Wiggle Wobble

Madge Munson pulls back on the reins, bringing her carriage to a halt. Her horse bobs its head nervously, stamping its foot.

“Easy, Whistler,” she says. “I know you can sense something unnatural in the air. But do not worry, boy, I will look out for you… I only hope the good Lord will see fit to protect me.”

Madge has been Suffolk’s midwife for more than three decades, but has never seen a case as worrisome as Isadora Wake.

Madge spots Isadora digging in the ground near her meager shack.

“You ought not to be doing that kind of labor, girl, not in your condition.”

The small, pasty sixteen-year-old looks at Madge with tired, cloudy eyes, replying, “The babe has got to eat.”

Isadora suddenly shrieks, clutching her stomach.

***

Parson Denholm Parrish brushes the rain off his robe. Fat and bald with a weathered face and a grainy, rough voice, the sixty-six-year-old Parson has been Suffolk’s spiritual guide for over thirty years.

“I have never seen a storm of this nature. The thunder and lightning are so loud and so close to the earth that it is as if the Lord and Satan are battling for its possession. This birth had better be as cataclysmic a situation as your message said, Madge, or you will pay for having me rousted from my warm, dry bed.”

“I grew concerned as soon as I laid eyes on it,” Madge says to Denholm. “We have named her Storm, to remind us of this tumultuous night and her difficult birth.”

Denholm glances at Isadora, who, after an exhausting fifteen hours of labor, lies in a deep sleep on her straw bed.

Crossing himself and taking a deep breath, Denholm looks into the baby’s crib, uttering, “Are you real?”

“Isadora has never said who the father was. I believe it was Satan.”

“Let me be the judge. You said it was a breech birth?”

“Yes.”

“All babes are innocent in the eyes of the Lord until they prove otherwise.”

Reaching into his robe, Denholm pulls out a glass ampule, dabbing several drops of holy water on the child’s forehead.

The baby screams in protest, kicking its legs.

She looks up at Denholm, cackling.

The raging thunderstorm begins to abate.

“Perhaps time will prove you correct, Madge.”

***

Storm Wake will grow to be a gruesome child with a hunchback, prominent misaligned eyes, a large, crooked nose, bent and bowed legs, and sharp, askew teeth, with warts spread across her twisted face. Ostracized by Suffolk’s small agrarian community, Isadora is forced to beg for coins in the square while enduring whispered taunts of “Witch bearer,” and “Satan’s mistress.”

Alone most of the time in their rundown shack, Storm develops an interest in herbs, spells, and incantations.

One night, when Storm is eight, Isadora returns home to the unnerving sound of her daughter wailing like a thousand cats being strangled. Storm has climbed the wall and perched herself on a shelf above the hearth and is cackling demonically.

On the rare occasions when Isadora brings Storm into the village, she keeps her daughter by her side, telling her to keep her face concealed under the hood of her cloak.

***

Summoned by Madge, who is curious about Storm’s state of health, Isadora guides her wobbly cart into the center of the village.

“Remember, Storm, for the sake of our necks, please do not flaunt your talents while we are here.”

“But I can help people. And I want them to look beyond this ugly body and see the good within.”

A group of boys pelts Storm with rocks, shouting, “WITCH! WITCH! STONE THE WITCH!”

Coming out of her shack to greet Isadora, Madge witnesses the attack.

Storm pulls back her hood, hissing at the boys.

They unleash a volley of rocks at Storm.

Storm’s gauzy gaze bears down on the boys as she chants, “Wiggle, wobble… May the stones you cast stop in the air and return to you and part your hair!”

The rocks freeze in mid-air, then fly back at the boys, hitting them in their heads.

Madge shivers. “I have never seen such wizardry.”

Sobbing, Isadora turns away, walking down the dirt road leading out of Suffolk. She is never seen again.

***

Informed about the rock incident by Madge, Denholm recognizes a profitable opportunity and takes Storm in.

Madge warns him, “You may be harboring a witch, or worse, a she devil.”

