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“Roll up! Roll up! New hats for old! New hats for old!” cried Maggie Martin, hag-like, clapping her hands in a maniac fashion from behind her open air market stall.

Maggie rather resembled a goat to look at. She had spindly legs, bulbous hips, a slender chest and a scraggy neck. And attached to this scrawny asparagus-like stalk, was a hideously oversized head that sported a non-too friendly face with close set eyes, a thin nose and a capacious ugly-looking mouth.

On this ridiculously shaped crown – strands of greyish wisps of unkempt hair poking out beneath the sides - sat a monstrous feathered broad brimmed hat of almost featureless appearance - minus the horns.

Looking at her, you would almost think she had pulled an upturned wastepaper basket over her bullet shaped skull.

There she stood, this creature of sepulchral appearance, bellowing like a town crier of a bygone era, at anything or anybody who would listen and ultimately purchase one of her dreaded hats with the initials, M M – for Maggie Martin - inscribed on the brim. But few people ever did.

Locals believed she was a witch and refused to go anywhere near her. Children were literally petrified of this old goat, believing she would cast a spell on them should ever they stand within a mile of her. Or worse still, threaten them with instant death.

Although a little breezy, it was quite warm for mid September. Traders had turned out in abundance. They, like the slightly gaga goat, stood behind or in front of their trestle tables - weighed down by their copious wares - and welcomed the scores of townies with their various mercenary messages, who had flocked in their droves this particular Sunday morning in search of a bargain.

“Bananas fifty pe a pound!”

“Flowers thirty pence a bunch!”

“Videos: any four for two pound!”

'Knock-offs from the black market, I shouldn't wonder.'

And “Hats! Hats! Hats! New hats for old!”

Could be heard above everybody else.

Rejoinders, ranging from:

“gabby old goat!”

“acified cow!”

To: “Ark at the old witch! Who wants to buy a flaming 'at from 'er?”

randomly escaped the lips of annoyed punters.

The air was almost one cacophony of sound. Radios tuned in to various vacuous channels blared from indeterminate locations. Plastic bags crackled as items of various descriptions were dropped into them. Voices – upraised, shrilled, friendly, laughing and disgruntled – contributed to this distortion of incomprehensible noise.

Not forgetting of course, money, that filthy liquor, jingled and jangled as coins were precipitated into tins, much to the ultimate delight of their greedy traders.

In a convenient open space in the centre of the square, a guitar dangling from a strap from his left shoulder, stood an unkempt busker, strumming and singing the Cat Steven's song, The Streets of London.

The tone in his voice suggested he was truly a lonely man. The fingers plucked with equal sadness at the strings. A hat – slightly squashed in places – lay at his feet, revealed a small selection of loose change.

Funnily enough, he had been given the hat by Maggie Martin of all people. More surprising, she had even dropped into it a small claw full of grubby coins, cackling: “Nothin like an 'elpin 'and, now is 'the.”

That was over three years ago. Today, those same coins still remained with no additions. Passers by, drawn no doubt by the velvet tones, would turn their pitiful eyes in his direction. Then upon catching sight of the battered bowler with the initials M M engraved on the brim, would continue on their way without so much as a word of recognition.

All the same, the lonely musician would return to his usual spot in the square week in week out in the hope of reaping a little financial gain from the generosity of a few of the locals. But sadly, no. Pained and feeling somewhat dejected, the busker would trudge off in search of a feelingless park bench or secluded back alley, night after night, all the while wondering what the next day would bring.

On this particular Autumn morning, though, things were different. His appearance, however, remained the same: a round-necked t-shirt warn above tatty blue jeans and scuffed trainers slightly split in parts – the left held on by a frayed piece of string.

His sunken and partially closed eyes stared, unfocused. Occasionally they would blink whenever tears threatened to dampen their hooded and dust-speckled lids.

The words of the song certainly suited his bedraggled appearance.

'Have you seen the old man who walks the streets of London,
dirt in his hair
and his worn out shoes;
Carrying his home in two carrier bags.”

The lyrics that immediately followed, described, with in-depth accuracy, the constant expression on the musician's face.

'in his eyes you see no pride.'

The song and its solemn delivery were deeply moving. Folk who would normally have soldiered on without so much as a backward glance, let alone drop a coin into his hat, had, on this mid Autumn morning, gathered in small clusters a short distance away. One or two even had tears in their own eyes. Some just stood transfixed, as though hypnotised by the man's steady felt-like tones. Occasionally these tones would quiver slightly as thoughts of his current and seemingly futile existence crept out from behind the somewhat misty curtain of his troubled internal vision: a world of which only one or two had any knowledge.

