The Witch of Cromer Read online

The Witch of Cromer

  by Benjamin Parsons

  Copyright 2011 Benjamin Parsons

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  If you ever happen to visit Cromer, do make sure to taste the crab— I’m told there’s no better dinner to be had in the north of Norfolk, freshly caught from within sight of the old parish church that perches on the cliff. But while you tuck in to your meal of succulent white meat, spare a thought for the famous witch.

  Cromer has few pretentions to fame nowadays. No doubt in its prime it was a widely celebrated resort— as its remnants of splendid architecture imply— but too many years have passed since then, and now the town huddles around the church tower with an air of retired introspection, as though dwelling on yesterday could defy the onslaught of tomorrow. However, not so long ago Cromer found new renown as the home of a witch, whose powers were lauded (in certain circles) up and down the country.

  She opened a little shop in one of the narrow cobbled lanes, a mystic boutique selling potions, charms, spells and paranormal paraphernalia of all kinds, to delight the tourists. This was nothing remarkable, until word got about that the lady would perform occult services for a price, and that her sorcery never failed. Reading fortunes, finding lost treasures and contacting the deceased were the mere dregs of her repertoire— she scorned such conjuring, when her skills enabled her to render the barren fruitful and the fruitful barren, hound the guilty to justice and liberate the accused, even raise the dead to life and damn the living to death. All this, and more, at fixed charges plus tax. Her specialism, however, was the magic of desire. She could brew love, sour it, strengthen it, switch it from one object to another, spice it up, shake it to its roots, soothe its sores or sear it into a soul forever— the emotions were her familiars, and she their mistress.

  You may well imagine that it did not take many reports of success in such fields of endeavour before the witch was accounted an absolute marvel. Her craft was commended high and low, and no-one went away from her shop disappointed, or if they did, they were too intimidated to declare it. The people of Cromer held her in awe, and though she was rather feared, and somewhat resented (especially in religious circles), she did no apparent harm by keeping her shop and herself to herself, so if fools were pleased to spend their money on her nonsense, then that was their business.

  Now, one cold May morning a handsome young Norwich man ventured into her shop to seek the witch’s help. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, energetic fellow, but a lingering depression of his spirits had subdued his natural vitality into nervous impatience and fidgets, so much so that he trembled as he opened the door and stepped down into the perfumed chamber; but not for superstitious fear— rather, because he was anxious for succour.

  The witch was sat in a low chair beside a guttering fire, and she reached out her hand to her customer as he entered, indicating a stool nearby. He negotiated the racks of gaudy merchandise, the ribbons, leaves and pendants hanging from the low ceiling, and sat down opposite her. He had made the appointment in advance, so no sooner did he take his place than she rose, slid over to the door and locked it, placing the key in a velvet pouch tied to her wrist. Then she reclaimed her seat, propped her chin in her palm and gazed long and steadily at the young man.

  He did not seem to notice this scrutiny at first— his thoughts were so pressing that they almost blotted out the curious surroundings— but at length the silence impinged on his notice, and he glanced back at the witch sharply. That glance was enough to chill him, and he drew back the stool in hesitation. Not because she was ugly or ancient, as witches are sometimes said to be— in fact she was rather younger than he expected, sinewy and strong, with long, coloured hair, well combed and tied with charms. But there was something about her sharp, bony face and peering, colourless eyes that made him disinclined to meet her stare twice. It was a glassy, serpentlike stare, intent and empty together.

  ‘I suppose you want to unsettle me,’ he said, to open the business. ‘Set me quaking so I’ll be impressed. You needn’t bother. I’m already unsettled, and it’s none of your doing.’

  He leaned forward, frowning heavily, with his hands covering his mouth as though reluctant to speak. ‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ he murmured at last, through his fingers.

  ‘Of course you are, that’s why you’re here,’ she returned, with a slight accent that, though familiar, was certainly not Norfolk. Without shifting her attention from his face, she drew a tiny pair of scissors from her pocket and methodically trimmed her nails, flicking the clippings into the fire.

  He watched her distractedly for a moment, before jumping to his feet and pacing the few steps from wall to wall, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Alright, listen,’ he announced. ‘I might as well tell you I don’t believe in all this— this.’ He waved his hand towards the potions and charms. ‘I don’t need to: if you can really do what they say, I don’t care how you manage it, as long as it gets done. Something must be done, and you’re the last resort. You won’t be surprised to hear that. People may say I’m crazy to come here, but I won’t seem crazy to you.’

  ‘What is her name?’ asked the witch, casually.

  He started. ‘Her name! You already know about her?’

  ‘I don’t need second sight to tell there’s a woman preying on your heart. What is her name?’

  ‘Bridget,’ he muttered. ‘She’s called Bridget Elveden. And she is preying on my heart— she’s turning it on a spit every time I look at her. I can’t stand it— I won’t. I want you to make her love me. She must.’

