In the village, they whispered about old Margaret, saying shed lost her wits with age. Folks avoided her cottage, calling her a witch, but the way she silenced the gossips was a tale still told.
Margaret was just an aging countrywomaneccentric, perhaps, but kind. She helped those in need, though her pension was meagre, and took in lost travellers. The wealthier villagers (for it was a prosperous place) rarely let strangers cross their thresholdsthey might hand out a cup of well water, but shelter for the night? Never.
Margaret was different. Shed offer tea, a simple meal, and a bed if night fell. They called her odd for it, letting strangers in when she had a granddaughter of marriageable age. Some even threatened her:
«Well send your young Emily to the orphanage if you keep this up. One word to social services, and shes gone.»
But that was before. Once Emily came of age, the meddling stopped. Still, Margaret had seethed with rage back thenEmily was her treasure, her only kin, the light of her twilight years.
Shed lost everyone else. Her husband, Thomas, had died young at forty-two, struck down by a heart attack. Her daughter, Lillian, had been her pridesweet and clever, married well, moved to the city, and bore little Emily. Then tragedy struck.
Lillians husband was a geologist, always away on expeditions, sometimes for half a year. Once, he never returnedvanished without a trace, not even a body found. Search teams from the emergency services scoured the wilds, but one of the rescuers disappeared too. Or so Lillian was told.
She grieved bitterly, left alone with a child. Margaret held her up:
«I raised you after your father died, and youll raise Emily too. Ill help.»
At first, Lillian seemed to rally. But shed only been putting on a brave face. Two years later, the unthinkable happened.
She took to drowning her sorrowsfirst occasionally, then daily.
«The worlds grey without my darling Arthur,» shed sob whenever Margaret tried to comfort her. «Ill never have him back, never be happy again. Whats the point of living?»
Margaret tried everything. It was no use. Lillian had bound her life to the bottle and died in her prime. The village judged her harshly, but perhaps it was just fate.
Fifteen-year-old Emily was alone. Margaret took her in, bringing her to the village. Emily resistedshe was used to city lifebut Margaret persuaded her:
«We cant survive in the city on my pension. Here, weve a garden, chickens.»
Shed often add:
«Youll have a different life, my treasure. When youre older, Ill find you a fine husband.»
«Where, Granny? In this backwater? Only lost travellers pass through.»
«Dont fret, dear. Granny knows what shes doing. Let the gossips chatter.»
So they livedtwo souls in a creaking cottage on the village edge. Margaret tended the house; Emily went to the village school, helping after lessons.
Her classmates mocked herthey knew her mothers fate. Neighbours sneered:
«Her mother was a drunk. What hope has the girl? Shell come to nothing.»
It stung Margaret. None of it was Emilys faultnot her grandfathers early death, nor her fathers vanishing. But she vowed to shape her granddaughters fate herself.
She ignored the neighbours. Their malice meant nothing. That only made them resent her morehow dare she shrug off their scorn?
Still, they couldnt resist when Margaret took in a wanderer. The whispers swirled:
«Shes scouting city boys for Emily, since no local lad would marry her with that past.»
«Your village boys?» Margaret would retort proudly. «Emilys meant for better.»
«Well see,» theyd snicker, calling her «witch» under their breath.
Time passed. The village grew quieterfewer cruel words. A lull before the storm, which broke over nothing and changed everything.
One winter evening, as darkness swallowed the village, a sputtering engine sounded beyond the fence. Voices cursed the cold, the roads, their rotten luck.
A burly neighbour stomped out, annoyed by the noise:
«Making a racket at this hour? Folks are trying to sleep!»
«Its barely eight!»
«Who are you, anyway? City folk, by the looks. What brings you to this godforsaken place?»
«Hunters. Got lost on our way. The cars had it. Any chance you could help?»
«Hah! And how do I know youre not thieves? We dont take strangers hereIve two daughters inside. Cant fix your motor, anyway. Best of luck.»
The hunters exchanged glances.
«Then could you point us to somewhere to stay?»
«No inns here. This isnt the city,» the man snapped. Then, grudgingly:
«Theres an old woman on the outskirts. A bit touched, but shell take anyone in.»
He jerked a thumb toward the edge of the village, adding darkly:
«Got a girl living with her. You wont be bored, gents.»
The door slammed behind him. The last light winked out.
The hunters trudged toward the cottage, stunned by the hostilityvillages were supposed to be welcoming.
At dawns first light, they knocked on the weathered door.
«Goodwoman, forgive the late hour. Might we warm ourselves?»
«Of course! Come in, lads. Teas brewing.» Margaret swung the door wide.
«Where are you from, then?»
«Just hunters,» one mumbled, taken aback by her warmth.
«Im Oliver. This is my childhood mate, William.»
William blushed like a schoolboy.
«No need for nerves, lads. They call me odd here, but youre safe and warm.» She bustled them inside.
While she cooked, they studied the «witchs lair.» An ancient icon hung in the corner, framed by embroidered linen. Photos on the silla daughter and son-in-law, perhaps. Next to them, a girl with sad eyes. The granddaughter?
Margaret returned with boiled potatoes, pickles, fresh bread that smelled of childhood.
«Like my gran used to make!» William breathed.
«Eat up. Ill brew tea with dandelion jam. My Emily and I make it specialnowhere else tastes the same.»
«Dandelion jam?» Oliver gaped.
«My gran made it too!» William said, earning Margarets smile.
Soon, a frail voice called from another room:
«Granny water»
The men exchanged glances.
«Your granddaughter? Is she ill?»
«Oh, the silly lambchopped wood yesterday, and now shes feverish. No medicines here, and Im too old to fetch any.»
William rummaged in his bag, producing tablets.
«Here, give her these. If shes no better by morning, well help.»
Margaret hurried off. When she returned, she shooed them to bed.
William pretended to sleep as she crept to their coats. She took his jacket into Emilys room.
Strange. Was she truly a witch? Or just checking their papers?
At dawn, he found his jacketthe torn sleeve exquisitely mended. How had she even noticed?
He could buy a hundred jackets. At twenty-seven, he owned a thriving restaurant. But her kindness moved him deeply.
He chopped wood at sunrise, remembering the girl in the photo.
«A worker, eh?» Margaret beamed. «Years since a mans hands touched this place!»
William flushed. «Old habit. Did the same for my gran.»
«Stay for Pancake Day,» she urged.
Oliver refused, but William hesitated.
Their argument drew the neighbour, whod «found them a mechanic.»
As they walked, the man sneered:
«That daft crone and her beggar girlwhat use are they to a man like you? My daughters are better matches.»
William smiled thinly. «Perhaps Ill visit for Pancake Day.»
At breakfast, Emily emerged, fever gone. She and William talked like old friends.
When the car was fixed, Oliver left. William lingered.
«Ill return in two days. For you,» he whispered to Emily.
She watched the car vanish, hardly daring to hope.
Pancake Day arrived. No William.
The neighbour taunted them:
«Your fine city boys not coming! He owns a posh restaurantwhatd he want with your lot?»
Emily fled inside. Margaret glared.
«Dont crow too soon,» she spat.
Thentires on gravel.
William stepped out, roses in hand.
«Goodwoman Margaret,» he said. «Ive fallen for your Emily. May I marry her?»
«If shell have you.»
Emily flew to his arms.
The village buzzed for yearshow the mad old witch had enchanted a rich mans son for her granddaughter. The neighbour seethed most of all. His daughters went unnoticed.
