Ep 2 - Instructions for a Swamp Witch Funeral

Alex Zoubine (0:05)

Welcome to Biome. I am your host and narrator, Alex Zubin, and I am excited to welcome you to our second story of Season 2 Before we get going though, make sure you're subscribed to this podcast so you don't miss any of the incredible stories we have coming up. And for ad-free listening, early access and more, check out our Patreon. The link is in the show notes. For listeners in the Northern Hemisphere, you know that we are well and truly into autumn. That season when the wind turns cold, green turns to brown, and darkness wins a bit more against the sun each day. It's a spooky, melancholy season. And today's story perfectly channels the sentiment. I hope you enjoy Instructions for a Swamp Witch Funeral as much as I do. The author of this incredible story is JA Logwood. JA Logwood can be found lurking in the woods of New England where she's raising feral children and friendly goats with her wife. She adores speculative fiction, cozies of any genre, and all things queer. Her work has appeared in A Coup of Owls, Rat Bag, and Pulp Literature. And now, dear listener, let's live this story together.

The grackles descend at dawn. Reed watches the iridescent blackbirds hop about the stretch of lawn between the cottage and the swamp's edge, stirring her tea and doing her best to ignore the dead body on the settee. She'd known the Swamp Witch was gone from the moment she'd opened her eyes. Peg is an early riser. Or she was. Reed had only once awoken first in the two years she'd been the woman's apprentice. And that'd been after a solstice, when the wood nymphs brought a particularly potent vintage of dandelion wine. So she'd known. She'd expected it. Peg told her this was coming, after all. But expectation and reality rarely join neatly.

Stillness blankets the cottage, foreign and odd. Without the other woman's bustling presence, the once cozy kitchen gapes around her like an ill-fitting garment. She drains her cup. The citrus pine of rhododendron, groanlandicum coats her tongue. When lightly steeped, it provides a calming effect and a boost of vitamin C. Good for coughs or in times of stress, unless steeped too long. Then it goes from tranquilizing to toxic. Like so much of living in concert with the swamp, it requires a knowing practitioner, Reed, now that Peg's gone. Reed's heart rate ticks up at the thought. Outside the rising sun catches the low fog hanging over the swamp, turning it golden. A hazy halo above lavender water. It's the kind of morning that sings to the soul promises of new beginnings. It suits her mood wretchedly. Peg would have been delighted. Reed pulls the list from her pocket. It's creased and worn from being unfolded a hundred times since Peg had handed it to her after casually announcing her impending death. Reed's final test as an apprentice.

Instructions for a Swamp Witch Funeral. 1 Send an annoyance of grackles to announce my death. The porch creaks a protest beneath Reed's bare feet as she steps onto its worn boards. The bird's yellow eyes follow her movement down the stairs and onto the dew-damp grass. She's seen Peg commune with the swamp's residents many times. Though as an apprentice, she's only ever been entrusted with convincing the beaver to spare her favorite willow. Beavers prefer all entreaties to be delivered by way of limerick. Greckles, fortunately, require a more straightforward approach. Peg's words return to her. Be confident with foul, but not arrogant. She draws the sulfurous air deep into her lungs, straightens her shoulders, and addresses the flock. Peg, the bog witch is dead. If you would, please carry the news of her death to all who'd want to hear of it.

For a terrible moment, none of the birds move. Panic floods Reed. She's going to be outed as an imposter on her first task. Then, as one, the birds take flight. A raucous chorus of calls rings out over the water, and Reed's shoulders sag in relief. She's done it. The reprieve is short-lived. Time slows, taking on an electric quality. She's started something in motion. She can feel it.

Now, the rest has to follow. Setting her jaw, she returns to the cottage.

Two, prepare my body. By the time Reed wrangles Peg's squat-round form into the linen shroud, she's sweating. Peg had tried wearing it to bed for expedience, but found it too itchy.

Sorry, love. You'll just have to manage it. But for the sake of the peat, put it over my jammies.

She'd stuck with sleeping on the settee, though. I won't have you throwing out your back lugging me around for the viewing. Reed thought it a bit martyrish at the time. Now she's grateful. She'd imagined preparing a body to be a time of quiet reflection, of accepting the transformation of the flesh.