Elena holds the door open for the witch, whose eyes dart hungrily around the clean little cottage. A rocking chair sits before a crackling fire and a pie is cooling on the counter. With a proud smile, the witch settles into the warmed rocking chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Elena watches the witch set down her basket and pull a pair of knitting needles from the deep pockets of her robe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI appreciate your visit, Elder, but I\u2019m quite tired and\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNonsense. Come help me untangle all this yarn.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena kneels in front of the tangled skeins of yarn overflowing from the witch\u2019s basket and searches for an end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s more like it,\u201d the witch mumbles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch\u2019s nimble fingers cast on effortlessly as she knits row after row with the speed of someone no longer concerned with making an error in her craft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s been lonely, hasn\u2019t it?\u201d the witch says after a time. Elena shrugs noncommittally. \u201cBe honest with me<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena prepares to deflect the question but, transfixed by the rosy pink yarn flowing smoothly from her hands to the witch\u2019s needles, she finds herself saying, \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s about time for you to find someone to love, is it not?\u201d the witch asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAll the men around here are spoken for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll find one sooner than you think. What kind of man are you looking for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n To Elena, looking for a man means letting her mind wander up into the sky. There, she imagines someone holding her hand while she walks through the forest, kneading her shoulders the way she kneads dough. She is familiar with the feelings she longs for but she\u2019s never tried putting them into words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, I don\u2019t know. Someone\u2026kind,\u201d Elena replies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNaturally. What about someone smart?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI suppose, but that isn\u2019t the most important thing either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA good heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ll get there. Brains aren\u2019t important to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood sense is important, sure. But I wouldn\u2019t like to be with a man who talks to prove how smart he is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomeone who doesn\u2019t talk down to you then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena nods, \u201csomeone who listens.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch hums agreeably and drops a curious ball of conjoined ovals to the floor. She leaves one long string behind, and begins a new row of stitches. Elena\u2019s eyes follow the yarn in her fingers to the deep, winding grooves on the surface of the deformed ball. Then she looks at the witch, who peers up from her knitting to look back at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are we doing this?\u201d Elena asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n An almost tender smile spreads across the witch\u2019s face, \u201cBecause I care about you. Now, tell me more<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n Though she privately finds the witch to be nosy and crude, Elena dutifully searches for the words to describe the man she imagines meeting one day, and the witch has another question for every answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt would be nice if he isn\u2019t a heavy drinker,\u201d Elena says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow about every once in a while?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mounds of knitted pink bundles pile up on the floor, each one linked to another by the single strand of yarn that Elena pulls free from the basket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe ought to keep himself clean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut he shouldn\u2019t be disinclined to work up a sweat, no?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The yarn is so cooperative and the rhythm of the witch\u2019s hands is so mesmerizing that Elena doesn\u2019t notice the sunset surrendering to the Moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe should notice when supplies are running low and think ahead to harsh winters,\u201d Elena says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs a hunter or a farmer?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena doesn\u2019t notice the yarn mutating into different shades of pink between her fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWouldn\u2019t it be nice to be with someone who just knows <\/em>you?\u201d she asks dreamily. \u201cSomeone who\u2019s known you for years, who can tell when you\u2019re upset and knows just how to cheer you up. Someone who sees what you need without you having to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSome would call that unrealistic,\u201d the witch retorts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI suppose.\u201d Elena grimaces into the yarn. \u201cFalling in love just seems like more trouble than it\u2019s worth. It seems wonderful in the beginning, but it can all fall apart so fast.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt can come back together just as fast, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut is it worth it? Every time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch smiles to herself, \u201cYou\u2019ve been watching your neighbours, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena bristles with guilt. There is a man across the street with a wife who couldn\u2019t keep away from him when first brought home from town. She would come outside while he was cutting firewood just to kiss him and go back inside; and soon after he would follow her in. Before long, she started to complain that there was never enough wood. Now, their bitter fights are punctuated by fleeting, passionate reconciliations that Elena can hear too much of from her cottage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know how they put up with each other,\u201d Elena says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch shrugs, \u201cHe got what he wanted with that one: fiery, full of life, with eyes only for him. She loves him so much she devoted her life to him, so who do you think she blames when she\u2019s in a foul mood? She wanted more from him than he had to give, and now all he does is disappoint her. He sure didn\u2019t expect that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena thinks about the way she catches her neighbour\u2019s wife looking at him\u2014like her saviour and then her tormentor; her treasure, then her captor. Like she owes her life to him. Like she is watching for what he will do to her next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe I want someone more like an old friend,\u201d Elena says finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch drops a long, curling tube of yarn on top of a thicker, shorter tube, \u201cDon\u2019t you worry about getting bored?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m bored already. But peace is better than war, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch considers this, then asks: \u201cWhat about sex?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The flow of yarn stammers between Elena\u2019s fidgeting fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou do think about sex, don\u2019t you?