Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Glunda The Veg Witch
    Glunda The Veg Witch
    Glunda The Veg Witch
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    Glunda The Veg Witch

    By Keith W. Dickinson

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    "A witch's boots told the story of her life. They showed you where she'd been, where she was going, and what kind of a witch she would be when she got there. And, most importantly, they were proof that said witch was not someone to be trifled with. She was to be listened to, and obeyed, and yes sometimes even feared, because her wisdom was h

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHammersmyth Press
    Release dateOct 31, 2023
    ISBN9781838150372
    Glunda The Veg Witch
    Author

    Keith W. Dickinson

    Keith Dickinson was born in Carlisle in 1974. A lifelong lover of hats and the Lake District, when he's not up a mountain he likes to write stories about airships, murderers, thieves, and talking cats. A writer since he was eight-years-old, his first two novels, Dexter & Sinister: Detecting Agents, and its sequel, The Dragonfly Delivery Company, are out now. Keith has been around the world, set foot on six of the seven continents, ridden a camel, trained as a yoga teacher, lived in an ashram, got a tattoo he doesn't regret, and invented a board game that he still hopes one day to inflict upon the world. Keith was short-listed for the Lindisfarne Prize - an award for new crime writers in the north - in 2019, for his short story "Miss Bloom's Final Summation." www.keithwdickinson.com

    Related to Glunda The Veg Witch

    Related ebooks

    YA Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Marked with SILVER

      Jan 17, 2024

      Marked with SILVER
      12 min read

    • Article

      Climbing Mount Cameroon

      Nov 18, 2019

      In 1895 Mary Kingsley became the first woman to climb Mount Cameroon. Her apparel was unlikely: long black trailing skirt, tight waist, high collar, a small fur cap, lace-up shoes and a parasol. In every respect she was unusual. With no formal school

      4 min read

    • Article

      Milla’s Dandelion

      Sep 10, 2022

      The sun blinded Alchemilla as she entered the meadow. It was hidden deep in the forest, too deep for anyone to venture in without a reason. She didn’t mind the isolation, and if anything, it made her work easier. After her eyes adjusted, she took off

      12 min read

    • Article

      Shotguns and Shiraz

      Mar 1, 2022

      Shotguns and Shiraz
      8 min read

    • Article

      The Bad Housekeeper

      Jul 17, 2020

      The Bad Housekeeper
      5 min read

    • Article

      Standing On Ceremony

      Dec 4, 2022

      Standing On Ceremony
      2 min read

    • Article

      Cast Out

      Jul 10, 2021

      Verity pushed back the quilts, rolled off her straw mattress onto the floor, felt for the poker, and stirred the ashes. The embers glowed. She wouldn’t have to go fire-borrowing again. Her chilled hands were clumsy. One glowing bit of wood rolled fro

      21 min read

    • Article

      The Fortunes Of War

      Feb 22, 2023

      The Fortunes Of War
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Fortunes Of War

      Feb 22, 2023

      The Fortunes Of War
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Fortunes Of War

      Feb 22, 2023

      The Fortunes Of War
      7 min read

    • Article

      Forfeit

      Jan 1, 2021

      Forfeit
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Dancing Skinny

      Jul 11, 2019

      The Dancing Skinny
      12 min read

    • Article

      Beyond the Mangrove Trees

      Aug 6, 2020

      No one expects their house to float away. Ethel certainly hadn’t. Our story begins in the sleepy village of Greenwood, where Ethel had spent her entire life. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon and Ethel watched the rain lash against the window from

      7 min read

    • Article

      The Thin Place

      Nov 16, 2020

      We looked out of the window at the torrential rain. We’d booked tickets for the Castle’s Halloween event. The Castle was famous for being haunted by the ghost of its last court jester and made the most of this reputation every October, hosting a fair

      6 min read

    • Article

      Holly Nil, Ivy One

      Dec 15, 2021

      Holly Nil, Ivy One
      3 min read

    • Article

      Out Of This WORLD

      Apr 20, 2021

      Out Of This WORLD
      6 min read

    • Article

      Claws For Celebration

      Jan 8, 2023

      Claws For Celebration
      2 min read

    • Article

      My Name's Giles And I'm A Gardening Addict

      Apr 5, 2023

      The wife and I have finished our second book. The previous one charted a year in the life of a theoretically incompatible married couple. In this one, we turn the lens away from ourselves to look outside the cottage window and attempt to paint an aut

