I have personally made the acquaintance of the resident of number thirty six Wintermarsh Street only once in the many years I have lived here. She introduced herself simply as ‘Föhn’ when she handed me an unlabelled jar, asking me to pass it on to Ms Crockofshit. She was pleasant enough, though clearly not interested in conversation, hurrying away the moment I had promised to pass the jar to Ms Crockofshit personally. I never discovered what was in that jar, whatever it was, it felt warm, and I swear something in the thick yellowish cream shifted as I put my eye close to the glass. Discretion, as always, is the better part of valour.
 
Föhn’s house is bedecked with ivy, the grasping rootlets blanketing the brickwork and covering the doors and the perpetually shuttered windows, which I have never known to be opened. A tendril of smoke may always be seen issuing from the chimney whatever the weather, swifts return year upon year to nest in the eaves.
 
Secretive as she is, Föhn cannot escape the scrutiny of Hat, our loyal sentinel, and it is thanks to him that I can reveal a little about this intensely private solitary witch. Primarily a hedge witch, a genius with plants and herbs, producing some remarkable ointments, liniments and potions, she is also a famous storm witch, and a capable shape-shifter, Hat has reported witnessing her take the form of an entire screaming frenzy of swifts, a hare, a crow and a doe.
 
Hat also tells me that all of the traditional access points of her home, the doors and windows, are firmly secured with iron nails, and she only leaves and returns via the chimney. Föhn is an accomplished flyer, making, as she does, her own flying ointment, and her shape-shifting skills allow her to negotiate the ceaselessly smoking chimney with ease.
 
Föhn, I hope you will agree is a ‘good witch’, she is kind and generous, the many jars and bottles that line the shelves in her hectic kitchen are full of powders, creams and liquids that she gives away freely to anyone in need. There is however, something you should know about one of the extraordinary ointments she produces, this is information that some readers may find upsetting, so please do not read on if you are of a squeamish disposition.
 
The lotion of which I speak is her very special flying ointment, the ingredients are both spectacularly dangerous in the wrong hands, and one in particular, darkly disturbing, at least for some.
 
The following is a list of ingredients used in her personal recipe, I have not included method or quantities, because frankly, I do not know the precise process, and obviously, there is a degree of magick involved. It goes without saying, you should not try this at home.
 
Ergot of Rye.
Deadly Nightshade.
Black Henbane.
Henbane Bell.
Thorn apple.
Mandrake.
Hemlock.
Wolfs bane.
The fat of a human baby digged out of its grave.
 
It is the last ingredient on the list which has proven to be problematic for many, but don’t be too quick to judge. The babies employed by Föhn have had short, tragic lives it is true, however they become part of something extraordinary, and are honoured during the whole process, treated with reverence, she talks to them during the entire undertaking, gently whispering reassurance, helping them to move on to their ultimate destination, finally, she thanks them and returns everything she has not used to the cold ground, their grieving families none the wiser. 
 
There are some who insist it is possible to replace this final, most important ingredient with the fat of newly slaughtered piglets, pigs having similar DNA to humans. There is some truth to this, and Föhn has tried it this way, however, she compares flying her broom using ointment made from pig fat and that sourced from human babies, to piloting a Sopwith Camel, and sitting in the cockpit of an F-16 fighter jet.
 
 I tell you this only because it is pertinent to the following tale…..
 
 
The parched ivy was brown and brittle, a trickling, humid breath of air stirred the leaves causing them to scrape against the red brickwork, like skeletal fingers scraping weakly at the inside of a coffin lid.
 
Föhn yanked at the lever of the pump, drawing water from her well, which gushed into the maze of irrigation ditches feeding her precious herb garden. Föhn is old, ancient even, and on this day, her age was showing, bent double over the pump, pure white hair plastered to her pale, lined face, her simple, white linen dress damp with perspiration. Still, she smiled contentedly watching the water scurry around soaking into the roots of her lush garden.
 
The hot spell had lasted for weeks, months, the baking sun relentless, no hint of rain, and not so much as a cool breeze to bring relief, this green and pleasant land had become beige and brown, the scorched earth, cracked and dehydrated.
 
Age may have withered her flesh, however it has not diminished her senses at all, Föhn’s sparkling absinthe eyes flicked upward, glinting with life and mirth. Straightening her back with a small, satisfying series of pops, she cocked her head to one side, sniffing, then inhaling deeply. She stood this way, hands on her hips for a moment.
 
‘I hear the sound of wild horses on the move.’
 
A broad smile brightened her face, a great big, child-like grin, making her appear countless years younger, and beautiful. She scanned the firmament, noting the rapidly forming clouds.
 
‘Mackerel sky, storm is nigh.’ She beamed, and glancing quickly around, burst into a cloud of feathers, which coalesced rapidly into a crow. The crow cawed once and fluttered upward, swooping down into the chimney of Föhn’s house.
 
