The Mud-witch - a short story collaboration | Page 10

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Downstream, downstream, away from the fug of the town, the river broadens. Mud flats spread
from its sides. All the junk the town coughs up washes its way here eventually, sunk into the mud
beneath the elder bushes and drooping willow trees. All the best bits of junk, the Mud-witch
digs up.
She has hauled out trolleys and buckets and wires, umbrellas and springs and kites and tyres. All
broken, but with them she has made a home, nestled near the bank.
Sometimes, the things she squelches up from the mud have wishes inside. These ones make
her sigh. The things are always modest – a coin, a bottle, a handkerchief tied in a knot – but the
wishes aren’t. Wealth, the things, whisper. Fame, glory. I want to win the prize, be the best, have
my way. The Mud-witch smears them clean and puts them under her mouldy pillow.

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