Old Margrete did not truly sell little Jenny Weaver a love
potion to ensnare Will Carpenter on the eve of the Maying moon. The very idea
of the flaxen-haired, apple-cheeked, green-eyed Jennivere of the Loom needing such a thing,
when anyone could see Will’s infatuation with her, set Old Margrete’s raspy
throat to bitter laughter. All shy Jenny ever needed was to smile at Will once,
and he would be hers, and to that end, when Jenny stumbled, weepy-eyed, into
Old Margrete’s cottage at the edge of the woods, Old Margrete gave her the
potion she needed.
That is, a hearty draft of strong ale, mixed with chamomile
and ginger root to disguise the taste.
“A love potion true?” Jenny had asked. “And ‘twill turn
Will’s eyes to mine?”
“Never fret thee,” Old Margrete assured her, “but hie
to the commons and catch thy beloved’s gaze. The potion be not all; for the
spell to take, he must look upon thy face, and thee upon his.”
“For how long?”
Old Margrete tucked the yellow hair behind little Jenny’s
ear. “For as long as is needful.”
And sure enough, two days later the banns were cried and
shortly thereafter the wedding of Jenny and Will was celebrated. Old Margrete
did not attend, for folk did not care to see her warty face on happy occasions,
and Old Margrete did not, for the most part, care to see the townspeople who
came to her under cover of darkness, begging for remedies, or the clever hands
of the midwife, but made the sign of the evil eye against her should they meet
in the light.
So all would have been well, had not the churchman, as he
did once a year, perhaps, begin his speechifying against evil, quoting, “Thou
shalt not suffer a witch to live,” and casting meaningful glances in the
direction of her cottage. And still and all, nothing would have come of it,
save that Jenny, made bold in her nuptial joy, began to tell around town that,
witch though she may be, Old Margrete was a good witch, a kind and loving and
helpful witch.
Sides were taken. Eduard Atwater, the alchemist, who also
served as village apothecary, had much dealing with Old Margrete, and
paid a good price for her herbs. He named those whose mothers had called upon Old
Margrete during complicated labors. “Many of us would not be here to today to
speak against evil were it not for Old Margrete’s skill,” he said. “Her
knowledge of medicinal herbs rivals mine, and comes through experience. She is
no more witch than I.”
“Reject the devil in all his forms!” the churchman
countered. Sent from the city when the old churchman passed, he had not been
raised among them in the village and had no sense of the usefulness of a
village witch. “Be not seduced by the fair face of evil.”
“Hardly a fair face,” muttered those who had seen Old
Margrete in daylight, but the churchman was young, with a powerful voice that
projected across the square, across the commons. It could not be shut out. The
more words were spoken in Old Margrete’s defense, the more insistent was he
that the old woman had seduced those souls rightly belonging to him, and that
she must be put in her place.
“’Tis all my doing!” Jenny wailed, having crept to Old
Margrete’s window late at night. It was the eve before the harvest moon, so
there was light enough that she had no fear, and besides, little Jenny was with
child already, and came also for the tea of fennel and peppermint that Old
Margrete mixed so well.
But truly, she came to warn. “There’s talk of cleansing
by fire!” Jenny wept. “They’ll burn thee, Margrete, and whether thee be witch
or no, thee hast never harmed the merest hair on any mortal’s head.”
“Worry thy thoughts no longer, but get thee home safe to thy
husband’s arms,” Old Margrete crooned, again tucking a strand of yellow hair
behind the girl’s ear. “Old Margrete’s lived through witch hunts a-plenty.”
“How shall thee find succor?” Jenny sobbed. “Where in the
wide world is shelter for thy good old bones?”
“Old Margrete shall stay,” she promised. “There be remedy
for all life’s ills here in my pots and jars.” And she sent Little Jenny on her
way with the loose tea, along with a bit of licorice to soothe her gravid belly.
Then she went among her herbs and began to mumble to herself
as she mixed. “There be love potions and love potions,” she cackled. “And if
it’s love that be lacking here, soon there shalt be love a-plenty, even for one
with a face such as Old Margrete’s.”
And she mixed something stronger than ale, and sweeter than
chamomile, and sharper than ginger, a barrel of it, and said words that were
best not to speak, then corked the barrel, hooked a dipper in her belt, and
rolled herself and her concoction down the lane. As she went through the
moon-dark town, she ladled a dipper of this medicine into every water jug and
barrel she came across, with a triple dose for the churchman’s morning
ablutions, until she came at last to the village well.
With some straining, for her old joints were sore and her
back long since bent under by the weight of the things she knew, Old Margrete
hefted the barrel and poured its contents into the water supply, where one and
all would draw their drink when the sun rose. “Oh, they’ll see a love potion
now, won’t they ever,” Old Margrete muttered.
She slept very late into the afternoon, and when she hobbled
out into the day, her front path was strewn with asters and chrysanthemums, her
shutters hung with fresh pine wreaths, and three strong young men, the
churchman chief among them, were thatching her roof with sweet heather.
