The Cantle Witch

The old witch eyed me for a moment, muttering to herself. She snorted, then spat in the dirt.

“Aye, I can do it. Your molar. Third back on the left.” She turned away and started rifling through the refuse again.

“My-… wait what? You want a tooth?” I laughed nervously and ran my hands through my short hair. I still wasn’t used to that feeling.

The Cantle Witch - Watercolor

“Not a tooth. Your tooth. Third back on the left.” She cackled triumphantly as she pulled a bottle from the pile and peered through the glass. The witch gently brushed it off and stowed it in the shapeless sack that hung from her belt.

Wary, I shifted from foot to foot. This was an even weirder request than the last. Hair grows back. You can’t replace a tooth so easily.

She tilted her head to the side to look up at me. The bird-like motion and her shiny, dark eyes reminded me all too much of the ominous crows circling above. She raised a wrinkled hand and pointed a gnarled finger at me.

“You want the truth? You want to find her, don’t you? Left molar. Third. Back.”