Auntie Ipslow

I believe I promised ya'll some original content! Meet Auntie Ipslow, a character who's been tumbling around my brain for a while now.

In a fine little house on the edge of the village there lived a woman named Merideth Ipslow. She had been in the village as long as anyone could remember, including those who had been in the village since it's founding in the years after the blight. If one went to look for her, Merideth could often be found tending her garden and speaking to a large gangrel cat who seemed to be paying close attention to everything she was saying. It was quite usual for this cat, whom everyone had taken to calling Mr. Ipslow, to be found lurking about the streets on some task. The young men of the village were warned often not to harass him, as it was likely to end in a foul mishap as it had for the bakers son, Johnny.   
 
Merideth was notable not merely for her statue, which was fifteen and a quarter hands high, but for the pronged walking stick she carried which was polished till it shone like volcanic glass. Whenever she became frustrated or irritable she would tap it against the ground and that was usually a good sign of when it was time to change the subject. She was a frequent patron of the pub at the corner of Main and Cross, and could be found drinking whiskey in her favorite little booth with the tansy flowers on the fabric. It was in good character to dip your hat to her with a smile and a “Good Evening, Auntie.”,for it was rare that anyone called her by her name save the village Rectorate, and even he was known to slip up occasionally.   
 
It was of course obvious to anyone with a lick of sense in their brain that Merideth was, in fact, a witch. It was also quite plain that this was not the sort of thing one discussed openly or addressed directly to her face. If one were in a charitable mood, they might refer to her as the village peller, which was not altogether untrue. Auntie was noted for her skill with herbs and sicknesses, and if she came about and waved her walking stick over your wife while she was in labor it was a sure bet that the birth would come quickly and everyone would recover with a good nights sleep. It was also fair to say that if your crops were waning or your cow's milk was drying up, an offer of sausage and ale would coerce Auntie to pay you a visit and “Set things right.” as she was fond of saying.   
 
It was also not an overstatement to say that the Rectorate was not fond of these little visits, and while Auntie paid her dues in the chapel every week, he always reserved a chastising look just for her as he began his sermons. He was particularly put out after the incident with Johnny and spent a full two candlemarks on the virtues of forgiveness and humility before the gods. Whether or not any of this sunk in, no one would know. Johnny healed up well enough, so that was all that could be expected. If asked, anyone would tell you that having someone like Auntie in the village was far more a benefit than a bane, and if anyone were fool enough to cross someone such as her, well then it was most likely that they'd gotten what they deserved and ought to be thankful that was all that happened.
 
It was in the early spring after the unusually harrowing winter when a young peddler came through the village of Crispen on his way from Mounrton and paid a visit to the pub. He ordered a hot ham on rye and an ale and proceeded to look deeply shaken, checking behind himself and eyeing the door as if waiting for his Death to come bursting in at any particular moment, order a pint and sit down next to him. Effrum the bar man, not a curious sort by nature but always open to a story as was typical in his profession, handed the young man a tankard and asked him how the road had fared.
 
“As I live and breath before you, kind sir, the road could not have gone more crooked and uneven! I came from Mournton only yesterday on foot and seeking to make my way as I might. This winter has been difficult on many folk, and even more so, for if a town has poor coin then a peddler has no need to stop there for long. But even as I made my way, it was as if a fell wind were at my back. So, I come, as it were, to a stable where one might buy a horse. Having not the money for a horse and a snowstorm quickly brewing, I paid three tarries for a place in the hayloft and one more for breakfast in the morning. I set my blanket and went to sleep, quick as you please, minding my own business which is the business I do mind.” He shuddered, lip quivering though the pub had a roaring hearth and well insulated windows. He sipped his ale and dug into his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully while he gathered his thoughts and stared into the amber brown bottles under the tarnished mirror behind the bar. “It was round about midnight, I should think, when I heard a raucous clanking and puttering outside. I stirred up from my bed, and popped the trap door to see what was happening. Well, my eyes were so bleary I thought I mist have been mistaken, but well enough there it was! One of those fancy jalopy's folks have in the city! The ones you turn a crank in the mouth and it bounces about and go to and fro without a horse! I never seen one but at a distance! So taken aback was I, so astonished, I didn't notice the fellow riding in it until he honked the blasted horn and the stable hand came out to tend to him.” The young peddler took another long sip and tossed another coin on the bar to have his cup filled again. “The fellow had a bad air to him, I tell you that. Not about his look, can't say that, never saw his face. He talked in a low voice, laughed like a crow, and the stable boy for his part, looked near as frightened as I was.”

