Anna Brzeziriska is a historian specializing in the Middle Ages. Her debut in 1998 was with a humorous story "A kochafja_ze strach" (And He Loved Her Till It Hurt), published in Magia i Miecz magazine and reprinted here. This story won her the Zajdel Award in 1999. She writes fantasy modelled on medieval times, as is Zbojecki gosciniec (Brigandish Way), the first volume of a planned trilogy. She has also published another two stories and is working on Zmijowa harfa (Vipers' Harp) the second volume of her trilogy, as well as on her thesis.

ANNA BRZEZIŃSKA

AND HE LOVED HER TILL IT HURT

The Vilzha Vale was very far away. The road passed it in a wide arc, so that only two winding and overgrown paths led to civilization. The high path climbed among the three peaks towering over the valley, the Stake, the Mace and the one called the Monk, until it reached the merchants' road. The low path fell downwards smoothly along the Vilzha Brook and ran down to the faraway abbey estate, passing through the starosta's land. There was also a third path, but it wasn't leading towards civilization. Quite the opposite.
Simon, however, never went far, far away along the high or low path - or in any case no farther than to the edge of the pastures where the sheep from all the three villages of the Vilzha Vale were grazed peaceably. Only once, having listened to the tales of a wandering priest, he decided to hire out as a starosta's servant. He dreamt of war fame, drinking in the inns along the road and girls well disposed towards warriors. Driven by this dream, he stole from the village in the dead of night and ran down along the Vilzha Brook. It wasn't even getting light when the lord caught up with him, gave him a good hiding and put him in the pillory as a warning.
If it were anyone else, the lord, a man intolerant of fugitives, wouldn't have stopped with the pillory, but Simon was a very prominent person in the Vilzha Vale. He was
the manor's swineherd and had very effectively taught his charges to find truffles. However, it soon turned out that the stubborn swine couldn't be persuaded to co-operate without Simon's help. The discontented pigs wouldn't leave the pillory and the big red hog that was the leader of the herd has mauled the lord's favourite hound out of sheer malice. The disheartened lord had to release the boy.
And this was the end of Simon's wandering. Time passed very slowly for him. There was no news, neither merchants nor robbers dropped by in the Vilzha Vale. There was nothing there they could make use of. The land was infertile, the people were poor, quiet and shy: as soon as they heard horses' hooves on the road, they grabbed their belongings and ran away into the mountains, especially in the autumn, when tax-collectors were on the roads.
Simon was as shy as his neighbours and kept to the woods with his pigs most of the time. Until last week. Because last Sunday, when he was standing in a group of friends under the old linden as usual, spitting on the square in front of the chapel going on, instead of listening to the sermon, he fell in love with Yaroslavna, the daughter of Betka the miller. And he fell in love with her till it hurt.
It was an enormous feeling, encompassing Yaroslavna together with her lovely brown eyes (Simon loved the left one especially, as it seemed to squint at him constantly), the five cows of her dowry, the eiderdown and three embroidered pillows, spotted by the alert Simon in the bedchamber, and the twenty acres of land Yaroslavna was to inherit from her father. His love also encompassed Yaroslavna's father, Betka the miller, although more cautiously, as Simon had some reason to suspect that his deep feeling might not be reciprocated.
That was why he was sneaking along the third path to the hut of Grandma Berry, commonly known as the old, ugly witch. Simon was trying to forget her nickname just now. He hoped Grandma would be in a patient, friendly mood. He sniffed the air. If she isn't, he thought, I can run away anyway. Luckily, the midwife famous across counties, Grandma was caught by a severe attack of gout.
Grandma's hut was making an impression in keeping with its owner's reputation: it was neglected, dirty, and stank of goat droppings. However, the hostess's fame went much farther than the smell. The peasants whispered that Grandma secretly treated the wounded robbers from the Dead Cow Pass, and it was said that from time to time the lady of the manor sent for her. What the world has come to, the peasants grumbled, when Grandma Berry strode proudly through the village square at high noon. There were times when witches knew their place, they only dared to venture into the world at night, and even then they stood humbly at the gate, near the gallows. Now look at them!
People also looked askance at Grandma's goat, since, as it is commonly known, witches breed various monsters in their households and who knows what was hiding under the goat's hide? The villagers tried to ambush him many times, but the beast was clever and ran away quickly. And to be quite frank, they didn't pursue him too eagerly, because they were simply afraid - Grandma Berry was unusually wise for a witch and seemed unkindly disposed towards the people of the Vilzha Vale. Rumours of her scheming returned especially when crops were bad, and since summers have been lately dry and sheep were dying like flies, the lord of the manor began to get more and more anxious.
