Brunhilda of Karrstov

In Gvvishtenstein, witches are welcomed into communities for guidance and help. Here are some stories about Brunhilda, a town witch.

In the eastern European country of Gvvishtenstein, the native people have an interesting and very unusual relationship with the occult. While other countries have historically persecuted those unfortunate individuals believed to be witches and wizards and demonic servants, and later denied their existence altogether, any Gvvishtensteinian could tell you that witches are as real as the Börstuven berries that grow along the mountain paths. Witches, they said, were old ladies in tattered clothing, with pointed noises and headscarves, and often times you could find them on the road pushing carts full of bottles and cloth and trinkets in front of them. But only wandering witches had carts, they would quickly add, explaining that they much preferred to live in small villages in the countryside. Indeed, it was almost expected that any true Gvvishtenstein village had a residential witch. Otherwise all you had was a collection of buildings and farms with no real structure. In this culture witches didn’t just sit around and brew potions. A witch was a status symbol, a stamp of authenticity.

            Take, for example, the small town of Karrstov, situated between the western mountains and the plains of Brishninvok. It started out as many towns do - a few farms, spread out here and there, raising cattle and growing wheat. As time passed, more people moved there and more buildings sprung up, at which point the residents began to wonder if a witch would pass by anytime soon to complete their town. (Nobody knows where witches come from, or how they know about these small towns. It's something that just happens.) When a meeting hall, church, and general store were built with no sign of a witch, some people became worried.

            It wasn’t until one last family built a home in Karrstov that its people finally saw her: an old woman in a black robe, shambling along the main road with a ratty, clinking cart. Her eyes were milky with cataracts and her nose looked like a broken tree branch, but nothing in the world ever looked so wonderful to them.

            She eventually reached the door of the mayor’s house and knocked on it. The mayor greeted her with a wide smile.

            “Hello,” the woman said in a thick accent. “My name is Brunhilda. I have travelled many days and nights, and am weary. Would this town let me rest and regain my strength?”

            This, naturally, was proper witch protocol. Witches never proclaimed themselves as such, and never asked to stay in a town, only rest. The mayor knew this well and told the woman she was welcome in their town.

            The next morning the townsfolk awoke to see a new, peculiar house out towards the mountains, perched on a hill. Colored smoke occasionally rose from the chimney, and sometimes they heard chanting from inside. The townsfolk talked amongst themselves, pretending to be concerned with Brunhilda’s odd behavior, but privately each one was overjoyed. A witch was good luck, a guardian, a keeper of the town in times of need. If a few children went missing in the night every now and then, that was a small price to pay for such an honor.

 

            Brunhilda was tending to her Vicious Blood-Sucking Vines in the garden one day, when a man from the village below approached her. He humbly removed his hat, and spoke.

            “Brunhilda, the rains have not yet come to my farm, and my crops are failing. I fear that my family will not harvest enough to make it through winter. Will you help us?”

            Brunhilda tossed one last chipmunk to her vines and turned to face the man.

            “No rain, hmm? What do you expect me to do? Clap my hands and bring a storm? Brunhilda is gardener, not a miracle worker. But perhaps I can try to help revive your crops.”

            Again, these were the formalities demanded when dealing with a witch. To ask outright for a magic potion or spell was unheard of, and would most likely incur their wrath. Scholars think that this manner of exchange developed either as protection from witch-hunters in other parts of the world, or as an ironic mockery of it.

            Brunhilda vanished inside her small hut, and though the farmer dared not peer inside, he could hear liquid bubbling and muffled screaming and words in an unearthly tongue. She returned presently with a small vial of thick, black liquid.

            “Take this,” she bade him, handing it off to the farmer. “Go out to the middle of your field and sprinkle one drop over the crops to make them grow tall and strong. One drop ONLY!” she emphasized, pulling the vial away at the last second. “Do you understand?”

            He nodded.

            “Remember,” Brunhilda said shadily, “greed leads only to bad fortune and ruin. One drop is more than enough to provide you with food.”

            The farmer took the vial gratefully, bowing his head to Brunhilda as he did so.

            The very next day the farmer came running up to her house in a panic.

            “Ah!” Brunhilda crowed, wagging a crooked finger at him. “You put the drop on your crops, saw them spring to life, and got greedy? Now your crops will not stop growing? This serves you right. Perhaps you have learned lesson.”

            “Well, no, actually,” the farmer said, trying to point down the road. “My cat knocked it over and drank some of it.”

            From the distance they both heard an earth-shattering MEOW.

            Brunhilda sighed. “I will fix. Let me get cauldron.”

           

             “Psst! Brunhilda!”

            The witch leaned out of her kitchen window to see a young lad crouching by her fence.

            “Brunhilda!” he repeated. “There is a girl in the village that I want to marry.”

            “Why you tell Brunhilda this?” she grumbled. “You want to marry, go find preacher.”

            The lad squirmed a bit. “I… She doesn’t love me in return. Please, help me!”

            Brunhilda leaned out her window, rested her arms on the sill, and squinted at the boy. “Listen,” she squared with him, “I can make special drink for you. But this endeavor is morally questionable. If the girl does not like you, this is not way to change her mind. Are you certain?”

            “Yes!” he hissed impatiently.

            “Wait then.”

            She returned to her kitchen and fished around in the cupboards for a moment. She took out a red bottle and set it on the windowsill, which the youth snatched up greedily.

            “Drink, and talk to your loved one. This will make you irresistible.”

            The next day the boy was found poisoned in his own home, because that sort of behavior isn’t tolerated by anybody, especially witches.

 

            A wretched-looking woman made her way to Brunhilda’s cottage, sniffing and crying softly all the way. When Brunhilda answered the door, she told the village witch her story.

            “My daughter, Bruschetta… she is sick and dying,” the woman despaired. “I have tried to heal her for months, but she grows weaker. I do not know what do to!”

            “What sickness is this?” Brunhilda asked gently.

            “Her skin is white and she cannot speak… the fever burns on her forehead, but she is cold as ice!”

            “Ah,” Brunhilda said. “The Withering Touch. I have seen this before. I can make remedy, but ingredients are rare, and difficult to get.”

            The mother began crying and sank to her knees. “I’ll get them for you, whatever they are! I just want to see my child well again!”

            Brunhilda gestured off to the west and the towering mountains. “First, I need the leaves of the forbidden Vyllscnet flower, which grows on the Howling Mountain. After that, cross the treacherous River of Death and find the old man of the forest, the Keeper of the divine water. Finally, follow the road south until you find the ancient Sphynx. Answer its riddle and it will lead you to the red salt mines, where you must find a perfect crystal. Do you understand?”

            The woman, though fazed by the massive task ahead of her, agreed.

            It was almost four months before the woman came back from her trying journey. She was covered in cuts and bruises, and her clothes were tattered. Her face was dirty and almost unrecognizable. In her arms, however, were the forbidden leaves, sacred water, and salt crystal.

            “Here!” she gasped, shoving them at Brunhilda desperately. “Save my child!”

            Brunhilda sighed. “Oh, poor woman. Child died two weeks after you left. I ate. Was nice.”

            The woman stared ahead blankly, shocked.

            “Here,” Brunhilda said, putting a fresh-baked pie on the table. “Have piece of Börstuven berry pie. Is better than taking care of baby anyway.”

            She cut a slice of pie and set it in front of a chair.

            “Well, you’re probably right,” the woman agreed, and sat down to enjoy her dessert with Brunhilda.

Reviews

[Indra's Child]

Lol "You're probably right,"
Haha I loved this, it was a great read. Made my day.
You've got a skill for writing fantasy and such.