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[voluptuarian]

13 days of witches: the solitary witch of Downcast Cottage

"How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper— solitude is sweet." — William Cowper

Downcast Cottage had sat empty and neglected for as long as almost anyone could remember, and there was no one still alive who could recall when or why the place had earned its ill-favored name. Passing those empty, sullen windows and the aging, ivy-choked facade or beneath the near-eternal overhang of gray clouds which covered it, none doubted it was a fitting moniker. Every year the house grew less fit for occupation, and Downcast became a still more fitting name. All expected the old place would one day simply crumble away, empty but for birds roosting in its ruins. Yet, without warning or explanation, one day the village woke to find the house taken at last-- by a witch, of all people, and an unfriendly one at that. Aloof and irascible, she wished only to be left alone; the house was as isolated and uninviting as herself, and it suited her purposes perfectly. Cottage and tenant, the villagers tutted, seemed made for each other-- their sentiment proved right in unexpected ways. The witch and the house, if such a thing can truly be said of a human and a pile of daub and stones, were in tune with each other; their coming together seemed almost a meeting of kindred spirits. Even as she worked to restore the place-- repairing the leaky roof, clearing the refuse of decades from the ancient chimney-- still the witch delighted in its dim corners, and cobwebbed beams, and the small creatures which sometimes came to hide within it. For the first time in memory there was a light in the windows now, even when the rooms within were dark-- a light almost like the twinkle in a happy eye. The house was still old and dark and shadowed by clouds but there was a warmth about it that was entirely new. And the spiteful coldness the witch had brought with her faded too-- though she spent most of her time alone within the walls of the cottage, her seclusion was no longer one of loneliness or angry self-exile, but a peaceful, contented solitude-- only lifted when she chose to emerge from her sanctuary to indulge in a pleasant taste of company.