The Witch's Daughter

Part Ten

                                            Bouche de Serpents, Picardy, France, 1911

 As a teenager, Bathilde joined the Picardy Coven-- as any good witch would. They didn't have thirteen members yet, but were pretty close with ten. Young Bathilde would be number eleven, and perhaps the youngest, though Little Yvette would disagree.

Bathilde was a naturally pretty girl, but smeared her mouth in bright-red berries and her face in thick white powder. She wore glossy bright head-scarves and large broken glasses, despite perfect vision. She was plump, with flowing black hair and deep-brown eyes, but she hid such traits. To her, looks didn't matter-- only magic, and the fierce honing of it. Her father doted on her, smiling and clapping whenever she cast a simple levitation spell. 

   "Ah, maybe next time you can bring me a wine!" he joked, "That'd be fun, to see it flying through the door!"

Her mother stroked her silky hair and whispered, "What a treasure you are, my child!"

That is, until her magic got too good. Maman may have been an elf, but as an elf, she was well-versed in the arts of enchantment, crystal-gazing and spell-writing. The more Bathilde grew as a witch and a woman, the angrier she seemed to grow. This didn't help when Papa died, when she was left at the mercy of a wild, tear-soaked elf, already overwhelmed by the remaining eleven children....

"How dare you dress like a whore!" shouted Maman, pulling her black hair, "Especially when you're so fat!" She slapped her across the face.

"But, Maman, you never said anything before...!"

"This world wasn't made for half-breeds like you," she snapped, "Only mine is. Every time you so much as look at a man, a piece of your soul slips away.  Do you want to wander this earth a soulless being?"

"You never said...!"

"Like what?"

"Oh...." Maman twisted her mouth. "Never mind! Just get out of my sight, will you?!"

After leaving, Bathilde smirked. Jealous as usual, she thought.

"Bathilde?" asked a soft voice.

Bathilde whirled around. It was her younger sister, Chantal, finally looking up from her book. She was chubby, with frizzy brown hair, large brown eyes, and a receding chin. She was a bit prudish, only wearing large, shapeless dresses. She twirled her hair, arm trembling as if it would snap.

"Umm, I have a problem," Chantal continued, "I don't understand why boys don't talk to me."

"Perhaps you should talk to them," Bathilde suggested, "Instead of reading all the time."

"Talking might lead to other things," Chantal argued, tugging her skirt further down over her ankles, "If a girl talks, he gets the wrong idea."

"Who told you that?"

"Father Soubirous."

"Well, this isn't church, Chantal, it's life. And in life, people talk to each other and do certain things." She giggled as Chantal shivered. "Why not talk to one? Just a simple hello."

"Thank you! I'll certainly try that!"

A few minutes later, Chantal returned with a red-flushed face.

"I've tried, but the words get stuck in my throat. I need something stronger, if you understand." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I'm not a witch, so I can't simply lure them to me. Or a siren, like in this book. All the boys do is laugh at me!"