“I believe in holding thy enemies close,” Denholm replies. “Perhaps I can use her dark powers to serve the Lord.”

“Which Lord?” Madge replies.

***

Denholm forces Storm to pray for deliverance and to read the Bible, lessening his demands when the good book goes up in flames.

Storm continues to experiment with herbs. Denholm sees a ray of hope for the girl when she cures his lumbago.

One day, Grayson Cogburn, the village’s most successful farmer, slices his leg to the bone. A paste Storm concocts closes the severe wound.

Storm is by Denholm’s side when he prays over a rapidly fading Mavis Barkley, whose lungs are filling with bile. Faced with the prospect of losing his beloved wife, Baron Barkley begs Denholm to let the witch try to save her. Storm mixes a solution that clears Mavis’ lungs and saves her life.

Stories quickly circulate throughout Britain about Storm’s miracle cures. Over the next decade, people travel great distances to see her and be cured by her potions and spells.

Denholm makes sure he receives a portion of whatever remuneration Storm receives for her services.

Viewing Storm as a hideous abomination, Denholm feels no guilt or remorse about taking the money until Skye Manning brings her baby, Allison, to Storm. Skye’s previous two babies had both choked to death in their cribs, and Allison’s constant cough is a sign that she will be next.

“She is unable to take food or drink,” Skye notes. “When she swallows bread or milk, she chokes it back up.”

Storm examines Allison, who looks at her in wonderment.

Storm mixes a potion, placing three drops in Allison’s mouth.

Within minutes, Allison stops coughing. She happily swallows the bread and milk Storm feeds her.

“Her body rejects wheat and cow’s milk. It is poison to her,” Storm says. “Feed her rye bread and goat’s milk, and she will grow up to be a strong, healthy woman.”

Allison smiles at Storm. Touching Storm’s mangled features, she giggles contentedly.

“Thank you, great healer, for saving my baby and showing me that beauty is not in one’s skin, but in one’s heart.”

“And I thank you, Skye, for bringing Allison to me. I now know what happiness feels like.”

***

Grayson Cogburn is the most grateful recipient of Storm’s healing powers. He proposes to Storm.

The people in town are shocked that the handsome bachelor, who could have his pick of any wench in the village, would marry a hag. Many believe Storm cast a spell over Grayson to make him blind to her repulsiveness.

Marion Mullaney, Suffolk’s prettiest maiden, is the most vocal. During the wedding, when Denholm asks, “Is there anyone who objects to this union? Speak now, or forever hold your peace,” Marion shouts, “I DO! SHE IS A WITCH!”

The guests audibly gasp as Storm lifts her veil, scowling at Marion.

“DO YOU NOT SEE SHE WANTS YOUR LAND AND YOUR MONEY, GRAYSON! SHE IS A WITCH! A WITCH! A WIT…”

Marion’s tirade suddenly ends. She never speaks again.

***

A month into her marriage to Grayson, Denholm visits Storm to collect his fees. They are talking about her latest cures when Storm’s eyes glaze over. She looks up at the clear blue sky. A bank of black clouds rolls in, and the sky darkens.

She sways, uttering, “Wiggle, wobble, outside of town, I see Franklin Bridge falling down.”

The Franklin Bridge collapses later that afternoon. Grayson is among the half dozen people killed while crossing the bridge.

“She’s added soothsaying to her bag of vile tricks,” Madge warns.

“You have witnessed the good she has done,” Denholm replies. “Think of all the people she has helped.”

“Have you thought what might happen to you if she decides to help herself?”

***

Following Grayson’s funeral, Denholm and Storm. now a rich widow, are placing flowers on his grave when Storm bolts upright, her eyes clouding over. The placid, sunny sky suddenly darkens.

Storm sways, muttering, “Wiggle, wobble, our men must be brave… A French fleet is coming to make everyone their slave...”

Denholm writes to King Philbert, warning him of an impending French attack.

