Chapter 6 - Witch Lessons
The bucket pitched clumsily in a lake of cool, clear water. Down, down, down; in a cavern so far beneath the world’s grassy skin, beneath its earthen muscle, sunken into its stony bones, that it might be mistaken for that Bottomworld over which the grey statue had guarded. The bucket ship swayed at a fixed spot in this subterranean deepness. Its anchor was the long chain, which stretched between a lime-crusted pulley wheel in the cave pool, and the mechanism in the well’s roof, high, high, high above.
Mr. Grey blew out the humming wick inside the parchment lantern. The shadow-fish vanished, but a light remained. Real fish - translucent, glowing, living images of the lantern shades - swam under the lake’s window surface. They cast gentle, wavy moonshine through the water, underlighting the awed faces of Mr. Grey and Tom.
The two faces wandered…
…And looked over hill upon hill of clotted objects. The wide pool, far beneath seas and ponds and flowing streams of wine, had massed the dragon’s-share of memories dropped down the Oh Well. Mr. Grey and Tom’s bucket boat sent ripples over the water. These ripples plashed against piles of footwear, clothing, cookware, household furniture, and every other valued possession imaginable, all mortared with fuzzy sapphire moss. The echoes of the ripples made up for all the echoes lost in the descent down the well. Mr. Grey and Tom felt caught in the middle of endless, whispery, gossipy splashes.
Though many shiny pebbles and novelty spoons and holiday cards added their bulk to the piles; though several a stately cat skull or Bottle-of-Thunder topped the gathered remembrances; Mr. Grey and Tom felt no temptation to plunder. These treasures had lost their function as currency. In being given up by a wandering, wishful hand; in plunging noiselessly through the dark; in striking the water with an echoing cannonball, the newest member of the memory family; in taking up residence on a perfectly-sized niche of land in a community of neighboring objects; in settling on that plot and in making a home of that plot; in passing time below while countless sunrises and sunsets passed in the world above; in doing all of this, these remembrances lost their spot in the economies of kings or queens.
“Different kinds of riches,” was how Tom put it. His words lingered in the fish lit chamber.
Mr. Grey said, “So much treasure left behind. How long has it massed?”
“Not treasure, but memories.”
The two of them observed a respectful silence. Their echoes were long in fading.
A lonely drop of water on his grey hair interrupted Mr. Grey’s solemnity. He looked up, ineffectively, at the inky hole in the chamber’s roof. He saw only the twin strands of the chain ascending out of sight.
Mr. Grey returned his gaze to the standard horizontal vector. He said, “I suppose that’s her abode.” He pointed with a straight arm and a stiff finger at one carefully cultivated pile.
It began beneath the glossy water’s surface. A foundation of memories so old and limescale and uniform in appearance, that they became an ordinary island of sediment. Atop this island squatted a large, observatory-shaped house. This house amassed from hundreds upon thousands of rusted and rotting weapons; more swords, mallets, clubs, blackjacks, guns, nets, knives, spears, and slingshots than a shoulder might be shaken at. These lost implements of bygone battle were fastened together by stiff and crusty clothing: old sweaters, favorite pairs of pants, and of course, robes. Picture frames, books, and heavily-scored cutting boards shingled the rounded roof. Mr. Grey saw a small garden plot tucked onto the sediment island beside the house. A variety of dotted, striped, and tie-dyed mushrooms sprouted from a gathering of unalike pots.
One enormous, faded portrait of an elderly gentleman with a grand mustache served as the door, complete with a horseshoe handle.
As Mr. Grey and Tom studied the house, this door opened with a portentous creak. It was a squeal out of myth, a sound only feasible for a picture frame logged with untold ages of memory-enriched water. The faded image of an old man slid from sight. In its place appeared the distinct image of an old woman.
In many respects, this old woman looked like many old women do. She had conventionally-thin hair. The backs of her hands were appropriately wrinkled. Her spine bent at an angle most would agree was ‘venerable’.
In some respects, she departed slightly from the norms of her age. Her robes - still in the high-cropped, folded style - looked like an old wooden roof’s coat of moss. They were made of densely-woven cat hairs, with Jheri-curl strands springing out around the sleeves. She wore sandals made from old wall tickers and loofah fibers.
