* Authors :
Amanda Helms and
Anne Leonard
* Narrators :
Cherrae L. Stuart and
Christiana Ellis
* Host :
Eric Valdes
* Artist :
Eric Valdes
*
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“The House, The Witch, and Sugarcane Stalks” Previously published by Lightspeed,
“To Pluck a Twisted String” Previously published by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
Rated PG
The House, the Witch, and Sugarcane Stalks
by Amanda Helms
The house wakes from its somnolence as the witch trudges up the path made of tarts. Through its rock-candy windows, the house scans her figure for any signs of hurt. The witch’s errands in the city make her nervous. And the house, being made of her magic and therefore of the witch, worries along with her that the wrong person might recognize her, or simply think they do. “They say Creoles all look alike,” she’s said, bitter.
It astounds the house, that the witch could be mistaken for any other but herself. That someone could fail to identify her tightly coiling black hair, her agate eyes, her russet skin as the witch’s, and the witch’s alone.
Her hair remains neatly tucked under her wrap. In a basket, balanced against her hip, she carries a basket full of linen bags. Flour and sugar. Though her steps are weary, she’s not limping. A successful outing, then.
Pleased she’s safe, the house opens its front door and rolls out a rug of pie pastry.
“Thank you, House,” the witch says, and walks in, letting the house close its door behind her.
Despite the muggy heat that makes the house’s pecan praline shingles stick together, the witch doesn’t roll up her sleeves till she’s set her basket on the single molasses-cake table. With a groan, she lifts her skirt to perch on a stool made of brioche. She pulls off her boots, wriggles her toes in their stockings, and frowns.
The house flares its brazier in question.
“Ran into someone I knew once, while I was in the city. Got a decision to make, now.” She grimaces. “I keep thinking we oughta leave New Orleans.” She doesn’t go into why, but from the witch’s dreams, the house already knows. She presses a hand flat to the brioche wall. “Hide for now, yes?”
It does. It’s made of sugar and magic, after all; and like sugar in a glass of water, it appears to dissolve into nothing, but it’s still there, just too fine to see.
When the house wakes next, the witch is on its roof, prizing off a pecan praline shingle. Once it’s loose, rum jelly oozes, filling in the naked spot. Though another praline will grow back by morning, the house rattles its tartelette shutters and puffs a clot of meringue from the chimney.
“Hush, now. I’ve decided.” The witch gives it a pat and plucks a few more pralines. “We’re gonna have some company.”
Displeased, the house blows out more meringue.
“Never you mind.”
The witch scurries down the brioche siding, then strides toward the swamp, where towering cypress trees grow, where sometimes the witch has to hiss the secret words to send away an alligator or cottonmouth. The only words she whispers now are those directing the river where to take the pralines and what they should say when they arrive.
The house watches anxiously as the witch returns. It knows she can take care of herself — she wouldn’t have been able to create it if she couldn’t — but she also created it...