The crow emerged from the gently smouldering fireplace, flapping into the room and reverting to human form accompanied by garbled crow-like squawks and some human grunting, a handful of downy feathers floated to the flagstone floor at Föhn’s feet.
 
Beside the fireplace, on a dilapidated arm chair festooned with cushions and crocheted throws laid a lean cat, curled into an inky black comma. In disgruntled response to the witch’s noisy entrance, it stretched its lithe body, extending needle-like claws and baring sharp teeth in a cavernous yawn, before eyeing the naked crone with a look that appeared somehow both inquisitive and utterly disinterested.
 
‘Is the cacophony absolutely necessary?’
 
The cat’s words were audible in the room, the diction clear, precise and timbrous, however, the cat’s mouth did not move. This was no act of ventriloquism, the cat simply caused the words it wanted to be heard to be, well, heard, who or what was responsible for conveying them is anyone’s guess, and best not discussed at any great length.
 
‘Don’t be grumpy Erroneous, there’s a storm coming.’
 
‘Figuratively or literally?’
 
‘Literally, I can smell it in the air.’
 
‘You know very well I do not care for the rain.’ The cat ran an appraising eye over Föhn’s ageing body. ‘On a more urgent matter, would it hurt you to throw on a robe at least?’
 
She smiled at the cat she had named Erroneous, or the cat that had introduced itself as Erroneous. She could not quite recall when or how it had come into her life, seriously doubted in fact, that it was a cat, and if she were being honest with herself, a mammal even, it was an entity probably composed of little more than wood smoke, ideas and memories, appearing solid enough for the most part, it could disperse like mist and float away on the slightest breeze.
 
‘Yes you have previously been quite vocal on the subject my dearest over-familiar, however, I adore the rain and intend to enjoy the coming tempest to its fullest extent, you are most welcome to continue warming your perpetually chilly carcass before the hearth. I for one have had quite enough of this accursed hot spell, and you know very well I always ride skyclad.’
 
Cats cannot smile, their physiology simply does not allow it, however Erroneous smiled indulgently anyway, to make a point.
 
‘Have at it good lady, and if you find yourself over the briny deep tonight, I would be most grateful for some fresh mackerel.’
 
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
 
Erroneous licked his lips, stretched his paws, rested his chin upon them and closed his eyes.
 
The first fat drops of rain slapped against the window pane, quickly gathering pace until they were a deluge. Föhn skipped to the fireplace and grabbed her beloved broom, practically dancing a jig as she plucked a jar from the shelf on her way to the scrubbed wooden table where she laid the besom.
 
Thunder grumbled distantly, low and feral, causing the contents of Föhn’s numerous shelves to tinkle musically. She unscrewed the lid from the jar, and scooping a generous handful, began coating the handle of her besom with the unctuous flying ointment. When she was satisfied with that, she grabbed a further, ample helping of ointment, and casting a surreptitious glance toward Erroneous, she reached down and applied it between her legs.
 
‘Can never have too much.’
 
Erroneous opened a single eye and raised its brow in as sardonic a manner as he could muster.
 
Föhn allowed herself a cackle, one that would have warmed the heart of the wicked witch of the west, and scared the breeches off of the cowardly lion, or the mightiest king of the savannah, come to that.
 
Erroneous’ eyebrow now arched in an impossibly contorted manner, appropriately conveying his disdain for the woman’s self-indulgent pantomime witch parody.
 
‘Fly my pretty, fly’. He deadpanned.
 
Föhn ignored him. Her excitement building to a frenzy, she scampered around, throwing pots and jars into a hessian sack, her besom, seemingly as enthused as its owner, was hovering two feet off the floor, at the front of the broom, behind the tied hazel twigs, was a bent nail, she hung the sack on this, causing the broom to drop an inch or so.
 
Föhn ran a hand along the slick shaft, smiling contentedly, it is the nature of flying ointment that it must make contact with the mucous membranes of the user, therefore, the user could conceivably fly on a milking stool, a chaise-longue or a pinball table, however Föhn is a traditionalist, and she loves her besom.
 
She straddled her broom, buzzed twice around the room while Erroneous studiously ignored her, then with a shout of ‘LATERS!’ She shrank to the size of a crow and flew up the chimney.
 
‘Laters indeed’. Erroneous muttered,shaking his head testily.
 
Föhn shot vertically from the chimney in a detonation of soot and smoke, a bedraggled crow, who had been perched on the pot, flapped away in fright, cawing loudly as Föhn returned to full size, bursting forth into the storm. She flew around in a tight circle twice, then sped off toward the hills, as the small town rapidly gave way to farm and woodland, she swooped lower to skim the tree tops.
 
As I have previously suggested, Föhn is old, very old, however, scudding through the stinging, wind driven rain, something remarkable began to happen, loose flesh tightened over muscles that became more toned, the wrinkles of age faded, then disappeared, leaving smooth, youthful flesh. Her hair transformed from stark white, first to grey, then salt and pepper, darkening to a light auburn, until finally, she was crowned by the billowing, lush flaming copper hair of her youth, when all the young men, and more than a few young ladies, feared and desired her in equal measure.
 
