Death and Good Things

Death and Good Things (300 words)

Esme Crumb — the village witch — had important things to do, yet there she was, staring into Farmer Jim’s teacup.

“Can you identify them?” Jim asked, pointing at the tea stains.

Predicting the future was sketchy at best, and tea-leaf-reading was a tricky art — even the best struggled with it.

“Hmm,” Esme said. “This squiggly bit looks like a worm — could mean death.”

“Oh,” said Jim, clutching his hat.

“Or maybe a bean-pole, if you squint.” Esme held the cup to the autumn sun. “You know what that means.”

“No.”

“Only good things, Jim. Only good things, eh heh heh.”

“So, it’s either death or good things?” Jim shifted from one foot to the other. “I thought you were supposed to be a witch?”

“Oi! Don’t take that tone with me, Farmer Boy,” snapped Esme. “Do you want a reading or not?”

“Sorry,” said Jim.

Esme had a reputation to uphold. If word got out that she couldn’t read tea leaves, half her work would dry up. The villagers were a paranoid bunch.

How can death and good things coexist? Esme wondered. Oh, this isn’t good.

“Any rich relatives overdue to pop their clogs?”

“Nope,” said Jim.

Rats.

Jim frowned. But before he could complain, a burst of dragon-fire exploded above, and a dragon descended on them, scales shimmering green and gold.

“Oh no you don’t,” Esme said. She aimed her walking-stick at the beast and muttered a few words. The dragon roared, then it squeaked, and by the time it reached them it was just a mouse.

“The harvest is dead!” cried Jim, seeing his burning farm.

He ran around trying to blow out the flames and stumbled upon something hidden under the scorched ground.

“What is it?” asked Esme.

“Lost treasure, I think.”

“Ah,” said Esme, “still got it.”