride a mule for its companionship; she could never get the hang of riding on a narrow stick with straw tickling her behind. She could never make it go where she wanted and she tended toward acrophobia.
By the time they arrived at the local village, the broom deeply regretted its earlier enthusiasm. From the dizzying crash into the largest oak tree in the forest, to the dunk in the green-slimed mud and several unannounced droppings, the once proud broom felt worse than a garden rake. It would take hours to smooth out its bristles and polish its scratched handle.
Bootha was just as relieved to have the broom-ride come to an end. She had had to jam the already uncomfortable pointy hat down around her ears to keep it on and now had a horrible headache. Her frizzed hair had caught every bug that had the sad fate to be in her flight path. It took quite a few minutes for her feet to feel steady on the ground again.
Bootha didn’t fail to notice that the villagers avoided her, turning away or moving across the street when she walked by. She was used to children crowding around her and had a pocketful of gingercakes for hungry little mouths. Must be the dress, Bootha thought. She found the grocery and propped her broom outside. After the first curious glances of the customers, the shop emptied. Bootha pulled out a rumpled piece of paper and scanned over her shopping list.
The shop was lacking many of the smaller items she wanted: bitterbark for tea, wheat chaff for biscuits and barley root for her toe balm, but made up for it in its sizeable quantities of flour and sugar. They had apparently resupplied Hagatha before. The shop attendant kept trying to sell Bootha a jar of newt eyes, or a string of fruit bat wings. She only satisfied him when she picked out a bouquet of wolfbane (even though she didn’t know any wolves). Bootha arranged to ride back to the cottage with the wagon delivering the sugar and flour. The broom didn’t argue.
Over the next weeks Bootha spent every waking moment mixing up batches of gingerbread and buckets of royal frosting to patch the roof and walls. A delivery of decor candies kept her busy on sunny days. Within a month the gingerbread cottage was nearly back to its tasty self. Bootha would have liked to waterproof the outer walls in mud, but that would have clashed with the candy cane drain spouts.
Every night Bootha fought against furniture that insisted she take a hot bath. She always lost, getting tripped by the rug or pushed by a chair. A particularly sadistic scrub brush took great pleasure in scraping off cookie batter from behind Bootha’s ears. Bootha got back at them by flinging flour around and casually dropping eggs on the floor when she baked.
Baking itself was an interesting task. The oven had a mind of its own and liked to burn everything. Bootha had to watch it carefully to get the structural cookies baked just right. Some days it didn’t want to fire up at all, and Bootha took to hitting it with a pot when it got temperamental. The oven got back at her singeing her eyebrows frequently.
It was summer before the first guests arrived at the cottage. A jealous husband wanted Bootha to curse his wife with warts, an angry farmer wanted a spell against invading rabbits, a lazy mother wanted Bootha to frighten her son out of biting his fingernails, a royal page politely requested that Bootha not attend a christening. Bootha greeted each visitor with a plate of warm cookies, listened to their troubles, and tried to get them to stay and play cribbage with her. Only when the leaves began to turn red, was the first child tempted to make the hike through the forest to the cookie cottage.
The brave boy was hungry after his walk, and immediately began to pull off pieces of windowsill to nibble on. Bootha was used to animals gnawing on the corners, and sent out her broom to take care of the pest. When she discovered that it was a boy, and not a raccoon munching on her house, Bootha invited him in. She fed him warm spicecakes and lemonade. He stayed and played checkers.
Word of Bootha’s un-witch-like behavior spread amongst the children and she soon entertained them on a daily basis. If she kept a supply of sugary treats around, they didn’t nibble on her house. She taught them how to blow bubbles in milk and the proper method of jumping on a bed. Bootha’s best vase was home to a pair of tadpoles that one small girl was afraid to take home; she kept colorful balls of yarn for one artistic boy who liked to knit socks. Bootha was well on her way to shattering the stereotype of the wicked witch when the tragedy struck.
Bootha had a batch of particularly chatty gingerbread men in the oven when she discovered a young boy who had been dared by the local children to bring back a piece of Bootha’s house. The brave chap was trying to break off a piece of a shutter when Bootha stuck her head out the window.
“Nibble nibble little mouse. You could ask before stealing an old lady’s shutter, you know.”
