**My sister and I took on a writing challenge this weekend. We each picked two prompts from The Writer's Book of Matches. Then we "Doyled" them - we intertwined the two prompts so that one was the ringer and the other was the answer. My two prompts were 1: It took him years to get back on the wagon, then three days later all the wheels fell off. And 2: Late one night, a woman has an epiphany that her life has been unfulfilling, but what she really wants is neither socially acceptable nor legal. So here's what I came up with.**
“I really wish people would lose their minds after breakfast,” grumbled the doctor as he emerged from his carriage. “Or at least after sunrise.”
He stepped into the muddy street, adding yet another layer of stains to his once-shiny, black shoes. It was a cold morning, though the rain had ceased on his way to the sight. He shuffled across the street to where a crowd of EMS workers were huddled. They just couldn't understand the scene.
A man sat in a wooden box in the mud, weeping uncontrollably and biting at anyone who would come too near. They had seen this sort of thing before, or at least the doctor had, but the trick of this one was the accessories. At the four corners of the box in which the man sat lay four spoked wheels on the ground. The axel to hold the front wheels was missing entirely, and the rear axel was ruined. The man wailed about the witch what swiped it from under him. He damned her to Hades' flames and said she could burn forever.
The doctor stood at the back of the crowd and made notes. In passing, his bullet-point jots would seem to anyone else a mere breakfast recipe – eggs, scrambled; wheel of cheese; eye of newt, if available. He knew exactly what he was writing and it was the start of an answer. He scribbled for another moment and then looked up as an officer announced the need to remove the crazy man from the scene. No one could get a hold of him though, slick with rain and sharp to the teeth. The doctor watched for a time, then finally put away his notes and walked through the crowd. He approached at the most opportune time, when the man was distracted by others, and struck him across the neck. The man fell silent and dumb, forgetting his place and collapsing to rest. Before anyone had time to thank the good doctor for his services, including the detective what called him, he was gone and forgotten. He had circles to pace on his office carpet in town.
“Another intriguing case, sir?” asked his bored secretary.
“Another indeed,” muttered the doctor as he dropped his coat and tossed his scarf onto a chair. He was focused, deep in thought.
“And I wonder if we'll get paid for this one.”
“The intrigues are pro-bono, Gladys. You know this.”
“Dr. Rankin,” Gladys said resolutely. “I'm afraid you don't understand our financial distress--”
Rankin didn't care.
“The man's name is Alfred Swathing, and I'd like him here as soon as possible. Set up an appointment for Thursday. Cancel whatever else is scheduled.”
“Sir, that's two days away. Do you want him sooner?”
“I do, my dear girl,” the doctor replied with a smirk. “But his headache will only get in the way. He should be fine by Thursday.”
The rain returned Thursday, which the good doctor appreciated for psychological purposes. Mr. Swathing came on time, escorted by nurses and a guard. Rankin insisted on meeting alone with him, to which the entourage acquiesced when faithful Gladys offered treats and coffee. Once the two were alone, client and doctor, Rankin introduced himself.
“I am a psychologist, as you may have already learned. I requested your presence, I was not hired, and I did so because I want to help you.”
“Help me,” retorted the senile Swathing. “You mean pump me full of drugs.”
“No,” corrected the doctor coolly. “I want to find the witch.”
The man perked up at this and slid back in his chair. His eyes were heavy with prescriptions and his hands shook violently from shock therapy, no doubt. The black circles under his eyes folded as he leaned forward with interest.
“You believe me?”
Rankin did not answer, but only stood and paced the room.
“Tell me about her,” he demanded of the man.
“She came from beneath. I don't know if I ran over her or what, it was dark and rainy when I--”
“Scratch that,” interrupted the doctor. “Tell me about the wagon.”
Swathing set back, confused but relieved at a new subject. The witch, even to just speak of, frightened the feeble man greatly. He rubbed his hands together and took a slow breath.
“I found it, maybe five days ago. I had one just like it when I was young, but I had fallen from it and cracked my head. Since then I have avoided them due to paranoia. It was just recently, I came to terms with my fear, which I have been battling for many years now. And so I went in search of such a similar wagon. I found this one behind an abandoned barn and took to driving it. Once I began, the thrill of my victory over this seemingly unfounded fear took over and I kept on driving without cease for three whole days.”