Whether it was the choice of song, or the manor in which the busker played, that had captured the crowds attention on this particular market day, a casual observer would be hard-pushed to deduce. Yet, there was something of an 'optimistic feel about the air that morning – a feeling that something good was going to happen.

Had it not been for the busker's hat and its two initials, which had so often scared the punters off, I'm pretty sure many would have given him the time of day; and a little money, too.

What was it, then, about this hat that caused folk to cower, To stand at a distance and refuse to donate a little of their worldly wealth?

Were the townies right about Maggie Martin who had given this man the hat in the first place? They had accused her of being a witch. Yet, it had never been proven. So it had always remained unconfirmed, nothing but a product of mere speculation and conjecture.

What was needed was for someone of great strength and courage to challenge the deranged goat, openly. It was the only way. Seemingly, There could be only two logical outcomes: either she was possessed by a demon of divination, or she was simply in the core stages of dementia and suffering from senile decay.

But was there anybody brave enough to do it? None of the locals had been keen to do it up to now. So unless anybody was willing enough and bold enough to sound out the almost brainless egg on legs, the question would remain an enigma.

Lots of suggestions for unearthing the mystery had been put forward, but without success. They simply didn't dare! Of course, a few elderly members of the community - evidently still afflicted by ancient ideas dating back 300 years or more - had suggested the 'ducking stool' approach; while others more brutishly recollected burning her at the stake on the village green.

Then a small urchin of a boy of approximately 9 or 10 years of scrawny appearance, stepped boldly – as though from nowhere - into the square and made a beeline for Maggie Martin's stall. Yet when he was about three metres or so away, he stopped. From this distance, he had a clear view of the alleged witch of batty Maggie Martin and her hideous hats.

For a while the boy just remained motionless, his right-hand stuffed nonchalantly into the partially frayed pocket of his similarly frayed blue jeans, and stared lacklustre at this apparently possessed woman through dirt-smeared slits.

Those who were close enough, gasped and wondered what the witch would do to him. Enchant him with her evil eyes? Put a spell on him? Curse him? Condemn him to a life of torment in the black fiery pit of hell? Turn him into stone? Or even more unpleasant, A grub, A Slug or a toad, even?

The weary busker had also stopped playing. In fact, almost everywhere had fallen silent. Even the birds had lowered. The pigeons had ceased their warbling and remained, like everything else around them, quiet and poised.

Still the urchin continued to stare at the preposterous old woman, right hand tucked casually into his pocket – a far away look in his eyes.

This woman, whom everybody feared, said nothing. Folk couldn't believe that a small scruffy little ragamuffin as this child could have such a hypnotic effect on her.

Yet, if the locals, now clustered in groups several feet away from the forbidden territory, had looked directly at Maggie Martin, they would have been astounded. They would have noticed that her icy face had undergone a complete transformation. Her previous milky pink colour had vanished. In fact, the face had adopted a somewhat ectoplasmic air as though she had been enchanted.

Furthermore, had the timid spectators ventured more closely to the old goat, they would have also observed through the corporeal haze, tears in her eyes.

The boy allowed himself a few minutes more contemplation time before making his next move. Then what he did do, certainly commanded the undivided attention of all those present.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he exclaimed, fearlessly, motioning to the crowds of astonished onlookers, from his new position.

The boy, as if by some act of divine intervention, or was it a momentary lapse in concentration on the part of the assembled company, had prized himself from his original spot and now stood leaning over the left shoulder of the goat of Maggie martin, both hands placed purposefully on the woman's thin bony blades which seemed incapable of supporting her enormous head.

The guitarist, although no longer playing who had, up to now, remained unfocused, was actually peering at this small gutter snipe of a boy – yet, not 'over the rim of his tea cup' as in the words of Cat Stevens, but with a certain measured thoughtfulness that went unobserved by those around him.

The boy seemed not to be at all afraid of the hag. In fact, he was completely relaxed; and by the undaunted look on his face, he evidently had something important to say.

“You see before you,” remonstrated the urchin, with clear unwaveringness, “not a witch as I know many of you believe her to be.”

“Course she is!” cackled an elderly spinster from the safety of the crowd. “Everybody knows that!”

