Please give me a decent choice, I thought, as I walked the path to the crone’s hut. The old hag lived outside the village, an outcast to everyone but herself. But she was known to give choices to those who sought her out, choices that could change your fate, both for the better and for the worse. Which one you received depended greatly on how much you could appease the crone, and upon your selection once she made your options known. The risk of a bad choice was often considered worthwhile since a good choice could set your fate on a better path.
The crone was already waiting for me as I approached her hut. Somehow, she always knew when she was about to receive a visitor. She sat at a low table just outside the hut, a fire burning nearby. Several bowls were set out on the table, each one steaming with a different color vapor.
There was an empty stool across the table from the crone. She gestured without saying a word, and I took that as an invitation to sit. As I did, one of the bowls flashed as green sparks spilled out the top and onto the table. I didn’t know what was in that bowl, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.
Then she spoke. “What have you brought me?” she croaked.
I reached into my pocket and produced a rotten apple. It was known that the crone preferred gifts that were somehow corrupted. A rotten apple was the easiest and cheapest gift that I could provide. I set it on the table before her and sat back to watch her reaction.
She reached across the table with gnarled fingers and, with surprising delicacy, plucked the apple from the table. It oozed brown juice down the sides, as I had not been gentle with it on the walk here. Then, to my shock and horror, she brought the apple to her mouth and took a big, wet bite. Juice, dark and runny, splashed across her crooked teeth and cracked lips, dripping down her chin. She chewed the soggy fruit, little bits of apple dropping from her lips and landing on the table before her. I nearly gagged watching her eat, but I managed to keep my expression neutral.
Finally, she swallowed and set the apple down on the table. Then she grinned. “Your gift is acceptable,” she said. “Now, I present you with the following choices. Be careful how you choose, young one. For while one may bring you luck and good fortune, the other may bring you ruin. And the possible outcome may not be obvious from the presentation of the choices themselves. Are you prepared?”
I swallowed once, then, my mouth gone suddenly dry with anxiety and fear. The moment was upon me, and I realized I was not at all ready. Nevertheless, I nodded once and waited to see what the old crone had in store for me.
“Very well,” she wheezed. “Your two options are as follows: you may chase a rabbit around your yard once a day until you catch it, or you may give up the use of your right hand. How do you choose?”
I sat in silence for several long moments, confusion playing across my face. The crone was notorious for providing options that made little sense, and which, at first glance, seemed to be obvious in terms of what fate would dole out. Rarely, though, was the choice clear, and such was my case.
Chase a rabbit? Or give up use of my right hand? What kind of choices were these? And which one was the choice of good fortune? Chasing a rabbit hardly seemed like any choice at all, whereas giving up the use of my right hand seemed to be the obviously poorer choice of the two. But then, the outcome of each alternative was hardly plain, was it?
Finally, after taking several deep breaths, I said, “I’m ready to make my decision.”
“Very well, child,” said the crone. “Which outcome do you choose?”
“I don’t see how chasing a rabbit every day garners me anything useful, but I don’t really want to give up the use of my hand, either,” I replied. “Both choices seem to be poor ones to me.” I paused. “Nevertheless, I choose to give up my hand. I will still have one good one, and I can adapt to life with a crippled limb.”
The crone smiled. “As you wish,” she said. “Reach out your hand.”
I did so, and she reached across the table and took my right hand into hers. Within seconds, I watched as my formerly healthy hand withered and died on my arm, so that it was nothing more than a blackened husk. The fingers curled up and became brittle, and the skin on my hand cracked and started to bleed, even as it became charred. It was like the crone burned my hand, though there was no pain.
“It is done,” she said. “You may go now. And enjoy what fate has in store for you.” She cackled then, an unnerving sound.
I pulled my hand back and cradled it against my body. I would have a hard time explaining this to my parents, but I knew the die was cast. My fate was now my own, and I wondered what it had in store for me.
I stood up and dipped my head toward the crone. “Thank you for your services,” I said. Then I turned and walked back down the path to the village.
