The Witch in the Woods

At first, Homer couldn’t find the track going off into the woods, where the fabled Miss Flint was living like a witch on roots and berries. Quarry Pond Road ended at Route 2A, and from there a left turn soon brought Homer to the pizza parlor, but if there was a nearby track going off into the woods to the place where the fabled Miss Flint was living like a witch on roots and berries, he couldn’t find it. As he turned the car around, a fragrance wafted past his nose and he could almost taste his favorite flavor, pepperoni with plenty of mozzarella. This time, staring left and right, he found what he was looking for. Tall weeds obscured the KEEP OUT sign, but the path was faintly visible. Homer parked the car on the shoulder of the road, pushed through the weeds, and set foot on the path.

It was a long walk up and down through a forest of white pines, oaks, and hemlocks, with here and there the gaunt trunk of a dead tree. Homer recognized the low bushes on either side, and he wondered if the gnarled hands of the hungry old witch reached down to gather the blueberries. But then he came to her vegetable garden. Well, of course old Miss Flint would have a vegetable garden. Blueberries alone wouldn’t keep an old lady alive.

Cautiously, Homer moved closer. He saw no witch’s cottage, but as he leaned over the fence, he heard a noise and caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, the flick of a garment, a swaying in the tall grass. The slammed gate shivered. A rake tipped over in a slow arc.

It was clear that the dear old lady needed time to prepare for a visitor. She’d want to comb her witchy hair and poke the fire under the caldron. Well, no, of course there wouldn’t be a caldron, but surely there’d be a teapot. She’d want to put the kettle on.

Politely, Homer passed the time by inspecting the witch’s garden. What did poisonous plants look like? Henbane and so on? Peering inquisitively through the chicken wire, he saw only lettuces in a row and early peas climbing twiggy sticks, just as they were doing at home. But this garden was far neater than the one Mary had so carelessly planted in May. No creeping Charlie romped among these tomato plants, no evil crabgrass sprawled around the zucchini. Homer was envious. He told himself that both he and Mary had more important things to do than weed the tomato patch. They were far too busy to be nasty neat like this, whereas a witchy old lady in the woods had nothing better to do.

He stopped inspecting the garden and wandered around it to the gate. Here there was a path. Homer sauntered blithely along it until he came to a low building nestled in bushy beds of marigolds. It was not a moss-grown witch’s cottage, but a clap-boarded house as neat as the garden. The door was shut and curtains hid the windows.

Homer was an experienced old trespasser. Boldly, he knocked on the door. No one came to open it, but he could feel the presence of someone on the other side, listening. At the window, the curtains trembled. He moved to the window, tapped on the glass, and called, “Miss Flint?” in a syrupy voice, trying to sound like a courteous Visigoth, a gracious Assyrian whose descent on the fold was entirely in accordance with etiquette. He could see a shadowy form behind the gap in the curtain, but it made no move to let him in. Rashly, Homer tried a touch of cheery informality. “Fay?” he called sweetly, beaming through the gap in the curtain and pressing his nose against the glass.

At once, a thin hand reached out and slapped the curtain shut.