Hubert's Gold

Legend has it that, many centuries ago, on the misty moors of the Scottish Highlands, an old witch had magicked a little black book. Not just any little black book. One that granted its owners whatever they longed for.

Terrible fates had come to those who found this book, so the village people tried to burn it and tear it and throw it in the loch, but it always emerged, unharmed and victorious.

And so they hid it, buried it on the mountainside, deep in the damp and foggy green, never to be found again.

But then there was Hubert Mackenzie, an odd little sheep farmer, and his odd little wife, Maggie. They had no children, but an ancient and cozy farm that they tended to happily. Well, happily until Hubert found the map.

It was a rotting and crumbling vellum map, tucked away in the brick of the cellar where they aged cheese to sell at the market and where Hubert liked to sneak sips of mead. It must have belonged to his father, he thought, and by the looks of it, his father before him, and his before him, and his father before that.

Hubert, with this knobby arthritic fingers and great red nose, peered a little closer. Without his spectacles, the scribbles took a while to come into clear view. Scribbles of the loch, the mountain, and—a little black book.

A magical book hidden along the glen, one that could grant wishes—it all had been stuff of old wives’ tales.

But could it be?

The rumors in his family had since died out, his father hushing his drunken uncles anytime they’d boast about their ancestors saving the village from “the witch.”

He shook his head and tucked the map away again. He’d have to think about that later. He traipsed out of the musty cellar and into the growing twilight to finish his chores. Their cottage gleamed white against the vibrant green backdrop of the rolling, sheep-dotted foothills. The windows were lit up golden, and smoke puffed lazily from the chimney.

Maggie made her best Sunday roast with all the trimmings that night. They ate by candlelight at their rickety wooden table, their sheep dogs gnawing happily on bones by the crackling fire.

“Maggie, dear, what do you say about . . . magic?”

“Magic?” Maggie chortled. “Well, I dunno. ‘Spose I never thought about it.”

“Well—I mean, do you—believe in it? Like in real witches and things?”

“Heavens no, dear. You mean those people who prance around those great stones and howl at the moon?” She screeched, flailing her fork about. The dogs looked up hopefully at the bit of mashed potato clinging to it.

“Have you had too much mead again? You think I don’t see you making trips to that cellar,” she said, now returning her fork to her roast beef and looking at him disapprovingly.

“Well, perhaps. Silly of me for asking, yes,” Hubert said, his mind drifting to the map, tucked away in the brick.

But Hubert couldn’t help but think how much better his life would be if he could be granted a wish. More money, he thought. Heaps of money! A great big house. Servants. No milking goats or herding sheep. No half-a-day’s trip to the village.

It consumed him. He lay awake at night obsessing over it for weeks. Why had his father cursed him with this wretched farm? Doomed to live an isolated, filthy existence?

One day, after stubbing his toe on the cursed feed bucket and diving out of the way just before getting walloped in the knees by his own horse, he decided he’d had enough. He told Maggie he had to go to the village, grumbling something about “good string” to tie the door to the pig pen shut properly. Maggie raised an eyebrow with her hands on her hips, stifling a chuckle at Hubert’s inability to fib. She thought he might need a walk after he’d been acting so strangely, so she wished him a good journey and gave him a peck on his portly cheek.

And Hubert was off, map and a shovel in tow, to the supposed resting place of the little magic book. He stomped through weeds and heather, still wet with morning dew. When he came upon the glen, he shoveled ferociously at the mountainside. He shoveled and shoveled until he heard a dull thunk.

He began digging with his own gnarled fingers, prying the leather-bound book free from the earth. When he finally yanked it out, he fell on his backside and nearly tumbled down the hill, clutching the little black book to his chest.

It was raggedy and decrepit, with stinking, mildewy vellum pages and tears and gashes from the townspeople’s attempts to destroy it. He gulped and opened it, slowly.

A beautiful, ghostly figure appeared before him. She had billowing robes of white, and long, jet-black hair, suspended in the air behind her like she was under water. A look of grave disappointment touched her angelic face.

“And who might you be?” The witch asked. Hubert could only assume she was the witch. He removed his hat and peered up at her.

“I’m Hubert—Hubert Mackenzie, ma’am,” he stuttered. “Apologies, ma’am, but—but I thought you was supposed to be a real scary witch?”

“I have many forms, Hubert, but I assume you speak of my sister. Yes, she magicked her spellbook many years ago and bound me to it.”

