The Witch and the Carpenter

A loving fable for hard times

Instead of writing about stories this week, I thought I’d tell you one. A soft and silly tale for a hard and serious time.

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The Witch crash lands. Or as she prefers to think of it: a controlled descent.

But when a tall man with grey eyes walks over from a nearby cottage and asks, ‘Did you fall?’ she laughs her reply, ‘Yes’.

The man is the Carpenter. She is not the first witch, wizard, goblin or other broomstick rider to tumble out of the sky into his clearing. Indeed, a few years ago, the Carpenter carefully removed each tree root, jagged rock and thorned bush from the patch between his cottage and the forest. He knows, better than most, how much care a broomstick needs. Not only does magic demand maintenance, but the wood itself must be tended to, oiled and checked for cracks. With diligent attention, a broomstick can last a lifetime.

The Carpenter wasn’t an apprentice anymore. A reed-voiced novice might have lectured the Witch, whose broomstick was splintered and dry. No, he was a master of his craft, who had learnt to provide a clearing for landfall rather than attempting to instruct magic wielders on basic woodcraft. That’s why they came to him.

And this Witch has a wild mop of silver hair and green eyes to laugh at the world. He finds himself smiling rather than frowning at her as his calloused hands run down the broomstick, noting each scratch.

‘This will take me a few days,’ he says, more tentatively than he intended.

The Witch looks around the bright clearing, the dappled darkness at the edge of the trees, and the stone cottage with neat plant pots, gated garden and nothing out of place. A goat bleats.

‘Can you use healing elixirs?’ she asks. It would be a fair exchange. That goat sounded bilious, and her elixirs are potent. The Carpenter nods, eyes wandering between her face and the splintered wood. His fingertips itch, to begin repairing of course.

In his kitchen, the Witch is content to find a large fireplace and cauldron, a solid wooden table, and a stone mortar with pestle. She wanders out to search the wood for herbs while he sands, carves, and oils her broomstick back to health in his workshop. Neither hurry as the sun wanders across the sky. The birds sing about the end of summer, and the goat complains.

As the early autumn light fades, the Witch clears her pots and pestles aside so the Carpenter can lay out a meal of cheese, baked breads, soup from the cauldron and sharp mulberry pickle.

They sit opposite each other to eat, enjoying an unspoken negotiation in the air. The Witch watches the Carpenter move, slow and deliberate as if considering his choices when he picks up a cup or moves a spoon. She studies the large brown hands with blunted nails that carved such elegant designs onto the bowls, cabinets, and candlesticks that light the cottage. She listens as he tells her of his crafting with the Ash, the Rowan, the Oak and the Elder. Then she laughs at tales of his neighbours and the tempestuous goat.

The Carpenter enjoys how the Witch’s eyes widen, breath quickens, and hands dart as she tells him of the daring rescues and dreadful wars she fights. She shifts about in her chair as if dancing, arms thrown wide to describe terrible foes, and laughter ringing even with stories of terror or sorrow.

Leaning over to refill the wine, he thinks her hair smells of adventure.

That night, they both know that rather than the small room he keeps for customers and guests, the Witch will sleep in his large, warm bed. The Carpenter touches her like an intricate carving; he knows how to handle quality. She laughs, and kisses, and teases, and throws back her silver curls, her face warm and shining.

Later, her head nestles in the crook of his arm – just so. At that moment, neither of them wish to be anywhere else. Even though they know they will be.

The few shortening days pass as the Carpenter sands and oils in his workshop. The Witch manages to coax her biliousness elixir down the goat's throat, even though the unpleasant thing tries to bite her hand and stomp her foot. It won’t make the monster any more agreeable, but it will ensure it lives longer.

In the evenings, they sit beside the fire, and it glints in her eyes as she tells him a million things about a thousand different places. And she holds his hand, marvelling at how still she can be when his fingers wrap around hers.

All too soon, the Carpenter has transformed her broomstick from a dusty, peeling branch to a proud staff of rich Rowan, carved with more delicate designs than the Carpenter bothers with for any casual customer. He rubs in the polish for so long that it shines.

Then, they kiss under the tall trees of the wood at the edge of the clearing. Both know this is their last kiss for now, but not forever. He watches her fly off to the world, then walks back to his cottage a little slower than usual.

Of an evening, during the deepening autumn, the Carpenter steps outside with a large mug of tea to stare at the stars, wondering if the Witch will return.

Of an evening, during the early winter, camped at the edge of a battlefield, the Witch wonders if the Carpenter will still be there when she returns.

By the time her war is lost and won, it’s deep midwinter.