Then before the boy had time to continue, another voice, that of the reverend Mop, the local vicar – also known to a few members of his parish as 'the wizard', whose ideas and sinister beliefs on the best way for punishing wrongdoers, left few folk feeling uneasy – suddenly piped up: “She should be horse whipped and then burned alive like possessed women were in history!”

A loud cheer went up from the majority of the crowd! Exclamations from:

“Here here!”

to: “So say all of us!”

Right down to more brutish utterances from dissatisfied customers who had bought from her in the past before word got about that she was a witch.

“Curse you and die!”

“We've had nothin' bu' rott'n luck since buyin' our 'ats from you!”

The crowd was in an uproar. Everybody was talking at once, oblivious to the fiendish remonstrations of his or her neighbour standing nearby.

The boy on the other hand, who had mildly expected such a reaction, thought he'd better do something to calm the crowd before they spiralled out of control.

“A trick,” he thought, snatching up a battered featherless hat –not too dissimilar to the one the old goat had on in front of him.

Holding the featureless hat in both hands, the boy raised his two arms high above his head. Then he tossed the hideous mound of straw into the middle of the babbling crowd.

At first, they appeared not to have noticed, so engrossed were they in their devilish independent arguments. But it only took one unfortunate member of the congregation to notice the effect this solitary hat had created, before word quickly spread.

The boy looked on in amused silence, pleased with the result of his little scheme. Sure enough, his trick had certainly caused calm to reign over the assembled company of a somewhat startled crowd now, who stood, swaying non-too steadily in and about the market square.

Everybody, from the tallest and the very old, right down to the smallest and very young, had glued to their heads – whether they were aware of it or not - the same ridiculous broad brimmed straw hat like that of the old witch.

Then as the full realisation of this unsuspected act of magic dawned, fear very quickly overwhelmed them. Yet, this was only the beginning.

Anybody looking on from outside would witness a most spectacular sight. Apparently, the boy had not only wanted to shush his audience into silence by his magic, but to humiliate them as well; for the hats they wore were no longer of the plain variety. Instead, grotesque sculptures – ranging from crows beaks to gargoylish heads of evil design, provided an interesting, if not to say, skirmish, backdrop beneath the almost cloudless Autumn sky. Several resembled cows faces, pigs bottoms; While others: scaly-backed lizards and gigantic maggots. These images of demonic inception, bulged unceremoniously from this mass of unconventional straw head gear.

Strangely enough, although scared, a few started laughing at the fiendishly funny vision before them.

A few more aggrieved civilians had tried to prize their hideous creations from off their heads. Yet when they attempted to raise their arms, they shuddered in horror. They could not move them, how ever hard they tried. No, they hadn't been turned into stone, they had simply been robbed of energy.

Their legs had even been affected. They couldn't twitch them or bend them, either. And it wasn't long before everybody realised the condition of their individual fate and shuddered.

The 300 or so men, women and children who stood at strange angles on the cobbled bricks on the square, had all been immobilised – except for the busker, who had apparently vanished, unobserved.

The boy's motive was to surprise every single member of his audience. Hence his next exit was executed with remarkable precision.

The reverend Mop, obviously by the aid of the expert power of the urchin, had been reduced to a much smaller wizard of three feet three inches. This once man of the Cloth had also been blessed – not with riches from Heaven by God – but by the most ghoulish hat and face one had ever seen.

The boy had purposefully manoeuvred one of Maggie Martin's dress mirrors into the centre of the square where the partially enraged and partially frightened cleric was given a clear and tormented view of himself.

His round little whiskered cheeks had taken on a reddish tinge as had his eyes which bulged like that of an angry frog from behind his owlish spectacles.

But his hat was the most ridiculous obstacle of the lot! It was pointed alright, but in stead of the usual feather protruding out of the top, there was a Staggs horn in its place.

Initially the urchin had wanted the Reverend to look like Rumple Stiltskin, but his lack in sympathy for this man had quickly dissuaded him.

Which ever way one looked at it, the Reverend Mop had now in deed been knocked from the celestial heights of clerical excellence and had been reduced to a grossly offensive fiend; Certainly an offensive figure of public disgrace to both decency and morality.

'Serves you right,' thought the boy. 'You've never been a true man of the cloth. The fabric of your mind has always been scarred by black thoughts, unpleasantness, evil schemes and perverse ideas. You have forever sat in judgement of others; picked fault and bore grudges over the smallest of issues. Shortly, everybody here will see you for what you really are, a repulsive mask, from behind which you have now been forced to crawl.'