The boy immediately decided that kissing Matilda Chatsworth would be preferable to being turned into a toad and abandoned his dare. He might have made a clean getaway if the peanut brittle picket fence hadn’t been so brittle. Bootha helped the boy to his feet and insisted that he join her for lunch. Of course the young boy, who was new to the neighborhood, thought that Bootha was planning to serve him up with giblet gravy. He stuttered and stammered as he was led into the cottage.
Bootha was not impressed with the child’s lack of vocabulary when she tried to draw him into conversation and decided that he must be a bit light in the attic. She left him to stare at the ornamental carnivorous plants, she had felt obligated to purchase on her most recent trip into town, while she went to pick some lettuce for catfish salad sandwiches.
Left alone, the boy began to look for an escape route, but a mop was busily cleaning muddy footprints, blocking the front of the door, and a mangy cat glared at him from the only open window. He considered using a knife to cut a whole through the wall when he heard voices in the large black oven. Whoever was in the oven was complaining loudly that he was surely burning to a crisp. Thinking that he might be able to rescue some hapless child who was being baked for supper, the boy bravely opened the oven.
The oven, who was already irritated at having to listen to bad gumdrop jokes, flamed at having its chance to turn the latest batch of crummy cookies into charcoal interrupted. The boy was not prepared for the fiery blast and had his eyebrows singed. He was lucky enough to escape with all of his fingers when the oven slammed its heavy door shut. With a terrified squeal the boy raced out of the cottage, slipping on the soapy doorway on his way out.
Bootha returned with an arm load of lettuce and radishes to find her luncheon date had disappeared. She became immediately suspicious when she heard the oven chuckling. She smacked it with the bunch of radishes until it opened its door. When she removed the gingerbread men, their gumdrop mouths were too gooey to tell her what had happened. Bootha hoped that the young boy would not have too many nightmares about hungry ovens.
All of the nightmares, though, ended up being Bootha’s. When the frightened boy returned home he told his parents of the wicked witch that had lured him with her gingerbread cottage, and had captured him with plans to cook him for lunch or to make him into a gingerbread boy. He told of the vicious oven that had almost eaten him and the mop that had beaten him as he tried to escape. The worried parents spoke to other parents who then asked their own children about the witch. A group of concerned villagers gathered at the constable’s office to find out what he was going to do about the wicked witch who was corrupting their children.
Now the constable had nothing against Bootha. He had had a few lively conversations with her when she came into town to shop. He thought she was darn sight better than her sister had been. But he had a duty to investigate her. He spoke privately with the local children and found that, with the exception of a few of the more snobbish ones, Bootha was regarded much like an eccentric aunt by the village’s young folk. He refused to go along with the witch hunt.
The parents decided that if the constable wouldn’t run the witch out of town, they would shut her down. They called in the health inspector. From a health standpoint, the case was cut and dried. The cottage alone took up three pages of the inspector’s report: unhealthy, unsanitary, detrimental to the good nutrition of the children, and an attractant to disease carrying animals. It set a bad precedence to let children nibble on a house. Why, if a child learned that he could munch on shutters and crunch on window panes, what might he do in his own home? And once inside the cottage there was no question that this whole operation was in violation of any number of health codes. A family of mice lived under Bootha’s bed. And no matter how well dressed, they were still vermin. Though no fault could be found in the cleanliness of the preparation area, there was an obvious lack of hairnets, gloves, and fire extinguishers. An actual insect leg was found floating in the black-beetle tea! And of course, there was the oven. The bad tempered appliance had the audacity to eat the inspector’s pencil! It didn’t matter that the offensive man had stuck it up the oven’s exhaust vent. No, this establishment could not be allowed to remain open to the public. It was even considered a health hazard to its owner, and was condemned immediately. Bootha found herself being charged with endangering the health of minors, and of operating dangerous machinery without a license.
The villigers tried to get the gingerbread cottage torn down, but it was rescued by the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings. The SPHB hired Bootha to be their Wicked Witch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, weddings by appointment. She gave tours and told frightening stories to visitors. She was allowed to serve gingerbread cookies as long as she kept her hair tied back in a tight bun, and posted the ingredient list, and she could only serve milk or lemonade.
With her new income Bootha bought a small house at the edge of town where she made ointments and tonics. She found a nice selection of flowered caftans at the local dressmaker’s shop. In the end, Bootha was not unhappy with the turn of events. She did have to do her own house cleaning, but she didn’t have to ride a broom any more and forest animal no longer chewed on her house. She lived happily-almost-ever-after, until her sister Esmerelda asked Bootha fill in for her when she went on vacation.
Read more short stories by Diana Metz here...