She lands lightly in the clearing during a snowstorm and smiles at a yellow light flickering in his cottage window. A powerful desire for warm tea and strong arms wells up, like she’d taken an injury she didn’t remember, and this was the cure.

The Witch returns again in the spring, and the Carpenter takes her to fish in the brook. They end up in the water, laughing and splashing like children. Then she visits in the summer, and they hunt through the trees for herbs to mix in her elixirs. They lay in secret bowers of flowers in the vast forest.

The world turns, as it should.

When she lands one afternoon in the autumn, there are no lights in the Carpenters’ cottage. But the walls still feel warm, and she can hear the dratted goat, so the Witch waits for him on the log beside his door, as the hours pass. What she feels sitting there is every emotion a Witch can feel. Hope, anticipation, embarrassment that perhaps he won’t want her this time. Shame that she, a Witch, is waiting for a man. Worry that perhaps she won’t want him anymore.

As the night creeps across the clearing to cover the cottage, she conjures a little were-light, but it has a colder glow than the yellow flames of his hearth.

Eventually, she hears heavy boot steps crackling through leaves, and the Carpenter trudges into the clearing. Across his shoulders, he carries the corpse of a massive dire wolf, all matted fur and sharp fangs. Her flickering were-light doesn’t reach the Carpenter's eyes, but she almost steps back from him. His calm waters are whipped up into confused waves.

‘It was crazed and killed a child from the village. I had to stop it.’

‘I’m sorry’, she says because she knows the Carpenter does not like to kill, ‘but it was the right thing to do.’

He says nothing, but the waves subside a little.

With her light hovering above them, she helps dig a pit to bury the wolf at the forest's edge. Despite the tiring, dirty work in the dark, the Witch doesn’t ask him why he carried the carcass back here rather than leaving it to rot.

That night, they love more passionately than ever before. Then she holds his head on her chest, stroking his hair as he listens to her heartbeat.

‘I tire of this life, my Witch. The goat is unpleasant, and the winter days are lonely. The wood is just one place in the world’.

‘Of course’, the Witch replies.

The following day, the Carpenter leads (and drags) his goat through the forest to his neighbour's house. Then, he carefully wraps and buries his tools and packs away the warm blankets, carved candlesticks and teacups. The Witch tries to be patient and helpful, but she's excited to show him…everything.

They take off on her broomstick, flying towards the sunrise over the world. The Carpenter doesn’t look back at his cottage.

Together, they tame dragons, and free captives. They argue with kings and lead rebellions. One day, he fights through baying crowds to save her from a pyre on which a tyrant was to burn her. Another day, she hangs over a cliff edge, with him dangling below, only her fingers keeping him from falling.

Her quests take them from the dry sands of the deserts to the thin air of the mountains. They love, cry and occasionally argue. But there is always another village to liberate or an cruel queen to overthrow, so they can’t argue for long.

Then somewhere, at some time, having rescued a family of trolls from an evil princess, they sit together watching the flames of their campfire. The Carpenter softly says, ‘My fireplace will need clearing of leaves before I can light it again.’ And the Witch knows he will soon return to his cottage in the woods.

And she is angry at him, and devastated she will be alone again, and greatly relieved.

After they land in his clearing, the Witch helps clean out the fireplace for a cup of tea together before she returns to her calling. Their goodbyes are fast, and only for now.

The Carpenter collects his unpleasant goat from his neighbours. He digs up his tools and lays each out on his workbench. Seeing the awls and chisels and hammers lined before him fills him with peaceful joy. A feeling he’d forgotten. And he’s glad he went on such wild adventures with the Witch, if only for how perfect his tools are, seen with new eyes.

And the Witch returns in the spring, carrying wildflower seeds collected from all corners of the world to plant in his garden. Then she comes again in the summer, and they run to bathe in the forest brook and splash and kiss in the cool water under the warm sun.

The year turns, and she visits every season, between her crusades.

One night in autumn, her arms cling to his in the warm darkness, but he feels her spirit is walking elsewhere. They gather nuts, roots and leaves, all in silence. He carves, while she wanders alone in the woods. The Carpenter worries, so he makes tea, fills the large copper bath for her to soak, and cooks delicious soups from the nuts, roots and leaves.

He even carves her a tiny wood figure of a witch on a broomstick in intricate detail, with a long cloak fluttering behind. She kisses him with closed eyes, and holds it all evening, turning it around in her hands.

A patient craftsman knows that good timber will reveal its grain.

After dinner, the Witch curls up tight in her chair. The Carpenter sees a scared animal hiding from danger, and a coiled snake preparing to strike.

He slowly plucks the carving from her and wraps her fingers around a cup of tea.

