The Innkeeper's Soup

I have no idea how long I've been here, but it feels as though years have passed. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I only cook.

The witch who has me in her involuntary employ is an unusually ugly woman, with a face so grotesque it's almost comical. She wears an outdated, massive escoffion atop her head that doesn't detract from the unsightliness of her face, but it does distract from it. 

Her clothes are ridiculously ornate. Lace and silk, brocade and taffeta, in a myriad of colors and textures that hurt the eye. The clashing prints do a fine job of hiding the many soup stains encrusting the garments. 

I stir the soup now, adding the copious amount of pepper required to keep her mildly sedated. Even though it makes my baby sneeze, which irritates her, and makes her threaten to beat him, she won't follow through with her threats if I keep her calm with enough pepper in the air. 

Of course, I don't dare to look at him. The spell affects us both.

Whereas I am doomed to forever brew the soup for the witch, my poor baby boy will become a pig whenever I look upon his face.

I miss his face, his real face, so dearly.

I would have never lost my temper, had I known the horrible woman who came into our inn was a witch. I surely would have held my tongue and quietly gone about my business.

Unfortunately, that is not my way.

It's my husband's fault, that rotten, philandering scoundrel.

I had been struggling with little Archie, who was teething. Henry couldn't be bothered to help with him. He insisted that he was needed at the bar. I could have easily handled the kitchen and the bar on my own, as the amount of travelers stopping in had dwindled since the first snow, and we only had locals from our tiny village coming in for an occasional bowl of soup and an ale.

So I had strapped Archie to my back with a swaddling cloth, and handed him a bundle of clean rags braided and soaked in cold water and a tiny bit of honey mead. He was happily gnawing on it, grunting as he found relief in gumming at the cold knot.

The bell above the door rang, and when I looked away from the kettle I had been stirring over the fire, my eyes fell upon the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Long, blonde locks fell in golden waves down her back, with small, intricate braids woven throughout. Her gown was as green as the grass that grows after the winter snow melts, and cinched at her tiny waist, cut low to reveal an ample bosom that seemed at odds with her tiny frame.

I couldn't help myself, and I glanced at Henry. Of course, that dog was practically frothing at the mouth, like the rabid hound he is, falling over himself to assist her. His smile was more of a leer as he attempted to charm her. I couldn't hear his words, but I knew they were as lecherous as always, what with the soft murmur and the way his lip curled at one corner. 

I felt the heat rush to my face, and my blood felt as if it was boiling when the beautiful woman tittered lightly at whatever Henry had said to her, and leaned forward, allowing her breasts to rest upon the bar, drawing Henry's eyes to them.

I admonished myself for my outrage. I knew this would happen. I knew this is how Henry was. Yet I still married him. When he asked for my hand, this devilishly handsome rake of a man, I found it hard to resist. I knew that he did not want me. I was plain. Not much to look at. I was not overly bright, not personable. I was known for having a temper. I did not suffer fools, and many people have fallen to the barbed end of my sharp tongue. I was merely the plain, simple daughter of the innkeeper. 

The only thing I had that he wanted was the inn. The Cat and Rabbit. It had been in my family for generations. As an only child, it was my inheritance.

When my father was sickly, I cared for him as I ran the inn by myself. Henry would come in and offer a hand, pouring drinks. I was grateful, not only for the assistance, but for the attention from the most handsome man in our village.

I was always aware of the kind of man he was. He would come into the inn often, to drink, to flirt, and most often, to gamble.

I knew he had many debts. I knew he was serving drinks and not charging those he owed money to. I watched as he flirted mercilessly with any pretty thing that walked into the inn.

I knew all this, and yet, when my father passed, when I grew more and more weary, working from dawn until midnight, and sometimes beyond, day after day, Henry's proposal seemed like a lifeline. I desperately needed help.

Our marriage didn't change much. He still gambled and drank and flirted.

Although I have always considered myself a realist, I also had a great deal of pride. Sharing my husband with others was a bitter draught to drink. Not because I love him. But because he made me look like a fool. Like an ugly, foolish woman. 

When I realized I was with child, Henry suddenly had business elsewhere. He didn't tell me what his business was, or where, or with who, but I could only guess it had something to do with the high-born widow who stayed with us for a few nights, and who was on her way that day.

I endured my pregnancy alone. When my time came, I closed the inn, and quietly had my child, with the help of our village's midwife.

Archie, named after my father, was a delightfully calm babe, and although it was too soon when I found myself working again, alone, with an infant, he made it easy.

