The children of the town all gathered around as the old man sat down by the town well, and lay his staff upon the ground. All of them sat at his feet, and begged him to tell them a story: relenting, he took a sip of water from the well and began...
Long ago, at a time before the Knights of the Forgotten Order roamed the lands, this town was a small farming village. Their people mostly lived quiet lives, and were happy: the crops were always on time, the animals fat, and things were peaceful. That was until a stranger came along. One morning, everyone woke up and found a shack a short distance out of town: it had not been there the day before, but there is was. People investigated, but never found anyone home.
Time went by, and the shack still seemed empty. One day, a man decided the wood was going to waste, so took his axe to the door, that he may use it for the fire...but his tool broke! His friend brought his axe along, and there was the same result. Suddenly, a voice came from behind them:
"Whaaat," it screached, "do you think you are doing?"
"We want to use this wood for a fire," they replied, "as it does no one any good."
"It is my home, so does me good: leave my door alone!"
With that, she opened the door, went inside, and slammed it shut.
The next day, the man again returned, and again he could not see anyone inside. Opening the door, he went in to look about. Inside he found a pot bubbling over a small fire, with a strange smell coming from it, and a table with all manner of herbs and more unusual-looking items upon it. As he leant over an open book to try and read it, a voice came from behind him:
"Whaaat," it screached, "do you think you are doing?"
"I want to know who you are," he replied, "what you are doing here."
"My name is ScynscaÞaisse," replied the old hag, "and my business is my own."
With that, she threw him out the door, and slammed it shut.
The next day, the man again returned, and again he could not see anyone inside. Opening the door, he went in to look about. Inside he found the pot still bubbling over a small fire, with a diferent smell coming from it, and the table with more of herbs and other items upon it. Going to the book, he looked at it again: most of it was written in a strange tongue, but the title was easy to understand - "How to control rain." That was when a voice came from behind:
"Whaaat," it screached, "do you think you are doing?"
"I still want to know who you are," he replied, "what you are doing here."
"My name is ScynscaÞaisse," replied the old hag, "and my business is my own."
With that, she again threw him out the door, and slammed it shut.
Time went by, and he decided to forget about the old woman. And so he did, until the rains were late: the crops were failing, and the people worried. Then the rains did not look like they would come at all, and the people feared drought. That was when he remembered the book, and realised that ScynscaÞa was a witch! Telling the people of the village, they all took up axes, forks, and other tools, and came to the house. Hearing the noise, the woman came out.
"Whaaat," she screached, "do you think you are doing?"
"I know who you are," replied the man, "you are a witch!"
"Yes, I am: what does that matter?"
"She is," the cry broke out amongst the people, "she is a witch!"
As they closed in on her, the woman cried out: "Why do you come with weapons?"
"I know what you are doing here," replied the man, "you are stopping the rains."
"Do not be silly," was the woman's reply, "I knew the rains would not come, so I came her to help."
Siezing her, the man replied that she had already helped enough.
The people of the village tied up the woman, and carried her to a chopping block, and put her head upon it. As the man lifted his axe, something fell upon his hand: a drop of water. Then another. Looking up, he saw clouds forming: the rains had arrives. The people ran to the fields, and saw the crops growing, a month to the minute! The man untied the woman, and spoke to her.
"How did you do that?"
"You already know: I am a witch," she repied. "My spell took time to prepare, but has now worked. My work here is now done, and my welcome clearly worn: I shall be gone."
The man begged her to stay, but she opened the door, went inside, and slammed it shut.
The next day, the shack was gone: the man told the people what she had said, and they realised what they had done. The people all began to weep, and their tears began to form a puddle, then this puddle grew; soon it was as long as the street, then before any stopped crying to realise, a river had formed from their tears; the river by our town is this very same river.
Saddened, the children asked the old man what happened to the witch.
"We do not know," he replied, "but we learned our lesson! We now know that people who use magic are not to be feared, rather to be loved."
"Where was the witches hut?" asked one child.
"We are sitting on the spot right now," he replied. "To remember her good deeds forever, the people built a well where he pot had boiled the magic that saved us."
With that, he took another sip of the water from the well, and walked away, his staff still on the ground.