      3 min read

    • Article

      Best Of The Best

      Oct 29, 2022

      Best Of The Best
      8 min read

    • Article

      A WINTER weekend

      Jan 2, 2020

      A WINTER weekend
      6 min read

    • Article

      Blooming Shame

      Feb 13, 2022

      Blooming Shame
      2 min read

    • Article

      The Kobold in the Corner PART 1

      Oct 1, 2022

      THE CARVING HAD stood off to the side of the chimney for years upon years, so long, in fact, that Friedrich had forgotten when it was put there, or why. It was a curious thing, fashioned from elm wood in a crude yet appealing style. It looked like a

      6 min read

    • Article

      Notes From The Isles

      Apr 14, 2023

      Yet again nemesis has smothered my hubris. Having boasted of my expertise in getting the car up our steep, icy track, I awoke to find myself snowed in, near the top of a glacier, totally cut off from all traffic. A nephew and his wife, who were comin

      4 min read

    • Article

      Staying Alive

      Mar 29, 2024

      Staying Alive
      12 min read

    • Article

      Magnets: Carried through time, lovers seek their purpose.

      Feb 6, 2014

      Moon Colony B, 2213 Former Ponzi-schemer Mary Pillar digs through a trashcan. It smells like rotten eggs and milk. She is elderly and homeless, living in an alley between two eco-efficient skyscrapers. Dust particles dance around her. She has lost ev

      11 min read

    • Article

      The First Of Many

      Dec 19, 2019

      Grey squirrels are a foreign concept here in south-west Scotland. While the rest of the country has been infested by expanding numbers of invading greys, the woods around my home have always been a stronghold for red squirrels. It’s only when I ventu

      3 min read

    • Article

      Rip Her To Shreds

      Feb 1, 2018

      Rip Her To Shreds
      11 min read

    • Article

      The Turn Of The Tide

      Sep 24, 2020

      The Turn Of The Tide
      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Glunda The Veg Witch

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Glunda The Veg Witch - Keith W. Dickinson

      Prologue

      Alar Reave stumbled through the darkness, cursing anything and everything in sight. What the hell was he doing up at this ungodly hour? He should have still been in bed where it was nice and warm (if a little lonely). He pulled his cloak tight around him. God how he hated the winter. It had only just begun and already it was bitterly cold. What would it be like when the snows came? Pure misery, that’s what.

      Reluctantly, he popped a couple of slices of dried banana in his mouth, sucking on their energy to generate a field of warmth around him. He hated wasting some of his precious dried fruit on something so frivolous, but he hated the cold even more. He visualised his shelves at home, annoyed at how little dried fruit he had left. Pretty soon he’d be onto the jams and jellies, eking them out over the coming months until he could lay in some fresh supplies. That was the worst thing about winter. Not just the cold, but the fact that you had to rely on preserves to keep your magic alive. It wasn’t just annoying, it was humiliating, and the worst part of it was, there was nothing you could do about it.

      Crunching his way up the gravel path, he arrived at a farmhouse door. Resisting the urge to bang on it like a madman, he knocked twice and waited. Wurst may have been a terrible farmer, and not the brightest man around, but he was still a farmer, and any Drupe Mage caught disrespecting a member of that venerable profession would find himself out of fruit before you could say, You call that a melon?!

      The farm door burst open. Lord Reave! Come in, come in. May I take your cloak? Wurst the Farmer, so brimming with excitement he’d buttoned his shirt up wrong, ushered the mage into his home.

      No. Just show me why you have summoned me here, said Alar Reave, ducking under the low doorway. If you would be so kind, he added with a forced smile.

      Of course, my lord, of course. Please, right this way.

      Wurst led the mage through the house and along a dark corridor towards a heavy black curtain. As they walked, Alar Reave felt the air get warmer. You keep a cosy home, Master Wurst, he said, pushing his cloak back off his shoulders.

      Just you wait, said Wurst with a proud grin. He pulled the black curtain aside and a wave of hot air hit them. It took Alar Reave by surprise. The air was moist, too, and dank. Not to mention a little bit earthy. The only way Alar Reave could think to describe it was fecund.

      They stepped into a small room made entirely of glass, lit by a dozen oil lamps. It should have been freezing in there, considering the weather outside, but Wurst had placed a couple of braziers either side of the doorway which produced a low, consistent heat that permeated the entire room. There were benches along each wall, covered in pots, and soil, and a variety of seeds, and a smattering of tools all about the place.

      In the centre of the room sat a small tree in a large clay pot, barely more than a sapling; lush, green, and brimming with life.

      What’s this? whispered Alar Reave, barely able to believe his eyes.

      ’Tis a tree, my lord, said Wurst proudly.

      Alar Reave stepped forward. He touched the tree with great reverence. But how did you make it so... green?

      Wurst shrugged. ’Tis just a question of having the right conditions, my lord. Once you can do that, you can do anything.

