The Witch’s Garden

The old witch’s garden was a magical place for the children of Westwood Village. The meadow grass was soft, perfect for running beneath the summer sun. And when they weren’t playing, they would sit for hours, talking and laughing as the sunlight dappled through the gnarled apple trees, dancing with the shadows whenever the wind blew. 

For the children of Westwood, the witch was the motherly arms of the village, drawing them in after evening lessons with the aroma of a freshly-baked pie, or the promise of a spell to summon magic butterflies for them to chase. It was the place they went when they were feeling sick, or they didn’t know what to do. A place of wonder, warmth, and magic. And, for twelve-year-old Hazel, it was home. 

It was a warm summer evening, a perfect day to explore the woods or swim in the creek by Old Man Richard’s farm, but Hazel had nothing but magic on her mind. And, of course, the chores she had to do before the witch would let her practice.

Hazel was a quiet, cheerful girl with long white hair and bright eyes. There was a bounce in her step as she worked, sweeping the cobblestone path that led from the gate to the old witch’s cottage. The broom caught on every lip, kicking up more dust than it swept away, but she hummed cheerfully as she pushed the little pile of dust into the grass beside the gate. 

Twirling the broom in her hand, Hazel ran over to the ivy-covered shed in the corner of the garden. She dropped it against the wall by the door and turned to skip away, only to pause, looking over her shoulder at it. The broom slid down the wall, catching on a crooked board, laughing at her. A quick look at the cottage showed the curtains were drawn, but Hazel sighed and picked it up. The last thing she needed was another scolding, and leaving stuff out was the surest way to get one.

The hinges squealed as the door opened inward, letting a puff of dust out into the garden. Hazel sneezed as it tickled her nose, waving the broom at it like she could bat it away.

She eyed the rusty hinges, frowning thoughtfully, before shaking her head. The witch hadn’t taught her that spell yet, and even if she had, she wasn’t supposed to use magic during chore time.

Giving the door a last, reluctant look, Hazel tossed the broom into the corner. It bounced on the straw head, falling into the long, slender tree pruner, but by the time they both fell, Hazel was halfway across the garden. 

The rest of the list was easy, from checking the water of the hens in the small chicken coop to picking up the fallen sticks beneath the apple trees. The last chore was the simplest task: watering the flowers. 

The witch’s flower gardens were the envy of the village, blooming year-round with bright, full petals and an aroma that soothed even the fiercest beasts. Water came from the old well dug between the red roses and the white lilies. It had a round stone wall and a wooden roof covering the winch that lowered the bucket. It was like the castles in the stories the witch told her. A very small, cute castle. 

As Hazel reached for the bucket, a small shiver ran through the air. She whirled, heart racing, as purple light bled through the curtains of the cottage, and a thick puff of ash and smoke belched from the chimney. The gray cloud dispersed, driven by winds visible to her amateur eyes as faint currents of violet magic. 

“Magic?” 

Hazel tilted her head, eyes shining with wonder. It wasn’t often the witch used magic for chores, so the chimney must have been particularly dirty this time. 

She took hold of the bucket and set it on the hook, attaching it to the rope and winch. It took a small grunt to get the handle turning, but slowly the bucket descended. 

There was a wet plop from the darkness of the well, and Hazel reversed the winch, slowly cranking the bucket back up. Her arms burned by the time she finally dragged the water-laden bucket out of the well. She carefully poured the water into the large watering can Blacksmith Todd had made the witch last year, frowning as it stopped a few inches from the top. That was enough, right? 

She lifted the can with both hands and tottered over to the red roses. Tipping it toward the flowers sent a wave of water sloshing over the rim, drenching the bush and washing away the dirt over the bulbs. Hazel dropped the can with a thud, quickly pushing the mud back over, casting a nervous look toward the door. 

Every bush got easier as the can got lighter. After the roses, she watered the daffodils, and then the purple pansies. After that were the yellow daisies, and then the purple flower she forgot the name of. 

The last flowers were chrysanthemums, tucked against the fence by the old road. Hazel tipped the can, waiting for spray to drizzle over the flowerbed, but only a trickle came out. And that turned to a dribble, then to nothing at all. 

“Aww.”

Hazel groaned as she peered into the can, the small puddle reflecting her despondent face back up at her. She snuck a glance at the cottage. The witch had said it wasn’t good to water the plants too much, so maybe the chrysanthemums weren’t really thirsty! 

But…the witch really liked chrysanthemums, too. Every spring, she helped Hazel clip some and deliver one to the widows in the village. She would be sad if they wilted. 

Hazel hung her head and slunk back to the well. Her arms ached just looking at the bucket. 

Another burst of violet magic sent more ash shooting out of the chimney. Hazel sighed and looked at the bucket. It would be nice if there were a spell that helped her do her chores, too.

Wait, wasn’t there? Hazel brightened as she remembered the spell the witch had taught her just last week. They had picked apples with it and lowered them safely to the ground. Couldn’t that work for buckets, too? 

She raised her hands and closed her eyes, reaching for the mana sleeping deep in her chest. It pulsed warm and fast as she called it, beating in time with her heart. She whispered the words of the spell, and tingles raced across her skin. Her eyes glowed a light blue. 

“Up!“ she said, gesturing with her hands. 

A soft blue aura enveloped the bucket. It wiggled once, then twice, then rose into the air. Hazel swallowed her excitement, concentrating as it followed her finger and drifted into the well. She had to lean over the wall as it descended into other darkness, keeping eye contact with the glowing bucket. 

            The darkness parted before the glowing bucket, revealing water twenty feet down. As it dipped into the water, the blue light refracted off the ripples, making the stone walls sparkle.

