It was a blisteringly hot late summer afternoon, and I was up to my elbows in flour and dough, standing in my tiny apartment kitchen. Lammastide was coming up, which meant I had to get entirely too much bread baked; some as gifts to the church, some for friends, most to distribute to my clients after I’d gotten them blessed at the Lammas service. We were unfortunately in the middle of a heat wave, with temperatures hitting the mid 90s all week. That, combined with the heat of my constant oven use, meant my apartment was sweltering, and my poor a/c unit was utterly unable to keep up. On the plus side, I could wear the cute little floral sundress I’d bought myself for Whitsuntide.
My phone rang. I quickly wiped the dough off my hand and picked up. “Kat Fitzgerald, Cunning Woman, how can I help you?”
The voice on the other end was male, and rather serious sounding. “Miss Fitzgerald, my name is Manuel Guiterrez. I’m a lawyer with the International Guild of Ploughboys, Reapers, and Farm Workers. We’ve got a case that may need your expertise in the supernatural.”
I was perplexed. Because of their incredible importance to the economy and civilization as a whole, as well as the multitude of supernatural threats they face, the Ploughboys Union was one of the oldest, largest, and best organized labor organizations. I couldn’t imagine what they’d need a small-time folk magician like me for.
“What can I do for you?,” I asked, my curiosity piqued. I took a seat. This could be a while.
“Are you familiar with Sunnyside farms?” Manuel asked.
“Yeah, they’re about half an hour outside of town. Big operation, from what I can tell.” I still wasn’t quite sure where this was going, though I had a hunch.
“Yes, they’re one of the largest industrial agriculture facilities in the region,”
“Oh, they’re a factory farm? No wonder,” I exclaimed, my voice filling with disdain. “What they’d do this time, piss off a genius locii? Wake up a ghost? Insult a farm sprite?” At least once a year I got a call from some agribusiness that had discovered you couldn’t just run a farm like a machine. They never seemed to learn.
“No, nothing of the sort,” said Manuel patiently, trying to reign me in. “It’s about their workers. They’re currently in the middle of the tomato harvest, and earlier this week they had a harvesting crew out. In spite of the heat, and in flagrant violation of labor laws, they didn’t allow a midday break. 10 workers collapsed from heat stroke, and two more had severe muscle cramping.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “Will they be alright?”
“Yes, thankfully,” said Manuel, with some palpable relief. “They were hospitalized, but they’ve all made a full recovery. And Sunnyside is already looking at some pretty serious penalties for health and safety violations.”
“Was this a Union crew?” I asked.
“No,” said Manuel, “Sunnyside has been trying their best to avoid unionization, to the point of firing their usual seasonal workers and hiring immigrant laborers. These guys were mostly Guatemalan.”
“Oh, for the love of…” I sighed and rolled my eyes in exasperation. Sunnyside was not helping my opinion of the agribusiness industry.
Manuel continued on, ignoring me. “However,we have reason to believe this was more than just heatstroke. The doctors found some anomalous issues–odd markings on the faces of the victims, longer recoveries than normal, that sort of thing. One of the families brought in a local Curandero–
“Oh, who, Elena?” I interrupted. “Yeah, she’s great.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Manuel replied. He continued where he left off, unphased. “She was able to get them all fixed up. But the strangest thing is that every single victim told her they’d seen the same thing. That right before they’d passed out or whatever, a woman had appeared to them in a gust of wind. She was in all white, and she asked them questions, or tried to anyway, but they couldn’t follow her. When they couldn’t answer, she struck them down with some sort of knife or something. Every single one reported the exact same thing. Which suggests they were visited by someone, or something, that caused these injuries, something inhuman. And if that’s the case…”
“Sunnyside could be liable for reckless exposure to the supernatural,” I said, finishing his sentence. Suddenly everything was falling into place.
“Exactly, and that opens up criminal negligence charges on top of the civil charges they’re already facing,” said Manuel, with a hint of pride in his voice. “But, we need to figure out who, or what, exactly it was that attacked them. The Curandero had no idea, but I spoke to the municipal liaison to the magical community, a Mr. Thomas Whitely, and he recommended you.”
I hesitated. “Honestly…I’m not sure what it is. Most critters generally don’t come out during the day, certainly not in the middle of the day. But I’ll do some research and see what I can find.” I made a mental note to thank Thomas.
“Very good. What’s your standard consulting fee?” asked Manuel.
