Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
The waft of garlic and the wooden stake in the corner should have warned me. A thin cackle should have made me turn around. But I'm curious, pale and not too bright when I wake up after a century. I peaked around the half-opened door. An old hag was stirring a cauldron. “I don’t have time for this.” "You have nothing but time, my dear." The crone kept stirring. "Look it's twilight and soon the vampires will be waking up.' "Are you, a vampire slayer, afraid of that!" The cackle was full-throated now. "No. I just want to make my quota." "For the year or the decade?" The young blond woman crossed her arms and said nothing. "Been a bit of a drought, has it." "I don't have time to talk." "Do you have time to check on your boyfriend you sealed up in that coffin? It's about time for him to wake up." I looked for a place to hide. I could hear the scream. "It's empty." The crone laughed. "I need that potion now! He won't escape if I hurry." The crone smiled, said nothing and kept on stirring, sipping the ladle now and again. "It's almost ready," she finally said. "Good. Give me some now." "Oh, it's not for you my dear. It's for him." The crone's eyes beckoned. I should've known better. |