To the east of the town of Birstwick on Rye stretched the golden fields of grain for which the town was named. To the west stood the dense, dark growth of the Old Forest, a reminder of what the fields of rye had once been. On maps, this forest was labelled “The King’s Birstwick Forest”. No-one ever called it that.
Though dark, and dense, the Old Forest was not impenetrable; there were game trails, tracks used by hunters. And there was the path leading to The Tower. The Tower was an old stone building hidden amongst the trees. Looking out at the Old Forest from Birstwick on Rye, the only sign of the tower, and its inhabitants, was a thin spiral of smoke rising up above the tree tops.
Local folklore had it that The Tower had been there as long as the forest. Though, it had just been a cottage back in the beginning. As the forest grew, slowly over generations, so too did the cottage, its inhabitants building it up into The Tower it was today.
Historical records had it that The Tower had been there longer than the town. The records of the builders’ guild had it that an extra floor had been added to the tower a little over a decade ago.
Local folklore also had it that in the not-so-distant past, when magic still ran wild, The Tower had been home to witches. Some even said it still was; the reclusive Ms Westwood and her two daughters were, after all, undeniably strange. At least one of them could speak to birds, the residents of Birstwick on Rye would tell you.
The Witch Hunter records, though, held no evidence that Ms Westwood and her daughters were witches, despite multiple investigations.
Of course, that wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be further investigations. Witchcraft was, after all, a serious crime. One couldn’t be too careful.
It was a clear autumn day in Birstwick on Rye, with a chill to the air that promised the coming of winter. Glimmers of golden sunlight managed to filter through the thick canopy of the neighbouring Old Forest, faintly dappling the forest floor. And half-way up The Tower, noxious black fumes escaped one of the west-facing windows.
Inside was The Tower’s youngest resident, the teenaged Letitia Westwood. With one hand, she was frantically flapping a rag in an attempt to fan these noxious fumes out the window, while with the other, she was tracing the lines of text of a worn and heavily annotated book.
“Six leaves of thyme picked at twilight, not midnight!” She exclaimed, realising that she had misread due to a large green stain across the page. She ran a hand through her auburn hair, pulling even more of it loose from her already messy bun.
She briefly glared at the large black pot, now with an explanation as to why it was emitting noxious black fumes, rather than a silvery mist. She then focused back on her book, flicking through the pages until it fell easily open to a chapter entitled “Common Mistakes and Their Remedies”. She skimmed though for anything on thyme picked at the wrong time, flapping her rag at the fumes all the while.
A cat screeched, and bolted straight across the book, startled by Letitia’s mother’s sudden bellow.
“RAAAID!”
As black fumes billowed from Letitia’s west-facing window, on the floor above ravens gathered on the sill of an east-facing window, closely watched by her elder sister Mildred.
As the ravens pecked at the seeds, and berries she had set out for them, Mildred turned back to the canvas before her, her long braid of black hair swaying as she did so. She dipped her brush in pale paint, on the palate set out on the desk beside her. Then, with small, delicate brushstrokes, added highlights to the wings of the ravens she painted.
Art supplies littered Mildred’s room. Her desk was covered in paints, and bushes, and a large mug of murky water. Across her bed were spread open sketchbooks, and loose paper, bearing many charcoal sketches of ravens. Sticks of charcoal had been left lying on the floor. Rolled up sheafs of paper were tucked away in a cauldron.
There was barely a wall without canvases leaning against it, many with paintings of ravens, and cats. There was also the odd person, and still life. Several still blank. Some canvases had even been hung properly; one of The Tower from a low angle hung opposite the window, and another of ravens in flight hung behind Mildred. Opposite that was a portrait of Letitia and their mother.
The ravens suddenly took flight from the windowsill, in a flurry of black feathers and caws. Mildred jolted, and dropped her brush, leaving a faint smear on the painting.
Her mother bellowed, “RAAAID!”
