Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

“Well, Ike has to get up early, no help for that,” she merely said. Her expression was a dam behind which lurked many other things she preferred to say and the witch knew it.

Mrs. Elias’s husband was one of the village’s hardest workers, daily leaving his house before dawn to bargain with the fishermen for their catch as their boats first touched shore.

The sun moved higher, and the witch turned to keep from squinting, positioning herself for a clearer view of the woman on top of the house. Her mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile. “More credit to you for getting up with him, my dear. A devoted wife...”

“He likes a hot breakfast,” she said dismissively. She turned her head towards the open sea and lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The young woman sighed when she glanced down again and found the witch still there.

“Your roses, they’re doing well,” the witch said.

“Well, thanks to your gardening advice,” said the younger woman. She shifted restlessly in the growing heat.

The older woman’s shoulder could be seen to shrug beneath the several folds of black gauze she liked to wear in public, however hot the day. Nobody knew if the material made up a robe, a dress, or was merely several yards of stuff wound around her tall, gaunt body. Nobody had the nerve to ask.

“You didn’t need it. You seem to have acquired a touch for growing things. Your garden thrives, even now when everyone else abandons all effort in this heat. And I see you’ve added some things. Henbane? How enterprising. Did you know the hellebores you have there were used in old times to counteract witchcraft?” The witch gave Mrs. Elias a slow smile before resuming her inventory. “And lily-of-the-valley, I see... monkshood and the Christmas rose... you are attempting something not quite the usual. You’ll give these lazy cottagers something to strive for.” She eyed the younger woman with an interest that disconcerted Mrs. Elias.

“I put some foxglove for height against that wall, where the roses had been before you advised me to move them into the sun.” Mrs. Elias wafted a lethargic hand at the narrow garden below. “I couldn’t do those herbs and things you suggested, though. You know, to attract ladybugs to eat the aphids and the other pests. My husband complained that doing it that way was too time-consuming. So I have to kill the bugs with the canned stuff.”

The witch sighed, for she loved the natural ways of doing things. “That’s a shame. But it’s understandable.”

The fishmonger’s house was a two story box, the living quarters arranged above the fishmarket, which took up all of the first story of the building. The garden made a bright barrier between the fishmarket and the boardwalk built above the burning sand. No tall trees shaded the miniature rooms on the top floor, and so they were uninhabitable during the day. Only the market at street level had an air conditioner and fans and wide shaded windows. It was as if the fish had to be comfortable but the people had been given no thought.

“Yes, roses grow bored with too much tender handling. They become lazy and begin to lose interest in blooming.” The witch watched the heavy blossoms thoughtfully. “When they have to struggle a bit, it’s good for their character... as you see.” She looked questioningly at the young woman, who didn’t look as if her own struggles had benefited her in any way.

“I just... early mornings don’t agree with me, I guess,” Mrs. Elias said, as if reading the witch’s mind.

“No. You’re lovely. No wonder your husband keeps you so tenderly beside him all day in his fishmarket. And how is Ike? His blood pressure behaving itself?”

“The heat is hard on him. I watch carefully to make sure he takes every drop of his medicine. He doesn’t like to take it, you know.” She made a wry face that only emphasized how delicate and pure her features actually were. “You know how men can get foolish about themselves, not doing what they’re supposed to. Like it’s an insult to their manhood to take care of themselves.” She made a wifely click with her tongue.

The witch reached down and stroked the head of her cat, who had suddenly thrust open the lid of the basket on her mistress’s arm. She was accustomed to ride within, swaying breezily along the boardwalk and peering through the holes in the wicker sides. She yowled in complaint at the long pause in the morning’s entertainment, then huffily withdrew.

“Jezebel adores your husband. They share lunch every day in your shop, lovely pieces of salmon and bluefish, sometimes shark.” The witch chuckled softly down at her pet. “She would be devastated if anything happened to your husband... if, say, he would carelessly forget his medicine or some such.” She glanced piercingly at the strange garden, then up at the watching wife. She lifted a bony shoulder in a shrug, then suddenly turned to resume her walk. The younger woman’s body sagged in relief, and she began to reenter her house. Suddenly the witch stopped and swerved around on her heel.