A Curse of Pleasantries

The front door hung crooked on its hinges, but it kept the wind and rain out so Maggie supposed it worked well enough. She grabbed the basked off the counter and, with a firm tug on the door behind her, stepped into the dappled sunlight. Green leaves glistened with last night’s rain and fallen twigs crunched softly underfoot as she made her way through the small, wooded yard leading towards the muddy path into town. Light danced through the small gaps in the trees above as the birds and squirrels chittered their morning tune.

It couldn’t have been more miserable if she wished it.

A selfish part of her wished her home flooded during last night’s storm so she had a reason to feel so detestable, but the curse held firm. The warlock had called it “a curse of pleasantry.” Her mother called it a “blessing in disguise.” Her fiancé called it “bullshit.”

Tom hadn’t believed her when she told him the warlock had “accidentally” cursed her.

“Curses aren’t real. And even if they were, it couldn’t happen by accident,” he said with a hearty laugh every time she mentioned it. She stopped discussing it months ago.

Seven months, two weeks, and four days. That’s how long it had been since she walked into the apothecary and straight into a spell-web. Now, everything was just fine, not good or bad, only fine.

The wicker basket pinched her palm with every casual sway of her arms as she dutifully walked into town. A little blue house squatted in the tall grass to her right behind a single fencepost. It reminded her of a fat little bird hiding behind a stick that was much too small to hide anything.

“Good morning, Maggie!” her neighbor called out while shaking a rug vigorously from her porch. Dust and cat fur puffed into the path and a fat, white cat sat in the front window, staring unconcerned at every passerby he saw. Another, smaller and angrier cat with stripes, sat crouched in the shadows under the porch where Eileen stood shaking the rug.

“Morning,” Maggie coughed out as the cloud of grime puffed into her face.

“How are you today, darling?” Eileen asked with a too-wide smile. The little fiend under the porch pounced at something in the tall grass. There was a terrified shrill followed by the sound of wet crunching as the cat devoured whatever it had caught. Eileen’s smile never faltered.

“Absolutely miserable,” Maggie deadpanned, never slowing her pace, “How are you?”

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. We’re doing just fine. John got a raise this month so we’re celebrating tonight with a whole roast.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” Maggie kept walking as she began to pass the other woman.

“Isn’t it just?” she asked, excitement and joy fueling like kerosene to a forest fire.

Maggie muttered under her breath, “Sure is.”

Eileen gave a heartfelt farewell as she threw the rug over the railing and began violently beating it with a broom, still smiling in that eerie way.

The bell chimed as Maggie stepped into the bakery. An odd chill clung to the room and no light seeped in from the ovens in the back. The smell of fresh bread held at odds with the unusual absence of warmth and light. It pricked across her skin and settled deep into her bones when the baker’s youngest daughter stepped behind the counter, wiping flour onto her apron. This close, Maggie could see the absent look in the girl’s eyes.

“How can I help you today?” Kylin asked with a calm smile.

Maggie used her kindest tone to say, “I need four of the salted buns, please.”

Kylin hesitated, “Father hasn’t been feeling well. He can’t wake up as early to start baking and he only has one oven going today.”

“Alright,” Maggie stated, a bit confused. “But what about the salted buns?”

“I appreciate you asking,” she said pleasantly. “Yes, he will be alright. Papa just needs a bit of rest.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, praying that she could bypass the curse just once and get a straight-forward answer from someone. “And the salted buns are…” she trailed off hoping that Kylin would answer if it wasn’t a direct question.

“Oh, you know how Papa is,” Kylin chuckled. “We’re always happy to help him but he doesn’t want us to get burned” she said with a laugh while poorly imitating the old baker.

“Salted. Buns.” Maggie stated, frustrated.

Kylin seemed thought for a moment before replying, “I don’t know. Truthfully, I think he just doesn’t want us in his way while he’s working.”

Maggie sighed in frustration, knowing what the curse demanded. “My father was the same way,” she admitted, shifting on her feet and dropping her eyes to the floor. “He never wanted me underfoot while he worked either.” She remembered how, more than once, her father had thrown a pincushion at her because she opened the door too loudly and disturbed his silence while working. He made her pick up every single pin and put them at equal intervals around the small pincushion—regardless of how sporadic and random they had been placed before.

“You must have such fond memories with him,” she said with empty eyes and a gracious smile. “What can I get for you today?”

Maggie coughed to move the lump from her throat back into her chest where it belonged. “Just four salted buns, please.” She hated knowing that any personal connection would be overwritten by the curse—pleasantries only.