The Tower was in chaos. Under her breath, Letitia kept up a constant stream of swearing as she pulled out the wooden panelling of the wall beside her fireplace, to reveal a hidden cupboard. With a flick of her wrist, hovering bundles, and bottles, and jars of various plants and minerals flew across the room, to tumble haphazardly onto the shelves. Another flick, and the old book followed, tumbling onto a shelf of its own.
Upstairs, Mildred gathered up a sheaf of sketches, and rapidly flicked through them. One of Letitia leaning over a bubbling cauldron, she tossed aside. It flew across the room into her fireplace, which flared blue, instantly turning the image to ash. Another, of her mother with a mug floating nest to her head, received the same treatment. A flash of blue fire, and it was as if it had never existed.
Downstairs, their mother gathered up the crystal ball off the kitchen table, and the book of palmistry that had been left open there, switching them out with a vase of flowers. Table clear, she turned to the kitchen cupboard, quickly scanning through, and… was that belladonna? Honestly, would Letitia never learn… with a twitch of her finger, the jar of belladonna (clearly labelled ‘poison: do not store in kitchen’) floated off the shelf to hover beside her head. A few more jars of non-culinary ingredients joined the belladonna as Ms Westwood continued her scan of the kitchen cupboard.
Cupboard clear, Ms Westwood waved her hand at the trapdoor down to the cellar. It sprung open, and the poisons and what not flew down the trapdoor to hide.
That task done, she stomped sharply on the cellar door. It vanished, appearance changing to perfectly match the kitchen floor. She stomped again. There was no hollow echo. It was as if the cellar was not there at all.
Ms Westwood rushed to check the rest of the house.
There was a sharp knock on the front door.
Upstairs, Letitia slammed shut the door of her secret cupboard, cauldron of smoking potion hidden inside. Various innocent object slammed down on top of the table that had until moments ago held Letitia’s potions experiment, among them a startled cat. A brisk wind picked up, blowing the last of the black smog from the room. The disgruntled cat jumped off the table, and went to hide under the bed.
Mildred flipped over the mirror hanging on her wall, so the side that would show only what was before it faced the room. As she did so, the magical side showed her a drawing of Letitia hanging upside down on a flying broomstick that had fallen under Mildred’s bed. A quick knock sealed the mirror to the wall, then scrambled to grab the incriminating sketch. A toss, and it was in the fire, which flared blue, instantly disintegrating it.
Downstairs, Ms Westwood convinced some hovering broomsticks to quick their hovering, then locked them in the cleaning cupboard for good measure. She glared at the downstairs fireplace, excitedly flickering through a rainbow of colours—emerald, indigo, violet, crimson—and it settled down to an orange glow.
She dusted herself down, put on a smile, and opened the door.
W. H. Patterson (Witch Hunter Patterson, that is) had been a witch hunter for a good many years now. Enough of them that he’d stopped keeping track. This meant that he was perfectly familiar with the home of the Westwoods, and was not surprised in the slightest when, moments after he knocked, a pleasantly smiling woman with a long plait of chestnut hair opened the door.
“Afternoon, Ms Westwood…” W. H. Patterson began,
“Mr Patterson! Please, do come in. I’ll put the kettle on,” Ms Westwood said cheerfully, and ushered Mr Patterson, along with the other half dozen men in his troupe, into her home.
Ms Westwood’s home looked much the same as last time W. H. Patterson had seen it; stone floor covered with the same red rug, perhaps just a touch more faded than he remembered; fire crackling away in the familiar fireplace; wooden table still propped up on that wedge of wood he’d put there a year or two back because the wobbling annoyed him.
“It feels like so long since I’ve seen you, how have you been?” Ms Westwood said, filling a kettle, “how many is it this time… four, five, six… just the six of you?”
“Just the six of us,” W. H. Patterson confirmed, “But, first…”
“Oh, of course, of course,” Ms Westwood said, setting the kettle over the fire, “This’ll take a moment to boil, anyway. Let me call the girls down, and they can show you around in the meantime.”