“Oh, for research, this one will be pro bono,” I replied. This was a righteous enough cause to justify skipping out on an invoice, I figured.
I promised Manuel I’d get back to him in a couple of days, and he said he would send me additional information. After we said our goodbyes, I looked at my messy kitchen and sighed. This was going to be a long week.
***
A day later I was no closer than when I had started. I had poured over my copy of An Encyclopedia of Fairies (both old and new editions), the Field Guide to the Little People, and half a dozen other references. While there were beings that matched my cryptid’s description, none matched her behavior. Skogsrå and White Ladies often appeared at midday, but they haunted woods and their chief concern was seducing men and then killing them. Feldgeister and corn demons dwelt in agricultural fields, but they were all exclusively associated with one particular crop or another, e.g. the Corn Wolf, Pea Bear, Oat Man, etc. I couldn’t find any such spirit associated with tomatoes.
Having exhausted my library, I turned to the internet. I posted on social media and the forums I frequented, looking for answers. Hopefully someone would see it and know what it was I was dealing with. Sure enough, an hour later, I got a text from Daniella, a friend of mine who was also in the folk magic business and specialized in Eastern European practice and lore. I saw your post. I think I’ve found your culprit. It sounds like Lady Midday. That name rang a bell, though I couldn’t say why. She then sent a link to one of the more reputable online databases of supernatural creatures. I clicked the link and read through it. Bingo, I thought. I called Manuel and let him know I had a lead.
***
Two days later, after some more online research and a trip into the city to visit the university library, I was downtown at a plush law office, ready to give my findings at the deposition. I was brought in by the Ploughboys’ Union as a Subject Matter Expert, and I’d tried to dress the part. I had my best formal blouse on, a conservative black skirt, and heels. I even wore my glasses to make myself look more authoritative.
Manuel met me in the lobby, and quickly went over my findings. “Stay sharp,” he warned me. “They’ve hired the best partners at the firm for this one. The team’s ostensibly led by Roger Allen Sr, but his some Roger Jr. is on the team, and he’s smart and got something to prove. This case could be his
I took a deep breath and crossed myself before entering the conference room and taking a seat at the back. The Union people were on one side, Sunnyside’s lawyers were on the other. As I sat down the two sides were engaged in an animated argument over the interpretation of some labor law. Frankly, it was way above my pay grade. Finally, after some concluding remarks on each side, they settled down a bit, until Manuel called me up. “Miss Fitzgerald, could you please present your findings regarding supernatural influence on this case?”
I stood up and walked to the head of the table, summing all my experience in lecturing and performance to keep my nerves steady.
“Thank you, Manuel,” I said. “My name is Kat Fitzgerald. I’m a licensed Cunning Woman and Folk Healer. I’ve been in the business for almost five years now, and I’ve had considerable experience with a wide variety of supernatural creatures. I have strong reason to believe the victims of this case didn’t just suffer from garden variety heatstroke, but were visited by a rare, and extremely dangerous being.
I took a breath and continued, glancing between my notes and the audience. The Union side looked intrigued. Sunnyside looked skeptical.
“I believe they were attacked by a creature known generally as the Poludnitsa. It’s found all over Eastern Europe, from Germany to Russia. She goes by various different names, but in English she’s best known as Lady Midday, the Noon Witch, or the Noonwraith. The Poludnitsa is associated with agriculture, and preys upon field laborers. She takes various forms, but is usually described as an old hag, a young girl, or a beautiful woman. However, she is always dressed in white. She also carries a scythe, sickle, or other cutting implement. She generally appears in a whirlwind, at the stroke of noon.”
The Union guys were looking rather pleased with themselves, while Sunnyside was looking nervous. They’d have to be blind not to make the connection.
I continued on, hammering the point home, or so I hoped. “The Poludnitsa will stop its victims in the fields and ask them difficult questions or otherwise engage them in conversation. If the victim can’t answer the question or changes the topic, she’ll strike them with her blade, inflicting heatstroke, cramps, or even death. Essentially, she’s the personification of heat stress and overwork. She’s considered dangerous enough that just about every country in her native range has strong laws on the books imposing a mandatory 12 pm break for workers. We’re actually quite lucky none of the victims in this case died.”
Manuel stood up. “Thank you Miss Fitzgerald, that was very educational. I believe this further implicates Sunnyside in Criminal Negligence, and we will be filing charges as such. Any questions?”
