The Remarkable Mrs. Pennyweather

The Remarkable Mrs. Pennyweather

By
Sonya McCarthy


Mrs. Pennyweather was a witch.  Now, I’m not calling her a mean name because she really was a witch.  And an extraordinary witch she was.
Most people think that witches are scrawny and ugly; that they spend their days bent over big black pots casting spells; that they ride on broomsticks on nights of the full moon; that if you’ve seen one witch, you’ve seen them all.  This is not always true, especially in the case of Mrs. Pennyweather.
Mrs. Pennyweather is short and round, with fluffy white hair that looks like seeding dandelions.  She lives in a neat, cheerful little house at the edge of a small New England village.
Oh, she had a big black pot, it’s true, but she used it for brewing stews for her suppers and not for the mixing of wicked potions.  She had a broom its true, but she used it for sweeping her floors, not for sailing around in bright moonlight.  That is, she didn’t use it very often to sail around in the bright moonlight.  For though the name on her mailbox read “Mrs. Pennyweather, R.W.” (which stood for Retired Witch), she couldn’t resist using her broom to sail around the football field every now and then when the moon was particularly bright.
She was truly ashamed of her weakness and tried with all her might to fight off the temptation, but on certain nights when she just couldn’t keep her mind on the sock she was knitting or the jellies she was making, it seemed to her that the broom in the corner would get restless and tremble with anticipation.  Then she would sigh, stop what she was doing and take a bright red kerchief from the closet.  She’d tie it snugly under her chins, take the broom from the corner and go out her back door.
“Okay, Wicket,” she’d cry.  “Off to the drag strip.”
Once over the deserted football field, she’d speed round and round, doing figure eights and shouting “Wheeeeee” at the top of her lungs.  She sometimes liked to see how fast she could fly backwards, although Wicket didn’t care too much for this because it frayed her straws.
After an hour or two, Mrs. Pennyweather would fly over the village, just to see how things looked from the sky, and then return home.  Once home, she would brew a nice cup of tea, don a long pink flannel nightgown and settle in her bed completely content.
One fine sunny morning, Mrs. Pennyweather was busily scrubbing her house from top to toe, singing as she worked, “Charleston, Charleston, ta-tatata-tum-tum.


“Well, Parthenia Pennyweather,” a voice cried at the window.
Mrs. Pennyweather stopped in her tracks and turned ever so slowly, for she knew that voice from somewhere.
“Oh no!” she gasped.  “Not you:  Belladonna Bleake!”
“Yep, it’s me, Belle Bleake,” the visitor cackled.  “I didn’t expect to run into you after all these years.  Let’s see,” she mused, drumming her bony fingers on the windowsill. 
“How long has it been?  Round about the time Salem was making it a little hot for us, wasn’t it?”
“Now Belle,” Mrs. Pennyweather said, quite upset at the sight of Belladonna Bleake.
“Come in and have a cup of tea and we’ll chat a bit.  I’m sure you must be anxious to leave,” she said hopefully.
She shook her head and sighed as Belle clambered through the window knocking over a potted geranium with her bony knee.
“Oh, I’m so sorry dearie,” Belle Mourned.
“But I’ll fix it for you.”  And with that, she pointed at the broken pot and flower on the floor.  Waved her finger and said, “Xwap.”   
The broken pieces fitted themselves together, the dirt slithered back into the pot, the geranium hopped in after and the whole thing returned to its place on the windowsill.
“There,” she said.  “No harm done then,” and accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Pennyweather handed her.
“Nice place you’ve got her, Parthy,” her unwelcome guest said looking around.  “Mmmm, I smell cookies.  You always could cook, though you never did care for the things we witches really like,” she added sourly.
“What have you been doing with yourself lately, Belle?” Mrs. Pennyweather asked, not really interested.
“Oh, the usual, casting spells, brewing portions, scaring people, haunting, you know, witchy stuff,”
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
Mrs. Pennyweather hesitated.
“Well,” she started.  “Not much really.  You see, I’m retired.  I make jelly and sell it to the villagers,” she said.
“Haw, he hehehe,” Belle laughed.
“Ohh-hehehe,” she laughed so hard she rolled on the floor holding her stomach.
“Oh, that’s a good one that is,” she gasped.  “The best potion brewer in the whole coven is selling jelly.  Oh-hehehe,” she laughed.
She got up from the floor, put her hands on her hips and stared down at Mrs. Pennyweather.

