The Mud-witch - a short story collaboration | Page 13

As she lies down to nap she wishes she didn’t have to grant them, all these grand and selfish wishes. She is always hungry when she wakes up, from dreams of other people’s greed. Nobody ever says thank you. But she has no choice. She is the Mud-witch. Today the mud sucks at her feet as she wades ankle-deep into the river. Her net is a broom with a basket tied to the end, and she dips it, hoping for pike. The water is a lovely rich brown, like stewed tea. The Mud-witch wishes she could catch a batch of iced buns, not a pike, but when she pulls in the basket she has neither. As she lifts up the broken boat and feels the wish inside, she draws in breath to sigh, then stops. She rubs her thumbs over the flaking varnish, checking. Nobody has ever made a wish about her before. What will it be like, she wonders, as she rests her head on the bump of the boat under her pillow and prepares to dream. 10