“Until you met the witch,” inserted the doctor. He stood by the lamp, which lit the room. Swathing nodded and it was then that the doctor flicked the lamp off, leaving the two in total blackness. The rain crashed down upon the roof and washed over the windows. The client squirmed in his chair and then began to whimper.
“Now,” Rankin said in a low voice, leaning into Swathing's face. “Tell me about her.”
Swathing burst into tears and shoved his fists into his eye-sockets. He wept aloud for several minutes, muttering nonsense. Then finally began to explain that he never actually saw her.
“I saw nothing,” he mourned. “It was me and my wagon, and I know I know I know I sound crazy, but I swear to you, a woman was there! I felt a presence! A witch, I tell you! A witch!”
“A smell?” inquired the doctor. “A taste? a shadow? Something, man. Something! My God, if you were so certain, did you not have the sense to pull off and search with a lantern?”
The man sobbed under the pressure, swearing again and again he was alone. The doctor eventually let him go, ending the session with frustration.
When he was alone, Rankin slumped down into his chair and rubbed his temples. Gladys came with a hot towel and asked what else she could do.
“The wagon is the key,” he said through the towel. “Call Agent Flynn to see if the results are back from the lab yet on that splinter I snatched at the scene.”
“I already called, sir,” said Gladys proudly. “I have a name and address for you. And it's not far either.”
“Thank God,” moaned Rankin. “I'll go when this towel is cold.”
The barn was run down, unlivable and unusable at best. In front of it, closer to the road, set a little cabin of similar state. Rankin roamed the grounds around the barn, checking for evidence of a wagon living there at any point. He found a set of wheel tracks leading out to the road, confirming Swathing's claim to some extent. Further up the road, he discovered muddy tracks returning and cutting across to the front porch of the disheveled homestead. They began as jagged lines and evolved slowly into clods of red and brown clay. At the porch, mud was smeared and splattered this way and that, and the front door hung busted open.
Upon approaching, the doctor met a young woman repairing the door. She had a mop and bucket nearby as well, and she looked tired. He introduced himself and she did the same, pausing at her work.
“Looks like you've had a rough time here recently,” he observed.
The woman nodded, “Aye, the storms ain't good to m'house.”
“I'm sure,” responded the doctor, peering through the door. “And neither are wagons.”
The woman gave a look of horror and shrank into her doorway. He noticed now that she clutched her ribs and walked with a heavy limp. No doubt, results of her terrorism.
“You know what I'm talking about, then,” he whispered. “Your wagon was stolen, so you sought revenge by taking back the front axel. I see your point, but you sent a man into a nervous breakdown, dear. Not to mention the accident could have killed him. And you as well, for that matter! And all of this over a measly wagon.”
The woman bowed her head in shame.
“You don't understand,” she stammered. “I hear them saying that I am a witch. It's true. And the wagon was mine, but I meant no harm; and anyway, I did not take the axel.”
Rankin was confounded for once.
“I,” she continued. “I was the wagon axel and I only wanted to be left alone. Three days he drove me and I was more stricken than he, so I sought escape. I didn't mean to hurt him.”
Without another word, the doctor carried the woman to hospital for care. Then he made his way back to the office for another hot towel. Gladys awaited him, eager to hear the news.
“Well, what is the answer?” she pleaded.
“Simple enough, really,” he explained. “A lonely maid with a cauldron and too much time on her hands. She had resolved her life of witchery was a bore and wanted to experience life as a wagon axel. She knew it was unorthodox, to say the least, so she constructed an old makeshift thing and hid herself within its wheels on the dark side of a shabby old barn. No one would notice her there and no one would care, except, of course, for a man overcoming his fear of that very thing.”
“Oh dear,” the secretary sighed.
“Indeed,” confirmed the doctor. “I suppose that is why it is neither socially acceptable nor legal to turn ones self into a wagon axel.”
“Is it illegal, sir?”
“Well, Gladys, it certainly should be.”
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