Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman
Madame Mugwort’s Morning Ritual
The Brew Before the Boom
Madame Mugwort did not tolerate interruptions before her first cup. Not from the crows, not from the spirits in the attic, and especially not from the overly chipper nymph next door who thought singing to her begonias at sunrise was an acceptable life choice.
“If I wanted a warbling root sprite to assault my morning, I'd have adopted a satyr,” Mugwort muttered, yanking the curtains shut with a gnarled hand that glowed faintly with anti-joy warding charms.
The kettle, of course, was already screeching — not in the mundane whistling sense, but in the proper banshee-on-fire kind of way. It was enchanted to alert the undead neighbors to mind their own grave plots. Mugwort shuffled toward it, her patchwork slippers whispering secrets to the floor as she passed.
With the steam of something possibly caffeinated and vaguely alive curling from the spout, she poured the boiling brew into a carved mug etched with wards, glyphs, and the occasional passive-aggressive sigil. “For Clarity and Calm,” read the bottom — a lie so bold it shimmered slightly in the morning sun.
She took a sip. Then another. The room exhaled. Somewhere, a distant thunderclap retreated sheepishly. Her left eyebrow — once raised with perpetual suspicion — slowly lowered to its resting state of "I’m still watching you, but I’ll allow it."
As the potion settled into her bones, Mugwort peered out over her wooden sill, where the fog rolled in like a hangover made of mist. The birds didn’t chirp. They knew better. One particularly bold bluejay gave a brief squawk, then exploded into glitter — she’d warned them about the perimeter rune. Natural selection was tough but effective in the Wyrdwood.
She pulled her shawl tighter, the tartan fabric absorbing the morning's strange energies like a cozy sponge of ancestral sass. Each thread was stitched with a lesson. “Don’t trust a druid who can’t cook,” read one. “Wolves lie. Owls eavesdrop. Fae flirt to steal your soul. And never date a man who insists on being called ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ — he probably still lives with his mother.”
Today, she thought, would be the day. The omen-teabags had all dissolved into phallic shapes. The mirror had winked at her twice. And the squirrel council outside had left three acorns stacked in the unmistakable shape of a middle finger.
Yes. Today was the day she’d been avoiding for 147 years, 2 months, and an inconvenient Tuesday: she would face her past. Or at least open the damn letter still sealed in that cursed green envelope on the mantel. The one that hummed quietly. The one that occasionally belched sparks.
But first, another sip. Because even when destiny is scratching at your front door wearing a trench coat and nothing else, you do not — do not — deal with it until the mug is empty.
She took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf with a flourish that made a moth faint in admiration, and muttered:
“Alright, destiny. You cheeky bastard. Let’s dance. Just… gimme five more minutes.”
The Envelope of Unresolved Shenanigans
Five minutes turned into twenty-two. Not that time flowed normally in Mugwort’s cottage. The grandfather clock was sentient, petty, and entirely unreliable — having fallen in love with a coatrack in 1893, it refused to chime until she reunited them. Mugwort, of course, refused on principle. The coatrack had splinters and bad taste in hats.
She sat in her creaky rocking chair, the mug now empty save for a sentient tea leaf clinging to the rim like a drunk sailor. The glow in her eyes dimmed slightly as she stared at the envelope — forest green, wax-sealed with a thorny insignia, and pulsing like a guilty heartbeat. She sighed with all the weight of a woman who’s lived through five pandemics, three invasions, and an unfortunate summer fling with a shapeshifter who never quite learned boundaries.
“If this damn letter contains another prophecy about the end of the world, I swear I’ll burn down the oracle’s hot tub,” she muttered, lifting the envelope with the caution usually reserved for dragons, cursed cheese, or fan mail.
Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear — from irritation. “Let it be known,” she said aloud to the furniture, “that if this turns out to be from my ex, I will personally hex every pair of his underwear into sentient, clingy vines.”
The wax melted with a hiss as she tapped it with her thumbnail. The letter unfolded itself — of course it did — revealing ink that shimmered between gold and blood red, depending on how guilty you felt reading it. Mugwort’s eyes narrowed as the words appeared in dramatic, over-performed cursive:
“Dearest Elmira Mugwort, the Time Has Come.”
“Oh, piss off,” she grunted. “It’s always come. When was the last time someone wrote me saying ‘Never mind, the Time is taking a nap’?”