One of the Sunnyside lawyers stood up. He was grey-haired and balding, and dressed in an immaculate suit. “Thank you Miss Fitzgerald. Now, you said that these creatures are native to eastern Europe, so what the heck was it doing in Ohio? Surely it wasn’t on vacation?” he said with a false jocularity that made my teeth hurt.
“Well, like most of our invasive species, it probably hitched a ride on a ship or plane. Given that it’s an agricultural spirit, I would guess a grain freighter, maybe? But really that’s a question for Animal Control or Customs and Border Protection to answer.”
The lawyer looked slightly defeated and nodded his head. “Yes, I see,” he said, and sat down.
“Any other questions” I asked, feeling slightly more confident.
Another lawyer stood up, this one also male, but younger and more sharply dressed. He reminded me of a shark circling its prey. This must be Roger Jr.
“Well, Miss Fitzgerald, that’s a fascinating tale you’ve told, but what proof do you have?”
“Excuse me?” I said, taken aback.
“What physical proof?” he repeated. “All I’ve heard is the testimony of some sun-addled farmhands hallucinations, and a grim fairy tale. What proof do you have?”
I felt my face get hot, and I tried to keep my nerves calm. So much for my confidence.
“Sir, that was no hallucination. Each of their testimonies was identical, and it matches up with a known entity. There’s no other possibility,” I said, my voice creeping in pitch and volume as I got flustered.
“Well, that’s another thing, these testimonies weren’t collected individually, it’s entirely possible they collaborated on their testimony. One of them could have made this up and the rest just went along with it to strengthen their case.” Roger Jr. looked pleased with himself, which enraged me. How could they be so stubborn about this? They’re already in enough trouble anyway, why fight this too?
I gritted my teeth. “Why would they choose a creature that’s obscure outside of rural Poland? Why not something they would be more familiar with?”
“Who knows,” he responded dismissively. “Maybe they saw it on TV, it doesn’t really matter. The point is that in court, it’ll be their word against ours, and nothing more, unless you can provide some sort of proof for this mystical farm sprite of yours, that none of us have actually seen, I might add.” He then sat down, satisfied in having demolished me. “No further questions.”
I sat down, defeated. Us magical folk are a fairly credulous lot, and I wasn’t prepared for such brazen skepticism. Mercifully, after my presentation, we broke for lunch. Manuel took me side. “I’m so sorry,”I said, preemptively apologizing. “I should have been better prepared, and-”
Manuel cut me off. “Don’t be. These guys are a hard nut to crack, Roger Jr. especially so. You handled yourself pretty well up there. But he is right, unfortunately. Unless we can get some physical evidence, they’re going to tear our eyewitness testimony apart. Can you do that?” Manuel looked at me intensely, and I tried not to shrink under his gaze.
“I…I think so? I’m not sure how, but there might be a way,” I replied hesitantly.
“Find it, then,” said Manuel, with conviction. “This whole case, these people’s lives, are riding on you.”
“Alright, but if I’m doing real fieldwork, this is going to cost you. I don’t put my life in danger for free.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll get a contract to you by COB today. We’ll be in touch.” And then he sauntered off to lunch, leaving me standing in a law office, with a case I wasn’t sure I could even finish.
Right, no pressure, I thought.
***
Unfortunately, there was nothing in the literature that I could find about defeating the Poludnitsa. The only advice was to go indoors at noon during summer and stay the hell out of her way. I’d have to come up with something on my own. I’d also have to track her down, though that looked much easier, given her habits.
And so it was that I found myself laboring in a tomato field owned by Sunnyside. I was on day two of my stakeout, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. I had hoped I would become accustomed to the heat, but it was as oppressive as ever. It didn’t help that every inch of my skin was covered, but as an Irish-American redhead, I could get sunburn on a cloudy day in January. It was absolutely essential I stay covered up lest I be burnt to a crisp. I pulled my hat tighter over my head, trying to keep out the sun’s glare.
I was not particularly good at harvesting tomatoes, but after the last work crew were struck down, and the union moved against Sunnyside, they were desperate for any workers they could get. They didn’t ask about my work history, or even check my ID (I used a false name).
I paused in picking tomatoes, taking a swig from my squeeze bottle, at this point my one lifeline. I was hoping I’d see something today. I’d been given three days to find the Poludnitsa, and I was cutting it close. I just had to wait as the minutes and hours ticked by till noon.
