The Humpbacked Bridge
My writing group piece on the theme of time travel.
A hunchbacked witch lives on the humpbacked bridge, and for a penny-bun from the bakery, she'll tell your fortune.
To William Dunn the swineherd she tells of a successful fishing enterprise on the lake. To Jane More the candlemaker she tells of acclaim for her tapestries. To Oliver Hamm the carpenter she says, “You will leave the village.”
“Where do I go? What do I do?”
“How should I know?” she replies with a shrug. “You leave the village.”
When the magistrate's wife arrives, great with child, the witch sighs. “Are you certain? Everyone wants to know their fortune - until it is bad. Then it's pitchforks for me.”
“Yes,” the woman says, holding her belly. Handing over four buns, which is very persuasive.
“But I like my cottage.”
“Hovel,” the woman corrects.
True the witch curls up in her blankets at night because there is no angle she can lie straight. But it is her hovel, that she first saw years ago on a postcard, when it was owned by the National Trust, and she determined she would live there one day.
The witch tells her. Tells her she will die in the reek of her own rotten flesh five days after childbirth. Unless! the witch follows quickly, unless she eats these, and produces a shining silver piece of parchment studded with chalk.
The magistrate's wife leaves weeping. Without the tablets. The witch goes to pack her bags.
Though she waits a fortnight, just to be sure. Until church bells knell and the mob arrives with their pitchforks, yelling about curses. Best to get out before all the poets arrive, anyway.
The witch moves to London, not for the first time, nor the last, and writes TripAdvisor reviews that gain a cult following.
“Much more pleasant place to eat now the streets aren't running with piss. 4/5 stars.”
“The great fire did this place a great service. 5/5 stars.”
Her TripAdvisor account is suspended for fraudulent activity. “It's all pitchforks in the end,” she remarks sadly to a pigeon.
On the street, where she once drank with David Garrick and flirted with poxy whores, are bankers jogging on their lunch breaks talking about macros and workout efficacy. The sex workers don't give her a second glance.
No, she thinks. This will not do at all.
The witch sits atop her hill, watching the entertainment. Down below great herds of wild horses, aurochs, deer, traverse the plain. A small band of people lie in wait. One of their number scatters the deer, driving two into the trap. Spears fly, the deer leap, someone ends up knocked on their arse, the rest of the group hooting with laughter even as their catch prances off.
The world is already old, but still very young. Lying in the grass, looking up at the stars, the witch's spine straightens and her body grows strong. Time heals. The mind also - she catches herself thinking what she might try next, what adventures might be had. Perhaps go to the coast for the first boats, perhaps to the colonies on Ganymede. Perhaps this time try a powdered antibiotic she can reconstitute and give as a draught, something more familiar. Perhaps that would work. Time will tell.
Previous •