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'Pass me that eye of dragon will you, Sylph?'
'You're kidding right? Are you sure this is going to work?'
'Not really -- haven't tried this one since the first Elizabeth was on the throne. Still -- better to try and fail, than to sit on our arses and do nothing.'
The cauldron began to seethe as Mother Barley, twirling around the room, visited each of the shelves that lined the walls and flung in exotic ingredients, seemingly at random.
'So what did you use it for last time then?' Sylph used a length of two- by-two to stir the lumpy slop and the scent of summer roses fumed into the air.
'Plague boils -- saved my Lady of York -- not only her life, but her precious complexion, too.'
'Awesome,' Sylph stopped stirring.
'Not really,' Mother Barley's voice echoed from the back of the cupboard she was kneeling into. 'After she was well again, the Duke had the Bishop put me to the question. Blasted politics! Took me weeks to talk my way out.'
'There's no gratitude in this world.'
'Such a cynic for one so young.' Packets, jars, bottles and boxes flew around Mother Barley's bulky backside, propelled out of the cupboard with a practiced flip from her warty fingertips.
'Got it!' Rising from her knees in triumph she turned towards the cauldron and unscrewed the lid of the jar. It seemed to be full of white pepper. 'Not much of this left now.'
Sylph looked into the jar sniffing delicately, like a cat. 'What is it?'
'It's the last ingredient; powdered bowel of butchered traitor. I seem to remember bribing my Lord Essex's executioner for it.'
Sylph shuddered and removed her nose hastily from the top of the jar, 'Gross!'
'You modern witches have no head for the slimier side of your vocation; bet you don't even do your own cooking,' Mother Barley said, shaking her head.
'Give it here then,' Sylph held her hand out. 'How much goes in?'
'Just a little ought to be enough, think of it as a chemistry experiment. Only don't blow us up.'
Leaning over into the steam Sylph steadied her disgusted stomach, put her fingers into the jar, and took a good pinch of gritty mixture. Making sure every grain came off her fingers, she dusted her hands above the cauldron.
Silver sparkles shimmered through air. The contents of the pot seemed to set for a heartbeat, then liquefy again, all the lumps disappeared and the smell wreathing into the air transformed into a pine forest in winter.
Mother Barley clapped her hands and capered round the Aga, 'That's it, that's it! Just like last time. I think this might work after all.'
*
'You can't put that in your report -- the Sergeant'll have us demoted to radar-gunning for bloody months,' P C Clitheroe slammed the car door for emphasis.
'Look, what we saw -- we saw. Don't blame me -- you were there too.'
'I'm not bloody denying we saw it, Clitheroe rammed the car into gear and eased into the evening traffic. 'All I'm saying is, we don't need to make it official.'
Hearing only stubborn silence from the seat next to him, Clitheroe expelled air in a sarcastic sigh.
'Why don't you go for front page of the local rag while you're at it?' He humphed, ''Last Thursday night, while on routine patrol at the Exeter reservoir, P Cs Clitheroe and Anstey were unwilling witnesses to a strange event. Caught in the headlights of their patrol car, two oddly dressed, weird women were seen to drop buckets over the parapet and into the water.''
Clitheroe's voice deepened dramatically and he slowed the pace of his words, ''As the buckets sank, four giant swans, trailing a fog of sparkly silver smoke, rose into the air above the two women. Strong wings beat the air, and the two policemen reported the noise, throbbing like bass drums, was clearly audible through the closed windows of their patrol car. They watched, bemused, as the swans hovered for a moment -- then flew off; one North, one South, one East, one West.''
'Laugh all you want,' Anstey hunched in his seat, his tone half miserable, half challenging, 'but you know those women disappeared, and you know those birds were about the size of a small Lear Jet.'
'OK -- I hear you. We saw it.' Clitheroe leaned over and snatched the report sheet away from Anstey and lifting himself awkwardly in his seat he stuffed the paper into his trouser pocket. 'But neither of us is ever going to talk about it to anyone else.'
Pulling the car into the kerb, he braked, 'Now go into the Cosy and bring us both a coffee and a chocolate muffin, will you?'
*
Sylph read aloud from the morning paper, ''Fears of a bird flu epidemic would seem to be receding. Last week, regular readers will remember that Professor Hugh Penton, Edinburgh University's microbiologist and expert on the bird flu, warned that we had only days before a major outbreak was expected in the U K. But this morning, Professor Penton said, 'It's as if the U K has a ring of immunity around it. I wouldn't call it a miracle but it defies modern science and it's certainly baffled the hell out of me.' ''
Mother Barley began to laugh, 'Live and learn, Professor Penton -- live and learn.'
Charm the Air is a 1,000 word comedy-fantasy story, about an alternative method for protecting the UK against Avian Flu.
Lesley has been writing since January 2003 and has written over a hundred short stories, a novel and also short works for theatre. Her work has been published and staged and she has won prizes for her writing, including the prestigious Escalator Award and an Arts Council England grant.
She is working on a series of crime books set in the murky backstreets of London's Victorian underworld and is actively seeking an agent. She writes in a garden room built for her as a gift by her partner.