In the boy's mind, the stage was set. The audience were in their places anxiously waiting for the moment for the curtain to go up and astound them with inextricable breath-taking revelations.

Jesus was said to have walked, unaided, on water. Well, although there wasn't any lake or sea on this occasion, there was certainly powerful invisible hands actively at work.

Through Maggie Martin's dress mirror, the reverend Mop caught a clear image of himself as his pigmy wizened short figure was propelled, foetaled AND BLEATING LIKE A GOAT, into the air where he remained, as though buoyed up by thousands of invisible hands - A TRUE OBJECT OF HUMILIATION.

The urchin, who had – by an act of magic – disabled the vocal cords of his hideous crowd of hated fiends, momentarily restored them with the power of speech and deliberately programmed their minds to focus on the object of the Reverend Mop in his stupefied condition.

Reverened Mop heard their laughter, but having had his own speech reduced to that of a mere bleating goat, was unable to offer any suitable rejoinder.

While the foetal-shaped wizard of the reverend Mop floated aimlessly above his stunned and immobilised audience, the urchin inflicted his assembled sheep and goats with more unpleasantness.

Having once more deprived the assembled crowd of their speech, the urchin went about injecting the spacious vacuum of a few of the straw hats with several angry hornets; a swarm of bees, a net of gad flies, a balloon of wasps; while into others he inserted the odd rat, a crow, a snake and a sack of beetles.

Had not this paralysed crowd been deprived of the power of speech beforehand, then their screams would have been more than audible. As it was, the only screams they heard, were their own silent cries. These rapidly rose with crippling intensity until they eventually erupted into an explosion of climatic finality against the cause of this torment of either flea, bug, vermin, or otherwise, that were in side their hats, angrily attempting to penetrate their way into their victims skulls with the sole purpose of exacerbating their silent cries.

The only other person, apart from the busker, to have escaped the evil effects of the urchin's vengeful powers, was Maggie Martin. She had been watching the unusual goings-on from the safety of her forbidden territory behind her trestle table festooned with unwanted hats.

Then the urchin of undesirable appearance, strode over to the alleged
demon-possessed woman and placed his arms affectionately about her scrawny neck.

If it weren't for their own insufferable conflicts battling ferociously inside their hats above their gnawed or bitten skulls, that automatically caused them to screw up their eyes, the crowd would have seen the once bedraggled figure of Maggie Martin with her hideous head, face and goat-like body, suddenly undergo a complete transformation.

They would have observed that in her place, looking radiant as on the first day she had met her husband, was a rather beautiful woman of tender years with long golden hair cascading in fine waves down her back; a pear of deep blue eyes above curved and unmarked cheeks that sparkled and danced.

Gone had the thin witch-like nose and haggish mouth. They had been replaced by a slender nose of unblemished appearance and peach-lipped mouth.

The urchin had also transformed into a delectable young man of youthful appearance with short golden hair. This hansom chap was now passionately kissing the peach-coloured lips of the beautiful lady in front of him.

If the crowd had also not been almost deafened by their own internal screams, they would have heard what the gorgeous woman next said to the equally hansom man in her arms.

“Promise me you won't ever leave me again, Andrew. These past three years have been sheer hell. What with Me having been reduced to a hideous spectacle and you a poor urchin,: and both of us having to suffer the constant torment and abuse from the locals who had accused me of being a witch and even threatened to kill me. I would have much rather you had consigned me to an early grave than to have me turned into some derisive object of public scorn and humiliation. Promise me you won't ever play around with magic again. I don't think I could have suffered another day of unpleasantness any longer.”

Andrew had his arms firmly around her neck now and was kissing her with the same measured affection as he had done on the day they had first met.

“Fear not, my dear. I shall never leave you again, nor do anything as evil as that, as long as we both shall live. But the spell said 'three years' and there was nothing I could do once It had been cast. The forces had told me that there wouldn't be any going back once the curse had been placed until it had completely ran its course. Well, that time has finally come. You and I are united again. I've just one more little member to find and our family shall be complete once more. And I don't think he is all that far away. The good spirit of our own land shall take care of him, that I do not doubt. It will see to it that he is delivered back to us, safe and well.”

Andrew stood up. He then reached down and, after gathering his wife into his arms, said almost breathlessly: “Let us journey north through the buttercup filled fields; over grassy planes and undulating hills, back to the land of our beginnings where our love was first conceived and will forever remain – even when our physical bodies no longer house our souls and depart for the next stage of our journey: the seventh dimension.

