The Pretence
A Short Story by Lorraine Poulter 2015
Published in Tales From the White Horse 2015
The candle flickered and dimmed. It was nearing its final burst of light before faltering and plunging the room into darkness. Rather like Minoria. These days her back was stooped, her hands were crooked and withered; her untamed grey hair hung in thin wisps round her pointed chin, while her creased face held eyes that sparkled with bright knowledge. Her body was failing yet her wits were razor sharp. She stood before the mirror, not looking at her reflection. Her reflection was clouded by the encroaching shadows and hampered by mottled glass.
“You have come for me?” she asked without turning.
From the shadows a figure did not move. Only the glint of a long blade announced his presence. “You see me?”
“I don’t need eyes to know it’s you. Nice of you to drop by.Have I long?”
“A little.”
“May I sit?” she asked, wrapping her cardigan across her stomach.
“If you wish. It’s your night.”
Minoria stepped close to her chair. She grabbed the arm and folded herself into it, panting. A sweat broke out on her forehead. “You’re early.”
The figure moved forward and said severely. “I am never early. I come precisely when I’m needed.”
“I haven’t trained a new witch yet. It’ll take years to find a replacement. I waited ages to graduate. My mentor, Mildew, was a great witch. You must remember her? Ugly as sin but you knew you could sit down to cakes and tea and not be turned into something horrible and slimy. Shame about that accident with the sea gull and the broomstick.” She mused. High on a hill on the outskirts of the town, Minoria’s hovel was sited. She had lived in here since she was fifteen, when she first became the witch of the valley on Mildew’s untimely death. “Mildew was a hundred and ten when she was taken. You do realize, at this time, the one part of our lives we all truly share,I’m younger than her. Does that sound fair to you?”She sniffed. The night brought with it an uncommon chill.
Minoria’s magical prowess had shown from her time in the pram. Since this early age she had managed little spells like changing the colour of her hair, and altering the shape of her nose. Sadly while her nose was crooked and pockmarked she told a wee lie and it never changed back. But it was when she set fire to the cat that her parents both proud and bewildered were forced to face the fact that their beautiful little Minoria, bulbous nose and all, was different.
“It was her time.”
“It’s really is bad form of you to come now. There’s much left unfinished.” She said scratchily.For seventy years she had been lone witch to the people of the valley, who still regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and awe. It took years for the young folk to stopped throwing stones through her windows and knocking on her door and running away. Yet she stayed. The rude names uttered as she passed folk on the streets had long ceased and after many years she was accepted as their rather odd, and sometimes helpful, neighbour. She in turn had looked to them to finda suitable inheritor to her kingdom. Many had been viewed although none never quite made the mark. “I am not ready.” She said tetchily.
“They all say that.”
“Thuh!” she uttered irritably. “I don’t suppose you know how it will happen?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Yes. Yes. I quite understand. I had just hoped for more time.” She said and turned swiftly. “Not that I’m afraid. I do not fear death. I have looked death in the eye and escaped many a time.”
“I know.”
There was a silence. The tired old clock ticked, the broom rustled nervously in the corner, the fire crumbled to its last ash. She reached for a log.
“I would not bother if I were you.”
“What and catch my death-?” She paused and dropped the log. She then leaned back into the chair and said quietly. “You’re right. No point in wasting good wood. They’ll have to send someone from the township to replace me. And someone will have to feed Jenks. Is it long?”
From under his cloak Time removed a large wooden framed egg timer and placed it on the sideboard. Its sand had all but run out. For Minoria her time was diminishing.
Minoria gasped and clung to her chest as the breath was squeezed out by her failing heart. As the grains fell into the lower glass, she breathed her last.
The cloaked figure moved forward and took the hour glass. Something was amiss. He shook the grains. His orange eyes glinted beneath his hood, while his scythe rested on his shoulder. “Oh dear,” he uttered.
“Is she gone?” the soft voice of a young woman eagerly asked. “Tell me she’s gone?”
The face of Time looked upon her young, perfect face. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” She snapped. “What kind of question is that?”
“Do you feel you have accomplished all you have in life?”
“What? Of course I do. With Minoria gone I am now witch of the valley. I could not ask for more.” She said sharply. “Why are you still here?”
“Then your time has not been wasted.” He replied dully. He shook the timer once more. “Did you kill Minoria?”
The witch flushed. “A stray spell might have reached this poor old witch withdevastating consequences.” She said casually. “I couldn’t save her.”
Then suddenly he turned the hour glass over. The grains with new life began to pour quickly through the midriff of the glass.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Stop it.”
“How do you feel?”
Minoria gasped. Breath filled her lungs. She was reaching for life.
The young witch scowled. “You tricked me.”
“No. I made a mistake. It was not Minoria’s turn to die. She will live.”
“Live? How long have you known?”
“Just now.Moments ago.”
“You deceived me.”
“A few moments of deception.”
“How could this happen?”
“The grains did not completely drain from the Upper glass. When that happens I am obliged to turn the timer. There is, as you see, more time for Minoria.” He removed another hour glass from his cloak.Its grains were pouring fast with few remaining. “This glass is yours.”
“Are you certain?” she said all colour draining from her youthful face.
He gave a shrug. “You brought me here to collect a soul. As there is only yourself and Minoria in this room then it is yours.”
The young witch covered her mouth as she let out a shriek. “I am to die?”
“How do you feel?”
“Not very well!” The young witch collapsed to the ground, writhing and then lay silent.
Time himself stood very still. He would have smiled had he the means. He loved the ironies of life-and death. He watched the shade of the witch suddenly appear beside her vacant body. She pointed to herself in horror.
“You should come with me.” The cloaked figure said.
“Am I dead?”
“It would seem so.”
Minoria’s sightless eyes shot open. She licked her lips. The candle guttered and its light was gone. “I must have dozed off.” She said with a yawn, adjusting her cardigan. Her foot caught the discarded log. She picked it up and threw it on the fire. “You still here?” she uttered tilting her head for the reply.
No one answered.
©️Lorraine Poulter 2015
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