“What were they talking about?” For by this time, the whole tavern was listening to the visitor, and more than one person had the question on their lips.  
 
“Can't rightly say. Didn't hear much of it, as I say I mind my business. But he was asking for someone, I think. Asking if someone knew where his aunt was.”

The wind picked up outside, howling about and rattling the window panes. A branch fell from a tree and smacked into the roof, thumping so loudly that the whole pub jumped and quickly turned back to their food and drink. The room seemed colder now, and the candlelights flickered in the deafening silence. Effrum ran a hand through his dark mustache and nodded to himself. “What'd you say your name was, young fella?”
 
“Cronstan. Cronstan Matthews, Peddler of Ulrichtin on the Rhine.” he tipped his fingers to his brow in a salute and tried a thin smile which faded before it could elongate over his face.   
 
“Well Mr. Matthews, Let me give you a tankard full of good advice along with yer mead. Tonight, before the sun comes up, take the road out of town past the temple and follow it till you see a green garden gate. Say hello to Mr. Ipslow and ask him if Mrs. Ipslow is at home. You tell her what you told me, and you give her a few coins or a fine trinket you've got from your peddling bag, and you take what she gives you, and you hold close to your chest. And then, Mr. Matthews, it would be my strong advice, that you take the south path out of town, quick as you please. Don't look back behind ya, don't stop till you reach the next town over.” Effrum pointed to the coins the man had lain down to pay for his food and drink. “You take that with you to. Best if nobody knows you'd been sittin at my stool.” 

If one had watched from the window, they would have seen Cronstan Matthews, Peddler of Ulrichtin on the Rhine, taking the road out of town which would in theory at least, take him past the temple and to a house with a green harden gate. Whether or not he ever made it to that house is any ones guest, as no one would ask about him after that day. But it might be mentioned that one of the local hunters claimed to have seen a peddlers sack hanging from the branch of a tree, far too high up for any human to have thrown it. He saw nothing else, no signs of a body nor the disarray of underbrush which might come from an attack, and so it was decided that this would best be left unmentioned to the public at large. No use troubling everyone over something which may or may not have happened.   
 
The early spring proved more frigid than imagined, the tiny white flowers withering from where they had sprung up in the grass beneath the snow. A sudden ice storm blew up from the north, carrying with it gale like winds that tore the roofing off houses and ripped up cobblestones, flinging them through the windows. Howling sounded in the night, noises that were not meant to be heard by man nor animal. The people of Crispen closed the shutters and put extra wood on the hearth, keeping it burning through the night and well until morning bell had rung at the temple. Everyone shuffled from their houses into the foggy morning light, all the world a gray canvas devoid of reality. Even the sun could not shine from beyond the blanket of clouds, so it came as something of a shock when two large, bright lights shone from where the dirt road turned to stone heading into town.   
 
A nasty racket rose up from the lights as something clattered over the road with more noise than any decent horse cart would have made. The rough clack-a-clack-a-clack-a-clack-a echoed between the brick and cob buildings and anyone who'd ventured out to do their early morning errands stopped to look at the strange wonder that had appeared in the town. A motor car, standing there in the fog, black as coal and puttering it bounced in an almost jovial fashion before it's owner pulled a lever and stepped out, his boots clacking smartly. He was dressed in a black double breasted driving coat lined with fur. He wore shiny black leather gloves and a black clericus hat with a peacock feather in the rim. He looked around for a moment, appearing quite disinterested in his surroundings, until he laid eyes on Auntie Ipslow walking through town in her good green dress as she paid a visit to one of her clients. His lips pulled back in a feral smile, and he approached her directly, tipping his hat as was proper custom.

“And where are you off to today, Auntie?”   
 
Auntie did not look up from her satchel, busying herself with the contents of it. “Off on business, of course. Must keep busy on such days as this.” 

