Welcome to this week’s installment of many micro stories, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
PURR AND PREJUDICE
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that sooner or later, a single woman living in a cottage at the edge of the woods will be branded a witch.
She even had a black cat.
Not that Esmeralda Fairfax, most decidedly not a magical person of any kind, had ever intended to own a cat, never mind a black one. But ever since she had stopped a group of village kids from drowning the poor thing, it had followed her everywhere, slinking in the shadows behind her cape and generally giving off a very convincing ‘witch’s cat’ vibe. Thank heavens no-one but her had ever heard him talk, or Esme knew she would be for the ducking stool. Witch hunts might have officially gone out of fashion one hundred and fifty years ago, when the elites were too busy persecuting people from other countries instead, but there were parts of the English countryside that hadn’t quite caught up yet.
So when Esme went out that morning to gather herbs, she was doing her best to look as unwitchlike as possible.
“Shoo!” She said to Cat halfheartedly, knowing that the animal would pointedly ignore her and follow her wherever she went. She considered throwing something at it, but her heart wasn’t in it. Esme liked animals, often rather more than she liked people, and besides, it was secretly quite flattering that Cat seemed to have adopted her so readily.
“Where are we going?” Cat asked. Esme ignored it. Cats couldn’t talk; everybody knew that. Unfortunately, Cat refused to conform to the usual feline standards, leaving Esme wondering if she was, in fact, suffering with some kind of fever or delusion. There was no history of insanity in her family that she knew of, and she was so far showing no other signs.
It really was most peculiar.
“You could answer me,” Cat said, sounding annoyed. “I know you can hear me.”
Esme started humming loudly to herself. Cat purred along as he followed her across the field and onto the farmer’s path beyond.
“I take it we’re going to the hedgerow again, then,” Cat continued. “More herbs for the blacksmith’s headache potion? It’s no wonder people think you’re a witch.”
“I am not a witch,” Esme snapped, pushing her hair out of her face where it had escaped her bonnet. “Herbalism is a perfectly respectable, scientific profession.”
“Heard me that time, didn’t you?” Cat said smugly, stopping to fastidiously lick a paw. Esme stomped off ahead, fixing her sights on the very hedgerow the Cat had guessed she was making her way to.
“Witch,” Cat chuckled behind her.
“Excuse me?” Esme’s tone could have cut through diamonds.
“Nothing. Just purring. Cats don’t talk. Everyone knows that.” Cat said.
Kelle BanDea is a neurodivergent, disabled mother of three from the UK and the author of ‘Modron; Meeting the Celtic Mother Goddess’ and ‘Aine; Goddess of the Sun, Fairy Queen of Ireland,’ published by Moon Books. She has also written for various publications including Watkins Magazine and Pagan Dawn and is a regular columnist at Feminism and Religion. She is of Traveller heritage and loves exploring her native folklore and nomadic traditions.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash anthology.
Iron Faerie Publishing 