Witches’ Brew by Terry Brooks

A nasty suspicion crossed his mind, one that had occurred to him earlier in Elizabeth’s kitchen when they had been discussing the reasons for what had happened to them. He had discarded it then, refusing to consider it too closely, unable to contemplate the possibility. Now it was back again, looking all too possible to be ignored.

He stopped his pacing and looked at Abernathy with haunted eyes. “Abernathy, this is difficult for me to suggest, but what if…”

He never finished. Light flared in the shadows at the far side of the storage room, and all three turned abruptly to face it. The light brightened sharply and then disappeared, leaving in its wake a decidedly ragged and frightened G’home Gnome sitting stunned and shivering on the concrete floor.

When he saw them staring at him, he gasped and threw up his hands defensively. “Don’t hurt me!” he begged, blinking rapidly and trying to curl into a ball. “I just want to go home!”

Questor Thews exchanged a startled glance with Abernathy. A G’home Gnome? Here? What was this all about?

“Now, now, no one is going to hurt you,” Questor reassured the other, starting forward, then stopping again as the Gnome started to gasp for air. “Are you all right?”

The Gnome nodded uncertainly. “If you can call being fried in witch fire ‘all right,’ then I suppose so.”

Witch fire? Questor and Abernathy exchanged a second glance. “What’s your name?” Questor pressed. The grimy little fellow was twisted down into an impossible position. “Come, now. We mean you no harm. We are all friends here.”

The Gnome sniffled uncertainly, peering out from beneath crossed arms. “G’home Gnomes have precious few friends anywhere,” he pointed out sullenly. He lifted his head. He was the scruffiest fellow imaginable, tattered and disheveled and in desperate need of a bath. “You tell me who you are first.”

Questor sighed. “I am Questor Thews. This is Abernathy. That is Elizabeth.” He pointed to each in turn. “Now, then. Who are you?”

“Poggwydd,” the G’home Gnome said. He sounded proud of the fact. He lowered his arms and straightened up a bit. “Questor Thews, the Court Wizard? I heard you were Rydall’s prisoner. You and the dog. Is that where we are, in Rydall’s prison? Is that where the witch sent me?”

“Wait a minute.” This time Questor Thews came right over and brought the Gnome firmly to his feet. “The witch, you said? Do you mean Nightshade?”

Poggwydd nodded. “Who else?” He was a little more sure of himself now. “She’s the one who did this to me. Sent me here, wherever that is. Used her witch fire. Say, you didn’t answer. Are we in Rydall’s prison? What’s going on?”

Questor Thews took Poggwydd by the elbow, marched him over to a vacant packing crate, and sat him down. The Gnome was rubbing at his wet nose and trying unsuccessfully to look brave. He kept his eyes fixed on Questor, as if by doing so he could stave off anything worse happening to him.

“Poggwydd,” the wizard addressed him solemnly. “I want you to tell us everything that happened, everything you can remember, especially about Nightshade.”

“I can do that, all right,” the Gnome declared. He paused suspiciously. “You promise me you aren’t friends with her?”

“I promise,” Questor replied.

Poggwydd nodded, thought it over, then cleared his throat officiously. “Well, I thought she was going to hurt me—the witch, that is. She had that look in her eye. She was real mad at me because of the little girl. Caught me talking with her out there in a clearing about a mile from the Deep Fell. Ridiculous, really. I didn’t even know her; she just showed up out of nowhere, way out in those woods, wanting to talk. So we did, and then the witch came, and the little girl asked her not to hurt me, said it wasn’t my fault, but the witch didn’t look like she believed her, so—“

“Whoa! Stop! Hold on!” Questor held up his hands imploringly. His brow knit furiously. “What little girl are you talking about? What did she look like? Did she tell you her name?”