Saturday's Storyteller: "That was the first time she had sold her homemade witch's brew, but she had never expected the customer's reaction to it."

by Belinda Roddie

That was the first time she had sold her homemade witch's brew, but she had never expected the customer's reaction to it. Granted, it had been a much more positive reaction than she thought it would be: After all, the potion itself required a level head and a good heart. In this situation, however, it was as if Alizon had made the best recreational drug since marijuana had been legalized. It was addictive.

The customer himself - Bartholomew Graff the Third - was the son of a warlock who had dabbled in similar alchemy that Alizon now revolutionized as a retail opportunity. But his father had certainly not been able to create such an enticing elixir.

"Thirty bottles," he demanded through crystal ball the next day. "I'm holding a gala at the Wicked Fortress this Saturday. Your brew's going to be the staple beverage."

"A-are you sure?" stammered Alizon. She felt her palms go clammy. "Th-thirty bottles only provides so much. Perhaps barrels or kegs or...?"

"Can you do a discount for barrels?"

Alizon twitched. Her index finger scratched the newest wart on her chin. Somehow, they never grew on her nose, like the stereotype claimed they should. "Ten dollars off each barrel if you order two dozen?"

"You've got yourself a deal!"

Great, Alizon thought as she cut off the crystalline conversation. She leaned back in her chair and stared at her currently empty shop. Now, how was she going to stir up twenty-four barrels of her brew on such short notice?

***

Alizon Minerva Winchester had recently turned sixty-two years old, and that meant her dreams of becoming a young and successful entrepreneur were underway. She had always been interested in both potions mastery and the culinary arts - making something delicious, with just the right amount of witchcraft added to it. Her father ran a zoo by transfiguring nosy mortals into exotic animals, while her mother knitted enchanted garments that fit each buyer perfectly. Why wouldn't Alizon have a similar streak of both salesmanship and innovation?

She had always loved preparing different types of witch's brew, all with a variety of flavors, zests, and potencies. One brew she had perfected had a spicy kick to it, and it could make anyone who drank it dance as if they were floating - quite literally. The Monster Mash had never been so noteworthy.

"Still," her mother had warned her, "we don't want Matron Agnes stuck in the air again, clinging to the chandelier, now, do we?"

Fair enough. So Alizon focused more on taste rather than temptress's whims - satisfaction over sorcery, savory over spell-infused. Citrus, licorice, chocolate - there was always something special to offer in a ladle from her bubbling cauldron. And Alizon certainly looked the part: With her new red pointed hat and glistening robes, she was dressed to the nines, a smile gleaming from underneath her groomed thatch of brown hair. Despite her darker skin, few freckles still stood out around her otherwise unscathed nose, and her green eyes blazed with the kind of youthfulness that older witches in their hundreds and two hundreds were envious of. The warts on her chin, of course, were a hassle, but nothing like the bark of a willow tree to keep most of them under control.

Alizon certainly found ways to add a hex or two into her brew, of course. I mean, you had to at least get some perks out of the purchase, now, didn't you?

Of course, she was well aware of what Bartholomew adored about the latest version of Alizon's witch's brew. While it didn't return you to your youth, it certainly made you feel young again. An emotional bewitchment, yes, not exactly a physical or mental change - but it was, to an extent, a calming and soothing sort of magic. Almost as if Alizon had turned the world of human homeopathy on its head and made it actually work.

While she certainly wasn't thrilled with spending twelve hours a day before the gala literally stewing over her cauldron, her back hunched and aching by the end of the night, the young witch did have something worthwhile for her as a result of her success. Not only would she be making a killing in her business, but she also, bless Bartholomew's naive warlock heart, had been invited to his gala. And she didn't have to spoon out brew, either; no, the Graff Clan had plenty of zombified manservants to tend to that duty.

So Alizon was to be an honored guest. And she knew of another beautiful sorceress who would be attending: Margaret Bess, a humble magician who had the brightest silver hair in all the land. And of course, the poor Winchester was absolutely smitten with her.

This would, hopefully, be an excellent night for Alizon. Perhaps she needed a swallow of her own brew just for good luck.

