I was in my office (upstairs, computer, back door) when Sarah, the twelve-year-old from the Holmeshallow Farm family came pelting up the driveway.
Unusual. She used to be running and skidding everywhere but got in with a new crowd at school, I’m told, and now it’s all about ‘the look’ and never being enthusiastic. I made my way downstairs, letting her knock before I opened the door.
The poor girl was quite a sight; bright red cheeks, heaving for breath, and trying to keep a wreath of herbs from sliding off her head. It was the wreath that put me on alert.
A girl who grows up next door to a witch learns some things in spite of herself, and Sarah had crowned herself with every protective plant she could get her hands on. Her wreath was a messy, fragrant mix of rosemary, basil, lavender, and more.
She gasped out. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to come to the front door. Ben did something stupid and annoyed the goblin in the milking shed and now everyone’s singing instead of talking and it’s awful.”
I held the door open for her. The cure for the curse, such as it was, was for Sarah’s rapscallion brother to make amends for his insult. This was rarely as simple as an apology, largely because young Ben was rarely genuinely sorry.
“What does the milk goblin want this time?”
“Fresh sourdough glow-bread.”
I herded her through the kitchen and into the still room, then began flicking through my grimoire. “That goblin’s taking advantage of the situation, and me. I’ll brew the glow potion to go into the bread but you’ll be making the loaf itself and taking a note to the goblin with you when you leave.”
Sarah looked sideways at me. “What’s the note going to say?”
“That next time Ben crosses the line, Ben will be making the glow bread.”
“But he’s an awful cook. His bread is like dried-out mud.” Sarah paused, and her wicked smile emerged. “And the milk goblin knows it.”
She took a step towards the door, I held up a hand. “Next time. So they both know what to look forward to. We’ll be nice this once.”
Sarah sniggered. “I’m going to make sourdough so good, the goblin’s gonna cry.”
“And glow like a lantern for a week.” I added.
Why goblins are so enchanted with being walking glow-sticks is beyond me but it does come in useful every now and again.
We got on with our tasks. Sarah’s spent enough time in my kitchen, both with and without her mother or father, that I knew she was more than capable of turning out a loaf of bread to be proud of.
I sent her off, a little later in the day than necessary, with the warm glow-bread wrapped in a tea towel.
She’ll make a good apprentice once she gets over those new friends.
The DNA of Stories 