“But what about them over their?” She indicated the devilish specticals in front of her who stood dressed in their individual hats of humiliation, excruciatingly contorted faces framed beneath their brims.

“Nothing,” Andrew said, pensively. “They have been the cause of our torment these past three years. And as for the two-faced so-called man of the cloth, well, I have seen to it that his condition shall forever remain.”

He grinned slightly before he said: “I've consigned him to the top of the church spire in a foetal position, dressed in his straw hat with a stag's horn poking out of the top. The only sound people shall ever hear from him will be periodical bleats as he continuously circles the spire morning, noon and night.”

Then as if by a magic wind, they were instantly buoyed along by an immense power away from the market square and its hideous immobilised spectacles in their grotesque straw hats.

It was also 'goodbye' to the reverend Mop who would forever remain a fiendish wizard, the fallen angel, a timely reminder to any other would be vicar whom the little urchin had propelled – still foetaled - to the top of the church spire from where he will always turn and bleat.

It wasn't long before the united couple had crossed the galactic line that divided their world from planet earth and were soon journeying through the buttercup fields and grassy landscapes, whose views and undulating hills, stretched as far as the eye could see.

Andrew was so emotionally wrapped up in his renewed love for his precious Margaret, that both failed to notice the figure of a Small boy in faded blue jeans, a pace or two behind them, a guitar clutched firmly in both hands.

However, A slight rustling in the foliage behind him, caused Andrew to stop. Then turning around, he suddenly gave a whoop of delight.

“Why! It's Timothy!”

He looked much better, far less troubled now that he had returned to being their son again – instead of the scruffy busker he had once been.

Lowering his tender wife onto the pure green turf, the man quickly knelt down and drew the young child warmly into his arms and hugged him affectionately.

Tears of joy flowed, unchecked, down the boy's slightly reddish cheeks. They fell onto his chin and, from there, onto his father's exposed arm. Whether he noticed, his reaction indicated otherwise. to Andrew, it was as if the prodigal son had in deed returned.

The spell had, at long last, run its course. Andrew had got his wife back and his adorable son, too.

The man recalled his wife's words: “Promise me you won't ever play about with magic?'”

taking the two of them into his arms, he gently said: “I want you to know how truly sorry I am for the pain and sorrow I have caused you; for the cold and sleepless nights you have had to endure; for the hurt you have felt and the hate that has no doubt been relentlessly gnawing away at you, day and night; increasing your sufferings amid those silent hours while you wrestled against the pangs of sleep and praying for the first light of dawn.”

He paused and mopped the moisture from his eyes with his open palm.

Through the stillness and quiet of that peaceful afternoon, Andrew heard faint whimpering and realised that Maggie and his son were openly crying.

After a while, Andrew found that his own hand no longer served as an effective shield against his own tears and he gave way.

Andrew certainly proved to be a man of his word. A day or so later, after journeying further north over more grassy plains and undulating hills; through buttercup fields and landscapes of unadulterated splendour, they eventually arrived back at the place of their birth. 'The land where had been conceived their love and later, their beautiful baby son.'

“Everything is going to be alright,” Andrew smiled, pulling the youngster up into his arms. “See, the sun is just setting. “And look,” he pointed through a gap in the trees, “you can see our house in the distance resting on the top of that hill.”

As they grew nearer, the feature of a stone house with a thatched roof and overhanging eves, slid into focus.

The house stood by itself on an enormous piece of grass land surrounded by green hedges. Colourful, sweet-scented flowers blossomed in the herbaceous borders.

When they were just a few feet from their own garden path that would take this happy united family up to this quaint and serenely beautiful house. Margaret omitted a cry of delight and performed a little dance.

When Andrew and the surprised little Timothy had finally realised the cause of her behaviour, they too let out a squeal of delight.

There, pinned to the gate was a sign with gold lettering that read: 'Trusted friends, welcome home Margaret, Andrew and Timothy. The spirit of your land has been gracious to you. Provisions for your arrival have been made. Your evil act Andrew has been forgiven you. You have nothing further to fear.”

With the aid of the fingers from the settling sun, the three proceeded on up the garden path and into the house – releaved to be finally together again.

Comments

Opening: 10
Characterisation: 6
Dialogue: 9
Setting: 5
Plot: 8
Suspense=4
Ending: 7
Enjoyment: 3
comments: I think this short story is the best. I have put comments on the other stories but nobody else seems to want to join in the fun.

Dorothy Spry

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