To be quite frank, he was trying to find a way of quietly getting rid of Grandma by fire. Being a cautious man, he first consulted the local priest, who was strongly opposed to the idea, understanding that since the beginning of time every region had, has and will have its own witch. Moreover, Grandma was making very efficacious suppositories for the haemorrhoids that have been tormenting the worthy shepherd for a long time. The thought that the astonishing secret of this remedy could burn together with Grandma filled the priest with sheer horror.
It soon turned out that Grandma even had support in the lord's own household. He noticed that his own wife, Visenka, was plotting together with Grandma. The lord
suspected it was somehow connected with the beverage his broody wife was pouring into him every Sunday; the drink repeated disgustingly the whole day afterwards. But the lord was afraid of Visenka and even more afraid of her father, the famous starosta Snakey, the lord of Pomeshche-nitsa, so he decided to keep away from Grandma - at least for the time being. Judging by the neighbouring women, he came to the conclusion that Visenka will cease at the fourth child at the latest and then the witch would answer for everything, including the Sunday nectar.
Grandma's practice must have been blooming, as Simon saw the young wife of the parish clerk sneak out of the witch's hut and run to the forest, clutching something to her belly. The jeering laugh of the witch came from behind the door. Simon, confused, rubbed his left leg on the right one nervously, but the vision of a bright future at Yaroslavna's side overcame his fear.
"Hum, hum," he cleared his throat politely.
Grandma opened the door with a vigorous push of her stick. She looked at the boy closely for a while, chewing on her yellowed thumbnail, and then said in a croaky voice:
"Well, well, well." There was a hint of admiration in her voice. "Haven't you grown up, Simon. Who would think." She giggled, looking him up and down shamelessly.
He felt quite uneasy and said shyly:
"Some vodka, Grandma?"
He has heard the witch liked to drink from time to time and he had obtained a suitable dose of water of life from the innkeeper.
"Vodka?" Grandma asked with scorn. "I don't drink vodka any more. Since Visenka has been making constant demands for the essence of loveherb, I drink only the Scalmier wine from her husband's cellar. Don't beat around the bush, Simon - what do you want? Which one is it this time?"
"Yaroslavna," he answered eagerly with a foolish grin.
Grandma shook her head disapprovingly.
"And twenty acres," she mumbled. "Won't you ever learn? Don't you know loveherb grows in the swamp? Do
you think I like to run around stark naked in the full moon? Can't you find some nice, reasonable girl?"
"No," Simon said flatly. "Yaroslavna and no one else."
Grandma murmured something under her breath.
"And what will you pay me with?" she asked suspiciously.
Simon lost his nerve. A few years ago the lord quarrelled with the tenant of the neighbouring valley and during the attack on the enemy manor Simon's father fell on the field of glory (in fact it was the moat of glory, out of which the corpse, still smelling of booze, was fished, but the lord had an oratorical bent). Since then Simon and his mother haven't been doing well. The patch of land behind their hut didn't yield enough beans for winter, the hut was leaning down more and more each year, and even the apple-tree shading their yard was blessing them with only tiny fruit. Simon had two pigs of his own, which the lord gave him in a moment of weakness, but he would sooner part with his life than with them.
"Well, you see..." he began reluctantly.
"What am I to see?!" the old lady burst out. "Did you think I was going to wander around in the dew because I've got a soft spot for you? I'm not young any longer, gout has struck me, I should warm myself by the kitchen stove and sip mead instead of running around naked in the moonlight! No payment, no loveherb! That's it!"
"How about paying in kind, Grandma?"
The witch threw him a glance from under thin, straggly fringe and looked his strong, slender body up and down speculatively.
"Well, well," she said.
Simon blushed (although he didn't know why).
"I thought I could clean up, chop wood," he explained hastily (although he didn't know what). "I can mend your roof... You must see it is leaking awfully... I can strew the manure," he ended in desperation.
Grandma Berry kept silent long enough for tears to appear in his eyes.
"Seven days' service," she decided at last. "Not a day less."
"How good you are," Simon beamed. "I'll drop by tomorrow as soon as the sun sets and will do whatever needs to be done."
"I was thinking about having you stay here," Grandma said acidly. "That is, you and your pigs are moving into here for the week. Take it or leave it."
