As We Were Saying
As soon as Bradley left, Gretsella began dedicating herself to cursemaking. It seemed as good a use of her current mood as anything else. There was a big county market coming up in a week, and cursed lavender sachets, which inflicted horrible nightmares upon sworn enemies or beloved husbands when placed under their pillows, always sold very briskly.
After finishing the sachets, Gretsella was collected enough in mind to start on more sedate work, such as the brewing of anti-itch potions and the sewing of little amulets that prevented the progression of baldness. It was enough to keep her busy for an entire week, during which time she absolutely did not spend any number of hours staring directly into the eyes of a toad, waiting for her son’s voice to emerge from its warty mouth. Bradley, however, didn’t call, and Gretsella refused tobe the one to call him first.Shewasn’t the big, silly lunk who’d ridden off to the capital looking for a fight with the government; she didn’t see why the sensible person in the equation should be the one to go begging for bits of information.
She also refused, on principle, to read the papers or listen to the old men gossiping about politics in the village square. She told herself that this was because she didn’t want to reward Bradley’s foolishness with her attention. If anyone had suggested to her that she was simply afraid of hearing bad news about her son, she would have refuted it. Gretsella was a strong, independent crone who had never been afraid of dark tidings in her entire life, andfurthermore, Bradley wasn’tnearlyas dear as he imagined himself to be. When he did eventually call her, as she was certain he would, she would remind him of that fact to keep him humble.
Market day came and went. Gretsella sold out of nearly everything she’d made and earned a tidy profit. Ordinarily, she would celebrate a successful market day by buying herself some interesting new poisonous plants for her garden and making a special dinner for Bradley. On this market day, she simply headed home once it was over and went to bed.
After Bradley had been gonefor almost a month, Gretsella was finally forced to confront reality. She was taking a shortcut to the next village, walking along a footpath through a cow pasture and absolutely minding her ownbusiness, when an old woman of her acquaintance came hobbling up from the opposite direction. She was holding several enormous shopping bags. “Grandmother Gretsella!” she cried. “Such wonderful news about young Bradley!”
Though Gretsella appreciated the old woman’s adherence to etiquette, it always threw her into a momentary fog of confusion whenever someone considerably older than she was addressed her as “Grandmother.” Whoever had established the protocol for addressing witches had clearly not taken into account the fact that elderly ladies who werenotwitches also existed and might occasionally need to address one of their more magical peers in a way that wasn’t extremely confusing to everyone involved. Gretsella was so caught up in this thought, and the woman’s speech was so garbled (she was of such advanced years that she was in possession of what appeared to be no more than three remaining teeth, two at the bottom and one at the top), that it took her a moment to register what had been said. “Whatabout young Bradley?”
“Why, his glorious victory over the usurper!” the old woman said.
Gretsella stared at her. The old woman beamed toothlessly back, like a dim-witted duck that had just been presented with a loaf of very soft bread. Gretsella took a moment to resent her with an enormous fullness of spirit. Then she said, “That soundsveryunlikely, madam.”
“But it’s true! Every word!” the old woman said. “Haven’t you seen it in the papers?”
“I,” Gretsella said, with dignity, “am awitch. We see thepast, present, and future in the bottoms of our cauldrons. We do notread the papers.”
“What’s that?” the old woman asked.
Gretsella gritted her teeth and repeated herself.
“Well,” the old woman said, “didn’t you see it in your cauldron, then?”
Gretsella glared at her. The old woman smiled gummily back. “I elected not to check,” Gretsella said loudly. “Don’t you need to get home with your shopping?” A cold wind began to whip through the pasture.
The old woman didn’t seem to notice Gretsella’s subtle witchly signals of displeasure. “It said in the papers that his men stormed the castle, and Bradley himself knocked out the usurper with a single right hook!”
His right hook.Barb. Her blessed gift had brought trouble after all, just as Hyssop had predicted. Dark clouds began to roll in. “Oh, Barb!” Gretsella cried, and raised her hands above her. A bolt of lightning cut across the clouds. “By earth and hemlock, by cat’s blood and bat’s wing, in the name of my witchmothers, I curse you, Barb!”
“The weather isverychangeable at this time of year!” the old woman remarked, and pulled an enormous umbrella from one of her shopping bags.
“I hope that your top tooth falls out and that your porridge oats don’t cook through,” Gretsella hissed, then turned away to stomp home to her cottage.
“His coronation is in a week!” said the old woman, who was now trotting along by Gretsella’s side at a trulyextraordinary speed. “Here, share my umbrella, Grandmother. It really does look like rain.”
Gretsella groaned.
She spent a few moredays after that nursing her wounds and refusing to call Bradley. Whyshouldshe call him when he hadn’t bothered to pick up his toad and tell his own mother that he was about to be crowned king? So she waited, and sulked, and then when the day of the coronation arrived, she tracked down her toadaphone (which was hopping around in the garden), gave it a brisk pat on the head, and said, “I would like to speak to Bradley. Bradley, how are you?”
There was no response. Gretsella waited for a few minutes, then gave up, set the toad down, and decided to do some weeding. Buttercups were springing up in her stinging nettle patch. She contemplated sending Bradley some nettles in the mail. A fistful of stinging nettles might remind the boy of where he had come from. It would probably be useless, though. He probably hadservantsto open his suspicious packages for him.
“Hello, Mother!” said Bradley’s voice from somewhere near Gretsella’s right ankle.
She nearly fell forward into her nettle patch. Then she nearly fell backward onto her toadaphone. Then she snatched up the toad and said, “Bradley! Hello! Are you well? I’ve heard that you’re the king!” It was an extremely stupid thing to say. She regretted it immediately.
“I’mwonderful,” Bradley said. He sounded a bit funny. He soundeddrunk, Gretsella realized after a moment. Bradley wasn’t usually the sort of young man who liked to drink more than a glass or two. He also wasn’t usually the sort of young man who liked to overthrow the government, so Gretsella supposed that she shouldn’t make assumptions.
“We’re having a party!” It certainly sounded like it: There was a great deal of clamor in the background. “Everyone here isawfullynice to me, Mother.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Gretsella said, though she most certainly was not. If they werelessnice to him, he would be more likely tocome home. “And…congratulations. On…thiskingnonsense. I suppose.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Bradley said. “I shall endeavor to be the very best king that this land has ever seen!”
“Who told you to say that?” Gretsella asked, immediately suspicious.