“And what business might you be on?”

“My business of course. And what business would my business be of yours?” Her tone was neither glib nor angry, but it did seem that she found it rather odd that he should ask a witch her business. It simply wasn't polite, much less wise, to pry into a cunning woman's craft.   

“None of mine, of course. Wouldn't dream of interrupting your tasks, Auntie. I only thought I might be nice to offer you a ride on such a day.” He gestured to his car, still puttering away in a friendly manner.

“In that thing?” Auntie turned and laughed, shaking her head. “I'm liable to be shaken to death in such a contraption! I'll walk, if it's all the same to you, sire.”

“But the day is dreary and the stones are wet from ice. Surely you wouldn't want to slip and fall and risk injury.” The man insisted, taking off his hat to reveal a head full of silvery white hair. 

“I am as surefooted as a mountain goat, and I know these streets better than you, stranger.” Auntie tossed her dusky curls and waved her hand. “Now off with you. I'm late to my next appointment as it is.”

“But it is cold, dear Auntie. You're apt to catch a chill. You wouldn't want to be stuck abed in...” 

“I have told you twice now that I am occupied, and that I have far too much to do today to be bothered over a bunch of cogs and wheels making a racket all over town! Enough!” She stood with her shoulders thrown back and her eyes full of ire. “Off! And take this dreaded fog with you. It's casting a melancholy over the town.” 

The gentleman's thin smile turned downward. He placed his hat back upon his head, righting it firmly before turning on his heel and striding back to the car with an angry clacking of boot heels.   
 
Auntie watched the fog curl about her heels and felt the wind shift. She watched the mist furl up and peel away as the sound of the motor carriage faded into the background. The villagers took off their hats and scarves, enjoying the sunlight on their faces as the cobblestones began to trickle with melted snow. “Well now, wasn't that interesting.” Auntie muttered to herself, far too low for anyone to hear, and continued to walk to her next client. That evening, before she went to the pub, Auntie Ipslow went to the head of the council and knocked on the door with her staff. She was let in immediately, and spent several hours speaking to him before leaving back to her own home.   
 
The next day, there was a scroll placed on the Town Notice Board in the square.   
 
The Town Council is please to inform you that a Grand Working will be taking place during the next full moon. We ask that anyone not directly involved in it please be sure to retire to their homes before the sun is set on the evening of the fourteenth during the month of Vendershiens. The pub will close early to accommodate. 

P.S. Please read aloud to any folk who may be illiterate.   
 
“E-lit-trate?” Torry, a young girl of nine spoke up as she listened to the announcement being read off. “What does that mean?”

“It means people who don't have any schooling.” One of the boys, who preferred to be called Hinney as his real given name was Heinslie, told her in a very snide tone. 

“Well that doesn't make any sense! I go to school same as you!”

“Yeah but everyone knows you can't read cause you're just a silly goose girl!” Hinney teased and pulled her braid so hard he took a few hairs with him as he ran off, the other boys laughing along with him, thrilled at their own cleverness.
 
“Thats not true!” Torry shouted in her own defense, pink cheeked beneath her freckles as she clutched her hooked cane. “I just can't read as the letters get all jumbled up. I can do math though.” She whispered, mostly to herself as everyone else was discussing the change of events. “I can do math quite well. Better then you Hinney Gerndersun.”
 
The village was all aflutter at the prospect of a Great Working, something which had not occurred in the memory of any living person any of them knew. The village historian claimed she had read something about it in one of her many books, but could not remember precisely which one it was in. But three days before the full moon, Auntie canceled all of her appointments and hung a notice on the garden gate, informing people that she was far too busy for visitors at the moment. Anyone who ignored this notice was then hissed at and chased away from the front door by Mr. Ipslow, who took his duty very seriously.   
 
The moon rose full and fat in the night sky, and while the frost clung to the ground, Merideth Ipslow went a walking around the edge of the village. She carried her staff and satchel with her, as well as a thick sheepskin cloak to keep her warm. “Good night for work, eh Mr. Ipslow?” She said and her cat trod at her heel, meowing his own commentary on the situation. “True enough. True enough. But it'll have to do for now. If we're lucky, he'll be deterred and not think it worth the trouble. We'll do as we always have done. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.” 

