Spell Stories: A Puff of Magic

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fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

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

The washing hung damp and lank on its line. Agnes shook out her apron, waiting for the breeze. None came. It remained stubbornly as still as could be. She looked around, searching, as if the wind might be hiding itself behind the outhouse. No, not a breath.

‘Oh, come now,’ she said in exasperation, ‘not a puff of wind and all this linen to dry! What am I to do?’

Her mother’s voice said, quite clearly, over her shoulder, ‘You know what to do!’

Agnes turned and thought she glimpsed her mother – or was it a trick of the light? No, there was no-one there. Nonetheless, she searched her memory and found she did indeed know what to do. You simply faced the breeze and blew into it. Or did you put your back to the breeze and blow at the washing? But there was no breeze at all to blow into or away from. Which way to face to work the spell?

Cover all possibilities, then, Agnes thought, and she edged around the washing, blowing towards it and away from it, from every angle. A tiny breeze responded. ‘It works!’ cried Agnes and redoubled her efforts, pleased with her witchery.

It was a while before she realised the rising wind was coming from all directions, and forming a bijou tornado centred neatly on her washing line. When the line was torn from its mooring and the washing vanished goodness-knows-where, Agnes fled indoors. She was still cowering in the kitchen when her mother breezed in.

‘Wind spell, was it?’ she asked. Agnes nodded.

‘I thought so. One direction at a time, girl, for pity’s sake.’

‘Oh, Mother, I thought I had destroyed the whole world!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said her mother, crisply. ‘Your washing’s in the cattle yard, by the way. I should cut along if I were you. The old speckled cow is wearing your under-linen on her horns and people are laughing.’

 

Look out for another spell story next week.

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Spell Stories: A Lucky Escape

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

Another in this series inspired by my book of Romany spells.

‘We could do with some good luck,’ said Agnes. Things had not gone well lately. There had been that fire in the woodshed. And the apple crop had failed. No luck at all. Her mother looked up from her darning, seemed about to speak.

‘Oh, no,’ said Agnes, getting in first for once. ‘No more spells. I forbid it.’

Her mother gave her a look that clearly said, who are you to be forbidding me anything, and then said mildly, ‘Oh, it’s not a spell. A simple lucky charm. Horseshoe over the door. You’ll have heard of that one.’

Agnes had heard of it, of course. ‘Horseshoes come expensive,’ she said.

‘Such a penny-pinch you are,’ said her mother. ‘Go across to the smithy. He always has old ones lying about. Beg for one with a couple of old nails to hang it. Costs you nothing but a little time, does it?’

Agnes huffed, but off she went, and came back with an old horseshoe and two rusty nails. ‘That’ll do,’ she said, and hung it over the door open end up so the luck doesn’t fall out. Though to be honest, precious little luck seemed to fall into it in the ensuing weeks. Her husband the grave-digger hit himself in the foot with his own spade and hobbled about the house complaining, while the rain poured and the horseshoe and nails got steadily rustier.

Agnes and her mother were upstairs shaking out the bedding one day when they heard a clatter and a yell from below. They found Robin in the doorway clutching an egg-shaped lump on his forehead.

‘Husband, what happened?’ cried Agnes, rushing to his rescue.

‘That horseshoe – fell on my head – and then on my bad foot, too,’ said Robert, adding a frightful blasphemy quite unsuitable for an employee of the church.

‘Oh, Robin,’ said Agnes, ‘you have let all the luck fall out! And buckled it with your head, too. How could you be so careless?’

Robert could only gasp at this appalling injustice. ‘Not so lucky for me,’ he spluttered at last.

‘Now that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Agnes’s mother. ‘You are very fortunate. I have a spell – very efficacious – for fixing bumped heads. Wait there. All I need is a broad-bladed knife…’

But Robert was gone with surprising speed, bad foot or no, before she could finish.

Look out for another Spell Story next week.

Spell Stories: Magic Seasoning

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fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic, story

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

Father Edmund was an unwelcome visitor. Most unwelcome. But Agnes admitted him with the best grace she could muster. She could hardly slam the door in the face of her husband’s employer.