A tragic premonition of his neighbours' sneers flew through Simon's head. He muttered something in thanks and shuffled away to tell his pigs about the move.
Contrary to his expectations, Grandma Berry didn't insist that he live in her hut, and gave him quite decent lodgings - in the barn.
"I'm. going to the manor," she said. "Visenka's payment is overdue and I'm running out of wine. I'll be back in the evening, so in the meantime patch the roof. But don't look into the well. It is a very peculiar well."
"Don't worry, Grandma," Simon assured her quickly. "I'm not one of those."
Grandma's nose (it was big like a red potato, with the indispensable drop hanging on the tip) twitched in a furtive smile and she walked briskly away along the path. No sooner did she disappear than Simon breathed easier. Next to the privy he found a sizeable heap of cane for covering the roof and at once climbed the ladder. The thought of Yaroslavna gave him wings. He loved her till it hurt.
When around noon the sun grew hot, he decided it was high time to rest. He made sure the pigs were rooting at the feet of the three oaks shading the glade, shook his fist at Grandma's favourite goat, spat at the fence, and drank his sour milk - but something was still nagging at him. At last, slowly and cautiously, he approached the well. The casing seemed ordinary enough. He looked warily around, but there was nothing to announce an early arrival of the witch.
"This is just a glance," he justified himself silently. "Just one look. Why shouldn't I take a look? Perhaps this is where Grandma hides the gold swindled out of Visenka? Sink or swim! I'm looking down."
And he did. He saw his own blue eyes, bulging in fear, and stupidly open mouth. But when he was staring, something bubbled, rustled tenderly and he heard Yaroslavna's beloved, sweet voice.
"Don't stand like this, you lazybones!", said the miller's daughter's melodious voice and her graceful arm appeared behind Simon-In-The-Well and banged him on the head with a potato masher. "Loafing about again? They have brought the corn, run to unload the cart, or my father will learn about it!"
The silhouette of Betka the miller began to form on the surface of the water in the well.
Simon was wary enough not to wait for what Betka might do - his heavy hand and mean character were well known. Before he could remember it was only a vision on the water, Simon jumped away from the well and didn't leave the roof till evening. However, the picture of Yaroslavna filled his heart with sweet bliss. They were together in the well! She spoke to him! She joked with him!
He worked like a house on fire. Grandma Berry came back at twilight.
"My, are you quick, Simon!" she said admiringly and poured him some Scalmier wine.
The alcohol stirred the youth's soul and made him long for Yaroslavna even more. Halfway through the second bottle Grandma apparently also felt good, because she began to lure bats into the bottle; the unlucky beasts, hitherto hanging quietly from the beams, completely ignoring the delicacy from the manor, wheeled around the room in fright. Encouraged by the casual mood of the feast, Simon asked the question that tormented him since noon:
"What's so strange with your well, Grandma?"
"You see, Simon," the witch hiccuped and patted him friendly on the shoulder, "this well is magic and deceitful, because such is the tradition in my profession that every witch has to have something magic and deceitful, be it a rnean demon in a bottle where blackcurrant wine was once kept, mischievous gnomes in pointed red hats pissing into nasty neighbours' beer, or a donkey shitting gold or pure
shit on a whim and you never know which it is going to be. I have a well. When it likes someone, it sings nicely and shows him his future; when it doesn't, as soon as he looks into it or drinks the water, something terrible happens." Simon was frightened. "What happens?" he asked.
"Well, it depends," Grandma explained cheerfully. "Some people turn into toads, other fall asleep for a hundred years; there was one man who looked in just once and run away to the woods, bleating. He thought he was a deer. They say he did turn into one later. Visenka says the antlers by the hearth in the starosta's manor are his, but this is only a rumour. You know Visenka."
Simon didn't, but a cold tremor moved up and down his spine to his loins. He took his leave quickly, said goodnight to Grandma and ran to his shed. The bats took advantage of the situation and followed him through the open door, and the goat waiting behind the hut's corner butted him painfully on the backside,
"You just wait, you son of a bitch!" the boy yelled. "You'll end in the cauldron soon!"
He slept badly. He dreamt he looked again into the well and changed into a goat.
In the morning Grandma Berry woke him up by banging her stick on the wall of the shed and made him clean out the cesspit. Even the pigs were driven out by the stink, but Simon worked diligently and dreamed about Yarosla-vna.
He dreamed so intensely that at twilight he looked into the well again.
