"'Maid'?" you gasp.
"Manservant. Minion. Drudge. Whatever you want to call it," the witch scoffs. "If you work for me for a year - and do a good job mind! - I'll give you the Cecillia your father needs."
You consider it gravely, glancing back at the gates of the garden as you do. As a petty serf, you were raised to have a deep respect for the contracts of bondage that dictate your life, along with a healthy any who might seek to exploit you further. The farm would still need tending, your land lord would still expect his share come harvest season. Yet you have little option, as always is your lot in life. Without the herb, it is certain your father will not live many more winters.
As you turn back, the beauty is gone, shrivelled up again into the hooked-nose crone, warts and all. Unable to contain your disappointment, you exclaim, "Why are you old again? There's nobody here but us."
The hag cackles. "Pah! Such is the way of youth. It fritters away when you're not looking! And your father is not the only one who has use of Cecelia," she says with a secretive glint in her cloudy eye. "Though I may be a thousand years old, with the herb I can be beautiful again, but only for a short time. It must be used wisely and sparingly, not to titillate some ragged farm boy!"
So that is why she hoards it so fiercely, you think. She turns and hobbles away up the garden path towards her cottage, barking back over her shoulder, "Well, boy, do you accept my offer?"
You say honestly, "I have other duties on the farm during the day. But I will work every evening, and I promise to put in a full day's work during that time."
"Pah! Promises, promises..." the hag grumbles under breath. "You are lucky you're pretty, offering a deal like that. I accept. Twelve months a slave, then you shall claim your prize, assuming you live that long!"
As you follow her into the cottage, you are shocked to discover the inside to be far vaster than the outside would suggest. Even more shocking, the place is a complete tip. Teetering piles of filthy cutlery, plates, pots and pans rise to the cavernous like trees swaying in the breeze.The witch seats herself on a mound of dirty laundry, waving her hand at the mess.
You set to the labour without another word. The basin is dry, so you search around for a bucket. Unable to find one in the mess, you take a iron pot, fill it at the river and carry it back. It takes several trips but you fill the basin and start scrubbing away.
The hours pass slowly and as darkness falls and you are dismissed, you find you've barely made a dent in the workload. You trudge home, thoroughly exhausted and somewhat demoralised. Far worse is the look of disappointment on your father's face when you return empty handed. He sucks air through his teeth as you explain the arrangement to him. "A deal with a witch is a dangerous thing, but not as dangerous as breaking it," he says grimly. He sighs and shakes his head. "What's done is done... Thank you for this, Jack."
Glancing over, he sees that you're already asleep.
---------------------------
The next day is more of the same. Work the farm from dawn til evening, walk the long trial to the witches hut, work until dark, then walk home again.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Weeks go by in an exhausted fugue of toil. Sweeping the floor, tending the garden, mending the fence, thatching the roof, carrying water from river to the witches' chambers. Your limbs ache. You just want to sleep. If only there was a way of making things easier.
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