Ms Westwood went to the entrance of the spiral staircase, and called, in a bellowing voice that seemed like it should be too big to fit inside her, “MILLY! TISHA!”
There was the creak of insufficiently oiled hinges, followed by a vague clattering. Then, moments later, a flustered young woman—who must be a good ten centimetres taller than when W. H. Patterson last saw her—with wild wisps of auburn hair escaping her bun in every which direction rushed down the stairs.
“Hello,” Letitia said, coming to stand next to her mother.
The half dozen witch hunters echoed her greeting.
Letitia was followed at a more sedate pace by a sullen looking young woman with her long black hair in a long plait of much the same style as her mothers’. She came to stand silently beside her sister.
“Milly, manners,” Ms Westwood muttered.
“Hello.” Mildred said flatly. She really was beginning to look a lot like her mother, if one discounted that she displayed none of Ms Westwood’s friendliness.
The witch hunters again echoed the greeting.
Ms Westwood introduced Mildred and Letitia to the younger men in the troupe; all two of them who hadn’t been around long enough to be familiar with the Westwood family. She then directed the girls—young women, now, time really does fly—to show some of the men around upstairs.
“Why don’t you two go with Milly…” Ms Westwood began,
W. H. Patterson cleared his throat, “It would be best if…”
“Oh, of course! You don’t need me directing your men!” Ms Westwood said,
“Mm,” W. H. Patterson agreed, “Muir, Echols, you go with Letitia. Keyes, Bach, you go with Mildred. Schwab, you’re with me,” he said, and watched as his men jumped to obey his orders.
W. H. Muir and W. H. Echols followed Letitia up the stairs.
“…as you can see, this is, um, our staircase. Milly did that painting, it’s of my cat, Tibby. That’s one of hers, too, of the wild roses we sometimes get around here…” Letitia said, “Oh, and this is my room,” she pushed open the door, it’s hinges creaking. She looked around, and sniffed the air, in what she hoped was a surreptitious way. There was a bit of a tang to it, but mostly the room just smelt like woodsmoke. The air wasn’t suspiciously hazy. It was fine. This was fine.
“Um, come in?” Letitia said.
Wordlessly, the two witch hunters entered the room. Letitia followed.
Her heart immediately skipped a beat when she saw her mirror was still showing images of the consequences of incorrectly brewed potions. Thankfully, the witch hunters hadn’t noticed yet. Tibby had decided to ingratiate herself to them by rubbing up against their legs,
“Hello there, darling,” W. H. Echols said, kneeling down to pat her.
Letitia quickly flipped her mirror.
“Um, you remember Tibby? She likes it when you scratch behind her ears,” Letitia said. She thought her voice came out steady?
W. H. Echols proceeded to scratch behind Tibby’s ears, prompting the cat to purr loudly.
As he did so, Letitia scanned the room for anything else she had missed. Her eyes caught on her bookshelf; specifically, on the title, A Beginners Guide to Enchanting and Ensorcelry.
W. H. Muir cleared his throat.
“Oh, um, of course,” W. H. Echols gave Tibby one last scratch, then stood. The witch hunters began looking around the room again.
“Um, would you like to see…” Letitia cast about for something on the opposite side of the room to her bookcase, “…my wardrobe?” she pointed in its direction.
The two witch hunters headed for the wardrobe. Letitia grabbed the book, hiding it behind her back, for lack of anywhere better. She then hurried to lean over the witch hunters’ shoulders, and make sure nothing else incriminating was in their line of sight.
W. H. Keyes, youngest in his troupe, had not been in the witch hunting business long. This was his first time at the Westwood residence. He was told beforehand that it was an odd place, the sort of odd that locals liked to gossip about, but no evidence of witchcraft had ever been found there. And yes, it had been checked quite thoroughly. Still, they had to follow through on any tip-offs they received, so he had better not slack off on this job.
And Ms Westwood was nice. Always offered tea, and biscuits, or something of the sort. Given she had put the kettle on the minute they had arrived, that part seemed true, at least.
