The Witch, the Blacksmith, & the Apprentice

Molly climbed. High, high, higher still, that irresistible force drew her up the beanstalk. She did not think to look down. She did not think about the wolf waiting below or the basket of cookies for her grandmother that she had dropped in her haste. She did not consider that she was scaling into nothing but cloud and sky and space. Molly registered nothing but the winding beanstalk. So she climbed on.
Within the hour, within the day, within the minute – who knew? Molly most certainly did not – she had entered the vast, clammy expanse of cloud. A high-pitched wind screamed around her, and her bushy brown hair and puffy red coat whipped and twirled. She held on as tightly as she could and continued climbing, not fully recognizing the danger she was in. It would be safe to assume that Molly had been placed under a spell. The beanstalk’s? Perhaps.
The cloud seemed to contract and intensify, pushing and nudging against her. Molly’s pace slowed to a mere crawl as the cloud seemed to hardened, bearing resemblance more to a marshmallow than a ball of cotton puff.
And then, there was no cloud at all.
Molly found herself in yet another clearing, though the second was much different from the first. For one, this clearing was much larger and more rectangular, and sloped, as if on the edge of a mountain. For another, there was not the slightest inkling of a giant beanstalk. This last small observation dawned on Molly as her spell faded away and her conscience returned. For the second time that day, Molly hadn’t the slightest idea where she was.
She panicked.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she sputtered and gasped, spinning and rushing around the clearing, searching for the beanstalk and some sense of reality. There was nothing.
Tears sprung from her eyes once again, and her terror and fright and disbelief returned in a rush. She fell to the ground and sobbed and bawled like a little child who had lost her parents in a crowded mall. She was so engulfed in her despair that she did not notice movement at the edge of the clearing, nor the sounds of hushed voices that drifted across the small breeze. Molly did not notice she was not alone until it was too late, and they were upon her. She let out a strangled, choked scream before something hit her, rather hard, on the head, and she blacked out.

Molly awoke, after a rather unpleasant and odd dream full of giant plants and talking wolves, to the sounds of angry whispers.
“Just get it done with. We don’t want ‘er waking up and cursing us, do we? Just go ahead and shove a stake in ‘er.”
“Stakes don’t kill their lot, you idiot – that’s vamps, and they don’t even exist – ”
“You gots’ta burn ‘em, long and hot, see. Get ‘em good and crispy, then tie ‘em to a stone and toss ‘em in the lake.”
“Yer talkin’ nonsense, Tom. Everyone knows fire don’t work. What you got’ta do is – ”
“Throw a bucket of water on her! Makes them melt into oblivion!”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard in years – now shut up an’ let me finish. What you got’ta do is cut her up into lil’ bits an’ pieces an’ feed her to the fishes. Only way to make sure she don’t come back.”
“’Ow’s’about we drop somethink ‘eavy on ‘er, like a ‘ouse?”
“And how, pray tell, do you suggest we drop a house on her?”
“Jus’ sayin’…”
“Oh, OH! Look! She’s wakin’ up! What we gon’na do?”
“Quick, grab all the knives you can from the back room!”
Molly heard shuffling and stumbling. She stretched her stiff arms and legs, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up. Her head still hurt something fierce, but she managed, with some difficulty, to tilt into a sitting position. She looked around, her vision blurry and unfocused. What she saw was almost as terrifying as the talking wolf.
She was sitting on a long counter – a bar – that stretched across the back wall of what, she presumed, must be some kind of tavern – round tables dotted haphazardly around the room, and there were a few abandoned beer mugs littering the surfaces. And, standing along the far end of the bar counter – cowering, more like, as far from Molly as possible – was a group of rugged men, each holding some sharp object in his hand. One man, the burliest and largest of the lot, took a tentative step towards Molly, determination creasing his wrinkled face.
“Quick, she’s still dazed from the blow in the head,” he whispered back to the other men, “we got’ta get her quick like, ‘fore she comes outa her funk.” The men began to shuffle forward, all keeping well back behind the burly man, staring at Molly in rather comical fear – except they had knives in their hands, and Molly, rightly so, decided that men coming towards her with knives, despite how oddly humorous their expressions, was not a laughing matter. She slid off the counter, causing the men to shuffle backwards in shock, and began to back away.
“Wh – what are you d-doing?” Molly asked, backing quickly away as the men began to advance again.
“Could ask you the same question,” the burly man spat, “We haven’t seen one of your lot in fifteen years, and now, all of the sudden, you think it’s fun to pop up out of nowhere just outside our town, no doubt all ready to wreak havoc. Well let me tell you somethin’ missy. We won’t let you. We’re gon’na make sure to kill you good and dead ‘fore you can do any damage.”