In one major respect, the woman stood at extreme odds with the elderly community. This was her face. On it, there lay not the slightest trace of eyes. Where eyes normally were on most faces, on her they simply were not; as if, in the deep dark cave, her own set had grown, and grown, and grown some more, until there hadn’t been enough face to hold them, and they’d fallen off and rolled away, into the still lake. As if to account for this lack of one sense, her head supported an enormous nose, and wide ears.
Facing immediately in the direction of Mr. Grey and Tom, she said, “Few guests come this way. Either of you two tried beans? I got some cooking.” When she spoke, her words reversed the normal echo pattern. They began quietly, but grew until they exploded off the stone ceiling and walls. Then they suddenly stopped altogether. The last thing Mr. Grey heard before the sound ceased was the word “cooking” rebounding in his skull.
Tom said, “Such a kind offer! Beans are classy eatery. I gladly accept.”
Mr. Grey said, “Generous indeed. I do think I’m quite full now, but very kind, miss…?”
The old woman’s ears drooped. “These ain’t common fayre,” she began; first inaudibly, then with the building echo. “You sure you wanna say ‘no’? You’d be missing out.”
Tom nudged Mr. Grey’s shoulder, making the bucket rock unsteadily. Mr. Grey held firm. “My thanks, but I’m good,” He added hastily, “Did they grow in your garden? It’s a fine plot, miss?…”
“Nesting-Inside-Pots,” said the old woman, giving her name. “But that’s a flower garden. My efforts at one,” she added with a smile.
Mr. Grey thought the mushroom growth picturesque. “A beautiful thing…”
Mr. Grey lost track of his thought and forgot to use the rural accent. But the old woman understood. “It’s a side hobby. Nothing like they got above. But your praise is kind.”
“It’s the first I’ve seen. I think that makes it the best. My name’s Mr. Grey.” He instinctively jerked his hand for a handshake before remembering the broad water between them.
“You new around here? There’s flower plots everywhere. At least, last I knew.”
Tom answered her. “Recent culture change. Flower gardens aren’t in vogue. It’s a sorry state.”
Mr. Grey wanted to get back on track. And wanted out from beneath the droplets of water regularly plinking onto his scalp. And wanted off the swaying bucket. He said, “Sorry to impose. We had some business you see. Is this a good time?”
“All times are good here! We’ll jaw on your travel cause, but after supper.” The word ‘supper’ reverse-echoed until it exploded in their ears and rippled over the water.
Tom smiled at the suggestion. Mr. Grey, however, had sudden misgivings about dining with this eyeless witch and asking for her teaching. In Mr. Grey’s defense, eating-with and learning-from eyeless witches lay well outside Starharbor norm. He searched across the fish-lit cave and memory mounds for some form of delay. The bucket creaked beneath his shifting. The old crone caught the sound on her wide ears. “You come here for greed?” she asked suddenly. “If treasure’s your only aim, I’m no helpful host.”
Mr. Grey injudiciously said, “That’s our long term goal…”
He didn’t finish the thought. The old woman reached quickly behind her, into the dark interior of the observatory-house. In her long wrinkled hand, she drew forth an ancient, warped violin. The instrument’s neck was long and curled, like the horn of some abyssal cloven creature. She brought a bow made of silvery unicorn hairs to the strings.
Tom hastily completed Mr. Grey’s thought. “Not by stealing, ma’am. This man needs fiddle lessons. I’m Tom, by the way.”
The eyeless witch stood motionless in the portrait door of the rusted-weapon house, the unicorn-hair bow poised over the angled strings of her goat-horn violin.
There was a pause. Water plinked on Tom and Mr. Grey’s scalps.
Nesting-Inside-Pots rested the violin against the door, and beckoned.
Mr. Grey, Tom, and Nesting-Inside-Pots leaned back from a barn-door table. The splintery wooden rectangle supported an array of empty, unmatched plates, the remains of a supper of chewy algae candy and imported beans. Mr. Grey shifted delicately into a formal posture. He didn’t trust his chair of interwoven hair combs. Tom reclined with a satisfied sigh and closed his eyes. He evinced no concern over the despairing creaks from the ceiling rafters, as they bore his weight in a shoelace hammock. Nesting-Inside-Pots, or ‘Pots’ as she said they should know her, sat cozily on a giant peach pit.