He didn't change into anything, but was slightly astonished by what he saw. His beloved Yaroslavna was there. Stately and prosperous-looking, reminding him of a potbellied pudding-basin, with two snotty children clutching her skirt, she was chasing pigs out of the vegetable garden. The boy looked at her suspiciously: not that he stopped liking her, but she was somehow changed, her expression was sour and she kicked the pigs a lot. But all the same he
loved her till it hurt. But the worst thing was that Yaroslavna's lovely left eye was squinting at Simon somehow wickedly and coldly.
Saddened, he returned to the cesspit.
"Why are you so gloomy, Simon?" asked Grandma when she returned.
"The stink is awful," he mumbled.
"It is through thorns that one reaches love," the old woman declared philosophically. "Only through thorns."
Afterwards they drank again. The witch was telling him the rumours from the castle, drank like a man and then put pickled herrings with onions under Simon's nose. He decided she was a nice hag. He won two strings of real coral beads from her in a game of cards and Grandma was so drunk that she could only mumble, "Through thorns, through thorns..."
The mumbling alarmed Simon a little, so he left silently - he couldn't know if, while drunk, she mightn't accidentally throw some spell at him. Before falling asleep, he had a thought that, being tired, he must have missed something. It was impossible for Yaroslavna to look askance at him. He decided to check it the next day.
He looked in the well. Yaroslavna not only looked askance at him, she swore at him loudly to the merriment of their neighbours. Simon-in-the-Well went to the inn to get drunk out of despair and Yaroslavna spitefully locked him out of her bedchamber. In the end he lay down in the bushes behind the mill, away from the road so that the news of his disgrace didn't get around the village. His back ached from carrying flour sacks, his stomach rumbled, and even the well bubbled somehow... derisively.
Simon was so sad that he could be cheered up only by a second helping of blueberry ravioli. Grandma Berry made delicious ravioli.
That evening he didn't get even a sip of wine, as in the frenzy of work he also cleared the mountain of the goat's droppings, lying under the fence at the back of the hut. Unfortunately, it turned out that Grandma Berry had a theory on the usefulness of the droppings. She yelled
horribly and waved her stick at Simon, who, although he didn't understand the word "distillation", gathered that Grandma was furious and decided not to cross her path. Just in case he slept with the pigs. The beasts somehow bolstered up his courage.
He run to the well before dawn, but wasn't met by any pleasant surprises. Yaroslavna knocked out one of Simon-In-The-Well's teeth with a ladle and when he tried to exercise his right to tan her hide, she threatened that if he so much as touches her with one finger, her father will throw Simon out on the street. She spoke at length about how she had to be completely stupid to marry a swineherd, insulted him for his poverty, and finished off with mentioning her dowry of the four cows, the eiderdown, the pillows, and the acres of land she was to inherit. Next Betka appeared and drove Simon to work in the mill. Simon-In-The-Well saw out of the corner of his eye that his beloved Yaroslavna was giggling and so were the apprentices.
Simon ground his teeth and decided not to look into the well any more. Grandma was right. The well was dangerous. Dangerous, malicious, and mean.
He mended the fence. Grandma apparently forgave him, as she told him to rest at noon. The sun was warm, the flies buzzed sleepily and Simon slept the rest of the day away under the oak.
There was rabbit stew for dinner. Simon gorged himself on it.
"Where have you got it from, Grandma?" he asked respectfully.
"It wandered by," the witch answered, wiping the greasy sauce from her chin. "Want more?"
"After you, Grandma," Simon answered politely, holding out his plate. "Can you poach in the lord's forest?"
"Poach?" Grandma Berry seemed to take offence. "I have privileges. Visenka's grandfather granted them to me, when the great war in Viper Mountains broke out. The starosta went south. The old fool wanted to fight. When he came back, he had no horse, no fancy saddle, and no coat,
and his head was so full of holes that his mind was leaking out. Small loss," Grandma giggled, "as there never was much brain in that skull to start with. Still, I had to treat him for nearly a week..."
Sirnon was disconcerted. He wasn't much keen on listening to Grandma's stories - he believed it was best to stay away from the lord and his family. Bad luck was like vermin; come too close and it will creep all over you. Grandma's lack of respect for the world's order made him nervous.
"And what would you like to do, Simon?" Grandma asked with a cunning expression.
"I might whitewash the hut," he ventured. He didn't wait for her to think of something worse than cleaning the cesspit out.
"Oh, Simon," Grandma groaned. "Tomorrow's Friday and no self-respecting witch will move a finger. I asked what you wanted to do in life."