            “Up!”

This time, her voice was strained. Sweat beaded on her forehead as it began to rise, wobbling every few inches. One foot, then two feet, then five, and ten. 

The bucket grew heavier, or maybe she was just getting tired. The small, warm bundle of magic in her chest strained, flickering like the candles did when the window was open. Why did water have to weigh so much? It was so much heavier than the apples she practiced on. 

The wall shifted under her weight, a pebble breaking free and plummeting into the darkness. Hazel squeaked and wheeled back, pushing another small rock over the edge. She lost sight of the bucket for a split second, but that was enough. 

The light winked out, the spell slipping between her fingers. There was a splash, echoing the sinking feeling in her stomach. 

“No, no, no!“ she mumbled, reaching into the well as if she could grab the bucket. “Come back!”

The bucket bobbed up and down, shaking its head at her. Mocking her. 

With a panicked breath, Hazel stood and reached for the rope, freezing as she found it coiled tightly around the winch. She’d taken the bucket off to fill the can and hadn’t thought she needed to put it back on. Why did she need a rope when there was magic? 

Magic. She had used magic. 

Hazel’s stomach twisted. She turned slowly, peeking at the cottage. The curtains were drawn, the witch nowhere to be seen. She could still fix this! 

Hazel stumbled back to the well, reaching her hand toward the bucket. She mumbled the words of the spell, her lower lip quivering.

“Up!” she cried. 

A faint wisp of blue light curled around the bucket, but it dispersed. She tried again, then again. The third time, her magic didn’t even listen, staying locked in her chest. 

Hazel stared down the well, panting softly. The bucket didn’t move. 

She couldn’t reach it. Her magic was dry. Climbing down would be too dangerous. She didn’t even know how to climb a well. 

Thoughts flashed through her mind one after the other, each one bringing her closer to the edge of tears. At last, she sniffled and, with heavy steps, trudged toward the cottage. She hesitated with the latch, wiping her eyes once, then twice, before slipping through. 

The hinges creaked as they always did, but she barely noticed. Her heart fluttered as she slipped into the kitchen, where the witch was standing over the oven.

Hazel hovered in the doorway, hands twisting in her skirt, as the witch pulled a freshly baked apple pie out of the oven. She’d been too nervous to notice the smell before, but now that she did, it left a lingering hint of ashes in her mouth. 

“Finished with your chores?” the witch asked, covering the pie with a cloth. “It’ll be ready after some time to cool.”

“I-Isn’t that for the children?” Hazel asked in a quivering voice. 

The witch straightened and set the pie on the counter. “No, it’s for us. My little treat for finishing the chores. You did finish, no?”

Hazel started to cry. 

Bit by bit, the story came out. The flowers, running out of water, using magic to get more. And the bucket at the bottom of the well. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,“ she sobbed.

Hazel didn’t blink the tears away, letting them blur her vision. She didn’t have to see to know how disappointed the witch must be in her.

The witch’s arms closed around her. Hazel stiffened, then melted into the embrace. The witch patted her head soothingly, like when Hazel had been a little girl.

“Oh, child, no need to look so frightened. I knew it all along,” the witch said. 

Hazel hid her face against the crone’s dress.”Y-you did?”
            “Just as you can feel my magic, so can I feel yours. Now come, let us solve this little problem.”

The witch led Hazel back to the well. As they peered into the well, she turned to her. 

“Why do you think I ask you not to use magic during chores?” the witch asked. 

Hazel sniffled. “Because you don’t trust me. And you were right.”

The witch clicked her tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a good girl, Hazel, sweet and earnest. But you hide in my shadow too much. Being a witch means having responsibility, and as you just learned, you can’t solve every problem with a snap of your fingers.”

“But can’t you lift it up?” Hazel asked.

“Of course I could. But I’m not going to. Tell me, what seems to be the problem?”

“I can’t reach it,” Hazel said in a small voice. “I tried to use magic, just like we did with the apples, but I couldn’t do it.”

“If Hazel the witch can’t get it, Hazel the girl must. And be quick about it. Our apple pie won’t be warm forever.”

“Apples?” Hazel tilted her head, looking at the ancient apple trees. She gasped, eyes lighting up. 

She started to run toward the shed, but stopped, looking hesitantly at the witch. 

“Um, can I try something?” she asked.

The witch waved a wrinkled hand. “Go on.”

Hazel ran to the shed and threw open the door. The pruning hook lay on the ground, pinned beneath the broom. It had a long, long handle with a curved blade on the end.

Hazel carried it back to the well, watching the witch’s face for any reaction. Her expression gave nothing away.

Butterflies swirled in her stomach as she tentatively lowered the pruning hook into the well. It was just long enough, and it took her three trees to hook the bucket’s handle. The bucket came up slowly, her arms shaking from the weight.

“Very good,” the witch said as it came over the lip of the wall.

Hazel lowered the bucket to the ground and dropped the hook, panting lightly.

“I…I did it,” she whispered, looking up at the witch. “I didn’t even use magic!”

“You did well, child,” the witch said, patting her head. “Now, what do you say we go have some pie?”

The old witch turned and walked toward the door, but stopped as Hazel didn’t follow. The girl bit her lip, then hefted the bucket. She teetered as she carried it toward the Chrysanthemums.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” the witch asked. “After our treat, we’ll practice some magic. Don’t you want to learn another spell?”

Hazel looked back, face set with determination. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t finished my chores yet. I have to water the Chrysanthemums.”

“Good girl,” the witch said.

The old witch went inside and waited, watching Hazel struggle with the bucket through the curtains. She smiled and shook her head.

They grow up so fast.”