The Witch's Daughter

Part One

It is common knowledge to the people of  Ko'Trin Island-- that forest kingdom sprawling beneath Splendora's lap-- that Auntie Bathilde, their great witch Maman, bore three children to her abusive husband M. Beraude in Picardy before abandoning them during a vacation in Portugal, in which she accidentally discovered Splendora, the kingdom of the Giants, or Neo-Jotuns, and traveled the world, becoming a Maman to others more than her own children. But, one day, I was in for quite a shock....

                                                                                                                                  --The Life of a Half-Elf Witch

"Auntie Bathilde is our mother," the Island People said, "No matter how old she may grow, or how sick, she is ours. And no one-- man, elf, fairy, or giant --will take her away from us."

Bathilde shuffled through the forest. Gnarled chestnut cane in hand, she passed green-black trees that cracked like ancient temples, with crunchy brown leaves and rotten fruit rolling along the soft jade grass. Harsh gold sunlight rippled through the canopy of trees, across the diamonds of the round turquoise lake, and the lilac mountains' sharp ivory peaks. She looked up and smiled, adjusting her cat's-eye glasses. Today is going to be a good day; I can feel it wriggling through my veins!

But this "Everyone's Mother" didn't look like a force to be reckoned with. The witch was tiny, ancient, and very round. She dressed in bright, garish blues and greens, strutting about like a peacock, even when she was foraging herbs or collecting crystals. Her long black hair was streaked with white, and her soft fat face was powdered in ghostly white. Her lips and cheeks were smeared in crushed red berries. Pointy ears poked out, reminding them of her half-elf heritage. She laughed, revealing a gap between her small white teeth. Villagers asked her to heal sick babies and old ladies with broken hips. They asked her to make acorn-apple pudding for elf weddings and give blessings for human funerals. She crushed crystals into potions and cast spells at the altar. But she was also earthy-- playing hockey and gossiping about men. She petted their hands with hers-- even the crimson claws and emerald rings felt like that of an angel's.

This was why That Day felt...off. Her decaying cottage was dark, even with its chipped ivory paint and plump pink roses. When Auntie Bathilde left her house for the day, there was always a shimmer of soft lamplight. How could such a woman forget?

A few village women walked home from the crumbling well, carrying heavy clay pitchers atop their heads. They watched ghostly branches scrape the blue sky, but when they looked down, they froze. Three figures towered over Auntie Bathilde. There were two plump, brown-haired men, and one curvy, black-haired woman clutching a rusted necklace. The men looked stiff in their glossy black suits and shoes, but the woman wore a flowing coral gown with matching lipstick. She lifted a hand, and several teal-and-white bracelets jingled. The village women grinned at each other. This was interesting.

"Finally, you've arrived!" Bathilde cried, clasping her emerald-studded hands, " 'Ow ever did you find me?"

"We'll tell you later, Maman," whispered the woman.

" 'Ow long 'as it been, ma bichettes, my loves, my pretties?"

"Too long," snapped the frowning male, one with mushroom-like bags under his eyes, "You left us, remember?"

"A good mother sacrifices," snapped the other brother, one with his mother's straight elegant nose, "Besides, Papa was good to us, Emmanuel. It's not like she left us with a...a...monster!"

The two men scowled at each other, before turning to the woman.

"What do you think, Amarantha?"