Seven Came to Dinner. Chapter 3

                     Seven Came to Dinner     

                          

                          Chapter Three.

 

                                 Stories.

 

                     Magrib coughed, sniffed sharply, and brushed a speck of imaginary mud from her sleeve before beginning.

          “The village where I used to live is up in the hills above the river. Cold winds, colder people. Pig farmers, the lot of them — and they behaved like their own animals. Greedy, not very bright, and very, very dull. Painfully dull.”

          She sniffed again.

          “Once a year they have Hog Day. They slaughter every pig except one boar and the breeding sows, then they gorge themselves silly on pork and drink enough cider to float a boat. You can hear them snorting and slurping from miles away.”

          Her mouth tightened.

          “And do they invite me? No. Not once in twenty years. So last year I went anyway. Not one piece of meat was offered. Not one drop of cider. They pretended I wasn’t even there.”

          She folded her arms.

          “So, I turned the lot of them into the pigs they behaved like and left them to it. As far as I know, they’re still up there grubbing in the dirt, eating everything in sight, getting fatter and fatter. Pigs they are, and pigs they will stay until the spell is broken. Or until next Hog Day, when the next village over comes looking for ham and sausages.

          She sniffed, satisfied, and sat down.

Eddo shuddered.

          Jecks rose without a smile. A faint mist curled from her lips as she spoke.

          “If you journey north, you reach the Ice Fields. Most people cannot bear the cold. I prefer it. Cold is orderly. Predictable.”

          She tapped one fingernail on the table; it sounded like ice cracking.

          “There is a tribe who live there. Sensible enough to keep out of my way, and I keep out of theirs. Usually. But this spring they drove their reindeer straight through my ice garden. Shattered it. Trampled through my cottage. And worst of all,” her voice thinned to a blade, “they put out my fire.”

She paused. Even the other witches shifted uneasily.

          “In the Ice Fields, fire is breath. Without it, you die. They laughed when I told them so.”

          Her eyes narrowed.

          “So, I removed their fires as well. Every spark. Every ember. Every flame they tried to light guttered into nothing. They have eaten cold food ever since. They are cold, and they will remain cold until the spell is broken. Or until winter begins in a few weeks, and they freeze where they stand.”

          She sat down. Frost glittered briefly on the back of her chair.

 

Eddo shivered.                    

          Athaga rose with a rustle of sand, fanning herself as though the dining room were far too chilly for her liking.

          “I live in the South,” she began, her voice warm and rolling, “where the green lands of the Seven Kingdoms fade into endless dunes. The air dances there, shimmering like silk. Some people say it is too hot. I say it is perfect.”

          She smiled proudly.

          “The desert folk know their way around, where the hidden wells lie, where the shade falls at noon, where the lizards run. They keep out of my way, and I keep out of theirs. Usually. I spend my days creating the most magnificent sand sculptures. Towers, dragons, palaces, whole cities that rise and fall with the wind.”

          Her smile vanished.

          “This autumn, they held their annual camel races. And where did they choose to race?” She threw up her hands. “Across my latest masterpiece! They trampled it to dust. And they laughed when I protested.”

          Heat seemed to shimmer around her.

          “So I made the sand hotter. Much hotter. Everywhere they go now, the water dries up before they can touch it. Their wells crack. Their shadows look thirsty. They have been trying to cool off ever since.”

          “Thirsty they are, and thirsty they will stay until the spell is broken. Or until summer comes, when the sand country grows so hot that they will simply melt.”

          She sat down with a satisfied sigh

 

          Eddo gasped.                        

          Anigore stood slowly, brushing a stray piece of gorse from her cloak. A faint smell of wet wool seemed to rise with her.

          “I live up on the moors,” she said, her voice steady and wind-worn. “On a clear day you can see right to the edge of the Seven Kingdoms. On a foggy day you can’t see your own hand. I like it that way. Plenty of space. Plenty of sky. My sheep wander where they please, and I let them. They know the land better than most people.”

          She sighed.

          “The valley folk are farmers. Usually, they keep to their fields and I keep to my hills. But last spring one village decided they needed more land. Up they came, building walls, tearing up the bracken and gorse, ploughing the moor as if it were their own. My sheep couldn’t find their grazing. I told them so.”

          Her eyebrows lifted in tired disbelief.

          “They laughed. Valley folk always laugh before they think.”

          She folded her arms.

          “So, since they needed water for their crops, I gave them water. It has not stopped raining on them since. Their fields are mud, their roofs drip, their boots squelch. Even their dogs look miserable.”

          “Wet they are, and wet they will stay until the spell is broken. Or until winter comes, when the rain turns to snow and they find themselves buried in deep, cold drifts.” 

          She sat down again, wringing a drop of imaginary rain from her sleeve.        

Eddo went cold.                   

Sharon rose from her seat with a snap of her fingers, as if brushing away an invisible spark.

“I live in the mountains,” she said, her voice fierce and bright. “Not the cosy lower slopes, the highest peak. Up where the air is so clean it almost sings. You can breathe it and feel yourself sharpen. The pine forests below are beautiful, but my place is above them, where the wind keeps everything pure.”

She folded her arms tightly.

