Murgla the witch had warts like barnacles and a nose like a bag of purple lard. Children screamed when she passed. Villagers said she soured milk. But nestled in the crook of her elbow was Pickle, a fluffball of uncertain species, with enormous eyes and ears too big for his head. He chirped like a kettle and smelled faintly of bay.

While Murgla brewed her potions and muttered hexes, Pickle nuzzled her chin, blinking adoration. When a brave soul once threw stones at her hut, Pickle hissed, grew sixty feet tall, and asked them to stop.

They never came back.