Molly was utterly confused and hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about – however, she did know that she needed to get away from these men, rather quickly, if she had any desire whatsoever to live. Taking a deep breath to clear her head, Molly suddenly bolted towards the door. The men froze, shocked, a second too long before, with a roar, the lot of them thundered after her.
Molly wrenched the tavern door open and rushed outside onto a cobbled street she had never seen before. Not having the faintest idea which way she should go, Molly sprinted down the street in a random direction. The men roared after her, yelling as they went, drawing the attentions of other villagers. Before long, Molly had a rather large troupe of angry towns people chasing after her. Frightened beyond her wits, Molly became even more confused as she began to decipher the yells that sounded behind her.
“GET HER!”
“GET THE WITCH!”
“WATCH OUT, OR SHE’LL TURN YOU INTO A NEWT!”
“DON’T LOOK HER IN THE EYES!”
“OUT OF THE WAY OR SHE’LL CURSE YOU!”
“STOP THAT WITCH!!”
Further accusations of witch echoed along the streets as Molly ducked and weaved an erratic map through the town’s many streets and alleys. Her legs and lungs were burning from the strain and her head had begun to throb unbearably again. She risked a quick look over her shoulder. The mass of villagers had doubled in size, and each member was carrying his or her own substituted weapon – knife, pitchfork, broom, pot – one little girl was brandishing her doll in such a threatening manner, one would have peed oneself in fright.
Molly stumbled, so great was her shock, and quickly turned down another street, hoping with all remaining hope that this one would finally lead her to safety. It didn’t.
Instead, it led her right into the arms of another burly blonde-haired man who, apparently, hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on; but, upon hearing the yells of the village people, he quickly grabbed Molly tightly around the arm. She squirmed and kicked, but the man was a solid mass of thick iron muscle, and he seemed greatly amused by her escape antics.
The villagers roared their way around the corner and shouted in triumph as the saw that Molly had been caught. Upon seeing the face of her captor, however, they paused.
“Would someone care to explain why this girl looks as though she is about to faint of fright?” the burly blonde-haired man asked the villagers, an eyebrow raised.
One of the men from the tavern shoved his way to the front of the crowd, knife still held threateningly in his hand.
“That there’s a witch, Smith,” the man yelled, pointing at Molly. The rest of the crowd shouted their agreement.
“Really?” Smith mused, casting a suspicious eye at Molly, “And what proof do you have to make such an accusation?”
“Me an’ the boys were out hunting earlier today,” the man explained, “we was on our way back, going by the field, when all of the sudden this girl popped up outta nowheres!”
The village people gasped and nodded in agreement.
“We managed to sneak up on her and capture her,” the man continued, “and brought her to Tom’s place. We was just about to deal with her when she woke up. Must ‘ave put a spell on us, ‘cause next thing we knew, she was outta there faster than you could blink an eye.”
“Is that so?” Smith grimaced, “Well then, boys, never fear. I’ll deal with her. If you would be so kind…” and, without waiting for the villagers to reply, Smith swiftly tugged the struggling Molly through the crowd and down the street. As they passed, the villagers parted quickly, as if terrified to be near Molly. They did seem, however, rather relaxed and smug, knowing that the giant blonde man would deal with the problem. After watching the pair turn another corner, the group dispersed, happily gossiping about the whole ordeal and thinking up heroic yet completely fictitious deeds they could brag about later.
Molly, on the other hand, was very far from happy, and felt it quite unfair that so many people she had never met before wanted her dead. And what, she wondered, was all this witch nonsense? Witches did not exist. Neither did talking wolves and giant beanstalks, she concluded fervently.
She struggled against the man for a moment longer, until he gruffly told her to quiet down. He then pushed her through the door of a rather large town home. Closing the door behind him, he turned and stared at Molly for a good minute. Molly, who was so far beyond any emotion, simply stared back.
“Well,” the man – Smith? – suddenly said, “Have a seat.” He gestured to the room behind Molly.
Molly, terrified of upsetting the man, quickly entered the room – a large living room, it seemed, with comfy, squishy armchairs, a tea table, a large fireplace with a crackling, snapping fire, an extremely high ceiling, and a loft suspended across one corner – and perched stiffly on one of the chairs. The man flopped himself casually down on a chair across the room, and immediately began to poor himself a drink from the pot that sat near the fire.
“Would you like a drink?” He asked, holding up a tea mug.
Molly stared.
He watched her for a moment, then preceded to poor her a cup.
“I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself,” the man continued, “Geoffrey Smith, at your service. I’m the local blacksmith of Fardell – that’s the town you’re in, Fardell.”
