Written by Jeannie Marschall / Artwork by Marcia Borell

Nibble, nibble, little mouse

on these biscuits as you sharpen

hidden teeth—

I know why you’re here.

We eat children, they say. So they send badges, these days.

Better than pitchforks and pyres. But not by much.

Yes, that is my oven. Oh, it’s these old bones, they need heat

even in summer.

The forest, you see. Deep and dark,

even in summer.

You seek children, you say. I have none here.

Ah, dead children?

Crimes. Victims. Amusing,

we seem to have very different ideas on what that word means.

You want to see my shed next? Cages? Do you believe any old tale, young one?

Very well. Out the back door and to the left.

But have another biscuit first.

These hands, they know their trade.

My, your colleague seems white in the face,

like one who’s seen a ghost or a hundred.

But I sent them all on their peaceful way;

no hauntings here, no pained screams of wrong herbs taken in desperation

or knitting needles—I only crochet, you see.

Yet you say you found what you were looking for.

Those are urns, yes. Tiny urns, for tiny souls.

The forest will keep them,

the fae and the fowl will sing them lullabies.

—because without medicine there is only

magic to fall back on.

Yes, there were victims. But none of them, by my grave,

ended in those urns, little mouse.