So, all in all, it wasn’t the worst witch hunt he’d been on. On the last one, one of his troupe members had been turned into a frog, which was really quite distressing. He still was a frog, too. They hadn’t been able to find anyone to turn him back.
So, that Mildred girl glaring at them all before stomping up the stairs was nothing, really. Quite understandable, even. It must be quite a pain constantly having to prove your innocence.
Still, she had quite a glare. Really sent shivers up the spine. Worse than the glare of the witch that turned Peskowitz into a frog.
She shoved open a wooden door, then leaned against it, arms crossed. W. H. Bach walked past her into the room. W. H. Keyes, watching her warily out the corner of his eye, did likewise.
Just past the threshold, W. H. Keyes stopped short. His skin prickled, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Eyes stared at him from all sides. The glowing eyes of cats, the beady eyes of birds, women’s watchful gazes.
The door clicked shut. W. H. Keyes jolted. Mildred passed around him, still glaring.
“Is this one new? It’s very good,” W. H. Bach said.
“Thank you,” Mildred said, tone still flat.
W. H. Keyes swallowed. “You painted these?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mildred said.
The room was filled with paintings, and drawings. Many of black birds, some cats, and a few portraits of the women of the Westwood family. Some were hung on the walls, but most were just propped up wherever there was space. On an easel by the open window was another unfinished painting of those ever-present birds.
It a portrait of Letitia and Ms Westwood standing side by side, smiling, that W. H. Bach complimented.
Mildred stood leaning against the windowsill, by the easel and unfinished painting, arms folded. Still glaring.
“Well?” she said, “what’re you waiting for?”
W. H. Keyes took a deep breath, tried to ignore the eyes boring into him from all sides, and began his search of the room.
The bed was sloppily made. Drawings were haphazardly piled on top of it. Ravens, a glance. W. H. Keyes never had particularly liked the birds. He cast about for something else.
As he did so, W. H. Bach began going through Mildred’s draws.
W. H. Keyes’ eyes landed on a black cauldron. It was full of scrolled up paper.
“You own” W. H. Keyes swallowed. “You own a cauldron.” He picked up and unrolled one of the papers in it.
“Oh no, she owns a black pot. Burn her at the stake.” Mildred said, and rolled her eyes.
The paper was blank. W. H. Keyes frowned at it. Of course he wasn’t going to burn her at the stake for owning a black pot. They were a perfectly normal item to own. He was just saying…
W. H. Keyes rolled the paper back up, shoved it back in the obviously not being used for nefarious potion brewing cauldron, and grabbed another one.
“I, um, I hear you rarely go to the market in town,” he said, staring at what turned out to be another blank piece of paper.
“And?”
“Is, ah, is that right?” he added,
“Yes.” Mildred said. Flat tone. Ambiguous.
“That is right? It is rare that you go to the market?” W. H. Keyes tried to clarify.
“Did you not listen?” Mildred said.
“Um, yes. So, um. Where do all these… these materials come from? This paper,” he waved the blank paper in his hand, “charcoal, paints, brushes…”
“There’s a travelling salesman who comes through. The paper, charcoal, and canvases are from him. A couple of the paints too. He also sells to the church. They can confirm it. A lot of the paints, and the brushes, I make myself.” Mildred explained.
W. H. Keyes watched her as she spoke. Was that a slight softening of her glare?
“Tell me more about, ah, your paints, making your paints, and your brushes,” he said.
Yes, that was a distinct softening of her glare.
W. H. Bach had moved on to going through the bookshelves. W. H. Keyes finally turned to the piles of drawings across the bed. Those damned ravens. And Mildred, still in that flat tone, with curt sentences, began to talk about what coloured dyes could be extracted from which plants, and which animal furs made for the best brush bristles.
