Wolf of Eden

Sequoia

Tired and achy joints make themselves apparent as I flex my fingers. The strain on my poor left hand leaving my palm numb and knuckles eager to be cracked in sweet relief. The pent-up tension has me putting down my ceramic pestle as I stare at the ingredients in its accompanying bowl.

The wet green mulch stares back at me and a pungent aroma coats my tastebuds.

It took me the better part of half an hour to grind down the appropriate ingredients till they squelched their announcement of having been perfectly blended together.

"I get that you're a witch and all but this is the twenty-first century. Why don't you skip the cauldron and wooden broom and just get yourself a blender," The high-pitched voice from behind me speaks up.

I flare my nostrils at the person's words, not liking the comparison as I glance down at my pestle and mortar, my go-to for whipping up concoctions.

"Because a blender won't give me the proper consistency I need. Also, I thought you were ill and on your deathbed. Hurry up and snuff it," I say with a disinterested grunt.

Picking up the see-through bottle next to me, I grab my wooden spoon and scoop up the paste, edging it into the lip of the container. Once halfway full, I grab the cork and seal it shut, pleased with my work.

Turning around, I level the woman with my stare as she watches me with tired eyes. Half propped on her bed, lays my ever annoying friend. The woman is tiny in her bed and is engulfed by a multitude of pillows and blankets, her pale lifeless face peeking through all the cotton and fluff that surrounds her.

"I'm not that ill," she huffs in distaste while I walk over to her, trying to stop myself from bumping into things. Even her plea of denial is halfhearted. The woman lacks the energy to properly protest.

The woman herself is tiny and her house follows suit. The lovely stone cottage is a treat to the eyes but that's where all the goodness ends. For someone of my height, it results in bumps and bruises from thwacking yourself against the low edges and ceiling, stumbling over furniture that is probably considered a throne for a pixy along with the cloying scent of too many fragrances attacking your senses.

"Why ever did you call me then, Aine?"

All I get in an answer is a loud echoing sneeze followed by my friend's face turning a shade of scarlet that would put her roses in the rosebed outside to shame.

"Oh, Althea. I think I just peed myself a little."

"Would you like me to whip up a salve for incontinence?" I chirp, already turning around to grab the ingredients.

A spluttering of negative assurance starts up from behind but that cuts off when Aine erupts into a cacophony of sneezes and coughing.

"I wouldn't want to begin to think where that salve would go," Aine mutters and I can sense her shivering frame as she pulls the comforter around her.

Turning around with confusion, I hand the bottle to her but frown at her silliness.

"Where else? I can help you with putting it on. I've had my hands in worse places," I assure my good-natured friend who now turns even redder, her rosy cheeks standing out against her dull skin.

I wonder what all the fuss is about. I'm quite gentle with my hands and just yesterday I was helping a cow give birth. She didn't seem to mind but rather appreciated the assistance.

"N-no. Thank you," Aine grasps the bottle and watches on with deep intrigue. The juniper green of the concoction battling against her own moss-coloured ones. "I say this with all my love and respect, but you weren't dropped on your head as a child were you?"