***

Alizon lived in a lovely brick cottage on the outskirts of Newt City, with a large front yard where willows grew in knotted husks and ivy scaled the blue and ivory walls. Monkshood could be found in the garden, and hemlock was kept closely watched over in a tiny greenhouse behind a fence, as it could be used as a defense mechanism in case the mortals attempted to invade again. Her father managed a modest chicken coop - all of the fowls had originally been human, of course - while Alizon had built her own shed where she wrote her recipes and practiced her brewing, usually in the midst of the darkest nights.

After riding her quaint bicycle home - she wasn't exactly a fan of brooms, as she hated heights - Alizon stepped inside and smelled both mint and vanilla as she entered the kitchen. This was unsurprising, for as much as her witch and warlock parents knew plenty of magic, they preferred sweeter odors and aromas that relaxed the body rather than tensed it up. Alizon's father was diligently reading the Oracle Newspaper in his easy chair, while her mother busily knitted what would soon be a coat that could regrow buttons in case one fell off.

"You're home earlier than usual," was the first comment Alizon got, as the needles kept clicking away. Her mother never hexed them to do the work autonomously; she preferred to be totally in control.

"It's Friday," replied Alizon with a smile. "I got the barrels stowed in the cellar and ready to go."

"Looking forward to the gala, sweetie?" rumbled her father from behind his paper. If his face wasn't concealed by the moving newsprint, Alizon would have been able to see how long his pointed black beard had grown overnight. His luscious full head of hair, his mustache, and his goatee were his pride and joy.

Alizon swallowed a nervous lump in her throat and nodded. When she realized that her father hadn't seen the gesture, she said, "It'll be fun."

"Do say hello to Margaret, will you?" her mother asked. "And try talking to her in complete sentences, dear. You'll never make an honest witch out of her if you don't gin up some courage."

"Mom!"

"Would my good luck spell help?" intoned her father. "I've been practicing. Makes it easier to feed the new lion I have at the zoo."

"You are both so embarrassing."

"We know," Alizon's parents both responded eerily in unison.

"You're also sixty-two," her mother added. "It's a perfect marrying age. So start courting!"

Alizon groaned and stormed off to her shed, burying herself in her recipes and her books. She kept the lights dim inside, so everything glowed in a muted amber sheen, like she was lost in a cavern with no one but fireflies to accompany her. Perhaps Margaret would enjoy the newest brew; she had never tried it, and so Alizon mentally begged for it to be to her taste. She'd have to find out on Saturday, though.

But first, she had to prepare a lovely tomato and basil soup for dinner. After all, sometimes she just enjoyed cooking for the sake of eating.

***

Alizon Minerva Winchester wore her green robes and a more subdued hat as she stood in the corner of the gala, watching dancer after dancer swivel around the floor after just a sip of her witch's brew. More than one sorcerer or alchemist had asked for the recipe, which of course she couldn't reveal if she wanted to keep her little shop running. She thought about the small space she had, with its oaken counter and its little screaming bell on the door and the endless bottles and jars lining the wicker shelves. As the music howled from the enormous organ, Alizon felt like she may as well have just stayed in her store, away from the noise and the revelry.

Bartholomew had asked her to dance with him after four glasses of her brew, and she had declined each time. Now he was dry humping Matron Agnes's daughter, and Matron Agnes was too hopped up on honey ale and wine to notice. She, too, had drunk Alizon's potion, and she was loudly reminiscing about her childhood at a nearby table, surrounded by her gray-haired and warty witch friends.

"And that was the third time Merlin took a liking to me! Course, the poor boy couldn't find me the proper bouquet to save his life. Sunflowers and columbines! Was that so much to ask before a night at the river, watching the festival fireworks?"

She shut out the rest of the Matron's rambling, instead focusing on her glass of water. Water - boring, but simple. What was she thinking, accepting such a silly invitation? Margaret Bess hadn't even approached her once. Come to think of it, she wondered if she had even come.

And she had. And she was walking over to Alizon at that very moment.

Holding a half-consumed cup of her witch's brew.

This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.