Married at Last!
On the third day, the fingers began to twitch. The movement started at the very tipsthose that looked like the cap of a red toadstool, only without the spots. Soon, the grey parts followed, and by noon, the fingers were writhing along their full length. There were no bones inside themjust hollow stalks taking full advantage of their freedom. One by one, they swayed in the pot, groping for its rim. Marjorie smirkedhow amusing that shed bought a pot shaped like a human head. Clever, really, the way it seemed to think for itself.
The fingers stopped exploring the space above them and frozea fly had landed on the window. Its wings twitching, the insect crawled down the floral curtains before flitting onto the glass. The fingers held perfectly still, afraid to startle it. The fly crept onto the red tip of one, tasting it with its proboscis before crawling further down.
The finger reacted instantly. The red tip snapped down, trapping the fly. A crunch silenced the buzzing, and all seven fingers twisted into a fist, curling toward the soil in the pot. The fungus now resembled a grey brain threaded with red veins.
“Food for thought,” Marjorie muttered, pulling a small cauldron from the stove. The meat broth had already begun to simmer away.
***
She ladled broth into a bowl, stirred it, and inspected itgood consistency, decent smell. Scooping a spoonful, she drizzled the hot liquid over the pot. The fingers trembled eagerly, soaking up the meaty broth through the veins between them. Marjorie stepped back from the windowsill to watch. The fingers shuddered and split, starting at the tips. The grey stalks peeled open into red petals, their inner surfaces studded with tiny nodules. Fully bloomed, the fungus lay like a crimson flower atop the earthenware head.
Marjorie gave a quiet chuckle and lifted the pot. One of the stalks stretched toward her finger. She hissedand it froze.
“Thats what I thought,” she whispered, carrying it to the open cellar.
Something shifted in the dark pit below. She tossed the pot in. A muffled squeak, then a wet slap.
Back at the stove, she hefted the cauldron. The thick woolen cloth in her hands was damp, the heat of the cast iron seeping into her fingertips. Thick, murky liquid poured into the cellars bellyanswered by a chorus of grateful slurps.
Setting the cauldron aside, Marjorie lit a lantern and held it over the cellar. Fungi on the walls twitched with grey fingers. One by one, they bloomed into red flowerspetals like tendrilsdrunk on the meat broth, brewed to her grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, she dragged the bed back into place, its iron legs scraping the floorboards. She tested the mechanism, smoothed the covers, and drew the curtain over the pit beneath.
A white linen cloth spread over the table, steaming dishes set upon it. The floor gleamed from scrubbing; the oil lamps were freshly filled. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh frock, Marjorie pinched her cheeks and peered out the cottage window.
A rider in gleaming chainmail approached the crossroads stone. How splendidperhaps today, shed be wed! And if the suitor didnt suit well, the cellar was always hungry.
The bridegroom halted at her doorstepand Marjorie, the hereditary witch, smiled wide.
