Spell Stories: Worrisome Magic

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic, writing

A cautionary tale inspired by my book of Romany spells:

Worrisome Magic

Agnes turned to her husband. ‘Robin, I worry about my mother.’

‘She worries me, too.’ This was said with a doleful look and absolute honesty.

‘No. I mean the dabbling with spells. I fear she will be taken up for witchcraft. I will have a word with her.’

Robin gave her a look that said, rather you than me, m’dear. He stood up. ‘Anyway, I’ve a grave to dig.’ He said this as if it were a novelty, which it hardly was for a grave-digger. Agnes nodded and waved him out.

When her mother walked in Agnes was prepared and went straight to the point. ‘Mother, about the spells…’ She stopped. Her mother, usually so robust, was very pale. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. I did a spell to improve my eyesight, that’s all. Saffron boiled in springwater. On a Sunday. Bathe the eyes with it and it will take the mistiness away. That’s all it was.’

Agnes gave her a long look, her own eyes screwed up. She could tell this wasn’t the whole story. ‘And did it improve your sight?’

‘It did.’

Agnes nodded. There was something unsaid, and she waited, but her mother turned away.

She would never tell her daughter that this spell was for insight as well as for eyesight, and that after she had bathed her eyes she had seen herself, as clear as clear could be, somewhere in a future time. All alone. Completely and utterly alone. She would never, never use that spell again. But it was too late. She couldn’t un-see the future.

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week.

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Spell Stories: Beloved Magic

Tags

fairytale, fiction, Flash Fiction, magic

Another story inspired by my book of Romany spells…

Beloved Magic

‘Oh, Mother,’ said Agnes, ‘he goes out, night after night, comes back late. I fear there is another woman.’

‘Who?’ says her mother. ‘What, your Robin? He hasn’t the sense to keep another woman interested, never mind the looks.’

Agnes hesitated, unsure whether it was her husband who was being insulted or she herself for marrying him. ‘He’s not that bad looking, not for a grave-digger.’ There wasn’t much she could say to defend his common sense. ‘Still, he’s got no right to go gadding about at night with some strumpet.’

‘You want him back?’ said her mother, sounding slightly surprised.

‘Certainly, I do.’ Agnes knew this was asking for one of her mother’s slightly unreliable spells.

‘Very well, if you must. Get yourself an onion and a paper of pins. Stick one pin in the onion each night for seven nights. Then bury it in the garden. Your love will return to you. Couldn’t be simpler.’ And she flounced out.

That evening, Agnes sought out an onion. ‘Seems a waste of perfectly good food,’ she murmured, and then had an idea. Her mother, a superb pickler, had given her a jar of shallots at Christmas. Agnes didn’t care for them, and wouldn’t miss one. So she winkled out a vinegary shallot and pierced it carefully with the pins for seven nights. And then buried the evil-smelling thing in the garden, as instructed.

She had barely finished washing her hands when Robin rolled through the door. My goodness, she thought, that was quick. He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought he was about to take her in his arms. Instead he staggered and fell full length on the floor, a strong smell of stale beer emanating from his prone form. Her love had returned, for sure. As pickled as pickled could be.

Look out for another Spell Story next week

 

Spell Stories: Stray Magic

Tags

fairytale, flash_fiction, jackdaw, magic

Another in my series of stories inspired by a book of Romany spells.

Stray Magic

‘Clod!’ said a voice from the top of the tree. ‘Clod, clod, clod. Thou art a clod!’

Agnes was out of the door in a moment. ‘Oh, Reuben! You are back!’

‘Fie, sirrah!’ said the voice. Scornful, and peppered with disgust, too.

‘Come down, do,’ said Agnes, pleading. ‘Your breakfast is ready.’

‘Clod!’ said the voice. ‘Pea brain!’

‘Come down!’ said Agnes, peering into the tree and shading her eyes. ‘Where on earth have you been, my little darling?’

It all stemmed, of course, from the fact they had had no children. Agnes’s husband Robert had taken the jackdaw from a nest in the church tower, handed it to her as something small and helpless to love and raise. And so she had. The bird had been given everything of the best, loved and tended as well as any child. She had named the creature Reuben, because, she said, the priest had told her it meant ‘gift of a son’. Robert said this was nonsense, since there was no way of knowing if the bird were man or maid, but he had built a wicker cage for it nonetheless. Agnes had patiently taught Reuben to talk. But the jackdaw was quicker to learn the insults that Robert – a little jealous of the attention the bird had from Agnes – secretly muttered as he passed the cage. Many an argument between man and wife had erupted over it, particularly when the bird called his loving owner a clod.

But for today, Agnes had never been more pleased to be called a clod. Reuben had escaped from his cage a week since and she had been heartbroken.

Her mother, always ready with practical help, had recommended a useful spell for strays.  ‘Clean the cage,’ she said, ‘put food and water inside. Say the creature’s name three times, tie a yellow cord round the cage, and say the name three times again. And the bird will come back. Simple as that. Never fails.’

Agnes did this each day. And now, at last, here he was, sitting in the top of the apple tree, grey eyes glittering, and insulting her. She welcomed him as the prodigal son.

‘Reuben, come down, do. Your cosy cage is waiting.’

The jackdaw eyed her, apparently considering his options.

‘I will love you and keep you and teach you nicer words,’ said Agnes hopefully.

There was another long pause.

‘To hell with that,’ said the bird and flew off to the church tower where he enjoyed a long and happy career insulting the church wardens.

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week.

 

 

 

Spell Stories: April Fool

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

I wrote this story over Easter, once again consulting my book of Romany spells for inspiration.

April Fool

‘It is invariably true,’ said Agnes’s mother, ‘that the last day of the month is the best time to cast a spell for good luck.’

Agnes shrugged. Good luck? Was that what life was about? She was married to a man she didn’t specially like, but didn’t actively hate. Was that good luck? None of their children had survived babyhood. Was that bad luck? And she had a loving mother who was always only too ready to offer yet another infallible spell to improve matters. Was that good luck or bad?

‘Oh, Mother,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. The priest disapproves…’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ said her mother. ‘What does he know? I’m teaching you the spells for your own good. Now pay attention. Tomorrow is the first day of April, and there is a simple spell to bring excellent good luck all through the month.’

Agnes caved in. It was easier than arguing. ‘What do I do?’ she asked.

‘When you go to bed tonight, say “White Rabbits” three times before you go to sleep. It’s important they are the last spoken words of the eve of the new month. And when you wake tomorrow, say “Hares” three times.’

‘But… Robin. Whatever will he think? I can’t tell him it’s a spell. He’s an employee of the church.’

‘Never mind Robin. Just murmur it. You’ll have good luck all the month. Trust me. And I’ll know if you haven’t done it, mind.’

Agnes thought her mother could be decidedly scary at times, so she did as she was told. Lucky white rabbits were invoked (very quietly) at bedtime and lucky hares first thing in the morning.

She was stirring the porridge for breakfast when Robin burst in. ‘Look outside,’ he said breathlessly, ‘just look!’ He dashed out again.

The little street outside was full, completely full, of white rabbits and long-eared hares, squabbling ill-temperedly amongst themselves, while the villagers ran about trying to catch them. It was chaos, and there was Robin now with a struggling rabbit under one arm and making a lunge at another.

‘Oh Mother!’ said Agnes, ‘just look what your spell has done! I thought you said it was a true spell for good luck?’

‘Some spells are not quite true,’ said her mother airily, ‘but technically, I’d say a nice rabbit pie constitutes good luck, wouldn’t you?’ And out she went to join the hunt.

 

Look out for another Spell Story next week.