Kylin apologized as she informed Maggie, again, that her father was unwell and hadn’t been up to bake as early. Finally, she stated that there were no salted buns, and the only similar thing they had were plain rolls from two days ago and stale as hardtack. Maggie gave her two coins and placed the hard rocks, masquerading as bread, into her basket before going home.

Her walk back was much the same. She passed neighbors and friends, everyone asked how she was but never heard her honest answers. They told her of their families, joys, and sorrows. She told them anything and everything while praying to every god she could name that someone would hear her honest answer and, if they did, not immediately change the subject.

She finally reached her house and, shutting the door, she dropped her head against the worn door frame, breathing deeply to steady herself.

Tom stepped out of the back room. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting ages.”

With one more deep breath, she braced herself before turning. “I’m sorry, there was a line at the bakery.”

“No, it’s alright, you don’t have to do that.”

She paused. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied to him confused and wondering, not for the first time, what people heard when she spoke.

“They didn’t have any of the salted buns, today. The baker hasn’t been feeling well recently,” she stated as she placed her basket on the counter and pulled on her favorite apron. The little blue flowers faded as if even printed blossoms couldn’t stand to be near her true self anymore.

“That’s odd…” he said, suspicion painting his voice crimson, “he seemed just fine when I spoke with him yesterday.”

So that he heard, wonderful, she thought.

“I’m telling you what Kylin told me, that’s all.” She pulled her apron off the hook

He hummed, “I’m going out to the garden. We should be able to get enough beans to sell a few and turn a profit this season.”

“Really?” she asked, feeling a smile tug at her lips for the first time all day. They hadn’t had a profitable crop in nearly two years. “That’s wonderful! When will they be ready to pick?”

“No, I’ll eat when I come back in,” Tom said, putting his hat on and stepping out the door before turning to look at her. “I love you.”

Pain crawled from her chest to her throat as she fought the urge to sob, “Gods, I hate you.”

He smiled at her, soft and genuine. Tom stared at her as if seeing his love for the first time. “I know you do,” was all he said before softly shutting the door behind him.

Maggie knew better, he saw nothing when he looked at her. No one ever saw her anymore, but it hurt all the same. Her soul ached to be seen, just once, by someone who cared—or even someone who didn’t!

No one would notice if she cried, yet she still fought the tears. The sob in her throat clawed and scratched its way to freedom, but Maggie held it back. Tears couldn’t fix any of it, in fact it had only made things worse in the past. Crying while someone ignores your tears and asks about the weather is a sure way to feel worse, in any situation.

Putting the small pot on the stove, she set the heat to low while remembering the day that seemed like an eternity ago.

~ ~ ~

“Don’t worry it’s nothing too serious,” the warlock had said, “just a little spell intended for someone else. It should wear-off in a few days.”

“What kind of spell?”

He had paused then, and she should have known it wouldn’t be good. “Pleasantries. Everyone will be pleasant.” He turned on his heel then and practically ran towards the back room of his shop.

“Wait!” she called after him. “How is that a curse?”

He said over his shoulder, “Have a nice day,” before slamming the door behind him.

At first, she hadn’t noticed a difference. She mentioned to her family what happened, but they didn’t seem concerned and, over time, they started asking why she cared so much that everyone was kind to her.

“You could do a lot worse,” her mother had said, “than to have everyone be nice to you all the time. In fact, if that’s a curse then I’ll gladly take it.”

Another night, she heard her fiancé talking with her sister, “I think something is wrong with Maggie,” he murmured. “She’s so desperate for attention that she’s fabricated some bullshit curse.”

“I know,” her sister replied, “Everyone being nice cannot possibly be a problem, I don’t know how she expects us to react,” she said with more distain than Maggie had ever heard from her sweet and sincere little sister.

That was the moment Maggie realized no one was hearing her. She told them how alone she felt in town. Anyone she told about the curse, or herself, either didn’t care or believe her. And absolutely no one ever let the conversation go past the surface—at least for Maggie. They could pour their hearts out before her, but no one could ever hear her honest thoughts or concerns. Maggie felt that every day she was screaming under water, pain and fear and agony passed her lips but only soft bubbles broke the surface.

She went to the warlock the next day. But cobwebs covered the small porch, and the windows were boarded up as though no one had lived there in years. When she asked around town, no one remembered a local sorcerer.

Maggie realized she couldn’t remember his name.