Downstairs, Ms Westwood rifled through her kitchen cabinet to find a mug, while W. H. Patterson rifled through her pantry, and W. H. Schwab examined her cleaning supplies. She frowned at the eight mugs she had set out on the counter. That was one for each of the witch hunters, and one for each of her daughters… but one mug short if she wanted a drink too. Which she did. She’d brewed up lemon balm and lavender. A calming drink, something she could always do with after one of these raids.
Ms Westwood was sure she owned ten mugs. She’d have to see if the girls had left one or two in their rooms.
“Excuse me, I just have to go and find another mug. Won’t be a moment,” she said.
Mr Patterson nodded, and Ms Westwood went up the stairs.
She reached Letitia’s room first, and knocked on the open door.
“Hello, I’m just looking for a mug, there aren’t any in here, are there?” she asked.
The room was a little smoky, and there was an odd tang to the air. What had Letitia been getting up to in here? Still, it seemed it was subtle enough that the witch hunters hadn’t picked up on it.
“Oh, a mug, um, I think I had one…” Letitia said, whipping her head around.
“Just here, on the bedside table,” said one of the witch hunters, W. H. Echols, if Ms Westwood remembered correctly. He held up the mug.
“Thank you,” Ms Westwood said, and picked her way across the room, which had clothes spread all across the floor. She wondered whether the witch hunters or Letitia were to blame for that.
“Was there just the one mug in here?” Ms Westwood said, accepting the mug from W. H. Echols.
“I only saw the one. Muir?”
“Yes, it’s just the one,” W. H. Muir agreed.
“Thank you,” Ms Westwood said.
She continued up the stairs.
As Ms Westwood approached Mildred’s bedroom, she heard her daughter snap, “What do you have against ravens?”
Oh dear. Mildred could be very protective of her birds.
“I… nothing! I don’t have anything against ravens!” came the reply.
It was a good thing she was here to intervene. Ms Westwood knocked on the open door, and said, “Excuse me?”
Mildred was glaring at a young witch hunter, who spun around when he heard Ms Westwood knock. The other witch hunter paused rifling through Mildred’s wardrobe.
“There doesn’t happen to be a mug in here, does there?” Ms Westwood asked,
All three sets of eyes turned towards the easel by the window. Or, to the table beside it, rather. Where a palette of paint, a jumble of brushes, and a mug were sitting.
“Ah,” Ms Westwood said.
“It’s full of some, ah, some murky concoction…” the younger witch hunter said.
Mildred rolled her eyes, “Water, and paint. I was cleaning my brushes,” she said.
“Hm,” Ms Westwood said. Well, she only needed the nine mugs, really. “Leave it for now. Just be sure to bring it back to the kitchen and wash it out properly when you’re done with it.”
Hopefully, if nothing else, she will have distracted Mildred and that young witch hunter from arguing about ravens. Ms Westwood retreated back down the stairs, and to the kitchen to wash out the mug she’d retrieved from Letitia’s room.
By the time Ms Westwood had cleaned the mug, and poured the lemon balm and lavender tea, W. H. Patterson had satisfied himself with his search of her home. It had been quicker than last time; he seemed, thankfully, to be getting complacent.
“Sorry to put you through this again, Ms Westwood,” W. H. Patterson said gruffly,
“Ah, well, we all have our jobs to do,” Ms Westwood said, “Here, the tea’s just finished up,” she handed W. H. Patterson a steaming mug, “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll get the biscuits out.”
The biscuits in question were ginger ones her daughters had baked together a few days ago. It was always nice to see them doing things together; it seemed to happen less and less since they’d reached their teens. They’d been a bit heavy handed on the spices, but overall the biscuits had come out well.
Ms Westwood opened the kitchen cupboard, and quietly sighed to herself at the mess the witch hunters had made of it. One of them had managed to spill flour all over the floor while she wasn’t looking. Amongst the mess, Ms Westwood found the jar of biscuits, which had been tipped on its side. It was also significantly lighter than it had been yesterday. Hopefully there were enough left. She took it out and set it on the kitchen table.