King Philbert is a young, frail, superstitious, weak-minded monarch, prone to throwing salt over his shoulder, making wishes while tossing coins into fountains, and carrying a four-leaf clover for good luck. His ambitious prime minister, Alfred Aynger, is a tall, brooding figure with a mustache waxed to perfection, whose draconian laws actually rule Britain. He dismisses Storm’s prediction, but King Philbert gives in to his fears, sending his entire naval force to sea.

The smaller British force surprises the French navy and destroys their fleet.

On the heels of Britain’s overwhelming victory, King Philbert sends for Storm, bestowing the title of King’s Spiritual Advisor upon her. As Storm’s handler, Denholm worms his way into the King’s court and is appointed an Archbishop.

Meeting Storm for the first time in the palace courtyard, Alfred’s olive-skinned features pull into a rictus of anger. Looking at her with disgust, he asks the pointed question, “Who are you?”

“What you fear the most.”

“I have seen your kind before, charlatan. Stay in your place, away from the affairs of state, or I will see your head on the end of a pike.”

Denholm covers his smile when the sky darkens, and Storm’s stare goes blank.

“It is you, Prime Minister, who must beware. Wiggle, wobble… Your jealousy makes you want my head. Challenge my powers, and it is you who will be dead.”

Unmoved by Storm’s words, Alfred continues to formulate his plan to assassinate King Philbert and rule Britain.

***

King Philbert climbs onto a footstool, swinging his leg over the saddle of his faithful horse, Hornblower.

Forcing a grin, Alfred sends the king off with, “Good luck, Your Majesty. I hope you bring home a four-point buck.”

King Philbert yips triumphantly. “There will be venison at the King’s table tonight!”

Watching from the parapets a short distance away, Storm shouts, “Wiggle, wobble, get off that steed, or it will throw you, and you will bleed! Your doctor will bring his leeches and shake his head, and by this time tomorrow, King Philbert will be dead!”

Shaking, King Philbert jumps from his saddle.

“I have changed my mind. There will not be a hunt today!”

Alfred grits his teeth, glaring at Race Burdon, the stablemaster.

“How did she know we planned to scare Hornblower into throwing him?” Race asks.

“Be quiet, knave, or it will be you who will be thrown… Into the dungeon.”

King Philbert swats at Hornblower’s hindquarters.

“Make an announcement, Alfred. There will be meat for the servants’ pots tonight.”

***

King Philbert, Alfred, Denholm, and Storm survey the dozens of bodies piled up in the courtyard.

King Philbert looks to the court’s physician for an answer.

“Well, Runnymede?”

Aleck Runnymede chuffs. “It is some sort of disease run amok.”

“I could have deduced that. What is the cause? What is the cure?”

“I do not know. Those who have come to me complain of a fever, thirst, and blurry vision. Whatever it is, it quickly advances into their lungs, burning their insides like a hot poker searing the skin. They die within two days.”

“And you have no solution?”

“I still believe it comes from felines.”

“We have destroyed or driven out every cat in the kingdom, and my people continue to fall like dead oaks,” King Philbert replies.

“I cannot cure what I do not understand.”

King Philbert turns to Storm and Denholm. “You know what it is, witch, and you know how to cure it.”

Runnymede protests. “Your Majesty! You cannot put Britain in the hands of a witch!”

“Right now, I would bargain with Satan himself to save my people.”

“Storm will find a cure, Your Majesty,” Denholm boasts.

“What say you, witch?”

Storm goes into a trance.

“Wiggle, wobble, your problem is not cats. This disease is borne by rats. A simple potion for the peasants to drink will cure them and put them back in the pink.”

“Then mix it,” King Philbert commands. “And Runnymede will be the first to drink it.”

***

Alfred slams his fist against his palm.

“She grows stronger, more influential with each prediction.”

“What are you complaining about?” Runnymede asks. “Her predictions have not made you obsolete.”

“Not yet.”

Storm’s deformed features seem to glow as she and Denholm watch the peasants lining up to drink her potion.

“You saved thousands of lives today, Storm. That should make you feel better about yourself.”

“Dare I hope my talent is a blessing and not an affliction?”

***

King Philbert rubs his four-leaf clover, managing a smile as he avoids looking at Storm.

