The Bog Witch's Brew
by R. Jean Bell
Mist blankets the pasture, shrouding
the flock and swallowing
the heathered hills beyond.
Dread twists my gut and I long to crawl
back into the loft and cocoon myself
in the heavy feather duvet.
"The Bog Witch is brewing,"
Grams says, wringing her hands.
"That's just an old superstition."
I shiver and warm my palms over the fire.
Grams shakes her head and holds
out PawPaw's heavy grey sweater--
the last she'd knitted before
rheumatism stiffened her fingers.
"The flock needs checking.
You know they stray when she brews."
I had just inherited the responsibility,
like the pullover that swallows
my thighs and wraps me in the scent
of sheep and wood and tobacco.
The tally is one lamb short--
I check it twice--
so I slip through the fence where one slat
lies rotting on the damp ground.
Following the narrow deer trail, I trudge
up and down the sandy hills
listening for a lamb's cry.
It's hopeless, I know, and far too quiet,
but the mist beckons me forward.
Panting, I pause
near a stand of lichen-covered trees.
Cold water fills my shoes as I sink
ankle-deep into the moss.
The air thickens.
A whiff of wood smoke tickles my nose
and the wind whispers my name.
A hunched silhouette moves through the fog.
Its cry grows louder.
When I rub my eyes, it's gone.
Nothing remains but dry leaves
on the scrub oaks, rattling
in the breeze, and the growl
of my empty stomach.
The chill of the air seeps
into my bones and the sweater
hangs heavy on my shoulders.
The lamb has to be there, just out of sight,
but I turn my leaden limbs toward home.
Damp steams from the soaked wool
when I hang it by the blazing fire.
My shoulders slump as I tell Grams
a precious ewe lamb is lost.
"She answered the witch's summons,"
Grams says, kneading dough for bread.
"We all hear her call when it's our time."
I shiver as I remember
the suffocating mist on the morning
Pa refused to wake
and the story that Grams told
as she held me on her lap
of how the Bog Witch called for Pa
to drink her brew.
She repeats that same verse:
"One taste takes away the pain.
Another, soothes the heart-aflame.
A third sip brings about rebirth
and leaves our body to the earth."
Her gnarled hand squeezes mine
and I look down into her eyes--
no longer a clear bright blue
but cloudy and grey and bloodshot.
"The Bog Witch calls my name." A tear
streaks her wrinkled cheek.
"But I'm not quite ready
to taste her blessed brew."
The name in the mist
is one I share with her.
The Bog Witch is calling
and Grams wants to go.
Outside, the damp retreats
before the burning sun and blue sky.
Tomorrow, the witch will brew again.
I shall cling to Grams's floured hands
and beg her to remain.