Puddlebrain

Chapter Two

Edna used to be very good at potions. Once upon a long time ago, the eldest of the sisters was the queen of concoctions and the matron of making bubbly things in cauldrons. There was no ailment she couldn't cure (or cause) and her reputation had spread far and wide. She made a nice tidy profit from the small store she opened up in the front room of their house. A dozen customers a day would tread through the always-open front door, hoping and expecting that Edna could solve their problems for them.

Generally she did just that. She was normally kind and helpful. Occasionally though, with no warning whatsoever, Edna would decide to be decidedly unkind and unhelpful. It was usually only a brief lapse, but that was all it took to 'accidentally' substitute, for example, rat's tail for rat's ear. Well, imagine! A humble paying customer would want to clear up a nasty rash and instead end up sprouting an extra toe. It didn't go down too well. OK, so an accident was accidental (as accidents usually are), but when the mayor found he could only walk backwards between three o'clock and half past seven, it simply had to stop.

Banning a witch from using her magic was like telling the sun not to rise in the morning. It was like telling sheep not to dip or corn not to flake. Apart from the fact that she'd say "Stuff you!" just before turning you into a frog, a witch couldn't not use her magic. It was part of them. It was more natural than breathing. It was instinct.

Besides, they liked doing magicky things. Why should they stop? And try making one do that!

The mayor, an ever-smartly dressed man who seemed to roll when he walked, thought to take it upon himself to stop the 'wicked' witches from performing their black arts. He conveniently forgot that Edna had previously given him a lush full head of hair, had cured his wife of some extremely unsightly boils (which, granted, Edna had caused in the first place), and had turned his daughter into a beautiful young woman from the, well, homely girl that she was.

Mayor Harper approached the front gate to the witches' garden all beefed up with his own self-importance. His chest was out, although it was hard to tell over his Honourable Rotundness, and his nose was high. A gaggle of his cronies waddled on behind. Behind them prowled what would have been a mob of angry villagers if more than a slack handful had been courageous enough to face the wrath of the demon witches. Those that did shamble along being Mr. Pompous, sorry, Mayor Harper's entourage were only really there for the show they were sure would ensue.

Mayor Harper, Kenny to those who liked him and Harpy to those who didn't (which, pretty much, meant no one called him Kenny, especially since his name was Jeremy), paused at the gate. Bravado was one thing, stupidity was entirely another. He'd persuaded the villagers, or at least some of them, that the witches had to be stopped. Yes, his argument was with Edna, but all three were witches and, as such, all three were responsible for the countless number of times he walked into a wall or tripped over a stone because, between three and seven thirty, he could only walk in reverse.

At a town meeting the previous night, only a dozen or so had turned up to hear his plea and not all of those had appeared today. He wasn't disappointed though. Harpy didn't quite see things the way everyone else did. As far as he was concerned, the lack of any decent turnout simply implied that his villagers thought he was man enough to handle the situation on his own. Some, though he didn't know it, actually thought he was big enough for two men, or maybe even three on a good day and after a hearty breakfast.

He held onto the gate, steeling himself for the task ahead. As far as he knew, Edna and her sisters were normally friendly. They lived quietly alone in their tidy, if small, home. They wouldn't say boo to a goose, although he had witnessed the youngest one, Puddlebrain, having a lengthy conversation with one once. He didn't really expect any trouble, but he was quite prepared to face any that might come trotting along. He was mayor. He could handle it.