Witches Abroad

top of the post.
    “The coat,” she said.
    He took up the coat and fitted it over the crosspiece. The pole wasn’t long enough, so that the last few inches of sleeve draped emptily.
    “And the hat,” she said.
    It was tall, and round, and black. It glistened.
    The piece of mirror gleamed between the darkness of the hat and the coat.
    “Will it work?” he said. *
    “Yes,” she said. “Even mirrors have their reflection. We got to fight mirrors with mirrors.” She glared up through the trees to a slim white tower in the distance. “We’ve got to find her reflection.”
    “It’ll have to reach out a long way, then.”
    “Yes. We need all the help we can get.”
    She looked around the clearing.
    She had called upon Mister Safe Way, Lady Bon Anna, Hotaloga Andrews and Stride Wide Man. They probably weren’t very good gods.
    But they were the best she’d been able to make.

    This is a story about stories.
    Or what it really means to be a fairy godmother.
    But it’s also, particularly, about reflections and mirrors.
    All across the multiverse there are backward tribes * who distrust mirrors and images because, they say, they steal a bit of a person’s soul and there’s only so much of a person to go around. And the people who wear more clothes say this is just superstition, despite the fact that other people who spend their lives appearing in images of one sort or another seem to develop a thin quality. It’s put down to over-work and, tellingly, over-exposure instead.
    Just superstition. But a superstition doesn’t have to be wrong.
    A mirror can suck up a piece of soul. A mirror can contain the reflection of the whole universe, a whole skyful of stars in a piece of silvered glass no thicker than a breath.
    Know about mirrors and you nearly know everything.
    Look into the mirror…
    …further…
    …to an orange light on a cold mountaintop, thousands of miles from the vegetable warmth of that swamp…

    Local people called it the Bear Mountain. This was because it was a bare mountain, not because it had a lot of bears on it. This caused a certain amount of profitable confusion, though; people often strode into the nearest village with heavy duty crossbows, traps and nets and called haughtily for native guides to lead them to the bears. Since everyone locally was making quite a good living out of this, what with the sale of guide books, maps of bear caves, ornamental cuckoo-clocks with bears on them, bear walking-sticks and cakes baked in the shape of a bear, somehow no one had time to go and correct the spelling. *
    It was about as bare as a mountain could be.
    Most of the trees gave out about halfway to the top, only a few pines hanging on to give an effect very similar to the couple of pathetic strands teased across his scalp by a baldie who won’t own up.
    It was a place where witches met.
    Tonight a fire gleamed on the very crest of the hill. Dark figures moved in the flickering light.
    The moon coasted across a lacework of clouds.
    Finally, a tall, pointy-hatted figure said, “You mean everyone brought potato salad?”

    There was one Ramtop witch who was not attending the sabbat. Witches like a night out as much as anyone else but, in this case, she had a more pressing appointment. And it wasn’t the kind of appointment you can put off easily.
    Desiderata Hollow was making her will.
    When Desiderata Hollow was a girl, her grandmother had given her four important pieces of advice to guide her young footsteps on the unexpectedly twisting pathway of life.
    They were:
    Never trust a dog with orange eyebrows,
    Always get the young man’s name and address,
    Never get between two mirrors,
    And always wear completely clean underwear every day because you never knew when you were going to be knocked down and killed by a runaway horse and if people found you had unsatisfactory underwear on, you’d die of shame.
    And then Desiderata grew up to become a witch. And one of the minor benefits of being a witch is that you know exactly when you’re going to die and can wear what underwear you like. *
    That had been eighty years earlier, when the idea of knowing exactly when you were going to die had seemed quite attractive because secretly, of course, you knew you were going to live forever.
    That was then.
    And this was now.
    Forever didn’t seem to last as long these days as once it did.
    Another log crumbled to ash in the fireplace. Desiderata hadn’t bothered to order any fuel for the winter. Not