“The Witch and the Alchemist” is a fairy tale, told in three parts, about a little girl who ages into a witch. Her self-imposed curse is ultimately broken by an alchemist’s gift; a gift that he has kept for her since their childhood.

PART THREE

Witches are not born. Bitterness is the toxin from which witches are created. It festers within the soul, consumes the good, replacing it with wickedness. The longer Edna waited for her charming prince, or shining knight, or handsome stranger, the more the bitterness grew and consumed. The more the bitterness grew, the more her looks transformed from plain and homely, to aged and repulsive. Skin wrinkled, warts sprouted, hair thinned, jowls sagged. Edna became an ugly, old maid.

Children ran from her in fear. Villagers whispered superstitious rumors about the “Cobbler’s Witch.” Edna cursed them all.

Soon after the cotillion, Eugene left the village and traveled beyond the hills to study alchemy at the University. There he labored with the finest minds of his time, learning the science of turning grains and berries into gold, silver, and jewels.

Time did what it always does — continued. On the twentieth anniversary of their “Age of Ripening” ceremony, Eugene returned to the village, a wealthy and respected man. He had learned the secrets of transforming grains into riches by first turning them into libations. Corn became whiskey, malt became ale, juniper became gin, and potatoes became vodka. Business was good and the frail and weak-eyed, Eugene had amassed fortune and power far greater than the King, himself.

Eugene never married. His heart was broken and his soul mortified when Edna turned him down and he was relegated to walking beneath the arbor with his cousin. Instead, he devoted his life to the pursuit of alchemy and the growth of his fortune.

On this day, Eugene did not return to the village to lord his wealth over his former neighbors. He did not come there to show off his power and prestige. He came to see Edna.

“See Edna” is not the correct phrase. Eugene’s eyesight had always been weak, but now it was failing. Images were only blurs and all of his wealth could not make it better. It only grew worse. He could not “see Edna,” but he wanted to visit with her, nonetheless.

Edna’s cottage sat alone at the edge of the forest, just inside the canopy of foliage that blocked the enlightening rays of the sun. Here, in the shadowy darkness, dwelt a bitter, old witch.

Eugene’s driver maneuvered the luxurious, glistening, carriage along the rutted trail as it left the village and entered the forest. Eugene’s arrival was unannounced and unexpected.

Guided by his driver, Eugene walked the path from the carriage trail to Edna’s door.

“Please return to the carriage and wait for my call,” Eugene instructed the driver, as he steadied himself outside her door.

Moments passed. Eugene stood and waited, recalling their last conversation and her rejection. In spite of the pain, Eugene had never lost his childhood feelings for Edna. He just suppressed, ignored, and went on in spite of them.

Time raced and stood still, simultaneously. Eugene stood poised on Edna’s stoop. His hand gripped the shaft of his cane before him, preparing to rap on the oak door slab with its sculpted golden handle. His body did nothing. He stood in a motionless trance.

“Who are you and what do you want?” A raspy voice screeched from within the darkened cottage, awakening Eugene from his daze.

“Edna? Is that you, Edna?” came Eugene’s plaintive reply.

“Who wants to know?” It had been many years since the two had spoken. Edna did not recognize the voice outside her door. Her demeanor was rude and abrasive. The bitterness had all but consumed her.

“It is Eugene, the miller’s son, and I’ve come to ask you a question.”

Slowly the door swung open, allowing a small stream of light to penetrate the darkness. Edna hesitantly emerged from the shadows to get a better look at the man on her doorstep. Indeed, it was Eugene, her playmate from so many years before. A dull glint gradually warmed her cold eyes. The wrinkles of her craggy face struggled to turn up along the corners of her mouth. Her disposition and her voice softened as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

She was just a blur. Eugene could not see the coldness in her eyes, or the depth of her wrinkles, but he could hear the change in her voice and it gave him strength. ”May I come in, dear friend?”

Twenty years of paralyzing bitterness began to ease its grip. Realizing her rudeness, Edna quickly apologized and invited him in for some tea. Tapping his cane before him, Eugene made his way to the couch and perched anxiously along its edge, too nervous to sit back and lounge. Oblivious to the meaning of the tapping of Eugene’s cane, Edna hurriedly tried to straighten her dress and rush to the stove to put on a kettle for tea. Silence filled the cottage as Edna scurried about and Eugene nervously waited. The shrill whistle of the tea kettle finally broke the quiet.

Placing the tray of tea trappings on the table, Edna sat down next to Eugene on the couch. “You came to ask me a question?” she asked, hesitantly. “What is it?”

Eugene looked toward her voice and asked softly, “How have you been?”

The two sat on Edna’s couch, chatting through the afternoon. They spoke about their childhood, their parents, their village, and much that had transpired in the last twenty years. They held hands on the couch, laughed, and reminisced. They did not talk about the cotillion, broken hearts, or missed opportunities.

The afternoon sun settled into dusk and it was time for Eugene to return to the village. Slowly stirring from his perch on the couch, he reached toward her voice; his fingers found the soft tangle of her hair. Hesitantly, he guided her face toward his, stopping just as their lips met.

It was love’s first kiss.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.