A Holiday Fairy Tale, Part Three
Maria pulled the blanket from the rod over the doorway.
“Here. Wrap yourself in this.”
Greta complied as she blinked hard at the bright light now piercing into the hut. Outside, a blanket of snow covered the clearing. The sun shone down on it creating a dazzling display as though sparkling crystals lay on the ground.
Maria ladled porridge into a mug and handed it to Greta, along with a spoon.
“You may bring that with you.”
Maria beckoned for Greta to follow, which she did, squinting into the sunlight and spooning delicious porridge into her mouth. They crossed the yard, passing the garden, and climbed the two steps to the landing of Hilda’s chalet. Maria knocked. When there was no answer, she grasped the doorknob and swung the door open.
Inside, the chalet was dark. Herbs hung from the rafters. Something green bubbled in a pot over the fire. The kitchen table was strewn with mortars and pestles, vials, and a cutting board streaked with a dark red substance. Cupboards hung barren on the walls, their doors askew. A basket in the corner held moldy bread. A plucked chicken hung on a hook, swarming with flies. Greta nearly turned and ran, the stench was so foul, but Maria put a calming hand on her shoulder and beckoned her forward. A small, arched doorway led to the back of the chalet, and through it, was a small bedroom.
The witch, Hilda, lay on a cot, covered only in tattered rags. She was no longer beautiful. Her face was haggard; her nose misshapen; her skin pocked and leathered- perhaps scarred long ago. Patches of hair were missing from her head. Worst of all were her black hands with the oddly angular twisting nails, as though they had been poisoned by potions and spells.
“Hilda,” called Maria softly. “Hilda, you must get up. There are things you must do. You know of what I speak.”
Hilda made no move to rise. She lay on her side, knees bent, arms wrapped around herself, staring blankly at the wall.
“Come now, Hilda. With the spell broken you must set things right. Don’t you see?”
A tear trickled down Hilda’s cheek. The dark room remained silent for a long moment. Maria knelt and took Hilda’s blackened hands in hers.
“Hilda,” she whispered, “you know you must.”
It was as though Maria’s touch magically roused Hilda, for she slowly sat up and wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve. She struggled to speak, her mouth working before any sound came out.
“I hoped beyond hope that this day would never come,” she rasped. “I did not believe there would be a creature alive who would choose ugliness over beauty. In all my days I have never encountered such a soul.” she faced Greta. “A mere child, no less. Why? Why weren’t you scared of her?” Hilda asked Greta.
Greta stood behind Maria, frightened that perhaps the witch would cast a spell on her, too.
“Well,” stuttered Greta shyly, “Maria had kind eyes and a musical voice. And her hands were soft and warm.”
“You were not supposed to notice those things. No other being who passed through the clearing had ever noticed those things!” The witch stood angrily and stepped toward Greta. Maria shielded Greta with her body.
“Enough, now, Hilda! It is over. Do not frighten this child. She is pure. If she saw the good in me, she may also see the good in you.”
“Any good in me disappeared long ago.”
Maria looked searchingly into Hilda’s eyes.
“I don’t believe that to be true.” Maria sighed. “Let us do what needs to be done. We must.”
Hilda’s shoulders sagged and she blew out a ragged breath, giving a defeated nod. Maria stood aside and Hilda opened a small, nondescript door by the chest of drawers. A steep, stone stairway led down into darkness.