DARKER WISHES chapter one

Darker Wishes

CHAPTER ONE

O R I E L L E ' S    F I R E

Witch's hut, Verex, Witchton

Day 270, Year 419

Brown.

That was the color of Witch Wanessa's hut and everything in it. The thatched wooden roof, the hard dirt-and-stone floor, the hazardous broken doors, the table—all the bleakest color of brown. No wild fantasies emerging from the walls or dangerous creatures from the ground. Brown above, brown below. That was the color of Trade's life.

A young and hopeless boy, Trade lived only to serve his mother, a Witch of the very conniving and meticulous kind. She had never even given him a last name. To her apathetic eye, his first name was all that anyone needed to understand what life used him for. Trade. So here he was, sweeping the floor into more brown, dusty piles, looking out through the patch of dreary light that was the window.

He sneezed. The sweeping must have stirred around some of the nettle scraps which his mother used for potions. Trade had long suspected he had an allergy to them. He sucked in a sad breath and continued pushing the hard, brown broom.

Another distraction came, but not from nettles. The sound of nearby kids frolicking across the hillside came ringing through the hut. Not thinking, Trade dropped the broom with a thud and raced to the window, his mind pulsing with curiosity.

A stream of five or so kids his age was racing up the hill towards the old abandoned Witch hut. Trade knew these kids. They were the better-off children of the village, and he even knew a few of their names. There were four boys in collared cotton shirts: Finn, Roobio, Wayde (or was it Wyle?), and one more that Trade couldn't remember. But trailing behind the boys was a stunning strawberry-blonde girl with floral patterned ruffles on her dress that he instantly identified. Trade had known Orielle since childhood, when his mother used to drop him off in the village to play with the other kids. She did this twice a week while she was "running errands." Sweet outside and in, Orielle had drifted away with time and status. But every now and then she would ascend the hillside (in view of Trade's window) and enjoy a warm and breezy afternoon. Only, Trade noticed, when it was warm and breezy.

And even today, Orielle's hair floated lazily behind her when the wind would pick up. Trade never went out to talk to her. He couldn't. Her family was filled with magic-less Dociles, and his was of one unpleasant Witch. Orielle was well-off, and he had to fend for his meager self. She was pretty and he was not.

The invisible barriers between his spot by the window and hers on the hill were too strong. Plus, Trade was certain his mother would find out that he had taken a break in his hours of labor, and he didn't want to know what would happen then. So he just stood there and gazed at her floating hair, coughing up the must of the hut.

His mother could come home at any minute, but Trade couldn't remember where she said she was going. He assumed it was to go address a wish deal, but she never admitted her agenda to him. His mother, a Witch, dabbled in selling wishes. She had created a sort of enchantment that did the "granting" part for her. The Purple magic, Trade supposed, worked on its own. And his mother capitalized off of this. The price point was the only thing she did herself, and she was proud of it. Cows, sheep, houses, land plots, and even a firstborn child (so the rumor went) were compromised to the Witch. Locals lost everything to have their wishes granted, and after all, isn't that what happens to the greedy?

But Witch Wanessa was never able to get rid of Trade, no matter how hard she tried. And Trade didn't blame her for her efforts. Who would want a now eleven-year-old, hook-nosed, sallow-faced, sunken-eyed house rat? He surely wasn't the answer to anyone's wish, let alone his own private ones. If Trade could have had one thing, it would be to live a normal life. Free from his wicked mother, his sad village in Witchton, his plaguing, disagreeable features. He didn't want to stare at that door every time a noise roared near the cabin, not knowing what was about to come through. He just wanted what most didn't: monotony. And maybe a bag of (Fruity) Flying Fizzers.