The sugary scent of the devoured meal filled Mr. Grey’s nose, alerting him of foreign odor danger. Mr. Grey reached into the pocket where he kept his antiodor cologne.
He felt no cologne bottle.
Mr. Grey instantly forgot his distrust of the hair comb chair. He shifted forward and patted desperately over his other pockets.
Tom peeled a lid back and rolled an eye over Mr. Grey. “Why do you always fidget?”
Mr. Grey turned on him; blank in expression, alarmed in motion. “I’ve lost the cologne. I’m without odor defense. We’ll have to go back…”
Tom’s single open eye narrowed. Pots interjected, her voice building to a boom that rattled silverware in the walls. “Just wash carefully. Use the water of the lake. It’ll keep you clean.”
Mr. Grey glanced around the room, searching for other sources of dangerous odor. He saw some dried mushrooms. They dangled from fat fishnet sacks above a stretched tapestry which formed the kitchen counter. Mr. Grey could almost feel the spores dancing in his lungs.
Pots yawned. “Nearly my bedtime. Let’s get down to pebble tax. On to your purpose. You came for lessons. You have your fiddle with you; let me feel its make.”
She held a wrinkly, pale palm out to Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey reached down and undid the buckles on his violin coffin with two clicks. He passed the instrument to her. She clutched it by its neck; felt along the curves of its body; rubbed a finger over the f-holes. Tom rose unexpectedly and stomped to a nearby wall. He began fiddling with a collection of old toy racing swans decorating a curtain-runner shelf. Pots didn’t seem to mind.
After rubbing her wrinkled hands all across the violin, she said, “This is nice enough. But it’s not careworn with love. It’s dusty, unused.”
Mr. Grey false-started his words a few times. “The thing is Ms. Pots, I’ve been busy with my work. There hasn’t been time.”
“No, that’s not quite right. You don’t budget for practice. This was a hobby.”
Tom tapped a finger on a hollow gourd, filling an otherwise awkward silence. Mr. Grey considered for a moment. “True, it’s not my job. But I respect the hobby. It’s my most-liked sound.”
“I’m not your Wisdom. It’s not a personal thing. Your passions differ.”
Pots’ huge nose widening for a stretching yawn. She started rising from her peach pit seat. Mr. Grey said, “One more moment please. I did learn diligently, when I had the time.”
Pots sat down. “Will you quit the quill? Time tocks like it always did. What’s changed for you now?”
“Limited options. I need a treasure income. Bandits took my purse.”
“Why not pencil push? Ain’t that your chosen career? You must be gifted.”
Mr. Grey thought for a moment. Tom bought time by upsetting a bowl of glass ladybugs. “We couldn’t find work,” said Mr. Grey slowly. “But it pushed us to seek you, so it’s for the best.” Mr. Grey tried to sound enthusiastic, in his own way. The thought of sitting in a sterile Starharbor office, however; working a Clickety-Clackety-Word-Machine, surrounded by the cubicle hedge hum; that thought did appeal.
She smiled at him, wide and consoling. “Sorry to hear that. But my answer’s still ‘no sir’. I cannot teach you.” Mr. Grey readied a rebuttal but Pots went on. “This ain’t your main flame, and I won’t force it to be. You’d get resentful.”
The peach rolled away from Pots as she stood. Her bent spine cracked. Mr. Grey rose from his own precarious perch. Indignation rushed to his head. He said, “I think that’s hasty. I enjoyed playing before, I just got busy. Now there’s fresh motive. I’m not just interested; I need to learn it.”
Pots had angled her ears to better hear this new case. When Mr. Grey finished, she ambled around the barn-door table and stood before him in a dignified hunch. Mr. Grey resisted the urge to lean away. He stood motionless as she brought a single chalky hand up to his face. He thought for a moment she meant to twist his nose or flick his forehead. She only patted his shoulder.