      And will it... fruit, do you think? Given the right conditions?

      With a grin, Wurst beckoned the mage round the other side of the tree. There, in all its glory, hung a single, glorious, juicy, golden pear. Alar Reave cried out in astonishment.

      Would you like to be the first to try it, my lord? Wurst gestured towards the fruit. Alar Reave nodded dumbly. Reaching out a trembling hand, he plucked the pear from its branch, feeling its power as he took a hesitant bite. Its juices ran down his chin as he pierced its soft, golden flesh.

      Immediately, he felt the magic course through him, the pear’s energy welling up inside as he swallowed its sweet nectar. A dozen spells sprung to mind, spells he wouldn’t attempt on dried fruit, never mind preserves. He felt like he could do anything, like he was in the full flush of the Spring Rush. Quite simply, he felt invincible.

      Is it good, my lord? Do you approve, sir?

      Alar Reave smiled at his new best friend. Yes, Master Wurst. It is good. It is very good indeed.

      Alar Reave gazed up at the tree, barely able to comprehend what such a discovery might mean. Fresh fruit all winter long. The Drupe Mages no longer having to rely on dried fruit and preserves to get by. It would change their lives. It would change the world. It would change everything!

      Those damn Veg Witches didn’t stand a chance.

      Chapter One

      Glunda knew it was unseemly for a witch to be giddy with excitement but she couldn’t help herself; today was a big day.

      She’d been pottering around her little witchy hovel all morning trying to keep busy (By tradition, all witches lived in ‘hovels’ although truth be told the word ‘cottage’ or ‘house’ might have been more appropriate.) She’d washed the dishes, swept the floor, scrubbed the tiles, and polished the door. She’d put on a stew, cleaned the conservatory, fed the spratty nibblers by letting them eat away at the dead skin on her feet, and she’d brought in buckets of water and chopped a load of wood for the sauna later. She was looking forward to the sauna, but not as much as she was looking forward to the stew. It was Change Day, so she hadn’t had to be stingy. She’d thrown every last bendy bit of veg she had left into the pot. This time tomorrow her cupboards would be brimming with fresh potatoes, carrots, onions, and leeks. What did it matter if today they all stood bare?

      The clock on the mantle chimed ten and Glunda clasped her hands together with glee. Finally, it was time to go!

      Glunda already had on her blackest dress, and her finest red and black stripey socks. To this she added her best black lace shawl, and the new black pointy hat she had bought just for the occasion. It had been expensive, but it was worth it. After all, it wasn’t every day one became Keeper of the Cauldron, the highest honour in all of witchdom.

      In the parlour, Glunda put on her best worst boots. They were old and scuffed and practically falling apart but she wouldn’t have changed them for the world. A witch’s boots told the story of her life. They showed how she travelled o’er hill and dale, in good times and in bad, ministering to the sick, the elderly, and the permanently confused. They showed you where she’d been, where she was going, and what kind of a witch she would be when she got there. And, most importantly, they were proof that said witch was not someone to be trifled with. She was to be listened to, and obeyed, and yes sometimes even feared, because her wisdom was hard earned and her wrath swift and mighty. They would have to be, for her to have lived in such boots for so many a year. No one trusted a witch in brand new boots, and rightly so as far as Glunda was concerned.

      Glunda opened her front door to find a small box of vegetables on her doormat. There was a note attached which read, ‘Best of luck on your big day, Mistress. We’re all very proud.’ The note was from Mrs Brumley, the potato farmer’s wife. She always was a wily one. She’d be round later with a proper tribute, once the ceremony was complete, but a gift like this was just the kind of thing to make you stick in a witch’s mind. It meant that when spring came around and it was time for the witches to do their Favours, you would be first in line. Or, at the very least, that you wouldn’t be last. The Granting of Favours was a subtle and complicated process after all. There were other things to take into consideration besides who had been fastest to your door.

      Depositing the first of what would be many, many veggies to come on the dresser by the front door, Glunda set off for the Mage’s Castle.

      image-placeholder

      Viewed from the wooded copse atop a small rise that Glunda called home, the seat of the mages was just a stone’s throw away, but getting there on foot was another matter. The road to the castle was not the most direct path. Hemmed in by hedgerows and boundary stones lain down over decades of intermarriage and dodgy dealings, it wound its way between the interlocking parcels of land like a drunk snake that had lost its way. More than once it doubled back on itself completely, and whilst following the meandering byway could be more than a little frustrating, especially when you were in a hurry, it was infinitely better than trying to negotiate with the local landowners to get the damn thing moved. Glunda had tried, once, when she was young and foolish (not

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1