“Now Parthy, you can’t be serious.  I heard that you retired, but I thought you gave up that silly idea of putting a stop to your witching a long time ago,” Belle said.
“I’m very serious Belle, and it’s not a silly idea,” Mrs. Pennyweather replied.
  “You know I never really cared for that other sort of thing, making it snow when people were on picnics or changing people into toads.”
“Oh Parthy, we always changed them back eventually, didn’t we?” She cackled.
“Remember the time we changed that stuffy old mayor into a ham, right in the middle of his election speech?”
Mrs. Pennyweather snickered then pressed her lips into a tight line.
“I have a good life, a happy life here, Belle.  Things have been going well for me.  In fact, I’m thinking of taking a little vacation, maybe to Switzerland or Ireland.”
Belle gasped.  “Oh stay away from Ireland.  Those pixies over there are terrors.  I couldn’t hold on to my broom there.  Every time I went to sleep or turned my back, it would disappear and the little people would make me pay to get it back.  Oh, I’m telling you it was so distressing,” Belle explained.  She sat quietly brooding, and then recovered.
“Parthy, things just haven’t been the same without you.  I miss you.  You must come with me.  We could have such good times, just like the old days.  I even miss the tricks you used to play on me,” she said.
“No Belle,” Mrs. Pennyweather said firmly.  “I’ve retired and I’m going to stay retired.  I’m not living the life of a witch anymore.  No more spells or tricks or potions or anything for me.  I’m retired,” she said.
“You can’t make me believe that, Parthenia Pennyweather,” Belle said loudly.
“Do you mean that in all these years, you never cast a spell, or gone out for a ride?”  I see you still have old Wicket there,” she said pointing into the corner.
Wicket shook indignantly at being called old.
“Well,” Mrs. Pennyweather said blushing.  “I do ride once in a while but that’s all and that’s the way it’s going to be,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Belle leered.  “I could say a word or two in the village and you might be forced to leave,” she said.
Mrs. Pennyweather gasped.  “Belle Bleake, you wouldn’t, you couldn’t do that could you?” Her little round face crumpled.
“Now, now Parthy,” Belle muttered.  “It’s all for you own good, dearie.  I’m just thinking of you.”  She poured a cup of tea and handed it to Mrs. Pennyweather.
“Come, come now, and buck up.  There’s to be a gathering of the coven tonight, the usual one hundred year gathering,” she said.

“It’s not far from here and everyone will be so glad to see you.  I promise I won’t tell any of them what you have been doing.  They’d think it was terrible then get angry at me for being your good friend,” she added.
“I don’t want to go to the coven meeting, Belle,” Mrs. Pennyweather wailed.
“It’s all settled Parthy.  You need a night out anyway and you’ll learn a few new tricks to keep from going stale,” Belle’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“Besides, guess who’s going to be there?  Nasalla Nastee, the very witchiest of the witches.”
“Oh Belle,” Mrs. Pennyweather whined.  “She’s the worst of all.  Please don’t make me go.”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.  Mrs. Pennyweather and Belladonna Bleake looked at each other, startled.
“C-come in,” Mrs. Pennyweather said.
The door opened revealing a pretty young girl.
“Why, Beth,” Mrs. Pennyweather smiled.  “How are you dear?”
“I’m fine Mrs. Pennyweather.  You know, Johnny and I are going to be married next week,” she said looking at the table where Belle sat sipping tea.
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine Beth,” Mrs. Pennyweather said.  “This is Mrs. Bleake.  Belle, this is Beth Rose.”
“Please to meet you dearie,” Belle muttered.
“I’m happy to meet you too Mrs. Bleake,” Beth said with a smile.
“Mother sent me for some of your wonderful blueberry jelly, have you any left?” Beth asked.
“Certainly dear,” Mrs. Pennyweather answered.  She went to the cabinet and took four jars of sparkling blue jelly and put them in Beth’s basket.  Beth gave Mrs. Pennyweather some coins.
“Thank you,” she said and started for the door.  She stopped and turned around.
“That reminds me, do you remember the special jar of blueberry jelly you gave me to give to Johnny?  Well, it was just a day or two after that he asked me to marry him.  He loves the stuff,” she said as she left, closing the door behind her.
“Well!” Belle sputtered.  “Right after you gave her the jelly, her sweetheart proposed.  Now isn’t that strange.  Parthenia Pennyweather, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Mrs. Pennyweather blushed deeply.  “Don’t scold me, Belle.  It was just a little bit of a spell.  They have been in love for so long but Johnny was just too shy to tell her.  It was just a little bit of a spell, to give him confidence” she repeated.