“Oh—dear, well, erm, sorry,” Hubert mumbled awkwardly.

“And why have you disturbed my resting place, Hubert?”

“Well, ma’am, you see—I need a better life,” Hubert said, puffing his chest out with importance.

“You need a better life, you say?”

“Well, yes, ma’am.”

“Have you not been happy, then?”

Hubert thought about this for a moment. He supposed he wasn’t unhappy before all this. He loved his wife, his cheese, and his mead. But, surely, the money would make it all better.

“Well, erm—no, I’ve not been happy,” Hubert insisted, wringing his hat in his hands. “I need more money, a better house, servants! I’ve grown tired of wading through mud and filth and—I know people mock us in the village! I know it!” Hubert spat, hardly recognizing himself.

The Sister Witch looked weary, as though she’d hoped for his change of heart, and as though she was burdened greatly by her duty.

“I must warn you, Hubert, that there will be a price you must pay. I cannot grant a wish without taking something in return. It is the law of magic.”

“What something might that be?” He asked.

“It is impossible to say. Whatever Mother Nature sees fit.”

“Well surely it couldn’t be that bad,” Hubert chuckled nervously.

“Perhaps not,” she said, defeated. “Well, then, go home, Hubert, and you shall find what you wish for there.”

With that, the Sister Witch disappeared back into the book. Hubert quickly covered the hole back up with earth and headed home as she commanded, this time with the magic book stuffed in his satchel.

When he arrived at his farm, he hastily stashed the map and shovel back into the cellar before Maggie could ask any questions, and, ‘lo and behold, a hefty stack of glinting gold had appeared in the corner, nestled just under his bottom cheese shelf. Why, there must have been at least £20,000 there!

Mouth agape, Hubert splashed through the mud and into the cottage to tell Maggie that the magic had worked, that they were leaving this wretched place.

“Maggie! You’d never believe it—in the cellar—” but Maggie didn’t answer. She didn’t even yell at him for tracking mud into the kitchen. A half-chopped onion and other garden yields lay abandoned on the counter, and her tea was still piping hot next to them.

Thinking there were only a few places she could possibly be, Hubert scoured the farm and called her name out to the moors. But there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of bleating sheep and the howling wind, rippling the waters of the chilly loch. Maggie had vanished.

He tore open his satchel and pulled out the book. The Sister Witch appeared again.

“Where is my wife?” Hubert demanded. “What have you done with her?”

“I took her.”

“Took her where?!”

“Away. To another realm,” the Sister Witch said calmly.

“But why?”

“Because that was the price you must pay, and you agreed to it.”

“I did no such thing. Bring her back this instant!” Hubert yelled, suddenly realizing that a great big house and a pile of gold seemed so trivial now.

The Sister Witch looked pained when she answered, “But you did, Hubert. You see, to grant a wish, you must take something—unnaturally—from the universe, and that hole must be restored by something else. Many before you have wished for things and suffered terrible consequences. This is the magic I am bound to.”

“No, please. I’ll do anything!” Hubert dropped to his knees before the Sister Witch. She looked pained again.

“There are two ways you can have your wife back, but they will cost you in either guilt or time. You may pass the burden of the wish onto someone else by giving them the gold, but then they must pay their own terrible price, just as you have. All those before you have chosen this path.”

Hubert’s stomach sank.

“Or,” she continued, “you must find the true intended recipient of this gold, and balance will be restored, and your wife will be returned to this realm.”

“But—but how am I to find the true recipient?”

“By gaining the burden of the knowledge of the universe. The balance of magic and sorrow.”

“And how in the devil would I do that?”

“By taking my place, as I did my sister’s, and the true recipient will reveal himself to you. You will not age, and, when your deed is done, you will have your wife and your farm again.”

Hubert knew he could never bear such a terrible burden on his conscience, even if he could have Maggie back. He regretted that single decision he’d made that misty morning, as it had changed the course of his existence forever. How could he not have been happy? He had his health, his farm, enough money—and most of all, he had Maggie.

No one knows how long Hubert had to pay his debt, trapped in the little black spellbook, or whatever became of it. Legend says that he did get out eventually, and that he was able to live out the rest of his days at his farm, frozen in time by the Sister Witch’s magic, with Maggie.

Hikers say that, sometimes, when the stars and portals are aligned just right, you can see Hubert’s cottage just as it was then—windows alight, smoke billowing from the chimney, and Hubert tending happily to his chores.