“Have you seen my future, witch? Can you tell me what will happen in my kingdom, and to me?”

“Wiggle, wobble… I see smoke, I see a pyre, a barn burning down, your kingdom on fire!”

“We must prepare for this disaster! Prime Minister, instruct the First Calvary to fill casks of water and have them at the ready.”

“But your majesty, you cannot mobilize hundreds of men on a whim. Their actions will disrupt trade in the city and unsettle the peasants.”

Denholm intercedes. “I would follow her advice, Your Majesty. She has never been wrong.”

“There is a first time for everything,” Alfred protests.

Two days later, Cullum Leary’s cow kicks over a lantern in his barn. Due to a drought and a large stockpile of hay in the adjacent shed, the fire quickly spreads to his neighbor’s farms. The First Calvary springs into action when it reaches the edge of the city, extinguishing the blaze that still claims twenty-one lives and two dozen buildings.

***

Soon after the fire, Denholm is summoned to Alfred’s private quarters.

“I do not know what form of black magic you and that witch employ, Archbishop, but it is indeed powerful.”

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“Do not smirk at me, charlatan. Your witch stands in my way of taking the crown, and, as a result, so do you. I could tell the King that I have uncovered your plan to replace all religion with Paganism…”

“I have made no such plan.”

“You have curried the King’s favor with your witch’s tricks, but you seem to have forgotten that I still make the decisions in Britain.”

“I get the feeling, Prime Minister, that you are about to make a decision that will affect me.”

Alfred runs his finger across his mustache. “Perhaps some of your witch’s talent for predicting the future has rubbed off on you. I will spare your miserable life, and I will give you enough money for two lifetimes if you send a message to the King predicting his death.”

“He is likely to respond unfavorably… And I will be betraying Storm.”

“So, there is a logical mind controlling all of that fat. I want Philbert to react unfavorably. And in the process, that weak mind and weak heart of his will give way. Instead of my having to assassinate him, his suspicious mind will kill him for me. So, charlatan, shall I drown you in riches, or drown you in the river?”

***

Alfred and Denholm watch Storm walk up the steps to the executioner’s chopping block.

The bright, sunny sky begins to darken.

“I will say this about your disgusting hag,” Alfred says, “she marches to her fate unafraid. If she were not such a trickster, I might admire her.”

The peasants jeer, tossing rotten fruit at Storm.

“Witch! Witch!”

“You predicted I would die a horrible death, which has caused me a great deal of distress and weakened my heart,” King Philbert says. “Archbishop Parrish told me you lied, that you made this prediction so that you and my enemies could seize power. You must pay for your betrayal.”

Storm casts a vile stare at Denholm. “It is the man I called a friend, Archbishop Parrish, who lies. You will not live long enough to enjoy the riches the Prime Minister has bestowed upon you for betraying me, Denholm…”

The jittery King’s back stiffens, and he points an accusing finger at Alfred.

“Seize the traitors!”

The King’s guards draw their swords, holding Alfred and Denholm at bay.

“I know you have been plotting against me for a long time, Prime Minister. After the witch’s head rolls, yours will follow.”

A clap of thunder sounds. A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, and soaking rain falls.

***

Denholm’s heart skips as his carriage leaves the city, passing Alfred’s head on a pike.

“It is fortunate for me that King Philbert believes he will be damned if he kills a man of God, even a crooked one…,” he says to himself. “Better to face banishment than the executioner’s axe.”

Denholm scratches his hands. Looking at his palms, he grimaces at the sight of the angry red welts that have spread across them.

Within days, they spread across his body, oozing pus.

Rather than face an inevitable lingering death, Denholm finds the jeweled dagger given to him by Alfred as partial payment for his betrayal. Crossing himself, he slices his wrists.

***

In the village of Suffolk, a poor woman struggles to give birth. Her daughter is born wall-eyed, with a large nose, warts on her face, twisted legs, and a bent frame. As a young girl, she develops an interest in herbs and potions, and cackles gleefully at anyone who calls her a witch.