A Magic Bean

Once upon a time, a witch realized she might not have done exactly what she thought she had done. Yes, she had talked with the girl, established a price for what she desired. Yes, she had harvested the seeds to give the girl what she desired. That was the moment the trouble began.

When the witch returned to her cottage in the midst of the dark wood there were two bowls of beans on the wooden table in front of her fire. Both were half full of delicate white beans. Which bowl had she pulled the single bean from that she delivered to the girl who wished to capture the heart of the baker’s son?

The witch considered going back to the girl, warning her that the bean she had delivered might have been the wrong bean, trading it for a bean that was certain to be right. That would be the proper thing to do. But witches aren’t known for doing the proper thing. The proper thing was rarely the most entertaining of options.

In this case, the witch was uncertain what the wrong bean would do. It was a new arrival in her garden, you see, an untested bit of magic. That made this a learning opportunity.

So the witch did not return to the girl. Not that day. She waited until the full moon three nights later. The witch climbed the stone wall outside the girl’s garden and perched in the shadows of the old oak tree.

As instructed, the girl stepped out of her cottage as dusk fell and a solitary white coin began to climb the sky. Under the filtered moon glow, her hair shimmered, the brown locks leaning toward purple. She placed the bean upon her tongue, turned it over. Again, this was as instructed. The magic needed a taste of the girl to get started.

The girl held the bean in her mouth while she knelt and used a stick to prod a hole into the soft dark dirt. She leaned forward, and spit the seed into its new home, tucking it in. With the seed taken care of, she sat back on her heels and closed her eyes for a moment. That was not as instructed, far too reverent for this magical moment.

Before the girl even opened her eyes, a single tendril pushed up from the small mound of dirt. The witch caught her breath, holding it until a leaf furled out, catching the silvery light. It glowed, a soft red, not the cool blue the witch had hoped for.

It had clearly been the wrong bean.

The witch had a moment before the girl opened her eyes, a slim fraction of a second when she could have snatched the sprout from the soil before it was seen, leaving the girl to wonder why the magic had failed. But she did nothing. The need to know what this bean might produce was too great. So the witch watched.

Night after night she returned to the wall. Night after night the girl watered the sprout. Never with water, but with herself. Her tears, her sweat squeezed from the fabric of her dress, a few drops of blood from a pricked finger, urine on the night she had nothing else to give and lifted her skirt over the ever-thirsty plant.

Thirty nights the witch watched while the girl watered. Thirty nights for the moon to grow full once more.

As the moon burst full from behind a thready cloud, flowers burst free of pods scattered amongst the red leaves. The flowers were dark, darker than the leaves, darker than the night. Midnight black run through with brilliant red veins. These flowers spoke of danger, intrigue, and perhaps desire.

The witch saw all that the flowers might contain. The girl saw only the possibility of her own desire finally reflected upon herself.

This could only end in chaos and despair. The witch was aware, yet the need to know what form the chaos would take again stayed her hand. She remained silent as a statue on what had become her wall, eager to see the girl follow the rest of her instructions.

It was intended to be a perfume, an addition to the girl’s own sweet aroma, that last extra touch that would make her irresistible to the sensitive nose of the baker’s boy. The girl pinched the base of one of the dark blossoms, separating it from the slender stem. She lifted it to her nose, taking in a deep sniff. The girl swayed, the witch leaned so far forward that only her long yellow nails stopped her tumble from the wall. But it was not the moment she had thought. The girl opened her eyes, slightly swoony, then pursed her lips to kiss one midnight petal. Her fingers then pressed the flower against the skin of her opposite wrist, smearing the essence on her skin. She swapped hands, and smeared again. Once more upon the pulse at her throat.

The crushed blossom fell from her fingers, cartwheeling as it fell apart on the way to the ground. Nothing was left of the flower.

Or the girl.

The witch blinked twice. The girl no longer knelt in front of the plant. Another blink revealed the plant itself no longer grew in the garden. If the moon had not been bursting full, the witch would have doubted her vision.

This was the magic, then. A flower so dark and dangerous it could erase a whole person with a simple touch to the skin.

The witch clambered to the ground and rushed back to her cottage. Two bowls still rested on her counter, each full of small white beans. A long stare was not enough to clarify the situation for the witch. She remained uncertain which bean grew the disappearing blossom, and which would grow the sweetest of perfumes.

The responsible thing to do would be to toss out both bowls of beans and start fresh. But witches are no more responsible than they are proper.

Two clawed hands reached for the bowls and poured them together, mixing them into one bowl of chaos. The witch declared these to be the beans of fate. She would not be to blame for the outcome when she next reached for a bean. Whatever happened would surely be simple fate.