Thankfully, the foreman, a paunchy bearded man in flannel and a stetson, came out and called out something in Spanish, and then English. “Alright, break time. Everyone head inside, you’ve got 15 minutes!” Between losing an entire work crew and the threat of government investigation, Sunnyside was suddenly much more strict in observing labor laws.
My workmates made noise of gratitude and struggled to their feet. I stayed put, though. “Ellen! You coming or not?” the foreman called.
“No,” I replied. “I need to catch up, I’m still behind on my quota.”
“Suit yourself,” the foreman said, and walked off. Guess they still weren’t enforcing health and safety laws that thoroughly.
I went through the motions of harvesting, waiting for noon to strike. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard the angelus bell of a chapel across the fields ring twelve times. I braced myself, hoping I wouldn’t be disappointed.
Suddenly, in the distance, I saw movement. At first I thought it was just a heat mirage, but then I saw the stirrings of just, even though the air was still and as quiet as a tomb. The dust gathered into a dust devil, and the whirlwind sped toward me. As it approached, it got larger and larger, until it engulfed me, the dust choking and blinding me. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the wind stopped and the dust dissipated. I rubbed my eyes and looked up. Before me was the Poludnitsa.
She took the form of a young woman in the prime of life. She was dressed in a simple white blouse and skirt, trimmed with red embroidery. On her head was a woven vegetable crown of leaves and flowers. She was, in fact, dazzlingly beautiful. Her hair was the color of ripened grain, and her eyes cornflower blue. She could have come straight out of central casting as “Slavic Farm maiden.” But there was something unsettling about her beauty. Her skin was the pallid white of a corpse, and her eyes glimmered unnaturally. She looked down at me, like an animal eyeing its prey.
In her right hand was an ancient looking sickle. The handle, as much as I could see, was made of rough-hewn wood, and bound with sinew. The blade was made of some sort of black pitted metal, but the edge looked razor sharp, and glinted in the sun.
“Why are you out here all alone? Where are the others?” she asked in heavily accented English.
“I am behind on my harvest, o Lady,” I said, averting my eyes respectfully. My pulse was pounding, and I was even sweatier than I had been before.
“Indeed you are,” the Poludnitsa replied with a hint of malice. “Tell me, how much must you harvest, and of that how much have you picked?” She raised her sickle in preparation to strike.
Oh, this bitch is not asking me to do math right now, I thought. “Too many,” I said, trying to keep my cool. “And not enough.”
The Poludnitsa looked disappointed in my answers, but did nothing. Before she could ask me another question, I picked up my squeeze bottle. “Don’t worry,” I said, “this will give me the strength of ten men, and I’ll finish my work before the hour is out.” I then took a long drink from it.
“What is it?” the Poludnitsa asked, clearly intrigued.
“It’s a magic elixir that grants strength and vitality to all who drink it, o Lady.” I raised the squeeze bottle up to her. “Would you like some? It is the least I can offer.”
Her curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned down and put her mouth on the opening. I gently squeezed some of the contents into her mouth.
The Poludnitsa immediately choked and spat it out, and recoiled in disgust. “Suka!” she shrieked. “You poison me!”
Before she could strike I pointed the bottle at her and squeezed hard. “Still thirsty?” I asked with mock innocence. The stream of liquid hit her chest and right arm and boiled and smoked on contact. The Poludnitsa flinched and let out an unearthly howl of pain. She started spinning, and the dust whirled around her. Even as I scrambled backward, her sickle came flying out of the whirlwind straight toward me. I raised up the hand grasping the bottle, and the sickle struck it, cutting cleanly through it. But it deflected it enough that it missed my head, whistling past my ear instead and burying its blade in the soil. When I looked up, the Poludnitsa was gone, and only a wisp of dust remained. I photographed the sickle in situ, before carefully picking it up with gloved hands and putting it in my harvesting sack.
As I did so, I saw the rest of the work crew returning to the field. I walked up to the foreman and informed him I was quitting, effective immediately, and started off before he could answer. I hiked over to the chapel I had heard earlier. It was thankfully unlocked, so I went inside and hunkered down; I figured as consecrated ground it was a good place to hide in case the Poludnitsa returned to seek vengeance. The chill of the air conditioning from the morning prayer service still lingered, and I found myself irresistibly tired, so I laid down on a pew and dozed off. I was finally awoken around sunset by some very confused congregants who had gathered for evening prayer.
***
The next morning I went back to the fancy law office for a second deposition. I promised Manuel that I would have all the evidence we needed, and then some. When I got to the conference room I carefully laid out the sickle on the table, and recounted my meeting with the Poludnitsa.
