A Tale of Contracting: An Interlude
While Wirt explores the labyrinthine depths of the Royal Scriptorium at the Court of Gartenfort, please enjoy this tale of a witch-for-hire turned shopkeep, also of the Queendom of Gartenfort
The cock was still crowing when Cally arrived at her shop, yet three birds on the perch already, plus two in the clutches of the owl Julian. Not for the last time that day was she glad of it being her shop and her shop alone, so that no-one could suggest nor compel her to answer any of those sparrows waiting before she had put the kettle on and had her own time in her own shop with none but her own thoughts and cares as company.
The spring rains had begun, so Cally had walked the high road to the shop, which took her past the heartier slippery elms, so she had peeled a great clutch of bark, so first to the cabinets she went before even the kettle. Candles and lamps lit ahead of her as, with practiced steps, she threaded her way through the shelves and chairs and piles of stuffs of her shop. Their warm light mixed with the growing dawn and reflected a wavy image of herself in the panes of glass in the cabinet she stood before, a witch in her prime, barely sixty, streaked hair of black and gray pinned up under the hood of her traveling cloak, a handful of bark in her hand, a scrap of which she chewed idly, eyes patient and flashing with candle light, but only for a moment, as the doors opened for her when she stopped before them.
She located the jar for the elm, called out to the fire to start on the kettle, and found herself still arranging and re-sorting the other jars when the kettle started pinging and grumbling for being so dry and the water nearly boiled off. She stopped but did not finish what she was doing, as the work was never finished, and went to see to the kitchen and all its tools and concerns. The fire greeted her, the candles and stoves lit, she filled the kettle, put hands on a dozen projects from the day before, and soon was watching the sun fill the surrounding forest while drinking her tea from seat in the front of her shop which was for her customers when there was a wait but also for her when there were no customers.
She was friend to many a witch that consulted at court, both in the Queendom of Gartenfort or abroad for its allies and enemies, and she had shared rites in a handful of covens known across those lands and further, and through her shop she had met countless witches whose names she had first read in books or heard in ballads, but none of them, it seemed, knew as many sunrises in the company of tea and silence as she did. Long ago she shared in the ambition to make her own name ring out, but enough years had passed with her as a shopkeeper that even her most powerful friends had ceased their pleas and offers to entice her to join their paths. And none had time to forage besides, so they were very glad of her shop staying stocked and open.
Her shop had been hard enough won, though many of the battles mundane. She had been no different than her sisters, happier to trade curses with a banshee than converse with the tax man, better suited to read the damp catalog of rot and vermin of the Eastern Bog than square her inventory before the change of seasons, altogether more at home with the wild forces that made one a witch in the first place than to be shut up in a shop all day like a jar of beets in the cellar. But the years of shopkeeping started to take on the same shape, like a river carving its bed, and once she found the right wards and forms to manage the day to day, she need not find them again, and the day to day indeed became managed. So though her most original spells now had to do with the finer points of tracking the expiration and mixing hazards of the myriad substances in her stores, she had felt, for perhaps five whole years, more immersed in the wild forces of witchcraft as a shopkeep than she had ever before. Every young witch wanted a spell with their name on it, so much that when three of them got to talking in her shop it sounded more like a gathering of wizards, such was their concern of language and technique. If they had more care for materials and components, however, they would likely not be in her store. Materials wanted time, deep time, to reveal their secrets, and when they were revealed to her in her quiet basement, she felt like a true witch. No legends were written about better methods of fermentation of the bile of beazors, yet her balance sheet showed that it had never the less become known far and wide that hers were unusually effective. Besides, she had learned more spellcraft filling orders for ambitious clients than she had during her wretched apprenticeship in the Duchy of Lyngynthwwd or her years casting cantrips to conceal political trifles in a minor office of the Gartenfort, a position she had been frequently reminded would be coveted by any apprentice witch.
The quiet and calm that made way for the care and attention that she could give to her surroundings, there on the seat in front of her shop with her tea -- that was worth the bargain she had made with her particular infernal patron, that devil called drudgery who lived in the heart of every thriving shop. But old habits die hard, and, not long after she had relaxed into her peaceful morning and let her mind wander, did it wander to the chirping of the sparrows perched and waiting for her. Sighing, she beckoned them over.
The first sparrow hopped up to perch on the rim of her mug of tea and began speaking.
Good morrow Cally,
Might you recall the poultice you prepared for me one year ago, for the cure of woodman's blight on a young man? I am in need of another, and will perhaps need more soon. How many could I order at once and would the cost each be lesser if the number be greater?
your sister, The Witch Glenda
She did recall, but that was in summer not spring when the hogweed was easier to get, so the cost might very well be greater, but Glenda was a friend and long standing customer, so she made a note to check her stocks and calculate the best price she could offer.
That sparrow flew up to the rafters to wait. The next one flew over.
To the witch Callisto,
Ferrets have killed two of my hens. Marley, farmer, Lyngynthwydd
Odd thing to brag about, Cally muttered. The sparrow cocked an eye at her, but she shook her head at it. "To the Farmer Marley, If you cannot find and patch the hole in your henhouse, I have a mixture of mullen oil and frogsbane which is harmless to fowl but will render them unpalatable to all manner of pests when applied to their feathers. Enough for twelve hens can be had for 1s 4 unmixed or 2s 1 mixed, or, if both hens have heads. hearts, and feet still, i would accept those in trade. My shop is open til dusk. Witch Cally." She waved at the sparrow and it flew away.
The next sparrow buzzed over with great speed and began speaking at once.
Great and esteemed Witch Cally I am desperately in need of newt's eye and hope that you can fill my order today if possible.
