Special Dinner Guest

A desperate banging on the door caused the fork to slip, the clattering mixed with the banging was enough to declare her day ruined.

She approached the door and let her hand rest a moment on the door. Wondering if on the other side she’d find another pair of delusional children. So starved they’d thought her house was edible candy. Ha! It was almost funny.

“Please, please open the door!”

No, the voice was much older.

Agatha sighed and swung the door open. A woman with disheveled black hair stood in the doorway. Her red-rimmed eyes were bloodshot. Snot hung from her nose. Agatha must have stared since the woman cleaned self-consciously with her sleeve. She was incredibly thin.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for my children. Have you seen them? Two small kids in these parts of the woods?” The woman clutched a straw doll to her chest.

Agatha pretended to look around the vast forest beyond the woman. “I have seen no one.” Her eyes darted to the floor.

The woman glanced at the doll. “You haven’t seen my children.” She turned to look Agatha in the eye, “Really haven’t? I found this doll on the way here. I made it for little Joh’s birthday. She just turned four.” She bit her lip.

Agatha cleared her throat, hoping to break the moment, but the woman bit her lower lip and continued.

“My husband… He left them there. We don’t have enough to eat. None of us do. But I’d rather die than let my children starve in the forest,” she whimpered.

Agatha shook her head, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. There’d always been something wrong with her. She wasn’t like other witches. Instead, she’d always felt queasy about witchcraft; it being her path by inheritance instead of choice. What else could she do with a warty nose and rotten teeth? All courtesy of her mother.

“I haven’t seen your ugly children. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait! Is that food I smell?”

Of course, she’d smell the food. Starving people possessed heightened senses, her own experience had taught her.

“No.”

“Have some compassion and give this poor woman a bite.

Agatha scowled. Small beads of sweat formed on her forehead. A whiff of forest penetrated her nostrils, distracting her. When she came to herself, she said, “No. Now off with you, woman.” She tried to slam the door, but the mother had stuck her wooden shoe on the threshold.

“Please.”

Would it be so terrible to give the woman what she wanted, what she needed? Was it such a sin for flesh to return to the place of its creation? “Wait here.” Agatha shook her head. Her stomach tightened when she entered the wooden hut. Any passerby would think it was about to fall apart.

She set a plate next to the one she’d left untouched. A grimace drew on her face at the sight of the two tin pates with bloody steak. They laid on a bed of plum sauce, Agatha prepared in the early morning. This was the year’s feast, for sure.

“Come in,” said Agatha.

The woman ran inside. She tossed the doll on the wooden table and grabbed the steak with her hands, before sitting down, unfazed by the mess she made.

And so, something changed in Agatha.

A streak of sauce oozed down the women’s cleavage, staining her threadbare grey dress.

Agatha pressed her lips into a tight line and stared at the dining-room window. It was better than watching the woman’s disgusting display. Slowly, Agatha stood and walked toward the cupboard. She opened it, her hands caressed the glass bottle of white and violet liquid swirling inside.

She placed it on the counter, next to the tin mugs. It was about time to become a real witch. Never too late.

She turned toward the woman. “Wine?”

“Wine! Yes, please!” Her eyes shining.

Agatha served the wine in the mugs. Adding the violet liquid to the woman’s cup.

She handed it to her, who greedily finished her mug in two gulps. “What kind of meat was that?” Pointing at the stake with her unused fork.

Agatha took a sip of her wine.

“You must tell me. It was delicious. I’ve never tasted nothing like it.”

Her mouth dried, and she tapped her fingers on the table. Every word the woman asked put weight on Agatha’s shoulder. Like a foot on her neck. She could barely breathe.

“You know. Little Roger is only five. I always found it silly, that he dreams of being a lumberjack. Like his dad,” she shot Agatha a small smile.

She tasted bile at the back of her throat. Maybe it was normal to feel this way. After all, it had been her first time. Besides, she was a witch; it was what witches did. No need to feel shame.

Two children could be replaced in no time. A village-witch, on the other hand, could not.

Agatha clenched her jaw. And then, with an unnaturally wide smile, “I might have heard something but—,” she shrugged. Hoping the wavering in her voice would go unnoticed.

The mother frowned. “I want to find them. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.”

“Perhaps you already have.”

And at once the woman’s body landed on her plate with a loud thump. She’d done the right thing. Otherwise, villagers would come knocking at her door, with lighted trenches on their hands. And yet, Agatha stood frozen, until she realized no one was going to do the job for her.

At last, she was a proper witch. Not a bit of guilt this time. Mother would be proud. And while she dismembered the body, letting small squares of meat splash into the cauldron’s broth, she smiled.

 “You did ask to give a woman a bite.” She laughed at her own joke and moved the thickening broth with her wooden spoon. It smelled too sweet for her taste. Agatha grimaced when the small square of flesh touched her tongue. The satisfaction of food overshadowed by the memories of children's flesh. It will have to do.