The Yew Tree Woman

When I was just a boy there was an old woman who lived in a small cottage on Downy Hill. The townspeople called her the Yew Tree Woman. In those days I was sure she was a witch or an enchantress of sorts. Surely she must have been. There was no one in town who knew more about plants and herbs than she did. She could brew them into concoctions for nearly any use. The older boys used to tease that she conjured spirits to do her bidding and that she brewed the bones of children into stew. In those days I would not go near Downy Hill in fear that I would find myself on her dinner plate.
I was a fretful boy in those days, afraid of my own shadow, jumping at every little sound. Mrs. Chandler, the merchant’s wife and a rather vivacious gossip, often would say that it was because I was without a father and that my dear mama coddled me far too much for my own good. Looking back on it, Mrs. Chandler was probably right. My father died when I was little more than a toddler, a victim of fever during the war. Not long after that my mama brought me to her hometown, where we reopened her grandfather’s bakery.
We were all each other had; my mama and I, and my dear mama could not help but to fuss over me. She showered me with hugs and kisses, keeping me close to her side. She never failed to send me to bed without feeding me a small basket of sweet rolls dipped in honey.
This all changed the winter of my eighth year. Mama was always fragile. She often fell ill but this was something all together different. No matter how ill she was, my mama always found the strength to mind the Bakery storefront or too busy herself in its kitchen. When one winter morning I awoke to find that I could not smell the aroma of baking bread nor hear the clattering of ...

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...to wake and her coughing subsided I leaned in close to her resting my head on her chest. I could not help but think about how afraid I had once been of the Yew Tree Woman. I thought about the stories the older boys in the village told. I also thought about the lonely old woman on Downy Hill who had taken the time to fix a tea and mend a little boy’s bleeding hand. I knew then what the Yew Tree Woman really was; she surely was not a witch. She was a miracle worker, an angel of mercy and kindness.
I visited with the Yew Tree Woman many times after that day so many years ago;, and even now I often thought of her. I never knew her real name or why she lived alone. I never even bothered to ask. I often think of her now and think of all she did for me over the years. Nothing done was so great, however, as that winter in my eighth year, whne she returned my mother to me.