“The mountain folk are mostly woodsmen. They cut trees for the valley people. I tolerate it. Trees grow back. But last summer they discovered they could make more money by burning the wood into charcoal. So my beautiful, clean air, my air, turned to smoke. Thick, choking, filthy smoke.”

Her eyes flashed.

“I told them to stop. They laughed. Woodsmen always laugh when they think they’ve had a clever idea.”

She leaned forward.

“So, since they love fire so much, I gave them fire. Now everything they touch burns to a cinder. A twig, a tool, a loaf of bread, whoosh. They start fires without meaning to, and they will keep starting them until the spell is broken. Or until winter comes, when the heat they make will melt the snow and bring the avalanches down on their heads.”

She sat, still crackling with indignation.

Eddo choked.

          Tracy stood with a sharp little nod, tapping her fingernails on the table like pebbles.

          “My home is in the town,” she began crisply. “Just down the road, in fact. I had a perfectly good shop selling spells and potions. A proper business. Shelves, labels, everything. To buy it, I had to borrow money from the rich men of the town, you know the type. Rings on every finger, noses in the air, brains made of porridge.”

          She sniffed.

          “The townsfolk didn’t buy my spells. Oh no. They preferred cheap charms from travelling peddlers. So, the rich men took my shop away from me. Just like that. They boasted that everything they touched turned to gold. They never stopped bragging.”

          Her eyes narrowed.

          “So, I helped them. Since they love gold so much, I gave them something better. Now everything they touch turns to stone. Coins, cups, doorknobs, even their precious gold. Stony‑hearted they are, and stone things they will stay until the spell is broken.”

          She folded her arms.

          “Or until Counting Day, when they must hand the king his taxes in person. And if they can’t pay… well. The king has very sharp axes.”

          She sat down with a small, satisfied smile.

 

Eddo swallowed nervously.

Finally, it was Calizone’s turn. She rose lightly from her chair, smoothing her black dress as if preparing for a dance. She smiled at Eddo, then at the other witches.

“You know,” she said brightly, “there is simply no way I can compete with my sisters. They’ve had years to practise being dreadful. I’m far too young to have done anything that impressive.”

She gave a little shrug.

“So I did this instead.”

She snapped her fingers, a neat, cheerful little snap, as if she were calling a pet. A flash of bright blue light burst across the room. Eddo flinched, blinking hard. When his eyes cleared, the dining room was silent.

Only Calizone remained standing.

She smiled sweetly.

He jumped to his feet. "What have you done?"

           “Relax,” Calizone said gently, as if soothing a nervous child. “You are quite safe. Remember the promise I made. No harm can come to you or yours.”

          She was already moving, light on her feet, humming a little tune as she went from chair to chair. She carried a large black bag, and with dainty precision she picked something up from each empty seat and dropped it inside. Plop. Plop. Plop. Six times.

          When she finished, she came to stand before Eddo, smiling as though she had just finished arranging flowers.

          “There we are.”

          She opened the bag.

          Six large, very ugly toads blinked up at him.

          Calizone closed the bag again with great care, set it neatly beside her chair, and sat down. Her smile widened.

          “Now,” she said pleasantly, “I really don’t think you need to choose who should be the Witch of the Dark Forest. After all, I’m the only one left. A toad can hardly expect to take on such an important position, can it?”

          “That is wicked,” Eddo said. “You promised that no harm would come to them.”

          “True,” Calizone replied, utterly unbothered. “And no harm has come to them. They haven’t been hurt — merely… altered.” She sounded very pleased with herself.

          “I thought spells wouldn’t work on witches,” Eddo said, still shocked.

          “Quite right. They don’t. But witches can be affected by a magic potion, if one can persuade them to swallow it.”

          Eddo frowned. “But you didn’t touch the food. How did you get them to swallow anything?”

          Calizone laughed, a bright, tinkling sound.

“Oh, I didn’t need to touch the food. I touched the cutlery. The potion was on the soup spoons.”

          Eddo stared. “If you knew you were going to do this, why did I have to listen to all those awful stories? You could have spared me that.”

          “Not easily,” Calizone said. “The potion needed time to work. If I’d made it stronger, they would have tasted it. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if it would take effect at all.”

          Eddo shook his head. “I still don’t understand how you can change them into toads without breaking your promise.”

          Calizone sighed, as if explaining something obvious.

          “It’s simple. You know that when a witch’s spell is undone, it hurts her a great deal?”

          Eddo nodded.

          “Well, since you are as honest as everyone says, you are going to rush off and undo all those spells.”

          Eddo nodded again.

          “I thought you might,” she said sweetly. “So, I’m saving them from being hurt. A toad feels far less pain than a witch. I’m being kind, really.”

She rubbed her hands together, delighted with herself.

          “And in any case, they won’t stay toads forever. If anything happens to me, or when I die they’ll turn back into themselves again. Not that I intend to let anything happen to me. I plan to live for a very, very long time.”

          She stood, picked up the bag of toads, and slung it over her shoulder as if it were a basket of laundry.

          “And now you must excuse me. I have a cottage to see to.”

          “But how do I undo those awful spells?” Eddo asked.

          Calizone paused at the door, looking back with a bright, mischievous smile.

“There’s always a clue somewhere. Think hard enough and you’ll find a way to cancel them out. And thank you for the delicious dinner.”

Then she was gone.                          &nb