“All right, you don’t have to explain.  In fact, I think it is a good sign.  Not a very good spell but at least a good sign that you haven’t forgotten all you’re witching,” she said.
“Come now, enough of this dilly-dallying and shilly-shallying.  I’ll help you clean up and we can be on our way to the gathering,” she added as she stalked around the house, mumbling and crackling happily, washing the dishes with a wave of her finger and an Xwap.
At twilight they were off on their brooms heading for the gathering of the witches.  Poor Mrs. Pennyweather didn’t enjoy the trip.  Belle played tricks on every little village they passed.
‘Xwap’ and purple snow was falling over one village.  ‘Xwap’ and a puzzled farmer was wondering how his cow got to the top of the cherry tree.  ‘Xwap’ and pigs were wearing feathers.
So it went until at long last Belle pointed out a dark and gloomy forest ahead.  They swished over the tree tops and landed in a small grove right smack in the middle of a dozen witches hunched over a big black pot.
“Drat it, Belladonna Bleake,” squeaked one of the witches.  “I might have known it would be you who would ruin my new potion.  Look what you have done,” she said as she pointed at the liquid on the ground.
“Hmmph,” Belle snorted.  “Smells like coffee.  You never brewed a good potion in your life Euphoria Yawks.  Everything you cook up smells like coffee, ever since that Brazilian witch put a hex on you,” Belle said.
“Oh, Belladonna,” Euphoria whined.  “How mean of you to remind me.”
“Attention girls.”  A high crackly voice was heard.  Everyone turned and saw coming out of the woods, using her broom as a cane, a bent, bony old witch.  She preferred dressing like humans thought a witch should dress.  Her hat was black and pointy; her long-sleeved gown was black and flowing.
“Stop your haggling,” she commanded.  “Nasalla Nastee is here now and let’s waste no more time getting down to business.”
All the witches gathered around her, making a big fuss, for this was their priestess, the oldest witch they knew.  All gathered around but Mrs. Pennyweather, who was trying to avoid being seen.  It was no use.
“Parthenia Pennyweather,” the old witch screeched.  “As I live and breathe, it’s been three-hundred years or more since I’ve seen you doll.  Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Oh, here and there and about,” Mrs. Pennyweather twittered.
“Really,” Nasalla muttered.
“All right girls, gather round.  No time to waste.  The witching hour is almost here,” she said giggling.
“No time to waste.  We only meet every hundred years,” she said banging her broom on a log.
“Wipplestick Weirde, read the minutes of our last meeting,” she ordered.