Mr. Ipslow trilled darkly in response.
 
If the people of Crispen opened their doors the next morning expecting to find something changed about their little village, they were greatly disappointed. Nothing seemed to have changed at all, though it was a bit unseasonably warm considering the day before had been quite chilly indeed. Torry the goose girl began to bring her flock about, intending to walk them down by the lake for a few hours before school, but came to a halt as she came to the place where the cobblestones met the dirt road out of town.   
 
Clack-a-clack-a-clack-a-clack-a
 
The gentleman in the jalopy sat there, his wheels not quite touching the village cobblestone road, a dank look on his face from beneath his black hat as he looked beyond the young girl to the figure of Auntie getting on about her day. His mood did not seem to improve as she turned her back towards him, making conversation with a baker about a very important batch of honey rolls she wished to order from him. He pulled the level at his side and the car stalked back away, clearing the path out of town.
 
Torry made the wise decision to walk her geese in the field by the millers pond that day.
 
For three months, everything settled nicely. Auntie went about her business, which was indeed her business, quite happily. She weeded her garden, had a drink in the pub, paid her tithe to the temple, and    overall seemed to forget about that strange business with the man dressed all in black. It was not until the brisk chill of spring began to turn into the balmy months of summer that the clack-a-clack-a-clack-a-clack-a was again heard on the streets, and Auntie looked at the car with a cross expression on her face.   
 
“Don't you get hot dressed in all that black?” She said by way of greeting before the gentleman could even speak.   
 
“No more than you under all those skirts, dear Auntie.” He smiled smoothly, tipping his hat to her. “I've come to ask you to ride with me again. It seems a shame to waste such a fine summers day being about your work. Why not come with me? I know a lovely field where the honeysuckles bloom.”

“I don't know about that. I've a lot to do, and it looks like rain to me. I'd much prefer to be home before it begins.” Auntie Ipslow continued milling about the stalls, selecting her eels for a supper she'd planned for the night. He was quite notably fond of grilled eel with a bit of saffron and was always pleased whenever someone served it during one of her visits.   
 
“You are mistaken, I am afraid. There is not a dark cloud in the sky.” He gestured to the infinite blue with his gloves. 

Auntie looked directly at him. “I see a rather dark cloud which refuses to depart.” She paid for her dinner and took the paper wrapped sack, placing it in her grocery bag. “You'd be well advised to take the hint, sire, and be on your way. There is nothing in this village to be of interest to one such as you.”

“I beg to differ. I have spent my time at the courts of kings and in the salons of philosophers and academics. Droll, dull places. I really wouldn't suggest them. But here I seem to have found something worth my time and effort. Quite to my surprise, I assure you. So I ask you again, dear Auntie Ipslow, won't you take a drive with me?” He moved along side her like a wolf amid the trees, waiting for it's chance to strike. 

Auntie however, was not in the habit of being afraid of wolves. “I told you, it's going to rain.”

“It is not, I assure you.”

She stopped up short, huffing out her indignation at the situation. She looked at the millinery shop to her right, a place she'd never once visited for her own desire for a hat, and looked back at her unwelcome visitor. “I am going into that shop now, a ladies shop. For ladies. Not for gentlemen. I will only be a minute, but if it has begun to rain by the time I return, I expect to find you gone as your pride will have suffered a terrible blow!”

The fellow laughed in an irritably arrogant way. He took out a silver pocket watch and flipped it open. “Very well. If it rains by the time you return, I shall leave...for now.” 

Auntie turned without another word and bustled herself into the hat shop. Now it should be noted that it is a poor idea to leave a witch alone for any amount of time if you are attempting to corner her into some situation. For witches are adept at using anything in their midst to do their workings. Event the most mundane and innocuous object may feature prominently in the hands of a skilled witch, and Auntie was about to preform a rather interesting bit of conjuration with a hatpin and a glass of water.   

The gentleman with the motor carriage stood waiting at the stoop, eyes on the ticking second hand of his watch, counting down the moments with an eager glint in his eyes. His teeth were a white crescent as the final seconds approached, and he looked up to find Auntie looking at him from the window of the shop. “Three, two, one...”