The letter continued, oblivious to her contempt:
“A great unraveling approaches. You must travel to the Forgotten Marsh, seek the Tower of Neveragain, and retrieve the Cup of Eternal…”
She stopped reading. Her eye twitched.
“Nope.”
She flung the parchment across the room. It burst into harmless blue flames, dissolved into ash, and reassembled itself midair back in her lap like a desperate ex with access to your cloud backups. “You must go,” it insisted in a new font — sassier this time, Comic Sans with divine authority.
She took a deep, world-weary breath. “I knew this day would come. I just hoped it would arrive after I’d reincarnated as a pampered house cat with excellent posture.”
Dragging herself from the chair with exaggerated drama, she retrieved her travel sack — a patchwork leather thing that smelled of licorice, old books, and poor decisions. She opened her herb drawer, which promptly scolded her. “You haven’t replenished your migraine bark in a month,” it said in her mother’s voice. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you using parsley instead of wyrmroot in the stew last Thursday.”
“Wyrmroot gives me gas,” Mugwort snapped. She shoved in a vial of dream-dust, three goblin crackers, and a sarcastic spoon that whispered unsolicited advice. Her staff — gnarled, beautiful, and slightly passive-aggressive — leaned against the wall humming show tunes. She grabbed it. It sighed.
“Don’t start,” she warned. “We’re doing this because some mystical postal system insists on dragging me into destiny one more damn time.”
As she prepared to leave, the fireplace rumbled. A face appeared in the flames — haughty cheekbones, smoky eyes, and the unmistakable expression of someone who’d attended too many secret council meetings. “Elmira,” it said.
“Flamefax, if you’re about to tell me I’m ‘the only one who can stop this,’ I will slap your manifestation with a frozen fish.”
He blinked. “Well, technically it’s you and a band of—”
“NOPE. We are not assembling a ragtag crew of misfits again. The last one ended with a stolen goat, a possessed ukulele, and a restraining order from the Merfolk Guild.”
“They lifted that, didn’t they?”
“Only on alternating Tuesdays during waning moons.”
The fireface sighed. “Look, Mugwort, you don’t have to do this alone. The prophecy says—”
“The prophecy can kiss my tartan arse.”
She blew out the flame with a single puff. It gave a mournful little wheeze and vanished. Mugwort stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed, considering the absurdity of yet another magical quest at her age. “You’d think I’d earned my magical menopause and could finally be left alone to ferment gin and judge people’s chakras,” she grumbled.
But a flicker of something stirred inside her — not obligation, not even curiosity. Just the faintest itch of unfinished business. The kind that gets under your nails and whispers, you’re not done yet, old girl.
She stared at the morning sun now breaking through the trees — not golden, but coppery like a coin flipped too many times. A decision made. A door opening. Or at least creaking on its hinges, demanding WD-40 and a little courage.
“Fine,” she said aloud, cinching her robe, tightening her headscarf, and adjusting a satchel now wriggling with half-sentient luggage. “But I swear, if I see one more Chosen One with a dramatic haircut and no impulse control, I will turn them into a newt with IBS.”
With that, Madame Mugwort stepped out of her crooked door, onto the winding path of destiny, with a snarky smirk, a glowing staff, and a mug full of now-cold tea in hand. Because if she was going to face fate, she’d do it the same way she did everything:
On her own terms — and fashionably late.
The Curse, the Cup, and the Cataclysmic Conclusion
The road to the Forgotten Marsh was less a road and more a disrespectful suggestion carved by lightning, spite, and budget cuts. Mugwort’s boots squelched with every step, each one producing a squish that sounded vaguely like moaning frogs reconsidering their life choices.
“This,” she muttered, swatting at a mosquito the size of a grapefruit, “is why I don’t take prophecies seriously. If the gods wanted me in a swamp, they could’ve sent wine and a raft.”
Her staff, always eager to antagonize, lit up with a dramatic flash to illuminate a twisted sign nailed to a skeletal tree. “WARNING: Here There Be Mild Inconvenience.” Beneath that, in smaller text: Also Death.
But Mugwort wasn’t fazed. She’d faced worse in her prime. She’d unseated the King of Spiders with a ladle, divorced a god for bad foot hygiene, and once banished a plague demon by insulting its eyebrows until it gave up on existence.
Still, the Tower of Neveragain loomed ahead, rising like an unsolicited group text — tall, ominous, and impossible to ignore. Its stones wept moss and curses. Lightning forked around its top like celestial jazz hands. And perched at the entrance, guarding it with the enthusiasm of a cat watching a dripping tap, was a sphinx with half a crossword puzzle and an attitude problem.
