The Springfield Witch

The villagers of Springfield, County Fermanagh, knew that Agnes was a witch. Being a witch wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Witches in Ireland were held in high esteem. People would come from all over the surrounding countryside to consult witches on cures, curses, and, of course, fortune telling. If you had a witch living in or near your village, you would have been so proud you would brag about it to anyone you met. Those you bragged to would have looked at you in awe. Having a witch would sometimes, depending on the reputation of the witch, have gotten you a better price for your livestock at the market. But no one bragged about Agnes. It wasn’t that she was an evil witch or that she was incompetent. Although she didn’t hold with casting curses, she used her magical skill to develop potions and medicines. In fact, she was a marvel. Her broccoli and barley laxative was so effective that you didn’t even need to drink it; one whiff was enough to send you running for the lavatory. Judging by her potions, any intelligent person would realise that if she did decide to cast a curse, it would be very powerful and would work extremely efficiently on its sorry victim. Springtown was a simple, traditional village, and the residents were set in their ways. They knew how things should be, and the kind of witch Agnes was went against all their traditions and beliefs. The village folk of Springfield only recognized two types of witches. The first and best were the scary ones, who lived in rundown houses full of cobwebs and dust, a cauldron containing some thick, bubbling green liquid, and shelves lined with jars of disembowelled frogs or other nasty ingredients. Then there was the other type, the beautiful witch with the pretty, fussy, flowery house. Even that at a push would have been better than Agnes, who didn’t fit either of the stereotypes. The problem with Agnes was that she was weird—but not in a good, witchy way. If you saw her walking down the street, you would take her for a schoolteacher rather than a witch. (In fact, there was a rumour that she had once been a teacher, for whenever she passed a child she was always shooting strange questions at the poor thing. Such as ‘What is 150 multiplied by 43?’ or ‘How do you spell chrysanthemum?’) One thing the villagers knew was that witches always wore black. But Agnes never wore black. Her clothes were plain and sensible and were always navy, grey, or dark shades of brown, but never black. Also, there wasn’t a wart to be seen on her, and although she wasn’t pretty, she certainly wasn’t ugly. She was the personification of ordinary. Her hair was neither wild and tatty nor lank and greasy; it was always pulled back into a very neat bun. Agnes wasn’t grumpy or snide, and she certainly didn’t cackle. Nor did she go about being extremely happy and singing pretty songs about birds and flowers. She even attended church! What was she thinking of? Witches didn’t go to church. Even Old Mother Beatrice over in Irvinestown didn’t attend church, and it was well known that she did some mighty strange things. But this was much more serious than wearing your knickers on your head or building a new cottage out of cake. To the people of Springfield, the situation was impossible. She neither acted like a witch nor looked like a witch, and she certainly didn’t live like a witch. Her cottage was also a problem for them. It was a rather plain, ordinary cottage. There was nothing about it that said, ‘This is a witch’s cottage.’ It was a very embarrassing spectacle for the residents of Springfield. But the villagers weren’t going to be beaten. Not long after she had arrived, the folks of the village sent a small group of selected representatives to address the problem. They had a friendly chat with Agnes and pointed out the little changes they thought she should make to her appearance and her cottage. But they didn’t have any luck. Agnes proved to be stubborn and remained as unlike a witch as she always had. Not to be deterred, some of the villagers snuck into her cottage when she was out and left gifts of animal skulls, scraggly looking cats, and even spiders. No one was quite sure what she did with the spiders or skulls, but the cats always found their way back to their original owners. Agnes and her cottage remained the same. Then the men of Springfield volunteered their services as gardeners. If Agnes didn’t want to be the scary witch, then they would accept the alternative. They brought roses, daisies, and apple trees, but Agnes refused to let them even dig a hole. Instead, she filled her garden with vegetables and herbs, and in place of cute kittens and rabbits she bought a nanny goat for milk. In the end, the villagers, knowing they were beaten, gave up. They didn’t accept her into their village, nor did they totally ignore her. They just treated her as they would have anyone with whom they had nothing in common: with a strained politeness. The ladies always said hello to her, and if required the men always opened doors for her. Even the children were respectful. They never played ball in front of her cottage, nor did they rap her door and run away. Of course, this was probably due more to the fact they didn’t want to be quizzed on math and spelling than out of politeness or respect. But in the end the villagers were content with their compromise. Agnes was not. She was lonely, and the bottles of her potions had started taking up all the space in her kitchen. She was distressed that the people of Springfield didn’t even come to her for cures; instead, they travelled to Derrygonnelly to consult the witch there. Agnes was annoyed because she knew that Minnie’s potions weren’t half as good as hers