~ ~ ~

Maggie stirred the vegetables in the pot and fought to remember what he had looked like. His hair was light, maybe brown or blond, and his eyes were dark, either black, brown, or grey. In her mind’s eye, he was somehow both tall and short. Every time she tried to picture him, it was like his memory was walking past a carnival mirror, with every passing moment his image became more distorted until it was hardly recognizable.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she realized that she had been stirring the same small section of the pot. The rest of the vegetables had burned. She poured some water into the pan and crumbled one of the stale loaves to thicken the soup into a stew. She scraped the bottom of the pan, knowing that if it didn’t unstick now then she would have to try again while washing dishes, and it was always harder to clean pots after they had been sitting.

Making herself a bowl, Maggie grabbed a remaining hard bun and sat at the table. The stew was bitter and tasted like burned carrots and charred oregano while the stale bread added a tinge of old yeast to the mix.

Tom walked in as she was washing her bowl in the sink. She handed him the clean bowl as he sang praises of how delicious it smelled. He hummed in appreciation at the first bite and scarfed down a second serving. He always hated her cooking before the curse, and that was before she regularly burned things while lost in thought. Now he was always content with whatever she made, no matter how good it was—in fact, she swore that the worse it tasted to her, the more he enjoyed it.

Maggie steeled her nerves and decided to try a conversation, one they’d had many times before, again. “I think you should move out. I don’t want to be engaged to you anymore.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, setting down his spoon after scraping the bowl clean. “When were you thinking?”

Maggie refused to let her hopes rise while she waited for the inevitable. She replied, hesitant, “As soon as possible.”

He smiled then, the same empty smile everyone always had when looking at her. “I agree. We’ve been engaged for three years now, and you deserve more than this. I will speak with the minister tomorrow to see when he is available. Does next week sound good to you?”

A tear escaped down her cheek and fell on her faded apron. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

~ ~ ~

Maggie awoke in the night. She tossed and turned, wondering how to make things right, to escape the pleasant hell that she had been living. Quietly, as if led by an unknown force, she lifted the covers and sat up, careful to avoid disturbing Tom. Her heart pounded as he shifted in his sleep. She stilled for a moment, then another. And another. After what she estimated was about five minutes, she stood from the bed and made her way into the kitchen.

The woman grabbed a single dining set which she wrapped in a dishtowel and set into her favorite pot. Taking the canvas hunting bag that lay resting by the door, Maggie packed a few books, journals, and heirlooms. Sneaking back into the bedroom, she gathered her favorite dresses and small amenities before stepping back into the kitchen to change out of her night dress, which she also packed into the overstuffed bag, alongside the faded apron.

She stepped out the door and past the garden to the small shed where she grabbed several packs of seeds for the next season. Maggie placed those into the covered pot in her arms, so they didn’t get lost in the pack or fall out onto the long road before her.

Bright morning sunlight began to peek over the horizon as she walked down the dusty path, away from town and over the rolling hills towards something new. The sun rose and warmth kissed her cheeks. Maggie basked in its healing glow and knew, cursed or not, the sun could see her.

The path rose and fell with the hills. Around midday she heard rushing water in the distance. Guided by nothing more than the sound of the babbling stream, she adventured off the path and into the tree line. The sound grew louder until forest’s quiet song became a riotous choir. The little brook had crept its way up the bank, strengthened by recent rainfall.

Following the edge of the stream, she continued wandering until she found a small, rundown building. The windows were frosted with mold and time, vines stretched up the sides of the building. The door was unlocked but glued shut by years unused. Maggie wiggled the handle and pushed until the door finally burst open and she tumbled into the little cottage. Everything was covered in dust and there was a damp spot on the floor that spoke of a leak in the roof.

Maggie stared around the abandoned cottage—seeing every chip in the woodwork, every crack in the glass, and every surface in need of a good scrub—and she smiled.

A small sparrow flew through the open door and up into the rafters. It twittered and chirped at her, angry at her sheer audacity to be in his forest. Setting down her pack, Maggie decided if the birds could be angry at her, then they must be able to see her. That alone was as good of a reason as any to stay.

Winston, she decided, was an excellent name for a bird.

She grabbed a towel out of her pot and headed for the door to the river.

“Well, come on, Winston. We haven’t got all day.”

The little bird chirped and flew out the door to rest on the porch railing where it stared at her expectantly.

She followed the bird out the door as it chittered and chirped to her the entire way to the river. It followed her into the house as she told it about the town where she lived and he tweeted his indignation at Tom’s reaction to her cooking—both before and after the curse.

She left the door open as she began cleaning and other curious creatures found their way into the cottage, each more excited than the last. As they huffed and poked around her, warmth filled her chest for the first time in more than seven months.