Roger Jr. immediately went on the attack, his questioning even more aggressive. “And what exactly was this magical elixir you tricked this Noon Witch with?” he asked, no less smuggly than before.
“Oh, gatorade,” I said casually.
“Excuse me?” he said, confused.
“One of the few fairly consistent rules in magic is for everything there is an equal opposite,” I explained.“ As above, so below. The Poludnitsa is a spirit of heatstroke. What counters heat stroke? A cool liquid filled with electrolytes. I also got it blessed by my priest, which probably helped, but I’m pretty sure it was the electrolytes that did the trick.”
Roger Jr. looked at me slackjawed. “Huh,” is all he could say. I felt a thrill of satisfaction–I’d managed to beat him at his own game, however briefly. “Well, that’s quite the story. I look forward to seeing how well it holds up in court.”
What a dick, I thought. I almost died for this information, and he still won’t give us a break.
He then turned his attention to the sickle. “And this is your proof? An antique farm implement? Why, you could probably find a dozen of these in any local antiques shop.”
“Not like this one,” I replied. “You’re welcome to carbon date it. Assuming you can carbon date it. Though I don’t think you’re going to hang on to it for long. The Poludnitsa is going to want it back. Tell me, how good are the wards on your building?”
Roger Jr. looked at me with a mix of confusion and contempt. “Uh, I think some of the younger partners put a daisy wheel up somewhere to keep our rivals from hexing us. And there’s a few written charms posted, but I don’t really rely on that sort of thing. We don’t need magic to help us win cases, our skill and experience alone-”
“I see,” I said, cutting him off. “Then we might want to take shelter.”
“Excuse me,” said Roger Jr.
I walked into the main office and clapped my hands. “Excuse me everyone! Your attention please!” I shouted. “Thank you! You all might want to hunker down for the next few minutes. Get inside the offices and close the doors, or at least shelter under your desk.”
“What are you talking about?” Roger Jr. asked, but Manuel just put a hand on his back and said, “Just do as she says. Kat literally faced down death for this case, I think she knows what she’s talking about.”
Manuel could see what was coming, and he and I herded the rest of the confused lawyers under the table. I checked my watch. 11:59 AM.
“I still don’t see the need for this!” shouted Junior as we pushed him under the conference table.
Just then, church bells down the street struck 12. As the last toll faded, a wind started to howl outside the front door of the office. The door burst open, and a whirlwind blew in, sucking up reams of paper and office bric-a-brac. It sped across the floor, flipping over chairs and scattering folders, and entered the conference room. The whirlwind engulfed the table, and in the center of it was the Poludnitsa. She grabbed her sickle and let out a scream of furious triumph. Then she whirled around with it, striking the walls, slicing up the chairs, and splintering the table. Her point apparently made, she whirled out of the room and back across the office floor, and then out the door, leaving destruction in her wake. The front door slammed behind her.
We got out from under the table and surveyed the damage. Roger Jr. looked around, shaken and pale. “Everyone alright?” he called. A chorus of voices answered in the affirmative.
I turned and looked him dead in the eye. “So what was that about physical proof?”
***
Lammas had finally come and gone, and my kitchen was clean. Manuel called me with an update. “Sunnyside’s not going to even try fighting this in court. They’ve pled guilty on all charges. Apparently the Noonwraith made quite an impression on them.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said. All my work had been worth it. “And the workers?”
“Last one was released from the hospital a couple of days ago. And we’ve already got our people in Sunnyside, working on setting up a new union chapter.” Manuel beamed with pride, even over the phone.
“What about that law firm?” I asked, hesitantly.
“They’re not going to charge us for the damage, thank goodness. I think they’re trying to keep the whole affair quiet.”
“Well, if they’d listened to me in the first place…” I said with no small amount of self-satisfaction.
Manuel laughed. “Yeah, I think their days of not taking the supernatural seriously are coming to a middle, certainly. Thanks again for all your help, you made this case for us. If we have any more work in your area of expertise, we’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But maybe next time something not so terrifying? Just a bit?”
We both laughed. After I ended my call with Manuel, I went out to the front stoop of my apartment. A cool wind was blowing, and clouds were building on the horizon. In the distance I saw the silhouette of some vast shape moving through the sky–according to the weather report, a thunderbird was coming down from the north, bringing a cold front with it.
Just as well. I could use a break from the heat.