The rain fell in a sudden deluge, pounding down on the village of Crispen with fierce determination. The fellow turned his head up and stared at the cloudy sky with accusation before catching Auntie's eyes again and nodding. He walked back to his motor carriage and was forced to stand in the street, getting thoroughly soaked as he had to start it back up again before puttering out of town in defeat.

“Oh! Miss Ipslow! I'm so sorry I didn't see you.” Mrs. Guessy said, popping her head out from the back of her shop. “What can I do for you today?”

“Mrs. Guessy...” Auntie said with a prim smile on her face. “I do believe I would like to buy a hat.”

This made for the most rainy summer in some time, content to linger about as if to wanted to make sure it had done it's job properly. Auntie watched it fall from the chair by her window, tapping her finger on the sill as she considered her position and rubbing her cat with the other hand. Mr. Ipslow trilled at her, making his inquiries. “I know. Something has to be done, but I hesitate to make too much of this. Wouldn't want to go offending the wrong people. Still, it's becoming a nuisance. Mustn't abide by such things. They have a tendency to get exponentially worse the longer you leave lie.”   

Mr. Ipslow mewed in confirmation. As summer faded into a crisp and calm fall, the black car returned, along with it's driver. The people of the village had become so used to this site that they did not take much note of it, having decided by now that Auntie was entirely capable of handling such things as she had before and that they need only stay out of her way and all would be set right soon enough.
  
 The fellow looked up at the bright lights and loud music of the pub and frowned, but walked in none the less, clearly determined to seek out his target. He spotted Merideth Ipslow in her corner booth, sipping at her whiskey with unusual reservation as if she had been waiting for his arrival this entire time. He walked to the bar, ordered a sherry, and strode over, waiting for the woman to acknowledge him.

“I suppose I am saddled with this, aren't I?” Auntie said, staring at the amber colored liquid in her glass. She gestured airily for him to take a seat, clearly resolved to end this conflict tonight by one means or another. 

“I have chosen my quarry. If I may be forgiven a bit of flagrant bragging, I do not loose once I give chase, no matter how often I am outrun.” He held his glass with a firm but courteous grip and touched it to his lip, the drink vanishing from the glass only to return to the table full once more.   
 
“Show off.” Auntie glowered at him, tapping her finger on the table. “I have worked very hard to cultivate a certain reputation here and you stand as a threat to ruin it. I warn you, make me your enemy at your own risk, stranger.”

“I am no stranger. You have known me all your life.”

“No. I have not. Your little tricks and cajoling will not work on me. I may not be the most powerful witch who ever lived, but I've lived long enough to know something of what you are, even beneath your seemings. Enough games, enough tricks. When ones like me and ones like you come to confrontations, it's the people who suffer. I have lived in this village longer than they acknowledge. I have birthed their babies, set their bones, healed their cattle and made fat their crops for generations. I won't be chased out. I won't let you bring them harm.” Auntie shot down the whiskey and looked him in the eyes, her rankled fury barely hidden through her dark brown eyes. “What do you want?”

He drank another sherry, and then another for good measure, declining to answer or perhaps taking time to form his words with care and consideration. Finally, he set down his glass with a firm click upon the wooden table and gestured to the car puttering about outside. “I want you to take a drive with me.”

Auntie gave a disinterested sigh. “I want your word, here and now, that I will return to this village by dawn, no worse for wear than I am now.”

“You have it then.” He stood and held his arm out. 

The entire tavern had gone quiet, watching as if in the grips of a particularly good play, as Auntie took his arm and allowed herself to be led from the tavern and into the renewed chill of the early fall evenings. The mists clung to her ankles as the fellow helped her into the leather seats and hoisted himself in, careful not to fuss her skirts by sitting on them. He pulled the lever, the clack-a-clack-a-clack-a-clack-a bouncing off the buildings as they took the road out of town and into the woods, the chill following. The next day, Auntie canceled her appointments for only the second time in anyone's memory.   

Three months later, as the comforting chill of fall become the frigid winds of winter, Auntie Ipslow announced she would be taking a leave of absence from her practice, due to the nature of her condition. The whole town wondered over what this could mean, for it never occurred to any of them that a witch might be entirely capable of getting with child.