He placed a steaming mug of amber tea in front of her, but Molly ignored it.
“Go on, then, it’s just tea,” Geoffrey slid the cup into Molly’s hands, “Nothin’ extra in there but honey. What’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“M-Molly,” Molly whispered hoarsely, “Molly Piddle.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Molly Piddle. Go on, take a sip,” Geoffrey gestured to the cup, “It’ll help your nerves. Not every day we get a newcomer who’s instantly hated by the entire town.”
“Why do they hate me?” Molly asked before taking a small sip of the tea. It did, in fact, help sooth her nerves. She took another sip.
“Well, obviously, they thought you were a witch,” Geoffrey explained.
“But why?” Molly asked. She was still shaken by all that had happened recently, but the tea, and sitting in a comfortable chair, was helping her calm down.
“Dun’no,” Geoffrey answered, “You must have done something to make them think so. As for me, I don’t think you’re a witch. Far from it. Don’t have the right air about you. But those nutters out there – especially that group that hang out at Tom’s place – won’t think twice before they go accusing someone of one thing or another.”
“But why would they even think I was a – ” Molly’s question was suddenly cut off, however, as the front door burst open. With a terrified squeak, Molly jumped and dropped her cup.
Too extremely tall and extremely lanky boys burst through the door, both covered from head to toe in soot, and both laughing quite loudly at something. They paused when the saw Molly and Geoffrey sitting in the front room. One of the boys – a blonde, who looked quite like a younger, yet skinnier version of Geoffrey – plopped himself down next to the blacksmith and proceeded to shake the dirt from his hair. The other – a brown haired boy whose entire face seemed to have been attacked by freckles – dropped his rucksack by the door before taking the last remaining chair. Both boys stared at Molly curiously.
“That wouldn’t happen to be the witch everyone is talking about, would it Dad?” the blonde asked, a grin suddenly splitting across his face.
“Roger’s going round telling anyone who’ll listen that it almost turned him into a toad,” freckles added. They both laughed.
“Personally,” the blonde said, suddenly turning to Molly, “I wish you had. Serves the idiot right, I think – and he’s very toad-like already, it wouldn’t have been a hard thing to do.”
Molly stuttered, not sure what she should say. Red as a tomato, she quickly scooped up her dropped cup and placed it on the table.
“This here is Molly,” Geoffrey said, seemingly noticing the girl’s discomfort and smiling apologetically, “Molly, meet my two pinhead boys, Tristan,” the blonde waved, “and Jack,” freckles smiled.
“Hi,” Molly whispered feebly. Both boys laughed.
“Poor girl, probably had a right good fright,” Tristan said.
“Sounded like the entire town was chasing her at one point,” Jack added.
“Why?” they both suddenly asked, looking from Geoffrey to Molly.
“We don’t quite know, do we? I was about to ask her before you lot barged in, scaring her half to death again,” Geoffrey said, pushing Tristan half off his chair.
“Sorry,” both boys mouthed to Molly.
Molly simply stared.
“Go on then, little miss,” Geoffrey said, “What’d you do to make all those guys think you’re a witch. I personally don’t believe that half-assed story they told me…”
“What?” Tristan asked, extremely interested in the half-assed story, grinning expectantly.
“Oh, something about her appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the field – you know, the one at the edge of the mountains? – and then cursing them all. I’d bet my savings they were just too drunk to notice her in the first place. As for her cursing them, wouldn’t be very hard would it? They’re always half drunk anyways, not very hard to mess with their heads.”
Geoffrey and Tristan laughed. Jack, on the other hand, was staring at the fire, a rather puzzled expression on his face.
“Where are you from?” he asked, turning to stare at Molly peculiarly. Both Geoffrey and Tristan paused, interested as well.
“Witherville,” Molly said softly, feeling a twisted lurch in her stomach as she thought about her wonderful, normal little town. Both Geoffrey and Tristan looked confused, but, it seemed to Molly, Jack’s face had paled slightly beneath all of his freckles.
“Never heard of a Witherville,” Geoffrey mused, “Where - ?”
“It’s a little town over the mountains,” Jack explained quickly. Geoffrey and Tristan seemed to accept his clarification; Molly stared, more confused than ever before.
“How’d you wind up with us, then?” Geoffrey asked.
“Got lost,” Molly said, quietly. She figured that, despite believing in witches, even the Smith family would not believe in a talking wolf or a giant beanstalk. She did not believe in them, either, for that matter. Her mind had to be playing tricks.
“Poor dear. You can stay here, if you’d like. Probably for the best, anyways,” Geoffrey winked, “Have to make sure those drunkards forget about you before you start wandering the streets again. Should be safe by tomorrow evening. Then we can help you get back home.”