Everyone Calls Me Granny

I A hunter has become lost in the ancient forest on a cold autumn day. After wandering for hours, the sun has set, and the only light is the full moon streaming through leafless branches. He sees a faint glow shining in the distance and approaches it cautiously. Even from a distance of a few feet, he can smell the aroma of cinnamon and cloves. The bright moon emerges from behind a dark cloud to illuminate the ancient cottage before him. With narrowed eyes and short, quick breaths, a shiver runs up his spine, and he stands frozen in place. The wind howls, and the oak leaves rattle like dead men’s bones. Even though he has been wandering for hours, he thinks he should continue, but the delicious smells wafting from the chimney make his stomach growl.

Again, the moon shines upon the cottage, making it look to have been built by trolls centuries before. Its thatched roof hangs low, and a shutter bangs in the wind. The hunter decides it is best to leave but hears the door creak open. A petite, round-shoulder figure silhouetted by the hearth behind her holds a lantern as she stands in the doorway.

“Is there anyone out here?” Her voice sounds sweet and inviting. “If you are a lost traveler, you’re welcome to come in and sit by my fire. Hello?”

Caught in the enigma of this elderly woman living deep in the woods causes the hunter to shy away from venturing too close. But the strange confluence of the approaching Hallows Eve and his insatiable thirst and appetite draw him in like a moth to a flame. Stepping into the light, the hunter apologizes. “Pardon me, madam. I’ve become lost and have stumbled upon your home. I did not intend to frighten you.” Cackling softly, she holds the lantern higher, its flame whipped by the wind.

 “So there you are. Come quickly, for I fear it’s about to rain. No need to catch a chill, eh?”   Stepping to one side, she ushers the gentleman in with a wave of her hand. “Please sit down in that chair there by the fire and warm your bones a bit.” she chuckles merrily. Sitting, the hunter studies her in detail. She is a small woman with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.  Upon her head, she wears a lace bonnet tied beneath her chin. It covers her gray hair except for her braid hanging halfway down her back. Her face is weathered and wrinkled but still quite sweet and angelic-looking. There’s an unmistakable twinkle in her eye.

The hunter stands and bows to his host. “I must thank you, madame, for your hospitality in taking me in and sheltering me from the night.” Waving her hand, she turns and walks to her kitchen table. “ Tut, tut. No need for madame. Just call me Grammy. Everyone calls me Granny. I like it that way. You see, I haven’t a husband nor children of my own, so by everybody calling me Garnny, it makes them my grandchildren, and that will include you. So, tell me, my sweet, what’s your name, and where did you come from?”

The hunter sits back down and stares into the cauldron hanging over the crackling fire. Watching it roll and boil, he sees bits of carrots, celery, and potatoes rise and fall in the thick broth.

“My name is Randall, and I live in the shire of Franklin. I left to hunt venison in the forest, and after finding none, I sort to return home. That’s when I became lost and wandered until I stumbled upon your cottage.”

Granny returns from her kitchen carrying a large wooden bowl and spoon. “Ah, yes, these woods are enchanted indeed. They like to trap people and never let them go, hee hee.”  She stirs the cauldron with her ladle, digs down deeply, and scoops a generous portion into Randall’s bowl. Handing Randall the stew, she takes his rife and walks across her cottage, leaning it against the wall. A peel of thunder booms, rattling windows.  The wind howls and whistles through the rafters and crevices in the walls. With her thin eyebrows raised and her small eyes twinkling, Granny smiles. “I told you it would rain. These old fingers of mine don’t lie!” Randall watches her wringing her knarled arthritic fingers as she walks back into the kitchen.

Randall shovels another spoonful of stew into his mouth and takes in Granny’s home. He sees it is small but not what he’d call homey. He thinks it is more functional, like a bakery. Behind him, close to the fireplace, is Granny’s bed, made of hand-hewed logs and a straw mattress. There’s a nightstand with an oil lamp for reading, a small chest of draws, and a bookshelf with numerous leather-bound books. Her fieldstone fireplace is spacious with two iron rods for holding pots. There is an iron grate for frying and an oven for baking over the opening. In the kitchen is an oak work counter, just the right height for her to work at. It is well-seasoned from years of use. Hanging from the overhead rafters are bundles of drying herd, spices, and various fruits and vegetables. 

Granny returns carrying what looks like a cup of tea. “ My sweet Randall, I’ve brought you a cup of buttered mead. Drink it while it is still warm.” Randall takes a sip and is delighted with the flavor. However, Randall is curious as to why she is baking so many items this late at night. He knows a pie is cooking in the stone oven, a stack of freshly baked cookies, and a cake waiting to be frosted sits on the side table. Randall ventures a question. “Pardon me, eh, Granny, but why do you labor so at baking this late in the evening?”

Granny chortles as she grabs a large portion of dough from a bowl on the table. She spreads a layer of flour on the workbench with her other hand and plops the dough down in its center. Next, she spreads flour on a thick, sturdy dowel and presses the dough flat. As Granny deftly works the dough, her knarled and bent figures appear to be no hindrance to her.

“I bake because it is nearly Hallow’s Eve, and the town folk like to hold a festival to celebrate. I’ll load my wares onto my cart and bring them to the village. All the people tell me how much they enjoy my treats. They claim the texture and taste of my goods are almost magical, hee, hee.” Granny pauses for a moment to extract her pie from the oven. Its aroma fills the room.  “ Randall, look at this beautiful mincemeat pie. I also make pumpkin, apple, cherry, and blueberry. When I have all the right ingredients, I’ll even make some meat pies! Oh, how the town folk love my meat pies.” With his eyes drooping and his head dizzy, he is amazed at the speed at which Granny seems to be working.   The air is full of flour dust, and the pie and cookies are piling up at an unbelievable rate.

“Randall, my dear. Would you be so kind as to fetch me that large tin of baking soda from the top shelf? This one is empty/”

Staggering to the pantry and opens the door. Randall holds the flickering candle a little higher to try and see the tin of baking soda but instead finds a jar of pickled newt eyes. Randall opens his eyes a little wider to be sure he is reading the labels correctly. Sure enough, next to the pickled newt eyes is a jar of powdered moonstone and a bag of dried bat wings.

“What the hell?” Randall turns and stubbles into the table, knocking a measuring cup to the floor.

“Oh, dear!” Granny exclaims. She takes Randall by the arm and escorts him to his wooden chair by the fire. “You seem to be a bit woozy, yes? Well, that’s because I’ve put a dash of grounded nightshade in it to help you rest. Don’t be alarmed, though everything will be alright.”

                                                             …

The townspeople prepare for the night festivities on the day of Hallow’s Eve. Storefronts and parks are being decorated with ghosts and goblins. A young boy races down the street, shouting, “She’s here! Granny is here!” Granny’s little donkey pulls her cart full of goodies up the avenue. When it stops in the town square, everyone gathers around. They are so excited that they call to her. “What did you bring us this year? I hope you have apple pie. That’s my favorite!” And so forth and so forth.

Granny removes her new rife from her shoulder and rests it against the cart. She raises her hands to silence the crowd.

“There, there now, I’m pleased to tell you I’ve baked all your favorites. However, this year, I found a creature roaming near my cottage that I hadn’t seen in a long time. I captured it and killed it! That means you will all be having my famous Granny Devilin’s Meat pies!

As the cheers go up, Granny throws her head back and cackles so loudly she frightens the crows from the tops of the trees.