Cauldron

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble." – From Shakespeare's Macbeth

Greta stirred the contents of her small black cauldron, which was positioned over a meagre fire. There wasn't much wood left. Hans had gone to get wood, and some other essentials. But Hans had not yet returned.

Greta got up and opened the door, looking out into the rapidly darkening woods that surrounded the small cottage. The sickly light of a day that had never been more than grey would soon perish altogether. A few specs of snow descended to the frozen ground. Greta made a disgusted sound and closed the door. She was worried. But she manifest her worry as anger directed at Hans.

The stupid bear of a man should have been back long ago. He was probably drunk, though in fact she had never seen Hans drunk, but that must be it. That must be why he wasn't here, and not that he'd been murdered, or had encountered a family of wild boars, or even a bear. No. No. Much better to imagine him drunk. Oh how she would curse him when he returned.

She went back to the cauldron, stirring it she muttered.

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Send him home, and there'll be trouble."

Ha yes, she'd make him rue the day he made her worry so much.

An hour passed, or about an hour as she judged it, for Greta had no clock. Again she went to the door. She could see next to nothing, the room was dark, with only that small fire for illumination. Nothing against the deep, swallowing darkness of the night.

But the snow was falling in earnest now, and sticking. Greta pushed the door closed. Shuffling over, she added a few small pieces of the remaining wood to the fire.

Then she opened her small box. It was made of wood, and had been decorated with a picture of a Harlequin, though this was now very faded and worn. From the box she took a few dried herbs. Sprinkling them into the cauldron she chanted.

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Bring him home or there'll be trouble."

It didn't do to threaten, but she was angry. Even so she muttered an apology, and then a prayer.

"Mother of all - bring him home safely. Mother guide his feet, bring him safely home to me."

Again she stirred the cauldron, and a rich smell filled the small room.

Once more she went to the door. This time she called out.

"Hans. Hans. Where are you? Come home Hans. Hans."

She held her breath. Listening intently, Hearing the heavy crash of snowflakes and the hammering of her own poor heart.

"Greta!"

She was imaging things. Wanting to hear him so badly.

"Greta!" Closer now, louder.

"Hans." She screamed into the night. And then he was there, huge, soaking wet, and dragging his foot, but there, with her.

He filled the room, and as he explained the twisted ankle, he broke pieces of wood with his axe.

The fire was soon brighter, and Hans consumed the stew his wife had made with relish.

Greta remembered to say her thanks to the Mother of All.