Curse of the Rathbone Shire Witch

The Curse of the Rathbone Shire Witch

Audrey P. Lind

October, 2011



Once there was a very rich man. He resided in the district of Rathbone Shire. He was the only living heir to the Rathbone family fortune. He lived happily in a large mansion on a hill surrounded by stark poverty and sadness. The area had suffered painfully from a long and lingering drought. Crops withered in the dust; people and animals starved all around him.

Mr. Rathbone felt nothing but disgust for his poor neighbors. He had storehouses full of food and drink, and money to order any delicacy he desired from faraway places. He had never felt the pangs of hunger, and he had the plump belly to prove it. One afternoon Mr. Rathbone was returning from a meeting with the Governor. The Governor had not much money himself, and was desperate for a way to help the people of the Shire. He arranged the meeting with Mr. Rathbone in hopes that if he pleaded his case just right, maybe he could persuade him to share some of his food with the people. “After all,” the Governor pleaded, “The shire is named after your Great, Great Grandfather. Don’t you feel a responsibility to the district, and to your ancestors?”  Mr. Rathbone just scowled at the Governor, and replied, “It has to rain someday, and then everyone will finally quit all their whining!” And with that, he mounted his horse and headed back to his mansion.

Mr. Rathbone’s belly sloshed back and forth as he slowly trotted along on his horse through the quiet forest road that led to his property. He had already forgotten about the annoying meeting with the Governor. He was just enjoying the warm sunshine and contentedly munching on a delicious, roasted turkey leg when suddenly his horse stopped and reared up – spooked by something in the road. Mr. Rathbone nearly fell out of the saddle. His turkey leg slipped from his greasy fingers and landed in the dirt. Mr. Rathbone cursed. He was about to kick his horse into a full gallop when he saw a small boy rush over from the bushes beside the road and snatch the turkey leg; immediately taking a big mouthful—dirt and all. “This is all your fault!” Mr. Rathbone bellowed. The little boy was so frightened that he began to cry. Feeling great pleasure at seeing the boy’s distress, he continued to holler—even louder, “Drop that food! It doesn’t belong to you!” “But I haven’t had anything to eat in days,” the boy whimpered. “Liar!” Mr. Rathbone yelled. You’re nothing but a thief and a pig!” Mr. Rathbone’s booming voice frightened the child so, that he did as he was told. He dropped the turkey leg, and ran back into the bushes sobbing. Mr. Rathbone laughed, and galloped off to his mansion to be home in time for dinner.

Little did he know that someone had been watching him in the woods. Someone had witnessed his cruelty to the boy. That someone was the Rathbone Shire Witch. The witch had been preparing a nest in a tree. It would be the bed where she would lay her head to die. Even witches have to die at some point; and when they feel the end is near, they prepare a special place in which to leave their old self behind, and hopefully take on a new form in a new life. She hoped to live out her next life as a bird, so she built herself a nest. The Rathbone Shire Witch was hundreds and hundreds of years old. She was frail and weak. She was tiny and bony with no teeth and stringy, thin grey hair. She had only enough magical powers left to perform, perhaps, one small spell before she died.

From her nest she looked down at the poor, little creature crying in the bushes. She whispered, “You shall never be hungry again, my boy. He says you are a pig, then a pig you shall be. Now go and eat. You know who has plenty of food.” And those were the last words spoken by the Rathbone Shire Witch.

The little boy felt a warmth surround him, like a hug from invisible, loving arms. Suddenly he no longer felt sad or scared. He fell asleep on the ground and while he lie peacefully dreaming of food, strange words kept echoing through his head…he says you are a pig, then a pig you shall be. When he woke up, he was, indeed, a plump and feisty little pig. He was also a hungry, little pig. His four strong legs carried him quickly down the forest road to Mr. Rathbone’s mansion.

He went directly to the front doors of the huge home. He nudged with all his might until the doors opened. He followed his snout through a long, carpeted hallway. He went through another set of doors which led into an enormous dining room. The heavy smell of food was almost hypnotic to the hungry pig. Mr. Rathbone was seated at a long table covered with trays and dishes heaping with fresh, hot food. There was roasted pheasant, potatoes, soup, biscuits, cakes and pies. He was leaning over his plate shoveling a heaping spoonful of potatoes into his mouth when the pig nudged his hand out of the way with his snout. The hungry pig stood on his back legs and began eating the food on Mr. Rathbone’s plate. Mr. Rathbone sat stunned; with gravy dripping out of his open mouth. It was the last bit of food he would ever taste.

From that day forward, the pig followed Mr. Rathbone everywhere he went: everywhere! He intercepted every bite of food that Mr. Rathbone tried to eat. He would get in between Mr. Rathbone and the table. He would grab food right out of his hand before he could manage to get it to his mouth. Everywhere Mr. Rathbone went, the pig was there. The pig slept while Mr. Rathbone slept. The pig roused when Mr. Rathbone roused. Mr. Rathbone was afraid of the pig. There was something strange about its eyes. Its eyes looked like human eyes. Mr. Rathbone tried to lead the pig to the butcher. The butcher saw the pig’s eyes, and slammed the door, hiding inside the shop until Mr. Rathbone walked away—the pig following close behind.

Mr. Rathbone grew thinner and thinner. His cheek bones protruded from under the pale, paper-thin skin of his face. His legs and arms became weak and bony. His body ached, and his head pounded. Every day he would try to sneak some food, but invariably, the pig would strut up and happily gobble it right out of Mr. Rathbone’s hand. One morning, the starving man tried to open the heavy barn door to sneak some grain from the horses. The pig let him use up his last bits of energy in this vain effort. And when his weak heart finally stopped beating, the pig left Mr. Rathbone’s wilted body lying in the bushes for the wolves and the vultures to devour.

It startled the pig to see a vulture swoop down before the body even had time to grow cold; as if it had been waiting and watching. As the pig headed back to the mansion, a strange wind blew through the grass, and clouds of dust swirled all around. Then a cold rain drop hit the dirt, and another and another;  until sweet, refreshing rain showered down on all of Rathbone Shire. The cries of joy and the cheering of the people could be heard for miles. The pig played happily in the rain until he grew hungry. After he ate Mr. Rathbone’s breakfast, he settled down on a rug for a nap. As he closed his eyes he felt a strange feeling, like a warm, loving embrace. When he awakened, he was no longer a pig. He was a little boy again. He grew up in the mansion, and spent Mr. Rathbone’s fortune on the people and the animals of Rathbone Shire.