Yours, the Young Witch Bina
Cally pursed her lips and stared at the nervous sparrow. A new customer. Straight to the point, but was it the right one?
Sister Bina,
I do have a stock of eyes of newt, but as they are an expensive item only to be used for rare and specific purposes, I would inquire as to your planned use before filling your order. Each eye is 3g, fresh. I may have dried ones for less.
Shopkeeper Cally
Cally sipped her remaining tea, wondering who this new witch might be. She beckoned Julian over to hear what nonsense the sparrows he caught might say. The brightly colored one was from the court, of course, something about a merchant's faire with resonable fees to join. She barely waved her fingers and Julian crushed that one in his talons and ate it in three gulps. The other was lost, meant for a Callum of Fyrnth.
"I am Callisto of Fyeth, I received this sparrow of yours. Advise your friends to speak more clearly. Note that I keep a shop that has many cures which may aid the back pain your sparrow speaks of." She picked up the sparrow and pointed towards the risen sun. "Fyrnth is that way, off you go."
She drank the last of her tea in a gulp. It had gone cold. "Time to open the shop Julian."
...
No sooner had she set out her sign and swept the steps did she hear the conspiratorial murmurs of customers approaching on the winding path leading up the hill to her shop. She could not make out any words, but by tone and tenor alone she was certain that someone was either pregnnt and wished very much not to be, or they weren't and wished very much to be so. She hurried inside to stash tinctures for either case behind her counter so that her illusion of soothsaying might be bolstered by a bit of shopkeep's theater.
Indeed, upon seeing the paleness of one of the young maids when she entered, she was able to place a vial of silphium reduction on the counter with such confidence and authority that the nerves and dread of her first two customers of the day unspooled into relieved chatter, and they did so regale Cally with such florid tales of their situation and endless questions about witchcraft and keeping a shop as a lone woman in the woods, with the brigands and wolves around.
"Well, brigands are loyal customers and bring me news from afar much sooner than the crier ever does, and the wolves keep pixies away for the most part, so I've got no complaints."
The two maids' eyes went wide and they tittered to each other, which had been their reaction to most things Cally had said. As they were preparing another question between themselves in more whispers, she spied a sparrow alight on the perch outside. "However, my customers have many if I don't reply to their sparrows right away, so I must bid you farewell." They thanked her profusely, backing out the door while doing so, and she reminded them to fast for a day before taking the tincture and to eat like a soldier afterwards.
Waving from her stoop until they were out of sight, Callie took a few deep breaths and turned to the sparrow.
"Great Sister Cally, thank you for your advisement. I am making a love potion, which must needs be as powerful as can be. I read in Balmydier's Pharmacopea that nothing will enhance a spell more than eye of newt. But true that 3g is more dear than I can afford, yet I cannot afford for this potion to fail. I am eternally grateful for your advisement. Bina"
Cally replied in a flash, as if reading from a scroll. "Balmydier's is reliable for some things but for all others it is is ruinously aged and should be used as history or amusement, not as a spellbook. Newt's eyes are altogether unnecessary for any love potion. They serve but one purpose, which is to detect scrying or counterspells which might undo one's magic. Balmydier was a war mage, and as such very concerned with the plans of his adversaries, so he advised newt eye for near everything. As I assume you do not need this love potion as a covert matter of war, I will advise against the use of newt's eye full stop. I also assume you will be using blue malt as a base, which, incidentally, will blind the eyes as soon as you mix them in. You would have better luck strengthening your spell if you mixed your coins straight into your cauldron. How strong do you need this potion to be, on whom will it be used, for what purpose, when, and how will it be administered? Cally."
With an aftertaste of vexation, Cally descended to her basement to check on her stock of hogweed. She had more than she expected, though it was quite dry. As she emerged from the cellar, two gendarmes entered her shop.
"Good day, witch of the woods of Fyeth." What followed was a tedious dance of double meaning and innuendo, as they claimed to be hunting for a infamous bandit but found reason to mention specific ailments he might be suffering from in recounting his tales. This bandit was of the lowest morals, and they sought to find out what curses his unbridled fornication might have visited upon him. Their descriptions of hypothetical symptoms became specific enough that Cally simply walked away from them, gathered the silver oil and dancing garlic while they continued to speak, and placed the bundles in their hands directly. "Your bandit has sailor's leg, and it will go away on its own, but this will tend to the sores."
She retreated behind her counter to mark the inventory while they blustered and regarded their packages. "If you wish to purchase this, I assume it is on the Duke's gold, an account of which I must make to the tax man. If it shall... aid your investigation... to keep this unrecorded, I will ask a favor of you instead."
They clanked their swords at their sides while they blustered further about the many secret details of their investigation, eventually agreeing to the favor. The shorter one approached her counter. "Before we say yes, tell us what shall it be, witch, that you will need of us?"
She took his hand, light as a leaf landing on it, but firm as the ice that splits the road in winter. She locked eyes with him, and he tried for a brief moment to pull his hand away. "You shall know when I do." He gulped. She raised her quill over her ledger. "Of course I would not compel you and am glad to put this on the books."
"Clythwerd, just say aye, she is honorable" the taller one said. "Aye, witch, we say aye."
The candles flickered, the air went cold, and Clythwerd tried to yank his hand back, which was fixed in place under Cally's, but he too, as his friend asked, said "Aye."
Cally let go and smiled. "Wonderful. Those should last you -- your bandit a few weeks. See me again if the bandit is not in clean health by then."
They nodded and hurried out. Callie flipped to the Favors and Bonds section of her ledger and smiled to herself. It was much more her surprise then to hear a familiar voice call from the door before she even finished recording the names of the two fools.
To be continued...