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf course I wonder<\/em>,\u201d Elena murmurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat would you like it to be like? Don\u2019t be shy<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI suppose\u2026\u201d Elena fiddles with the yarn some more then laughs to herself, \u201cI suppose I would just like to feel beautiful to someone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The witch nods approvingly as she finishes knitting a strange shape Elena has never seen before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s a fine answer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Moon is at its peak by the time the witch announces she is almost finished. For a while now she has been working on an odd blanket that protrudes with sleeves ending in short, slender branches. It is large enough to cover all the little bundles that came before it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you think someone like this exists?\u201d Elena asks, just as the yarn runs out under her fingers. She is shocked to find the basket suddenly empty, save for a pair of shoes atop a pile of folded clothes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Casting off the last stitch, the witch stands for the first time in hours and holds the cream-coloured piece up before her. It resembles a cloak with a hood. And limbs. Lit up from behind by the fireplace, its tall shadow softens the wrinkles around the witch\u2019s wide grin. The pink oddities strewn across the floor pulse under the embers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is this?\u201d Elena asks. Her voice sounds rather far away. She doesn\u2019t know if she\u2019s whispering or if she is being drowned out by the beating of her heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, you\u2019re going to just love it,\u201d the witch says, delicately draping the cloak over her arms. \u201cLend me a hand<\/em>, won\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena\u2019s legs wobble underneath her as she stands. She tells herself she is sore from sitting, ignoring that her hands are shaking as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Scooping up an armful of pink, she follows the witch across the room to her bed. Little pink bundles trail behind them, all knitted from one single strand of yarn passed from Elena\u2019s lonely fingers to the clever hands of the witch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With a precision not unlike that of her knitting, the witch gingerly lays the cream cloak on the bed and arranges the knitted bundles along its length, twisting tubes tightly in the middle and funnelling pink matter down the sleeves. By the time she places the grooved ovals into the hood and pauses to assess her work, Elena is paralyzed by the instinctive comprehension of what is lying in her bed, its insides on display. Then the witch pulls out her needles. She drags them along the knitted carcass and the cream yarn crawls towards the tips of the needles, sealing away the mounds of pink. The needles meet in the middle and leave behind a soft belly button. The witch steps away from the knitted man and beckons Elena towards him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d Elena whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cKiss him<\/em>,\u201d the witch commands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena sits by his side and shudders when his body shifts under her weight ever so slightly. He has no face. Only the hollows of two eyes, the soft peak of a nose, and the plump suggestion of a mouth. It isn\u2019t until Elena is hovering over the knitted man\u2019s head that she realizes she has never imagined kissing someone for the first time. She has only ever imagined being <\/em>kissed; by a man who tucked her hair behind her ears and held her cheeks in his hands; by a man who looked into her eyes and saw that she wanted to be kissed; who kissed her because he thought she was beautiful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As her lips meet the dry, lifeless mouth of the knitted man, she mourns the loss of a dream she didn\u2019t know she had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her heart skips a beat when the yarn melts away and she feels the warmth of dewy lips kissing her back. She recoils, and the man with smooth cream skin opens his vacant eyes, but then he smiles at her the kind of warm, unassuming smile she\u2019d always dreamt of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena tries to back away and bumps into the witch hovering behind her with the basket. \u201cI hope you will find that he is everything you asked for,\u201d the witch says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena searches the witch\u2019s eyes for some kind of answer, but all she finds is the proud satisfaction of a mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut he\u2019s not real,\u201d Elena whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNeither are you, but you feel real, don\u2019t you? Now give him his clothes<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena hands the clothes to the stranger on her bed, powerless to do anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you,\u201d he says, rising from the bed. Then, as if he\u2019s done it a hundred times before, the stranger reaches out and tucks a hair behind her ear. Elena gasps, feeling sick to her stomach and blushing despite herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is your husband. You remember him.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The ache in her stomach mutates into a loud hum. She gasps again, this time with terrible joy, as she remembers everything she can\u2019t believe she forgot. The day they met, all those years ago. The day he kissed her, and all the days lost to kisses since then. The day they were married. The day they put their fights behind them and chose peace over passion. The days where no one spoke until noon. The days he kneaded her shoulders the way she kneads dough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n All their days, all their nights, are compressed into a quiet contentment in her soul as she watches him pull on his socks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI believe Charlie is a fine name, don\u2019t you think?\u201d the witch says. The witch always names her children. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCharlie,\u201d Elena says. She welcomes her husband\u2019s arm around her waist as they walk the witch to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood luck with this one. I think you chose well this time around. Now, forget I was here<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Elena and Charlie close the door on the cool night air and get ready for bed. Before they fall asleep, he presses himself into her backside and moves the hair from her neck to kiss her there. She smiles and says nothing, he does too. They move together in a familiar rhythm. It doesn\u2019t last long, but Elena falls asleep feeling beautiful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n On her way out of Elena\u2019s home, the witch spots a man across the street spouting drunken pleas into his front door while his wife\u2014her youngest child until tonight\u2014refuses to let him in. She considers plunging her needles into his navel and bringing home the yarn, but her hands are worn out for tonight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As the witch shuffles back to her cottage just outside the village, she conducts a silent symphony for all of her children, embedding them with fond memories of their old neighbour, Charlie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jaclyn Legge<\/strong> is a Masters student in Carleton\u2019s English Department with a personal and scholarly interest in the pleasures we seek and desires we fulfill through reading and writing love stories and erotica.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The sun hangs low on the village of one street. Gripping a basket full of yarn, the witch shuffles past homes with smoking chimneys and arrives at the cottage at the end of the lane…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":401,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[42,48,11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-285","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-1a","category-issue-1-prose","category-prose","style--link-3"],"yoast_head":"\n![\"Black](\"https:\/\/sumacliterarymagazine.com\/staging\/2534\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/06\/sumacbw-1024x1024.png\")
<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n