Eleanor and the Witch are having tea

At the edge of the woods, in the little village, near the little town, in this world that seemed to be too small at times, lived Eleanor—who had outlived three husbands and eight cats, sang songs that no one remembered anymore, and had forgotten what it felt like to care much about anything.

Her cottage had the shabbiness and cleanliness of what all the modern house and garden magazines were trying to recreate, but hers was original, thus, unique. The exposed beams, the lopsidedness, the constant smell of peppermint tea and boiled cabbage, the too-orange lights all around, and the laced curtains she had made at a time she did not care to remember were all too hers—too tired to hold straight anymore, just like she was.

On an October afternoon, right before dusk cast its velvet net over the woods, in the little village, near the little town, in this world that seemed too small at times, Eleanor had just finished making blueberry jam when there came a knock on the door. The sound was deliberate—three taps, perfectly timed. She knew it wasn't the mailman (for he threw whatever it was at her garden gate), and she knew it wasn't a little animal (for they tended to scratch and yell when they needed something), and it was definitely not Death (for they usually sent polite dreams to her, waiting for an RSVP).

She waltzed to the door, excited to see what awaited her, forgetting to be afraid of thieves or bad news.

There on the porch stood a woman she had never seen before. She was tall—so tall that the difference in height between them was comedic—and she wore a coat so dark that the light around it seemed to dim in response. Her eyes were there to reflect more than to see, mirror-like gems—a hint of forgotten green, as if left in the sun for far too long.

"I offer transformations," she said, and her voice sounded like the most delicate glass, but one that couldn't break. "Youth, beauty, power. Everything you wish, for the modest..."

"Ah, I see!" said Eleanor, perking up. "You’re selling something. I thought your door-to-door kind went extinct! I had a salesman coming around these parts years ago, trying to sell me a vacuum cleaner and the man Jesus almost in the same breath. Come in, dearie, you’ll catch your death standing there in that coat. Come on, come on, I’m already making tea. Don’t let the cold in."

She ushered the Witch inside, not taking no for an answer, but the Witch was too stunned to even think of declining. She was used to people's screams or adoration, but no one had thought she was a saleswoman in need of a cuppa. This was interesting. Different.

As the Witch lowered her head to fit in the doorway, the house seemed to moan, the fire crackled, and the teapot hissed like an angry cat. The old woman shushed all of them with a soft "now, now," that felt like a blanket on the shoulders. Then she actually offered the Witch a blanket for her shoulders, showing her to a saggy armchair next to the fireplace. She brought the peppermint tea in mismatched cups and sat opposite her, in an identical saggy armchair that had a bigger bump on the cushion, indicating this was where Eleanor spent her evenings. She took a sip and found herself warming up inside in forgotten places. She needed to focus.

"I can give you your youth back," the Witch said, looking Eleanor straight in the eyes. "No more pain in your spine. No bones cracking as you walk. You could dance again."

"Oh, my darling, but I’ve danced plenty and usually with the wrong men, and once, in a thunderstorm, wearing nothing but my undies. I have no interest in that."

"I can offer you wealth," the Witch said, placing the cup down and trying to understand where that delicious smell was coming from.

"Wealth?" Eleanor laughed. "What would I buy? I haven’t been vain in more years than I care to count. I have everything I need here," she said, and the house seemed to purr lovingly.

"Power then. You can make everyone kneel before you..."

"Oh, my word!" Eleanor cackled. "What are you going to offer next, my love—regrets in a basket?" she said, wiping laughter tears from her eyes. "Listen, darling, you’ve got the wrong one. I have no interest in any of these. All I want is someone to maybe help me carry the firewood and tell a story now and then."

Outside, the wind picked up, making the fire dance. A fox with too many teeth stood outside on the porch, waiting.

"Why did you let me in?" the Witch asked, her hands nervous now, her head lowered.

"I’m not dead yet, am I? I can invite whoever I want in my house. Besides, it’s cold tonight, and your eyes seemed so lonely."

"My eyes?"

"Yes, dearie, those eyes have seen things even the abyss is scared to talk about. Am I wrong?"

The Witch paused, playing with her teacup. "I’ve never been invited in before. Not without a deal. Not for tea."

"Oh, that’s horrible. Everyone deserves tea. Even naughty saleswomen from beyond the veil or wherever you’re from."

The Witch laughed, a rasping sound turned soft, like ice breaking, and so did Eleanor. They talked then. They talked deep into the night, until the wind cleared and the half-eaten moon shone in the sky.

Eleanor shared the story of how she stole a church bell one night and hid it away in a cave, making the villagers think that the end times had come. The Witch remembered a time, far away and long ago, when a man sold his soul just to turn his neighbor's dog into a squirrel. They talked about how loneliness sometimes settles in your joints like arthritis, and other times it feels as necessary as water. They talked about how time bends and stretches when you don’t hear your name out loud.

"I’ve never tasted jam," the Witch said, surprising them both.

"Now that’s a crime, dearie, so it is," Eleanor said, getting up with a briskness that did not match her years. She spread a thick layer of butter and blueberry jam on two pieces of toast and offered one to her guest.

They remained silent while eating, a sound that wasn’t empty or awkward but as familiar to them as their own skin. They looked at each other, content and a little tired from the weight of all those memories. The Witch got up.

"I won’t take your soul today," she said, all seriousness.

"Oh, that’s good. You wouldn’t enjoy trying to store it anyway. Many have tried."

"May I..." the Witch started and then looked down, not sure how to continue.

"You may," Eleanor said. "My door is always open for saleswomen in need of jam and company."

The Witch let her smile show almost human, and Eleanor let hers show almost otherworldly.

She waited at her doorstep, watching the Witch and the fox blend into the morning mist carpet of the forest.

Behind the closed door, the peppermint-laced air curled like a question, or a fox, or a promise yet to knock again.