"Well..." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "I'd like to have a peaceful life."
Meat soup and sweet plum pie every Sunday. A farmhand..,
Grandma saw that intellectual effort was getting too painful for Simon and said:
"All right, you'll have the pie tomorrow. You will take a piece to your mother so that you don't hang about here. Don't worry about the pigs, I'll take good care of them."
The next day Simon, freed from his duty and cheerful, lay in wait in the bushes to contemplate Yaroslavna, bustling about the mill. However, he was puzzled to find that his love started to diminish. It diminished especially when the apprentices spotted him and started to laugh that Yaroslavna has a new suitor. The girl flared up and shouted:
"Go away, you pig-herder! Stop following me! Stop mock-mg me! Away with you!" and run away, crying and chased by the derisive laughter of the apprentices.
Driven to despair by her callousness, he shuffled back to the witch's hut.
"Oh, Yaroslavna," he thought with reproach. "Yarosla-vna, my sweet Yaroslavna!"
"And twenty acres," some stubborn voice in his head added. "Four cows. The eiderdown..."
"But this is going to change," he argued forcefully. "Two more days, some essence of loveherb and everything is going to change."
He was daydreaming so much that only a powerful butt stopped him. Grandma's goat bleated mockingly and run away. The goat somehow hated Simon and butted him at every opportunity. The angry boy started after the offender. The goat hid cunningly in the hut, but Simon, driven by righteous indignation, didn't hesitate.
"Back already?" Grandma Berry asked, surprised. Simon's mouth fell open.
Three shapely young girls were sitting at Grandma Berry's table, and one of them has just spoken in Grandma's voice (somehow younger and not so shrill). They wore dresses with plunging necklines, like a harlot. However, the local village harlot, gracefully named Ermine, couldn't compare with the changed Grandma!
"I... after the goat... sorry," the perturbed Simon stammered and fled.
Unanimous gurgles of witches' laughter sounded from the hut. They fell about with laughter. Simon preferred not to return for supper and slept with his pigs.
In the morning Grandma looked quite normal.
"Are you afraid of me, Simon?" she asked.
"Well, nno," he lied lamely. "Nnot much."
"There's nothing to be afraid of," she nodded her head. "The girls are right, I've become terribly lazy. I damaged the broom, stopped changing myself with the 'young and beautiful' spell, even stopped wandering with the bats. Eh, province, stagnation... Not as it used to be..." She pondered gloomily. "But as long as you are here, I won't cast any spells. So that you don't get too scared."
"It's all the same to me," Simon murmured. "Change, Grandma, as much as you like."
"Really?" Grandma cheered up, waved her skinny arms quickly, turned around and the black-haired girl he saw yesterday in the hut stood before Simon. "Today is the market day in Greeny. I'll be back in the evening." She tore a railing from the fence, hitched her skirt up, straddled the railing and flew away.
Simon whitewashed the hut, swept the mud floor, cleaned out the stove, ate the leftovers from the yesterday's witches' feast and having no idea what to do next, went to stare into the well.
Yaroslavna ordered her husband to go to the mill and then locked herself in the chamber and giggled with someone a lot. Simon-in-the-Well lurked about outside and had an irresistible feeling that he could recognise the priest's voice. As if spurned, he inspected his offspring closely (Yaroslavna was still giggling in the chamber) and came to the conclusion that the youngest son much resembled the venerable priest.
Simon was so angry that he kicked the casing. His heart was broken. The well bubbled indignantly and showed him nothing more.
He heard Grandma's call when she returned, but kept silent. He huddled among his pigs and was so miserable that he fell asleep just before dawn. In the morning Simon said he wasn't going to work on Sunday.
"I respect your religious feelings," Grandma said. "We can drop into the village when everybody attends high mass."
Sirnon did not want to go to high mass, but he decided Grandma was not to be provoked. Making the best of a bad bargain, he straddled the railing.
"Hold tight," Grandma advised.
Simon clasped her waist uncertainly. Girls were always laughing at him; even the village harlot said with a sneer that he should stay with his pigs in the sty and not come to the inn. But Grandma only giggled and wriggled co-quettishly until he found a way to hold her really comfort-ably. Grandma didn't protest.
They landed on the market square, in front of the inn. The organist's hoarse voice was heard from behind the chapel's door on the other side of the square. The village yellow cur dog bit into Grandma's skirt, yapping.
"It's sleepy here." Grandma kicked the dog on its sticking ribs and gathered her skirt. "It seems they need some stirring."