Wipplestick Weirde came forward carrying a small black notebook.  Brushing of cobwebs and assorted dust, she cleared her throat.
“Now just the highlights, Wipplestick if you please, just the highlights,” Nasalla interrupted.
“At our last regular meeting, “ Wipplestick read, “Citronella introduced a new method for making little people out of big people and big people out of little people.  Euphoria tried to teach us a new potion, but it turned out to be coffee,” she said.
A sniffle was heard from Euphoria and a muted snicker from the rest of the coven.
“Belladonna showed us a method of turning people inside out and tried it on mad Maude, but since none of us has seen Maude since then, the results are inconclusive,” she said.
Mrs. Pennyweather moaned softly as Wipplestick read on.
“It’s so awful,” she thought.  “I never did like the tricks they pulled.  I just want to be back in my little house making blueberry jelly.”
Wipplestick was nearing the end.
“The prize of the century was awarded to Flimsey Finkle, who during a battle between the Redcoats and the Colonials, switched the clothes of both armies and caused the utmost confusion.”
A loud applause was heard through the coven as Mrs. Pennyweather winced.
Wipplestick paused.
“That’s all there is Nasalla.”
“Fine, fine,” Nasalla said.
“Now, during this century there has been nothing done to earn our centennial prize.”
The witches all cackled and muttered.
“We simply must get on the ball,” Nasalla continued.
“Groteske Grockle did come close to winning the prize when she reduced the full moon to the size of a marble, but that is really not all that difficult, although it did cause a lovely panic amongst the star gazers.”
On and on Nasalla and the other witches plotted and planned while Mrs. Pennyweather stayed in the background and tried not to listen.
At long last and to Mrs. Pennyweather’s relief, the meeting came to a conclusion.  Among the cries of “see you in the next century” and “have fun”, the witches zoomed away on their brooms in all directions.  Only Mrs. Pennyweather and Belladonna Bleake were left in the dark forest.
“Aren’t you glad you came, dearie?” Belladonna cackled.
“Let’s get on to your house so we can rest up a bit.”
She sailed off and Mrs. Pennyweather followed without a word.
All the way home Mrs. Pennyweather thought of ways to get rid of Belladonna but dismissed them all.  She lost her talent for the really nasty spells and lost the desire to practice them.
The sun was coming up when they reached Mrs. Pennyweather’s house.  She and Belladonna were so tired they fell right into bed and slept until the following afternoon.

After they had eaten dinner, which Mrs. Pennyweather insisted on cooking having flatly refused to eat anything that Belladonna cooked, Mrs. Pennyweather again tried to reason with her but was cut short.
“Parthy,” Belladonna stated.  “That’s the last word I want to hear from you unless you want me to turn all the villagers into crabapples.”
Mrs. Pennyweather gasped.
“Yes,” Belladonna repeated.  “Yes crabapples, each and every single one of them.  Oh, Parthenia, I know I’m doing the right thing for you.  In no time at all, you will be in the swing of things again.  It’s like riding a broom, you never forget,” she said.
When night fell, poor Mrs. Pennyweather stood in the doorway of her sweet house.  Heaving sigh after sigh, she looked at the rows of jelly made without so much as a bit of magic or a hint of a spell.  She held Wicket in one hand and a small suitcase in the other.
“All righty, I guess we’re ready to take off then,” Belladonna chuckled.
“Belle, just one more thing, before we leave I’d like to take a last spin around the football field.”
She explained that the football field was like a playground to her and she’ like to speed around it, for old time’s sake.
“Good Grief.  Well, if you must, you must.  Lead the way and I’ll sail around with you,” Belle said.
Off they flew.  Once over the football field, Mrs. Pennyweather seemed much happier.  She flew round and round shouting, “wheeeeooooo.”
“Now that’s more like your old self,” Belladonna yelled as she passed her.
“Let’s race.”
They flew, floated, sailed and raced.  They flew high, and then swooped down almost touching the ground.
Suddenly, Mrs. Pennyweather had an idea.  She touched Belladonna’s broom and said ever so slightly, “Back in time with thee. Leave me be.”
“I’ll race you backwards, Belle,” Mrs. Pennyweather shouted, paying no heed to Wicket who was shaking her straws wildly.
“All righty,” Belladonna smirked and holding tight to her hat, she whisked off, speeding backwards.
“Oh, come now.  You can do better than that,” Mrs. Pennyweather teased as she passed her.
Belladonna scowled, waved her bony finger in the air, hunched over her broom and said, “Xwap.”
At once, with an amazing burst of speed, she flew backwards, passing Mrs. Pennyweather so fast that the turned a somersault in the air and almost lost her grip on Wicket.
Mrs. Pennyweather smiled as she saw Belle speeding away faster that sound, faster than light.
“Goodbye Belle,” she waved.
From a long, long distance she heard Belle’s voice.
“You tricked me.  Drat you, Parthenia Pennyweather,” and the voice faded and then could be heard no more.
Sailing quietly toward home while soothing poor Wicket, Mrs. Pennyweather snickered, and then laughed a loud belly laugh.  Poor Belladonna Bleake had sped backward so fast, she pushed herself right back into time.
What time or how many years, Mrs. Pennyweather didn’t know.
“Perhaps even back into old Salem,” she thought as she spied her little cottage and guided Wicket home.

The End