The Mother In The Woods

They say the witch in the woods was to be avoided at all costs. That she took the bones of the young and made them into her stew. And she would do it to you too if you got to close. It was all in good fun, it kept the village from bothering her for many years.

Until the children’s cries in the woods became too much. Young mothers, ashamed from the bastard child they carried in her wombs would leave the infants to the mercy of the woods. Families with too many mouths to feed would consider it a mercy to leave them to the trees. Children alone and scared would cry into the night, a broken sound which chased even the most fearsome beast away from its pleads.

She would follow the sounds when they graced her ears, finding the poor souls often resting on the border between this world and the next. Bundling the child against her chest, she’d whisper words of care as she’d bring them into the little cottage buried deep in the woods. Some would survive. Other’s would not.

“Mama,” a sweet voice graced behind her ear.

“How does this taste?” Turning to the young women, the aging witch lifted the spoon to allow her to sample the stew. The women tasted it, smiling at the flavor gracing her lips.

“Amazing as always mama. Can I help with anything?”

The witch waved her finger, the dirty bowls on the counter moving into the sink full of water. She took her hand off the spoon, letting it stir the stew on its own. She turned from the meal, looking over the young women standing before her. The years had grown her into a beautiful young women, with eyes like caramel drops and hair as black as sin. Yet every time she looked at her, the image of the frail girl in ragged skirts she’d found all those years ago still haunted her memories. “I’ve got it Charlotte. No need to worry yourself.”

Charlotte didn’t seem so convinced as she looked over her mother. She smiled none the less, offering an arm to help her aging mother from the counter and towards the kitchen table; like everything else in the cozy little cottage the table was cluttered with ingredients and a collection of child’s toys. The witch ignored the creak her knees gave as she sat.

“So, tell me, how was your trip? Did you learn what you were looking for?”

Sitting opposite her mother, Charlotte glanced out the open window briefly. The sound of child’s laughter was light in the air as her siblings played tag among the trees. “I did. And I didn’t. I don’t know what I was expecting to find.”

Reaching across the table, the witch placed her liver spotted hand over her daughter’s. It was something all her children had gone through when they reached their adulthood. The moment where they’d come to terms with the events that had lead them to the cottage buried deep in the woods. Some took it well. Other’s did not. And a trip to the village they each originated from was a different experience for each who decided to take that voyage. “No matter what you decide, you will always be my daughter. And I will always love you as such.”

A tear built in the corner of Charlotte’s gaze. She wrapped her finger’s around her mother’s, squeezing it tightly. “The village, that is not my life. This is. You are my mother. No one else.”

The young women rose from the chair, moving forward to envelop her mother in a loose embrace. The two held each other, letting the tears flow free. Charlotte’s soft sniffles were the only sound in the kitchen until the young woman’s stomach grumbled from younger. The witch pulled back, looking over her daughter in concern. “Did you eat on your trip?”

“I will be fine till dinner,” she tried to reassure her mother. It did not do so, the witch directing the young women to retake her seat as she rose and moved across the kitchen. Taking a wooden box from the counter, she drew out a freshly made chocolate cake. She cut a large slice, bringing it back to the table.

“I thought no desert before dinner?” Charlotte gave her mother a cheeky grin.

The witch returned the expressing, pinching her daughter’s cheek before retaking her seat. “I can make the exception. I will not have a child of mine going hungry.”

Charlotte needed no further pressuring to take a bite from the cake. It was soft, moist and tasted the way home was meant to taste. She savored each bite, letting the softly whipped buttercream melt against the roof of her mouth with each bite. She sucked on the spoon, looking at her mother. “You need to teach me this recipe.”

Laugh lines around the witch’s eyes grew as she tossed a wink, “I have taught you all I know, but I have to keep some secrets of my own.”

From outside the kitchen window, the echo of children’s laughter danced through the woods. The pair looked out at the sound, watching the handful of kids climbing up the tress, and hanging from the branches.

The woods had once been a place of death; a resting place for children unwanted by the world. Hallowing cries had been the echo that plagued each setting night. Now laughter danced between the trees, and children thrived in the place meant to be their grave.

They say the witch in the woods was to be avoided at all costs. That she took the bones of the young and made them into her stew. Charlotte had laughed when the villagers had told her the tales of her mother’s supposed cruelty. She’d been left to die as so many had, abandoned by a family who had long since moved on with their lives.

And yet here she was. Sitting in the cramped little cottage, enjoying the slice of cake her mother had made with every ounce of love she held.