April 10, 2008
The Witch-Girl and the Demon.
“Are you sure you should be up today?”
The witch-girl shot the demon her best glare; admittedly, it would have been far more impressive if she hadn’t looked like a mouse’s sneeze would knock her over. She drew herself up. “The day I am not well enough to go about my own house is the day I die.”
The demon stopped scrubbing the pot and turned to look at her. “You should not say such things. It gives the more mischievous spirits ideas.”
The witch-girl shivered, then forcibly stilled herself. The demon went back to scrubbing pots.
“Why does a demon know how to wash dishes, anyway?”
The demon smirked at the soap suds. “Demons know many things. Besides, to hear my grandfather tell it, your people stole the idea of cookware from us in the first place, when you were hunting for fire.”
“Really?” The witch-girl coughed thinly, but genuine interest brightened her voice. “Would you tell me the story sometime?” She paused. “Unless…”
When the witch-girl didn’t continue, the demon set down his latest pot and turned. The witch-girl blushed and avoided his eyes. “Yes?” he prompted.
“Oh. Nothing. It suddenly occurred to me that you and Father might have been being euphemistic.”
The demon stared at her, then spun back to the sink to hide his smile. Biting back a laugh, he said, “No, we weren’t.”
“Oh. Good – er, sorry. I just – er…”
“Besides, even if we had been, I would still have told you the story of the cookware.”
This time, the demon was not so successful at hiding his amusement. The witch-girl choked back her own giggles and hid her face in her hands.
In the hall outside, the wizard unconsciously mimicked his daughter’s gesture, and wept.
December 30, 2007
In a Nutshell.
“Why would Father agree to let you live for stories?” came a small voice.
The demon stopped sweeping and turned. The sorcerer’s daughter was standing in the kitchen doorway, blocking the light. She was wan, but seemed stronger today, and, noted the demon, she was actually looking at him.
“I’m surprised you don’t know the answer to that, little witch.”
“Why do you call me ‘little witch’?” asked the girl, her faint voice gaining strength from her curiosity.
The demon glanced at the girl, raising one pale eyebrow. “Because you are. Haven’t you figured out the answer yet? It’s for the same reason people find value in fairy tales.”
The demon waited, resting the broom at his side, while the girl thought about his statement.
Finally, she spoke. “They have a magic of their own, don’t they?” There was an eerie brightness in her eyes.
The demon nodded.