I had heard nothing from Henry, and he did not return until midsummer. He sauntered in, with a flamboyant hello to everyone in the inn. Even to me, although I couldn't help but notice his eyes shifting away from me guiltily. 

He was in an affable mood, and he greeted his son with more enthusiasm than I expected.

Of course, it was short lived, and he was back to his ways in no time.

Archie grew quickly. His rosy cheeks and sweet nature brightened my days. 

The more I grew to love him, the more resentful I became of Henry, who largely ignored us.

It all came to a head in the winter. Archie was half a year old, and had been keeping me awake as his teething kept him squalling through the night. I was exhausted.

That fateful morning, Henry had come into work late from god knows where, irritable with Archie for crying, irritable with me for not making the crying stop, and irritable with having to work. So he worked as little as possible.

And when the beautiful woman in the green gown came in, and he abandoned everything to fawn over her, leaving me to serve food and drinks to our patrons, I had had enough.

I threw a dish at Henry. As hard as I could. It hit him in the arm and fell to the stone floor, where it shattered.

He turned slowly to glare at me, a thunderous expression on his face that frightened me.

In anger, and now in fear, I threw another dish at him to keep him at bay. And then another, and another. 

Dishes were soon flying all over the tavern, patrons were ducking them as they scrambled out the door. Archie was still strapped to my back, screaming at the loud noise of the crashing dishes. But I couldn't stop.

 Henry had climbed over the bar and ducked down on the other side of it.

One of the dishes hit the beautiful woman at the bar, who had been sitting calmly amid the madness, like it was a common thing that she was quite used to.

Although when that dish broke upon her shoulder, she gave me a very sinister grin that froze me in place, and stopped my tantrum immediately.

Her voice was raspy and deep, when she said, "so, you kissed the prince, and he turned into a frog, did you?" She chuckled.

She waved a hand, gesturing mildly toward Henry, whose visage became distorted, his features melting into a flesh colored blur, as he screamed in agony.

When he looked up, I was shocked to see that he had the face of a frog.

Stunned into silence, I could only stare in horror.

Archie had mercifully stopped crying, and was frantically chewing the braid I had made him, grunting as he attempted to soothe himself.

The woman sneered at him, making a chill run through my blood, and I turned my body so that he was out of view of this terrifying woman, who appeared to have some sort of evil magic.

"That thing sounds just like a pig!" she said. My temper rose again, until she said "Look at it!"

I turned without another thought to check on Archie, who had grown quite wriggly on my back. To my horror, Archie was gone, and there was a suckling pig strapped to my back, snorting and squealing.

The piglet wriggled its way out of the sling and scrambled onto the bar, where the woman snatched it up and cradled it in her arms, rocking it violently. 

Its squeals turned into baby cries, into my Archie's cries, but when I peered into her arms, the cries turned back to squeals, the piglet kicking its legs, its cloven hooves scrabbling for purchase.

The woman threw back her head in a horrid laugh. "Ah-ah, no looking. If you do, you'll see what I see. A loud, obnoxious pig."

I let out a horrified scream, which was quickly silenced by the woman throwing an open pepper pot into my face.

The burn of it in my eyes, up my nose, lit my face on fire. I couldn't see through the tears, but I heard my little Archie sneezing.

"Please," I cried, holding my hands out. "Please, let me have my baby back."

Her laugh was slow and dark, and seemed a bit sluggish. "I don't think I shall. Do you enjoy throwing dishes?"

"No! No, I'm sorry," I pleaded, as my vision began to clear, and my eyes stayed drawn to the pig in her arms, willing it to turn back into my Archie.

When I looked up, she had transformed into the most hideous hag I had ever seen.

She let out a wheezy cackle at my reaction.

"You shall cook for me. For all eternity."

I shook my head in horror.

"I like soup."

Since that night, I have been in this witch's cottage, at the edge of a strange wood, endlessly stirring a cauldron full of strange ingredients she prefers in her soups, which I am not allowed to eat. I don't eat anymore, anyway. Apparently, whatever spell I'm under makes it so that I don't have to eat to stay alive.

I stir soup. And anytime I even think about trying to escape, a dish appears in my hand, and my arm jerks so that it goes flying across the room.

One had hit Archie before. His screaming broke my heart, and when I looked to check on his welfare, the wailing turned into squealing and the pig was in the ugly woman's arms, who sneered at me.

Since then, I keep my thoughts of escape under lock and key, and focus on the soup. Only the soup.

I try to add more pepper to the soup than anything else. Pepper calms the witch. It makes her sleep. 

