The Lost Witch by David Tysdale

away and some dimension to come that much closer. She worried her bottom lip before
the obvious answer came to her.
    Bursting from the weeds, Carole scrambled across the yard, into the barn and over to
Runt's stall. She emptied her rucksack onto the floor and gathered her jackknife, a piece of flint
rock, a roll of string, an old canteen and the bar of wolfbane soap, and put them into the pack.
Pulling it closed, she threw it over a shoulder and, with a grim smile, took a final look at the
place.
    The barn had never been more than an eyesore, and now that the hogs were all gone it
was just cold, empty space. On her slate board Carole wrote two lines: Moving on. Thanks
for nothing. She read the note over a few times before reluctantly wiping off the last line
and signing her name. Setting the slate atop a bale of straw where the Murtzes would be sure to
find it and taking her boar's head staff in hand, she turned to go. As she did so, her foot struck a
cob of feed corn.
    The corn skittered across the floor. Food! She'd packed nothing to eat and there was
little more than eggs and vegetables in the cottage. Wait! Maude always kept oat cakes on hand
for emergencies and uninvited guests. The cakes were tough to chew--an added incentive for the
guests to leave--but they kept well and would pack easy. The problem was getting to them
without getting caught, especially since Beatrice was likely to be nosing about the kitchen this
close to dinner hour. Still, there was no way around it. Food was essential.
    She ran to the farmhouse, tucked her staff under the back stairs, and tiptoed up to the
porch. Peering through the screen door, she saw that the kitchen was empty, and she eased the
door open. She heard nothing, so she stepped inside and went directly for the pantry. The sack of
oat cakes was in its usual place on the bottom shelf.
    Carole had nearly finished stuffing her rucksack with cakes when she heard an all too
familiar voice.
    "Mom I'm hungry, got anything to eat?"
    "Wait 'til supper, Beatrice."
    "I can't. I'm starving!"
    "Take an oat cake if you must, but don't spoil your appetite."
    "I don't want a stupid old oat cake."
    Carole dove under the kitchen table just as Beatrice came into the kitchen and pulled a
tub of ice-cream from the icebox. She dished herself a huge bowl, sat down at the table.
    "Did you find the cakes?"
    "Yup." Beatrice shoved a large spoonful into her mouth. She sniffed. "You'd better get
Carole and Gimpy to muck out the barn, Mom. I can smell pig stink all the way in here. It's
disgusting. It's ruining my appetite."
    "Talk to your father about it when he gets home."
    "That's not going to help me now." She picked up her bowl and shuffled out of the
kitchen.
    Once she was certain Beatrice wasn't coming back, Carole crawled out from beneath the
table and returned the half empty sack to the pantry. She wrestled her now bulging pack onto her
shoulders and slipped outside, where she recovered her staff and strode off for the cottage.
----

- 13 -
    "But I don't understand," Carole sniffed, the tears running freely down her cheeks, "if
you're not staying, why can't you come with me?"
    "Carole. Daughter-not," Hal smiled kindly, as he secured the top of his own pack. He set
it on the table next to hers. "I can still see your face that day I wiped the muck out of those
intense hazelnut eyes. How you scowled. How you demanded that I take you home to your
fadder and mudder. And how, when I told you it wasn't possible, you declared, 'Den I wait for
dem!'
    "I gave you my word that we'd wait, and that's what we've been doing these past nine
years. Well, the waiting's over. Your long awaited journey home is about to begin. From
everything that's already happened and what your professor friend said could happen, I know that
I'd only be in the way, that I'd only hold you back."
    "You wouldn't. You know lots of stuff and you're wise and strong--"
    "Look at me. I'm just an old, slow, one-armed monobrain. I can't hold an