The Orchid Nursery. Louise Katz

violent than I have ever experienced.

      The pain is dreadful, yet less intense than the humiliation I feel shitting and retching the reeking filth from my poisoned body in the presence of the Hag, who squats by me holding my shoulders and, after the last paroxysm passes, wipes my mouth and my brow with the hem of her sleeve, then carefully gathers me into her arms and supports me back into the house.

      I lay there in the witch’s bed for days, I don’t know how many, then more days, for after the sickness passed I was too weak to rise. I would hear her moving about her house, and sometimes she would be by my side, looking at me thoughtfully, smelling of grease and tobacco and nutmeg and ancient, unwashed (wo)Man. Sometimes the beast was there at the side of the bed, wondering when I would be fat enough to eat. And then she would be back, sponging my face and body, retying the bandage on my arm, then later spooning broth into me, and over and over again cleaning my mess. I awoke one night to find her holding my good hand. Hers was warm and dry, and roughly corded with the old burn scars. I was too weak to pull away. I often heard her voice, soft and low, and though I understood little, in my physical and moral debilitation I found I liked to hear her speak – not the words, but the tone, for the rhythms of her voice were seductive. Later, when I was closer to recovery, I made a point of ignoring what she was actually saying so that I might be forgiven the listening, partial as it was.