What kind of magic is this?

The wagon rattled along the rough dirt road. The driver sat rigid; staring straight ahead, working the clenched muscles in his jaw.

The bay started whining again, "My feet are killing me."

The buckskin whinnied a reply, "Mine too. Why are we going back this way?"

The squeals of the three piglets he had just picked up from a farmer in Waterloo echoed up from the bed behind him:

"I'm scared."

"Where's momma?"

"Stop stepping on me!"

Every muscle in Silas' body tensed in annoyance.  He glanced over at the dog sitting on the bench next to him who, thankfully, was silently watching the world go by, seemingly oblivious to the chatter around him.

A short while later they pulled to a stop in front of an ivory colored cottage. Surrounding the entire dwelling was a pristinely kept, brightly colored flower garden. Bordering the garden was a picket fence, so perfect and white it was hard to believe it could exist here under the elements of the forest.

Silas jumped from the wagon and strode to the gate. He pushed and pulled, but it refused to open.

"Witch, what kind of magic is this that you have set on me?" He called.

Suddenly, his dog appeared next to him, something dead and limp dangling from its mouth. The man's mouth turned down in disgust.

"Morton, drop it." The man demanded, but the dog just took off, waging his tail.

Though its voice was muffled with his prize, the man could plainly hear, "You'll never catch me!"

The young witch watched from her doorway as the man chased the dog in circles. She gave out a glittery laugh.

His arrogance was already waning under his new aptitude. No longer were his animals voiceless against the cold will of their cold master.