The priest was as blunt as an unstropped razor. ‘Where is your mother?’ he boomed.

Agnes fixed her eyes on the fireplace. Was it a terrible sin to imagine a priest being spit-roasted? ‘She is not here, as you see, Father,’ she said. It was an outright lie (that’s two sins) – her mother was hiding upstairs having spotted the priest on his way in.

‘They say she is meddling with magic,’ said the priest. ‘I shall return tomorrow. See she is here to answer me on the subject.’ And with that he left as abruptly as he had arrived.

‘Interfering old coot!’ The words floated down the stairway ahead of Agnes’s mother.

Agnes was beside herself. ‘See what you’ve done? This could cost Robin his employment! And then where shall we be?’

‘Never mind that – bring me some salt, quickly. A handful should do it.’

‘Salt?’

‘Yes, salt. Now.’

Agnes complied. Salt. What might that be for? She had a horrid feeling another spell was being worked, and when her mother scattered the stuff over the threshold, she was sure of it.

‘Oh, Mother! I can’t protect you like this every time.’

‘No need,’ said her mother. ‘The salt will do it. Keeps away unwanted visitors. He’ll not be back.’

The following day, as Agnes was preparing uneasy excuses for her mother’s absence, her neighbour Sarah put her head round the door, obviously bursting with news. ‘Come in, Sal,’ said Agnes, glad of the distraction, ‘what’s the gossip?’

‘Father Edmund. Such goings on! Seems he was passing the storehouse, just as Master Tom were hauling up sacks. Priest stops to tick him off for blocking the street – you know how he is, officious. Tom were so rattled he crossed himself – and let go the rope. Down comes the sack and hits Father Edmund plonk on the head. What do you think to that?’

‘Oh!’ said Agnes, clutching her heart. Had her mother succeeded in murder at last? ‘Is he much hurt?’

‘No bones broke. But he don’t remember nothing he’s done for the last twelvemonth. Memory knocked clean out of his head, the apothecary says.’ Sarah narrowed her eyes. ‘There’s plenty of folks round here that’ll be mighty grateful to that sack o’ salt.’

Look out for another spell story next week.

Spell Stories: Careless Magic

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic, writing

This is another in my story series inspired by a book of everyday spells.

Careless Magic

‘Life is so tiresome,’ Agnes said.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps a spell?’ she offered.

‘Why not? Something to make things different.’

Agnes seldom asked her mother for a spell. They were always so unreliable in outcome, and sometimes dangerous, too. But just now the drudgery of domestic routine, the endless repetition of cleaning the same objects, of preparing food, was trying her patience.

‘A wishing spell!’ said her mother. ‘Wish for whatever your heart desires. It’s very simple. Find a stone, write your wish upon it – you can remember your letters, can’t you – bury the stone with a blue ribbon beside it. When the wind changes your wish will be granted.’

Agnes wasn’t sure she could be bothered. Yet another wasted piece of ribbon. And what could she wish for? She had a roof over her head, enough to eat, a good husband. Well, perhaps not that good a husband. Robin had his faults. He trailed mud from the gravesides over the kitchen floor; he ate with his mouth open; he had a fair few annoying habits. Agnes listed them in her mind. She would need a very large stone indeed to write all of it down. I must keep it brief, she thought, and having taken that much trouble, decided to proceed with the spell.

Whatever your heart desires. She found a stone and wrote on it in an uncertain hand, better husband. Into the ground it went, with a scrap of blue ribbon. And she forgot all about it.

On the last day of the month, Robin rolled in so late that the supper was spoiled. He said nothing and sat at the table shame-faced. ‘Wife,’ he said at last, ‘I wished to show my appreciation of you – buy you a few treats – some ribbons, perhaps.’ Agnes waited, not understanding. ‘But the saving of money is a tiresome business. I thought to speed things along.’

‘What?’ said Agnes, while Robin regarded the table-top, ‘What have you done?’

‘I wagered all my money on the toss of a coin,’ he said in a small voice. He did not need to add that he had lost.

The spell came back to her. ‘That wasn’t what I meant!’ wailed Agnes. Better husband. Not a husband who bets.

Look out for another Spell Story next week.