“Answer my riddle and—” it began.
“Nope,” Mugwort interrupted, flipping a coin at it.
“That’s not how—”
“You’re lonely. You're underpaid. You're tired of your own riddles. Take the coin, buy yourself a pastry, and let me pass.”
The sphinx blinked. Sniffed the coin. Licked it. Shrugged. “Screw it. Go ahead.”
Inside, the tower spiraled upward in that ancient way designed by architects who hate knees. Mugwort climbed, wheezing curses at every other stair. The walls whispered forgotten secrets, mostly in passive-aggressive haikus. One read:
Power lies aboveBut so does a rotting smellSeriously — yuck
At the top, upon a pedestal pulsing with dramatic, overcompensating light, rested the Cup of Eternal ___________. That’s right. The name was missing. The blank shimmered, waiting for someone to define it — a cup shaped by intent, by need, by the drinker’s own desire.
And Mugwort knew that was trouble.
“This,” she said, eyeing it, “is exactly how Brenda ended up summoning her ex’s lower half attached to her new fiancé.”
The room vibrated as a figure stepped out from the shadows. Tall, cloaked, and with a grin that could curdle goat milk: *Thistlebone the Unrelenting*, her former classmate and lifelong magical pain-in-the-arse.
“Elmira,” he said smoothly, “you’re late.”
“You’re still wearing eyeliner like it’s 1479,” she shot back.
He sneered. “I’ve come for the cup.”
“Oh, good. Then we can fight like in the old days. You monologue, I sass, something explodes. Shall we begin?”
They circled. Staffs crackled. Potions boiled. Insults flew with deadly accuracy. He summoned fire. She summoned sarcasm. He cast illusions. She dispelled them with a look that said, “Boy, I raised better spells in my armpit.”
Then he made a fatal mistake — he tried to call her “dear.”
The air thickened. The mug, still clipped to her belt, hissed like a kettle before war. She raised it high, whispered an old word — one only spoken during funerals or tax season — and flung its contents straight at his face.
He screamed. “WHAT WAS THAT?”
“My third cup of Monday morning tea. Brewed in vengeance. Infused with truths. Boiled in regret.”
He began shrinking. Hair falling out. Robes deflating. Until all that was left was a grumpy little newt with eyeliner. She scooped him up, dropped him in a glass jar, and slapped on a sticker that read: *“Do Not Feed the Narcissist.”*
Now alone, she approached the cup again. It pulsed. The blank shimmered once more:
“Cup of Eternal __________?”
She stared. Thought. Sighed. Then chuckled. “Oh hell, why not.”
She spoke a single word: “Peace.”
The cup glowed. Warm. Gentle. The kind of glow that reminded her of soft blankets, fresh bread, and an afternoon where nothing and no one needed her to save the world or babysit destiny.
She picked it up. No thunder. No burst of energy. Just a warmth that slid through her bones like a memory of laughter from someone long gone.
Descending the tower was easier. Funny how clarity weighed less than dread. The swamp, too, seemed to part for her return — or perhaps it just feared another mug-splashing incident. The sphinx was gone, a trail of frosting leading into the trees.
Back home, the fireplace was warm, the chair forgiving, and the tea freshly enchanted. She placed the cup on her mantel, beside a photo of her younger self — smirking, wild-eyed, and holding a goblin in a headlock. She raised her mug in salute.
“Still got it, old girl.”
The window creaked open. A breeze fluttered through. Somewhere, a raven dropped a scroll labeled “URGENT: Next Prophecy!”
She caught it. Used it to light a candle. Sipped her tea.
And smiled — because she finally understood: peace wasn't something you waited for. It was something you claimed. Even if you had to hex a bastard or two along the way.
Bring a Bit of Mugwort’s Magic Into Your Realm
If you’ve fallen under the spell of Madame Mugwort and her gloriously grumpy rituals, you can now bring a piece of her enchanted world into your own. Whether you’re curling up under a fleece blanket steeped in witchy wisdom, propping your back with a throw pillow charmed with snark and plaid, or sipping tea while gazing at a canvas print or metal print that radiates mystical sass — you’ll find something to suit your vibe. You can even send a bit of her sarcasm to a friend with a greeting card worthy of the weird and wonderful.
Each item is crafted to capture the depth, humor, and hearth-warmed charm of this legendary morning moment — perfect for witches, wise women, and chaotic good souls everywhere.
