The Witch

Down she came, descending like a cloud of evil from the dark and murky sky. A great robe of many torn layers of heavy black cloth billowed around her as she landed on the wind-beaten hillside.
         This was the witch.
         A pointed hat stood on her head; tall, crooked, but somehow less ragged than the rest of her garb, as if it was more cared for, more loved. If she was capable of such a thing. Her feet upon the scrubby grass were clad in worn boots of hard leather, from what could be seen beneath the gusting dress. In one hand was grasped a gnarled stick, tall as the woman herself, if woman she still was. Bound to the stick’s fat base were a cluster of unruly twigs, in some strange parody of a sweeping broom.
         This was the witch.
         Curled around her neck, an ugly living scarf, was a battered, scrawny black cat, with torn ears and an expression of pure venom on its squashed face. The skin of the woman herself was wrinkled like a blanket after sleep, and marked with lumpy warts and liver spots. Her hands were twisted, with thin crooked fingers and knuckles that matched the woody knots in her broom handle. Her nails were long and yellowed, but strong and sharp, and harboured a variety of assorted grime. Her face had a greenish tinge to it, as if permanently nauseous. Her long, beak-like nose had been broken at least three times and stuck out of her face at an unexpected angle. Her lips were dry, cracked and pale like something almost dead. But her eyes were alive; black, beady and shining full of knowledge, depth and vigour. A second of brightness in an hour of dark.
         This was the witch.
         She coughed; a dry, cracked sound like bare earth after a long drought.
         “Good evening,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”