Forbidden Potion

“Put the ax down,” the lady said.

Clouds of smoke filled the chamber. Blowing air from a wooden pipe, she tried hard to keep the fire alive.

“I will, I promise I will. Let me just change this into a better pot for ya,” Iris answered. Her right hand tried hard to keep the ax above her head while her lips mumbled some fancy words.

Beads of sweat formed on the upper lip of the lady as she sighed in frustration and disbelief. Smacking her wooden pipe on the damp floor, she walked up to Iris, “Ya think?”

Her hands worked quickly as she snatched the ax from her daughter’s hands. Lifting the ax up towards the roof of the chamber, she chanted a few words.

A dark cloud emerged and hid the ax from their vision, and when the picture cleared, the ax had already turned into a broom.

“Maa, I swear, I’d have done it if you hadn’t interrupted me.” Iris said. A little slump on her shoulders.

“How come ya do it easily and when it’s my turn, it is all trash?” She asked. Her eyebrows raised and her expressions curious. “Whatever is ya secret?”

“It will come to you when it is meant for you.” Her mother answered. A little smug expression on her face was enough to irritate her daughter.

Rosalie was a witch, as people liked to call her. She had immense knowledge of witchcraft, which was apparent through her victorious attempts at different magics.

“I swear if I do not see you cleaning every corner of the backyard,” Rosalie extended the broom towards her daughter.

“Can I do that tomorrow? Today I need to make that pot for ya.” Iris said, her eyes sparkling.

“Iris,” her mother warned. “Magic is not something you can force. It will come to you when it is meant for you, haven’t I told you that already?”

“When? When? When? When? When is my turn to be a famous witch, just like you?” Her daughter asked, stomping her feet on the ground like a little kid. Turning twenty for Iris had meant going through another puberty in which her mother was caught as a victim.

“It is not important to be famous or to be a witch.” Her mother said. She then turned away from Iris and continued blowing air into the fire.

Iris sighed. There was no way she could see an end to this conversation today.

“What’s for dinner?” She then asked, accepting her defeat.

“Go and sweep,” Rosalie said. She was just not yet ready for another argument.

“I am not eating chicken feet for the third time in a row,” Iris said before storming out of the room.

“Then go to bed hungry.” Rosalie made sure that her voice reached her daughter before the door to the room was shut.

“I hate chicken feet!” Iris shouted as soon as she was sure that the door to the house was shut.

“Chicken feet, chicken feet, chicken feet.” Iris frustratingly began sweeping the small backyard.

She liked living in a small cottage on the outskirts of this huge island. The cottage came with a small backyard. Although most of the plants in this backyard were her mother’s witchcraft instruments, she enjoyed knowing more about them.

She knew which plant did what and which leaf turned a human into which animal. Witchcraft had a chokehold on her. She would sit with her mother for hours just watching her make new potions.

As much as she wanted to experience the magic herself, she had failed.

When she finally turned twenty, she thought that her wait was over. She had learned from her mother that witchcraft worked for her the night she turned twenty.

She desperately waited by looking at the tiny watch inside the cottage. As soon as the clock struck 12, she attempted the most basic craft but flunked miserably.

She tried it again and again. She failed again and again.

It was almost 6 am when she gave up. She cried herself to sleep that night and tried it the next morning only to be disappointed again.

“Is that a new song ya have learned?” Rhys said. His laugh was light, almost mockingly light. “Chicken feet, chicken feet.” He leaned over on the wooden fence. His face amused and eyes focused.

“Don’t ya know, this fence is cursed?” Iris stopped sweeping and rested her chin on the broom.

“Surely, it is. I guess ya might have cursed it using your witchcraft?” The man smiled and then made a sorry face. “Oh, I forgot, you cannot.”

Redness crept into Iris’s face.

“Get lost, ya,” She shouted, trying not to acknowledge the man anymore.

“Come on! It was a good joke.” He made his way inside.

The sound of Iris sweeping the fallen leaves filled the backyard.

“Is Rose home?” Rhys asked, kicking the mountain of collected leaves.

“Inside,” Iris pointed at the door with the end of her broom.

“Should I tell her, how ya are singing a chicken feet song?” The man chuckled as he made his way inside the cottage through the rocky path.

“This broom used to be an ax,” Iris lifted the broom and held it as if she was holding an ax, “and I know how ya are a scaredy cat.”

“Relax. It was a joke.” Rhys hurried inside.

“He will be the death of me,” Iris said and went back to sweeping.