  The witch nodded, and put her scissors away. ‘You want her to suffer what you suffer?’

  ‘Yes! —No!’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘I want her to feel the need that I do, to feel it for me. She won’t suffer for it— we’ll be together. Can you do it?’

  ‘Of course,’ she shrugged. ‘But surely you can do it yourself? You’ve looked in the mirror, haven’t you? You have eyes like the sea. Drown her in them— what’s stopping you?’

  He clenched his fists in frustration and bounded to the hearth again. ‘Do you think I’d be here if it was that easy? I may as well have no eyes at all for all she cares! I’m nothing to her, nothing!’ He clenched his teeth and stood over the witch, shivering.

  She stretched forth her toe between his legs and dragged the stool forward. He acted on the hint and sat down again.

  ‘So tell me,’ pressed the witch, ‘who does she love?’

  He gave a short, stressed sigh. ‘My brother.’

  ‘I see! And his eyes are deeper and bluer than yours?’

  ‘No! No!’ He was on his feet at once. ‘If he was good looking, maybe I’d understand it— funny, clever, charming, driven, rich, anything— but he’s a blank! He always was— dull and blank! Safe and plain and dreary and blank. I don’t understand it! How can she love him? What is there to love? What can he give her? When I think of what I could offer— how I could love her! I’d light up her heart and her mind like a comet— she’d live with me, really blaze— but she chooses him. It’s not right! She’s meant for me. I just want her to wake up and realise it too. We are meant to be together.’

  The witch smiled and idly tied an elaborate knot into a long frond of her scarlet hair. ‘Perhaps she’ll notice you by and by?’

  ‘They’re engaged.’ He replied grimly. ‘In six months they’ll be married.’ Finally he stood still, and regarded her with grave despair. ‘I told you you’re my last resort. Can you save her, and save me?’

  ‘But who will save your brother?’

  ‘Him! He feels nothing!’ exclaimed her client in disgust. ‘He doesn’t know how to love— so he doesn’t deserve Bridget. And she certainly doesn’t deserve him.’

  ‘But she has chosen him.’r />
  ‘What does that matter? Why are you asking these questions? Can you do it or not?’

  He glared at her, seething, and she seemed to bask in the intensity of his attention until, with the flash of an expression at least as determined as his own, she snapped: ‘Let’s begin.’

  ‘Good.’ He was pleased to focus on the task at hand, rather than discuss its merits. Re-taking the stool, he produced a small package from an inside pocket and handed it to the witch. She did not shift her attention from his face, but took the offering and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a cheap, but distinctive, tortoiseshell-coloured hair comb.

  ‘You need something personal, something that belongs to her, in order to cast your spells, or whatever it is you do,’ he explained. ‘I’ve seen it in old films.’

  The witch turned over the comb with her eyebrows raised in slight amusement. ‘And this belongs to Bridget Elveden?’ she enquired.

  He nodded. ‘The first day I met her, she dropped it. I was leaving my house, and she was trying to get into hers. You see, she’d just moved in next door, and wasn’t sure of the keys yet. She was stood on the doorstep juggling boxes and bags and all kinds of clutter, trying key after key in the lock from a big bunch. I introduced myself and pointed out the right one— the one that looked like mine— and the door opened. But I kept her talking for as long as I could, helped her with her luggage— I knew straight away. I felt it there and then. It hasn’t changed.’

  The witch dragged the teeth of the comb across her palm as he spoke, apparently distracted by other thoughts. Nevertheless he continued with the details he had prepared to tell.

  ‘Once she was indoors and we’d said goodbye I carried on my way, and noticed the comb lying on her path. It must have dropped out of her hair while she was struggling to get in. I picked it up, and resolved to give it to her the next time we met. I could have knocked again, or put it through the letterbox, but I didn’t. I wanted to have a reason to speak to her the next time, a reason to get chatting. But I missed my chance. It happened that we didn’t meet again for a fortnight, and after that I had to go away on business for a month.’ He frowned and kicked his heel against the leg of the stool. ‘I missed my chance, I really did,’ he repeated. ‘And set up my brother to take that chance instead of me. I asked him to look after my place while I was away— drop in, pick up the mail and so on. That’s how he met Bridget— and by the time I returned, well. I had no chances left.’

  He looked up sharply, expecting some response to his tale of misfortune, but it was not forthcoming from the Witch of Cromer. She merely twisted the paper around the comb and tucked it away in some obscure fold of her garments, while murmuring disinterestedly: ‘I don’t follow the methods set out in old films. I don’t need anything personal from you except a cheque,’ and from the same place where the comb had disappeared she retrieved a slip of folded paper and proffered it to him.

  ‘Is it a spell?’ he asked uncertainly, as he took it.

  ‘A quote for the work.’

  He read the figure, and visibly balked. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Are you?’ she countered. ‘I don’t undertake trivial commissions, I assure you. The destruction of happiness has consequences, and consequences are expensive.’

  ‘“The destruction of