Martha
The village whispered that shed lost her wits in her old age. Many avoided her cottage, calling her a witch, but the way she silenced the gossips was still remembered.
At first glance, Martha seemed an ordinary countrywomanaged, with a touch of eccentricity. She helped those in need despite her meagre pension and took in lost travelers. The wealthier villagers rarely welcomed strangersperhaps a mug of well water at most, but never a nights shelter.
Martha was different. Shed give any wanderer tea, a humble meal, and a bed if dusk fell. They called her odd for letting strangers in when she had a granddaughter of marrying age. Some even threatened:
“Keep this up, and well send your Emily to the orphanage. Social services will take her.”
But that was years ago. Once Emily came of age, they left her be. Still, Martha had seethedEmily was her only treasure, her hope in twilight years.
Shed lost everyone else. Her husband, taken young by a heart attack at forty-two. Her daughter, Lily, shed raised alonesweet, clever, married well, moved to the city, bore Emily. Then, tragedy.
Lilys husband was a geologist, always away on expeditions, sometimes for half a year. One day, he never returnedvanished without a trace. Search teams scoured the moors; one rescuer disappeared too. Thats what they told Lily.
Grief swallowed Lily. A child in her arms, no father. Martha held her up:
“I raised you alone after your father died. Youll raise Emily. Ill help.”
At first, Lily seemed to accept her fate. But shed only hidden her pain to spare her mother. Two years later, the unthinkable.
She drowned her sorrowsfirst occasionally, then daily.
“The worlds empty without my Edward. Ill never be happy again. Why live?” shed sob when Martha tried to comfort her.
Martha tried everything. Nothing worked. Lily bound her life to the bottle and died in her prime. The village judged. Fate, perhaps.
Fifteen-year-old Emily was orphaned. Martha took her in. Emily resistedused to city lifebut Martha persuaded her:
“We cant survive in London on my pension. Here, weve a garden, chickens.”
Shed whisper:
“Youll have a different path, my treasure. Grow a little, and Ill find you a fine match.”
“Where, Gran? In this backwater? Only lost tourists pass through.”
“Leave that to me. Let the gossips chatter.”
So they liveda crumbling cottage on the village edge. Martha kept house; Emily attended the village school, helped after lessons.
Classmates mocked herthey knew her mothers fate. Neighbors clucked:
“A wastrel motherwhatll become of the girl? Nothing good.”
It stung Martha. No fault of hersher husband gone young, her daughter widowed. But she vowed: Emilys fate would be different.
She ignored the neighbors. They hated thattheir words meant nothing to her.
Yet they still hissed when Martha sheltered a traveler:
“Scouting suitors for Emily? No local lad will wed her with that past.”
“Your lads arent worthy,” Martha retorted. “Emilys destiny is grander.”
“Time will tell,” they jeered, calling her “witch.”
Time passed. The village quieted. A lull before the storma storm that reshaped Martha and Emilys fate.
One winter evening, as dusk swallowed the village, an engine sputtered outside. Voices cursed the weather, the roads, their luck.
A burly neighbor stomped out, irked by the noise:
“Making a racket at this hour?”
“Its barely eight!”
“Who are you? City folk. What brings you to our godforsaken village?”
“Hunters. Got lost. The cars kaput. Can you help?”
“And if youre not who you say? We dont take strangersnot with my daughters here. Cant fix cars, anyway. Sort yourselves out.”
The hunters exchanged glances. “Then point us to shelter?”
“No inns here. Not a city,” he sneered, turning awaythen relented:
“One place might take youold Marthas. Shes touched, odd, but opens her door.” He pointed to the village edge, malice in his voice:
“A girl lives there. Wont be dull.”
The hunters trudged through darkness, knocked on the creaking cottage.
“Whos there?” Martha swung the door wide. “Come in! Teas brewing.”
“Where from, lads?”
“Hunters,” they murmured, stunned by her warmth.
“Im Oliver. This is my childhood friend, William.”
William flushed like a maiden.
“Fear not, lads,” Martha chuckled. “They call me mad, but youre safe here. Suppers soon.”
As she bustled to the kitchen, they studied the “witchs den.” An ancient icon hung in the corner, framed by embroidered linen. Photos on the silla daughter and son-in-law, perhaps? Beside them, a sad-eyed girl. Granddaughter?
Martha returned with boiled potatoes, pickles, fresh bread. The aroma tugged at memories.
“Like Grandmas,” William breathed.
“Eat! Ill fetch teadandelion jam. Youve never tasted its like!”
“Dandelion?” Oliver blinked.
“My grandma made it!” William beamed, endearing himself to Martha.
A frail voice called from another room:
“Gran water”
The guests glanced at the photos. “Your granddaughter? Is she ill?”
“Foolish lasschopped wood yesterday. Fever took her by night. No medicines here, and Im too old for the apothecary in this cold.”
“Waitweve paracetamol.” William rummaged in his bag.
“Give this to her. If shes no better by dawn, well manage.”
Martha returned minutes later:
“Sleep now. Ill tend Emilyshes all I have.”
Williams heart ached.
At dawn, he rose quietly, slipped outside. His jacket sleeveneatly stitched. How had she noticed the tear?
He could buy a hundred jackets. At twenty-seven, his restaurant empire brought fortune. Yet her care moved him deeply.
He chopped wood, lost in thought.
“A worker! Years since a mans hands tended this house,” Martha praised.
William flushed. “Habitchopped for Gran as a boy.”
“Bless you! Shrovetides soonwell have firewood.” She hesitated. “Stay?”
Oliver refused. “Madness! Im leaving.”
Their argument drew the neighbor, whod “helped” them find Martha.
“A mechanics coming,” he lied, eyeing Williams expensive car. “But heed meavoid that mad crone and her pauper girl. Want a village bride? Ive daughters.”
William feigned gratitude, declined.
At breakfast, Emily emerged, fever gone.
“Im Emily,” she murmured. “Tea?”
They talked like old friends. When the car was fixed, William whispered:
“Ill return in two days. For you.”
Emily watched the car vanish. Could a city man want her?
“Hell come,” Martha promised. “I felt the spark.”
Shrovetide arrived. They baked pancakes, waited.
He didnt come.
On the third day, the neighbor gloated:
“Your fine suitor forgot you. He owns a famed restaurantwhy would he want you?”
Emily fled inside. Martha glared.
Thentires on gravel.
William stepped out, roses in hand, a basket of treats.
“Martha,” he said. “I love Emily. May I marry her?”
“If she agrees.”
Emily burst onto the porch, radiant. She threw her arms around him.
From then on, they were never parted.
The village buzzedthe mad old witch had enchanted a millionaire for her granddaughter. The neighbor seethed most of all.