First they burst into the mill and conjured bugs in all the flour. Then they made the beer in the inn go sour, gave the lord's horse colic and let lice into Visenka's wig. Simon couldn't remember when he had such a good time. Then they dropped for lunch into a disreputable house in the nearby town and ordered lettuce, boar in hunter sauce, truffle pie and raspberry petit fours. Grandma paid for everything with silver coins without batting an eyelid and ordered three bottles of red wine for the way home. At midnight they whizzed over the settlement and castle, reeling on the railing and shooting lightnings. Finally Grandma rained fireworks on the lord's orchard, and Simon was neighing loudly and holding on to her closer and closer.
He woke in the morning in Grandma Berry's bed. He had a misty notion that he spent the Lord's day not exactly as He would wish, but somehow was grinning foolishly and contentedly.
He got up, pulled his trousers on, ate some oat pie and cottage cheese Grandma left by the bed, and washed the meal down with beer. The witch's goat bleated desperately in the yard.
"Ah, Simon!" Grandma was glad to see him; she still retained her youthful appearance. "I got terribly bored with this stinky old thing. Have you seen the butchering knife anywhere?"
"It's in the shed. I'll sharpen it," Simon offered vindictively.
The goat must have understood what's going on and made the last, desperate effort. But Grandma was holding him fast.
"I'm sorry, Kierel," she said with some melancholy. "You got terribly old. Even as a goat you're no good and I need
new leather for the drum." As she said so, she cut its throat expertly and started to gut the animal. "How you can grow attached to a beast," she sniffed. "We spent so many years with Kierel."
"Everybody meets his end sometime," Simon said reflectively.
"Yes", Grandma agreed. "Your service has also ended, Simon. There is essence of loveherb in the hut for you. Give her five drops in a drink and the miller's daughter is yours."
The boy thanked her politely, but the thought of coming back to the settlement and continuing as the manor's swineherd filled him with enormous melancholy. To cheer himself up, he thought of Yaroslavna, but he couldn't remeber nothing besides her berating him in the well and her disporting with the priest. He got more and more sullen.
"Let's have one for the road," Grandma said, inviting Simon for a farewell glass.
One glass multiplied to two and three, and then to a whole bottle, and another one. Simon didn't even know how he strayed under Grandma's eiderdown. In the last flash of resolve he poured the essence of loveherb into her glass - and not just the five drops, but the whole phial.
"Oh, my dear fool", Grandma said and stroked his tangled flaxen hair.
As could be guessed, Simon didn't marry Yaroslavna the miller's daughter. Instead he moved to Grandma Berry's hut for good and to an open hostility of the lord, resigned from his post as the manor's swineherd. Grandma Berry bridled up when Simon called her that name and told him to call her just Bera.
Grandma saw to it that Simon always had fresh meet for dinner, his favourite vodka and other amusements. The lord was interfering at the beginning, but got quiet after Grandma's decisive intervention. Simon guessed that his wife Visenka had a great part in his overcoming his reservations: after all, the heir of the Vilzha Valley was kicking
her more and more and everybody wanted a safe delivery, didn't they?
However, wagging tongues had to be fought. Although Simon didn't understand the meaning of the word "fancy-man", he was very downcast after the first solo venture into the inn. Luckily, Grandma gave him an essence for the strength of five men, so he could easily break Whit-tier's two ribs and smash Mouse's kidneys. People respected him dutifully and gave him a wide berth since.
Grandma Berry was generous to him both in daylight and at night. He saw her almost solely as a comely and beautiful woman; only at night, when she was sleeping especially deeply, did she return to her disgusting, decrepit form. Simon was slightly uneasy then, but always elbowed her and Grandma immediately changed into a flourishing woman.
At the beginning he was a bit worried that the witch forced him to run around in the goat's skin, but in time he got used to it. Sometimes Grandma changed into a she-goat herself and then Simon reverted to the human shape very reluctantly. They fitted together. Grandma even started to drink the herbal tea, although, taking her age into account, Simon thought she was exaggerating. But you never know with witches and there was no way to tell what she was talking about with her friends. They used to change into bats and join the group under the rafters. Simon guessed they did it out of pure womanly spite - so that he would stand underneath, didn't understand a thing and stared at them foolishly.
But he was happy anyway. He knew nothing better could happen to him.
He contemplated telling her at last how much he loved her. And he loved her till it hurt.
Translated by Agnieszka Sylwanowicz