“Let me ask you this; What’s your special enchantment? What’s your signature?” Her growing echo-voice boomed over Mr. Grey’s face and shook his ears.
Mr. Grey brushed his robes and became interested in a shrunken peacoat decorating a wall. “I’m not sure, per se… I haven’t decided yet. I’m sure yours is grand,” he added, attempting to divert Pots from further questions. Mr. Grey wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘special enchantment’.
Pots wasn’t diverted. “Passion makes power, at least for a performer. It takes high treasures. And perfect moments. The enchantments are grandest, from shows of that kind,” Her voice took on a firm and proud tone and she unbent a little. “Mine’s on the water. I send up the memories. For Oh Well patrons.”
Mr. Grey’s face was stone. Pots went on, “The Well’s voice is mine. The Well’s moss becomes my skin. My soul’s in the Well.” She patted him again on the shoulder. “You’d get one someday. But you’d need the full passion. And to loosen up.” The eyeless witch bumped Mr. Grey’s shoulder with her thin hand. She smiled widely in his face. Her breath smelled of mushrooms.
Mr. Grey said, “Would that win contests? If I learned my own, I mean. That’s our final goal.”
Pots did her best old lady cackle. Her voice’s accelerating echo transformed it into the high, maniacal laughter of a mastermind in their cavernous lair, albeit without the evil flavor. “That’s your only chance. Contests aren’t won with rough work. It takes real effort.”
Pots clapped Mr. Grey on both his shoulders, then turned and shuffled towards a curtain of Wind chimes which separated her bedroom. “I’d search through the towns,” she said. “You’ll find a better teacher. I’m an old recluse.” Mr. Grey unhinged his mouth to object, but Pots again went on. “You’re welcome tonight. I’ll reel you up come morning. Kids need that often.”
Just then Tom accidentally dislodged the curtain-runner shelf from the wall made of weapons. The knick-knack collection crashed across the Tupperware-tile floor. Mr. Grey feared an outburst of witchy enchantment, but Pots only grumbled about Tom’s clumsiness. She shuffled over to help sort the mess.
While the two of them set the shelf right, Mr. Grey stood beside his chair of combs. He pondered. To his own surprise Mr. Grey felt disappointed that the eyeless, cave-lake-dwelling, old crone wasn’t going to be his tutor. He tugged distractedly at the anchor shawl and looked over his violin. He’d left it sitting unplayed for so many ages, back in his workers’ prison cell, that it’s surface had gathered a dusty fur.
But Pots had rubbed the dust away with her inspection. Now the steel strings and the polished wood of the top plate shone with a primal zeal; like a gleam in the eyes of a hunting cat.
Mr. Grey tightened his shawl and set his hands at his sides.
When the mishmash of knick-knacks had been reassembled and Pots was dusting off her cathair robe, Mr. Grey turned to her. He spoke in his most formal way. “Excuse me Ms. Pots. I wish to ask one more time; please teach me to play. I know that I’m new, and not the perfect student. But I’d like to learn. I feel slightly lost, and out-of-my-element, since we disembarked. Fiddling could help me. It would occupy my thoughts. You’d have all my thanks. And I’d repay you. Have you any parchmentwork, or taxes to file?”
Pots clapped her hands (they did not reverse echo). She bustled through the curtain of chimes, making it tinkle cheerily. Mr. Grey and Tom glanced at one another. They heard boxes shifting and scraping in the next room.
Presently the witch returned, setting off the curtain’s chime again, carrying an enormous cardboard cube. She huffed it across the room and slammed it onto the barn-door table. She removed the lid, revealing enormous stacks of legal documents. Mr. Grey recognized them as incorrectly filed taxes, accumulated over eons.
Pots explained that they could start lessons - and tax corrections - tomorrow morning.
Far above them, The Wind that Smelled like Rain let fall heavy tears. The downpour came in sideways sheets, striking the inside of the well. It dripped and slithered and dropped along the long stone walls. It passed the blind Hyoshigi-raven. When it reached the subterranean chamber where Mr. Grey would take his violin lessons from the eyeless Pots, it struck the lake with light, echoing splashes.