Poor Archie sneezes terribly with the pepper, which irritates the witch, but it's worth it when she sleeps. Archie is calmed, and I hear his happy little noises. I don't look at him, but I sing to him, and I talk to him, and he gurgles and coos in response. It's so difficult to refrain from thinking about snatching him up and running out of there.

"A visitor has arrived," Henry announces, in his new, gurgly, croaky frog voice. "It's a young girl."

I glare at him from the corner of my eye, as I stir the soup.

He blinks his bulging eyes at me, his blank expression unnerving. 

"Oh, how exciting!" the witch exclaims. "Let her in, you fool."

Henry bows and leaves, closing the door.

He doesn't return. He performs these little acts of defiance that he's able to get away with because of me. Because the pepper tempers her.

I can never escape my punishment, no matter how much pepper I use.

The witch seems to have forgotten about the visitor, and returns to rocking Archie too hard, making him cry.

I can't help it, I think about escape. Before I inadvertently hurt Archie, I run to the door and throw it open, flinging the dish from my hand. Much to my satisfaction, it hits Henry square on the head, who has been sitting on the steps near the door, staring off into space. 

I quickly return to my eternal soup and stir, before it burns. I add more pepper to it. 

The door opens slowly, and I glance over to see a girl, of about eight years of age, in a blue dress. She pokes her head in, looking around cautiously.

She's not like other visitors that have come here.

We've had a gaggle of things come in. A rabbit, a lizard, a dodo, a turtle. And then there's the cat that seems to live here. He smiles mockingly at everyone and everything. His smile grows larger when someone is in distress. He makes cryptic comments that sound like insults, although it's difficult to understand their meaning.

Oh yes, all the creatures here talk. I can only assume they're all victims of the witch and her magic.

But this girl is…just a girl. A normal girl. 

My hope rises, and I quickly tamp it down.

Too late. A plate appears and it goes flying in the direction of the witch. It shatters on her hideous headpiece, but she barely flinches. Unfortunately, it starts Archie up crying, thus causing the witch to rock him violently.

I see the girl cringe, and she gently suggests that babies mustn't be rocked so hard. I have to squash down my hope.

Their conversation is a back and forth of the witch becoming more insulting, and the girl becoming bolder, sassing the witch for her behavior.

Her boldness gets my hopes up high. Maybe she can help Archie! Maybe she can take him and save him from this!

Plates are flying in every which way as I fling them involuntarily around the room. I'm throwing pepper into the stew by the fistful, excitedly trying to knock the witch out so that maybe this girl can escape with Archie.

The witch excuses herself. She can't stop the massive yawn from erupting from her jowly maw, and as she rises, she mumbles that she needs to prepare herself to play croquet with the queen. I can tell that she's half asleep already.

She throws Archie at the girl. I hold my breath, but luckily the girl catches him.

I'm so hopeful that she'll take him out, that plates are flying out of my hands in all directions. I still avoid looking at Archie and the little girl, because I don't want him to turn into a pig while she's holding him.

She mutters to Archie that she can't leave him here, he'll get hurt.

Dishes and pots and pans are now soaring all over the room.

"Please, please take him," I beg under my breath.

The girl scurries outside, with Archie.

I'm so relieved, tears begin flowing from my eyes.

I have to see him. I have to see him one last time.

I run to the window, and look at where the girl is standing, staring down at Archie. 

Who then turns into a pig when my gaze lands on him. The girl releases him, and he runs away.

I open the door, to try to run after him, but the invisible cord that ties me to the cauldron becomes visible momentarily, a flash of light and a painful electric zing shoots up my body and yanks me back over the threshold.

I fall to my knees and sob, as I watch my son run off into the woods.

After several moments, Henry's disgusting frog face pops out of the woods, and looks surreptitiously around. He creeps out slowly, and in his arms is a wriggling piglet, squealing madly.

"Look away, Agatha, now!" he hisses angrily. 

I quickly look down, and Archie's squeals are replaced by soft giggles, as Henry coos at him.

"I've got him," Henry says. "I'll keep him safe. She ignores me. It's…it's the one thing I can do."

"I'm sorry," I sob, still looking down at my hands, fighting the urge to look up.

"I'm sorry, too." The slap of his webbed feet on the cobbled road leading away from the cottage fades into the distance, the sound of Archie's laughter echoing in my ears.

I go back inside and let the cord pull me back to the cauldron. I stir the soup, and take a deep breath, letting it out with a relieved whoosh.

I smile. I don't think I'll ever throw another dish.