The Mud-witch - a short story collaboration | Page 14

She does not sleep for long. Her feet are
itching when she wakes, and they carry her
out of the house before she can pick up her
hat or her least-torn anorak. Take him away?
she thinks, the wish whispering in her head.
The Mud-witch is not one for walking. She
likes to sit with her toes in the mud and watch
the river go by. But she is striding now, as well
as she can, upstream. The mud flat narrows
to an earthy path, overgrown with nettles. As
she follows the river’s turns, she glimpses the
smoke and spark of the town in the distance.
Soon the path is gravelly, then tarmac. There
is tempting junk littered here, still shiny,
unrusted. She wants to stop and harvest
the fresh green bottles, the white blooms of
carrier bags, but her feet will not let her. On
she marches, towards the town’s thrum.

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