Ten

 

The witch had hair fluffier than a fresh-shorn fleece. Abraham prayed that her thoughts were not as woolly-headed as she appeared.

"Ah, 'tis the boy's father, come to call. And not to ask about the baby, or the chest pains, though I have prepared a draught for you, all the same." The woman smiled and gestured toward the table outside her cottage, and the steaming cup that sat beside a suspicious-looking, smoke-coloured cat.

Abraham had no intention of drinking some witch's potion. Her talk of chest pains made his ribs ache, though he was certain there had been no pain before.

"I did not curse you. It was another witch, long ago, who cursed your ancestor, but I promise you, the chest pains started when you turned that garderobe handle to gold. You just did not notice until now. And the draught is not poisoned. It will ease the pain so that you no longer notice it, at least for a little while."

"Do you read minds?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "No, Sir Abraham, I do not see into your mind. Instead, I see into the future of what will be, or what it might be. But you do not wish to ask me what will be, for you already know your fate."

His voice came out in a whisper: "Less than a year from now, the curse will consume me completely, and I will die, and my legacy will be to pass the curse on to the very son my wife is carrying, so that in his turn, the curse will consume him, too."

Her eyes were unusually hard in such a soft face, but they arrowed into his soul. "So tell me, Sir Abraham. If you know the future is so certain, why have you come here? What can you possibly want to ask of me?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that such a strong seer would surely know the words before they left his lips, but as he gazed into her knowing eyes, the urge left him. To let her speak for him was to let fate have her way with his life, and he would surrender to fate no longer.

"I have come to ask how to change my fate. To break the curse that kills my family, for a crime so far in the past none of us can remember it. A way to save my son, and fulfil the oath I made to my father."

"Save the boy, or save yourself?" she asked sharply.

Abraham did not flinch from her gaze. "Both of us, if I can. But if I can save the boy from sharing my father's fate, it will be enough."

"Would you give your life to do it?"

For a long moment, Abraham could not answer. Finally, he said, "All men die. If I do nothing, my time is already short."

She nodded slowly, as if this answer seemed to satisfy her. "Drink the draught, Sir Abraham."

He reached for the cup, clenching his gloved hand around it, and downed the contents. Heat seared his throat, bringing tears to his eyes as he coughed and...ah, now his chest hurt. But it was a small pain, too small to mention. He slammed the cup back on the table. "Satisfied?" he growled.

"It is not my good opinion that matters, brave knight, but a girl who you have yet to meet." The witch closed her eyes. "You must go to the capital, and as you cross the bridge into the city, look up. You will see a tower, and there you will find the girl. She will be in danger, though she may not know it yet. You must keep her alive, no matter what happens, in order for her to break the curse. She must break it willingly, of her own free choice, even though she does not know how to do it. She is your only hope, and if she dies, then all hope is lost."

"Does this girl have a name?"

The witch shook her head. "I cannot control the visions, Sir Abraham, nor can I know everything. You have a time and a place to be, and the certainty that she is the right person. I cannot tell you more than I can see."

Despair welled up in his breast, threatening to swallow his heart. "But I must know more. Must I leave now, or can I say farewell to my family? Will she break the curse right away, or will I have to wait? Will she do it in time to save me, or save him? What if...?"

There was pity in her eyes now. "You will leave on the morrow, and you will have time to say farewell to your wife tonight. Once you arrive in the capital, your fate, and that of your son, will be in your hands. When and how and who...are questions I cannot answer, for they depend on what lies in your heart, and what you choose to do. One thing I can promise you. If you choose to stay, and do not travel to the capital, then both you and your son will die, exactly as you have foretold, and you will die an oathbreaker."

"I will not die an oathbreaker!"

She smiled. "Then perhaps your son will live to hold his own son in his arms. Oh, and one more thing. I cannot tell you more, but I can give you a gift that may make your task easier. They were a gift to me, and heaven knows I have no use for them."

She headed into the cottage, then returned a moment later with a pair of extraordinary shoes. They were made of black leather so dark, they seemed to drink the light. They were not new, for dust scuffed the toes, but they seemed hardly worn at all.

"Keep them," Abraham said, waving her gift away. "I have no need for another man's cast-off shoes. My family's curse has the fortunate result of keeping us wealthy enough to afford good boots."

"Ah, but can your good boots do this?" she asked, slipping the shoes on her own small feet. She stamped her foot three times. A hole appeared at her feet, small at first, then widening, until it was large enough to swallow her. The witch grinned, then stepped forward. She dropped through the hole, which closed abruptly behind her.

Abraham's mouth dropped open and he could not seem to close it. He scuffed his foot across the ground where the hole had opened, but it felt perfectly solid to him, as if the hole had never been.

The witch's breathy laugh came from behind him, and Abraham whirled to find her standing in the doorway to the cottage with her arms folded across her chest.

"My cellar is beneath you, Sir Abraham. Or, more specifically, my bags of flour for baking. I landed on the sacks, and came up the stairs to where I am now. Such is the magic of the shoes. Merely stamp your foot thrice while wearing them, touch your toe to the point where you want the hole to form, and it shall open. It works on walls as well as floors. It will close when you have passed through it, just as you have seen." She held out the shoes. "In all the best tales, a knight on a quest receives a magical item to help him. Make the tale a good one, Sir Abraham. One that will be remembered through all the ages, so that a thousand years from now, when the nights are long and dark, someone will start to tell the tale of the man from House Rumpelstiltskin, and how he saved a princess from a terrible fate."

Abraham bowed. "I thank you for your gifts and your sound advice, Mistress Witch, and I will do everything within my power to be the hero of such a tale." He mounted his horse, waved farewell, and headed home.

Dalia shook her head and reached out to stroke the cat on the table. "Should I have told him that when his tale is told, there are those who will think he is the villain, and not the hero, Kisa?"

"Mrow," said Kisa, angling her head to give the witch better access to her neck.

Dalia sighed. "Better that he does not know, then. The people of the future must make up their own minds, as he will, when the time comes for him to choose."