A crow she recognised, swooped in alongside, briefly riding the storm with her.
 
‘Hello Viola!’ Föhn cried. ‘Beautiful night!’
 
Viola cawed in dubious agreement, and navigating a raucous gust, veered towards the shelter of the trees.
 
A break in the woods revealed a steep pasture, a small band of grey longhorn cows sheltering beneath a huge oak grown massive in splendid isolation at its centre. Spotting two hares scurrying through the field, Föhn plunged downward, one of the hares scampered for the trees, the other stood on its hind legs and transformed into a woman, an infamous local witch by the name of Sail Sack, the woman on the ground waved briefly at Föhn before returning to her white hare form and bounding under a hedge.
 
Föhn skimmed the ground, her sack of jars rattling as it jolted on the rutted pasture, she pulled upward at the last moment, avoiding a potentially thorny encounter with the hedge, and shrieking with delight, spiralled higher into the ranting sky.
 
This area supports an unusually dense population of witches, and they were all braving the storm, giving thanks for the refreshing rain, sharing in Föhn’s joy for The Mother’s gift. As one, they were delighted for Föhn, storm witches are rare, and her friends know well how joyful it is for her to be literally in her element. They all greeted her with love as she rode the storm above them.
 
Another clearing loomed, this one with a small cottage tucked into a corner. In the garden, a woman stood naked, relishing the cleansing downpour, Föhn descended, reaching into her sack and plucking a jar from within, with nonchalant accuracy she lobbed the jar which was caught with similar casual ease by the woman below.
 
‘Thank You sister!’ The woman bellowed in an effort to be heard above the clamour of the storm, but Föhn had already disappeared into the broiling sky, intent on finishing her deliveries.
 
It took her less than twenty minutes to exhaust her supplies, whereupon she headed in the direction of home, although home was not her destination. She skimmed over the roofs of Wintermarsh Street, sparing a glance for Dead End, conspicuous for being the only house whose windows remained unilluminated on that dark night.
 
Skimming over the rear gardens of Wintermarsh Street, she followed the leat that at one time fed the woollen mill which once employed so many local people, she barrelled up the side of the brick chimney which still stands defiantly before the elements. Playful eddies of wind tugged at her, threatening to pull her into the edifice, however she righted herself and jetted away from the derelict mill and toward the tangled wood of oak and beech that has grown up along the route of what was once part of the Grand Western Canal.
 
The wind was now grasping at her back, and she rode it like a wave as it thrust her onward, the horizontal rain flowing around her like a fitful ocean. For her, the night became eerily quiet as she matched the speed of the storm, although the rain continued to slash at her as the wind buffeted and tugged at her broom.
 
At the edge of the wood, she dived downward and into the trees, following the convoluted course of a narrow path. Wind thrown branches whipped her as she negotiated the narrow space between the trees inches above the undulating, root gnarled path which had been rendered glossy and treacherous by more than a century of footfall, and more so by the night’s deluge. Föhn of course had no need to fear turning an ankle on the greasy roots, however at the speed she was travelling, the trees passing in a blur, a moments lapse of attention could result in a most unwelcome meeting with any number of trees or their branches, concluding her evening prematurely in a most unwelcome, bone-snapping manner.
 
She careened on, negotiating the last few hooks in the course of the path, before finally bursting from the relative cover of the trees into the driving wind and rain, her hair adorned with confetti consisting of twigs, moss and leaves. She aimed upward, gaining two hundred feet in moments, and whooping like a cowgirl, she leaned forward on her besom, increasing her speed as much she dared.
 
It was cold up there, and her reddened, wind burned flesh crawled with goose flesh as she pushed on through the swirling, stinging rain, her glorious, copper hair, now saturated, whipped around her head like medusa’s deadly tresses.
 
Föhn shifted her gaze further upward, to the base of the cumulonimbus cloud formation above her, it presented a dark, foreboding wall, which growled menacingly, and from within, lightning flashed fitfully.
 
‘In for a penny.’ Föhn yelled and headed into the clouds.
 
Flying blind now, in the most dangerous, and the most exhilarating place to fly, she skilfully compensated for each vicious gust, dodging every jagged finger of lightning, however as hail began to pelt her affronted flesh, even the storm witch was forced to capitulate.  
 
When she finally descended, she was above the Bristol Channel. She dived steeply, skimming over the surface for a mile before plunging beneath the surface, flying into the deep, she pitched onward for as long as her lungs would allow. Breaching at last, she shot upward and angled toward land. Caught in the hazel twigs of her besom, speared, and struggling, gasping at the cold air, were several silver fish.
 
‘I’m coming home Erroneous!’ She squealed. ‘Frying tonight!’
 
Around thirty miles away, comfortably ensconced in his favourite spot before the fireplace, Erroneous languidly raised his head, his eyes gleamed as he licked his lips.
 
‘I prefer them carpaccio.’