As she stares at the swirling liquid, she says, ‘I've heard tales of a terrible wizard in a great castle on the edge of the world. He is fierce and powerful and has lived for a thousand years. He fuels his magic by stealing the souls of children. I must try to stop him.’

‘Of course,’ the Carpenter answers. He wonders if she will ask him to help her. And he knows he would say yes even though he doesn’t want to re-bury his tools.

‘It’s so far away, and he knows more magic than I do,’ she whispers. Then the Witch sighs as if her decision was taken already. She puts down her tea, unwraps herself to sit in his lap.

‘I will go tomorrow. But tonight, I am here.’

For the rest of the autumn, he looks to the sky, in case she comes hither in need of his help. Through the winter, he leaves a candle burning in the window every night. In the spring, the flower buds he collects for her favourite tea slowly wither. In the summer, he works hard in his shop rather than going to the brook, alone.

His carvings that year are competent, but he does not think they are beautiful.

One crisp morning, just as the leaves start to show a tip of yellowy red, he unlatches the door of his cottage to go and feed the goat.

The Witch lies crumpled on the ground a few steps from his doorway.

Her beautiful broomstick is broken beneath her, his delicate carvings scratched off in places and burnt in others. The Witch herself is nothing but skin and bones, wrapped in a silken dress richer than any he’d seen in his travels. She has a fractured arm and an ermine wrap, a deep leg wound and a necklace of diamonds.

Her breath is as faint as a bird's. The Carpenter carries her into the cottage.

The goat does not get fed that day.

When the Witch finally wakes, her usually bright eyes are cloudy and hooded, ‘He was a terrible man, after all. He used enhancements to hide that he’d murdered the children. But eventually, I destroyed him.’ There was guilt, and pride, and more grief in her voice than he expected.

‘I’m sorry’, he says, because he thinks perhaps the wizard had been harder to defeat than for the reasons she had expected, ‘But it was the right thing to do.’

The Carpenter nurses the Witch, marvelling at how bones heal while wood can’t. He makes her soups and doses her with elixirs she’d left in his cupboard. When she can stand again, he hands her a sturdy crutch he prepared, so she can go outside to look at the sky.

But the Witch doesn’t look upwards. She hobbles with her crutch, carrying a pail of food scraps to the unpleasant goat. Then, she feeds the chickens and makes the tea.

They bury the dress and jewels at the edge of the forest. When she cries out in the night, he holds her until the shaking stops.

As the red-brown autumn succumbs to cold white winter, the Witch wanders into his workshop. He remembers many years ago, standing in the corner of his master’s shop, young hands feeling big and empty. He gives her sandpaper for wood and varnish for the boxes, bookshelves, sledges and staffs.

Before the snows are too deep, they take a long walk to the village. The Witch dresses in a simple smock, which she sewed herself, wrapped with a warm blanket. She is quiet and kind to the village women, and he feels proud, as he should. But he must remember his path when they march back through the dark. For the Witch conjures no were-light. She just holds his hand in the blackness.

Having a Carpenter’s wife is pleasant and easy, but he misses his Witch of the world.

In the deepest winter, a snowstorm starts and doesn’t end. They bring the goat and chickens into the cottage, lest they freeze. And the thick flakes keep falling until they can see only white out of the windows.

At first, they make a game of it in their bright, warm kitchen. But the goat bleats at night, keeping them awake, and the chickens make a terrible smell. They can walk no more than a few steps across their cottage, and for days, the Carpenter can’t lay hands on his tools.

After another night of bleating goat and chicken smell, they try to start a fire for their porridge. But they keep getting in each other's way, and neither can coax the tinder to catch. The goat headbutts the Witch’s leg, and the chickens squawk and the Carpenter moves so very slowly.

‘Enough!’ she says and sparks the fire with magic. Then she laughs, and it sounds like crying.

The Carpenter smiles at her, a sad smile because he no longer has a Carpenter's wife, but a joyful smile because he has a Witch lover.

When the snows melt, he presents her with a gleaming new broomstick built of white Ash. And she kisses him with her lips and her spirit, and she is nowhere else but with him for that moment.

Then she flies off towards the sunrise, singing to the sky.

When he can see her no more, the Carpenter walks back to his cottage, thinking of all the Wizards with Blacksmiths, and Queens with Seamstresses, Professors with Engine-drivers and Explorers with Street cleaners.

Because this is how the world turns. If the Witch had looked down on the Carpenter, as dull and uncouth, then the world would jerk to a stop. Or if the Carpenter had condemned the Witch as wild or dangerous, then the world would turn the wrong way. For we need Witches who will battle for the King of the Eagles and Carpenters who will nurse a robin's broken wing.

Slowly and carefully, the Carpenter makes himself a cup of tea, and looks forward to the spring.

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