“Ta,” W. H. Patterson said, taking a biscuit.
W. H. Schwab was soon finished with his inspection too. Ms Westwood hated to think of the mess he’d made of her cleaning closet. He joined W. H. Patterson at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating biscuits.
W. H. Patterson was on his second biscuit when Letitia came down the stairs.
“…Tibby’d gotten mum’s yarn all tangled up, she was so frustrated…” Letitia was saying.
“I imagine she was,” W. H. Peters said, while W. H. Echols nodded along. As if witch hunters weren’t worse. So many times, they took it upon themselves to unravel entire balls of yarn as if there would be some nefarious spell hidden in the centre, then leave them in a complete tangle. Last time, it had taken days to rewind all her yarn. Thankfully, they seem to have left it alone this time.
They were soon sat at the kitchen table with tea and biscuits too.
It was a few minutes more before Mildred, and W. H. Keyes came down to the kitchen, the two of them scowling off in opposite directions. Ah. Ms Westwood supposed they hadn’t got past the ravens. W. H. Bach slowly followed behind, looking uncomfortable.
By this point all the kitchen chairs were taken. Mildred grabbed a mug of tea, and sat up on the kitchen counter. W. H. Keyes accepted a mug from Ms Westwood, and went to lean against a wall on the opposite side of the room. The two of them glowered off in opposite directions. Letitia offered her seat to W. H. Bach, and joined Mildred sitting on the kitchen counter.
With all the witch hunters quietly sipping their tea and munching on the biscuits, Ms Westwood finally poured a mug of tea for herself. She leaned against the kitchen counter next to her daughters, and inhaled the lemon balm and lavender scented steam, before taking a long, slow sip.
Finally, the tea was all drunk, and the biscuits all eaten—and the jar tipped over again, and crumbs left all over the table—and the witch hunters began to depart.
They filed out the door, saying, “sorry for the intrusion,” “thanks for the tea,” “biscuits were delicious, only change I’d make would be a touch less cinnamon next time,” and “be seeing you.”
“It was no trouble,” Ms Westwood lied, “I’m glad you enjoyed tea, I’m glad you enjoyed the biscuits. Have a safe journey,” she said, before finally, finally, she closed the door behind the witch hunters.
She slumped back against the door. There was a moment of silence.
Then, “They threw my clothes all over the floor!” Letitia exclaimed.
Ah, so the witch hunters were to blame for that.
“And broke half my charcoal! And tipped birdseed everywhere! And then complained when the ravens took an interest!” Mildred added.
Ms Westwood let them rant for a few minutes, before straightening up from where she was still slumped against the door, and saying, “Mildred, can you have your ravens check the witch hunters have left the area? Letitia, can you put all the mugs in the sink?”
Mildred went to the window to talk to her birds. Letitia gathered up more mugs than she could safely carry. Ms Westwood hoped she didn’t drop any; there was enough to clean up as it was.
Ms Westwood surveyed her home, and sighed. It was time to begin the clean-up.
She went to the cleaning closet, took out a dustpan and brush, then began to sweep up all the spilt flour in the kitchen cupboard.
Letitia dumped the last of the mugs in the kitchen sink with a vaguely concerning clatter. Ms Westwood really did need to talk to her about that belladonna stored with the food. And ask what, exactly, she had been doing in her room; that tang under the scent of woodsmoke had been concerning.
Ravens cawed. Mildred said, “the coast is clear.”
Cold sunlight continued to creep down into the Old Forest, as the Westwood witches cleaned The Tower.
Read the prequel, “Potion? What Potion?”
Brittany Lee is the co-founder, and editor of Banksia Journal. She is a writer from Perth, Western Australia, with a BA in Linguistics, and Postgrad Diploma in Journalism. Her work has appeared in AntipodeanSF, Dusty Attic Publishing, and Perth’s Raine Square Story Dispenser. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, knitting, and taking photos of flowers (such as banksias).
You can find her online at brittanyerinlee.com.