The Witch (PG)

An older story, reposted here for the sake of having some new content.  Don't worry, Gentle Reader(s), I'll have a quickie here after the weekend.

I tap the young man in the orange apron on the elbow.  I say “young man” not because that’s what old women are supposed to call men who aren’t as old as themselves, but because he is a young man.  He’s barely a man.  His ‘beard’ consists of a few scraggly hairs just below his chin.  Spots of acne still dot his face; not as bad as mine when I was his age, but enough to know that he’s an adult in age only.

He turns around, visibly annoyed that I interrupted what must undoubtedly be a terribly important conversation with his friend.  He’s about ten years older than him, and actually looks relieved that their discussion will have to be cut short.

“Yeah?” asks the young man.  No manners.  I’m not surprised.  Nobody has manners these days.  Few people say “Sir” or “Ma’am” or “Please” or “Thank you” anymore, and those that do are looked at like they’ve said something in Aramaic.

“Pardon me,” I say in my best Sweet Little Old Lady voice, “I’m looking for a broom, and this store is so big, and my legs so short, that it would tire me out ever so much if I wandered each aisle—“

“Aisle twelve.” He interrupts, jerking his thumb in a direction.  “About half way down.” He turns back around to start talking with his co-worker again, but, wisely, he is nowhere to be seen.

“Oh.” I say, and look along the direction he pointed.  I put my glasses on.  Thick lenses in frames that make my eyes look like some sort of insect’s.  They don’t actually do anything.  My eyesight is perfect.  Better than perfect.  I see everything. 

Squinting, I tell the young man that, my that looks like it must be quite far and would he be so kind as to escort me there so I wouldn’t get lost?  He sighs, not even trying to hide his annoyance this time.

“Fine.” He says, and begins to walk off, scratching at his elbow.

He doesn’t bother to check if I’m keeping up.  He just walks forward, hands in his pockets.  He nods a hello to a few other orange aprons, turns his head to watch an attractive housewife walk past him. 
He reaches aisle 12 and turns around, no doubt expecting to see me running on my little legs, a Cute Little Old Lady trying to keep up with the Tall, Virile Young Man.  He’s taken aback when he sees me not three feet behind him.

“Wha… Jesus!” he starts.  “How did you…?”

“How did I what, dear?” I say.  I look around the corner, down the aisle.  “Is this where the brooms are?” I ask.

For a moment, his mask of bravado and self-assuredness fades.  “Uhh.  Uhh, yeah.  Down there.”
“Could you show me, please?  All these tools and things, they kind of intimidate me.”

He looks at me like I’m the oddest thing he’s ever seen in his sixteen years of life.  An old lady intimidated by brooms and rakes and extension cords.  “Uhh.  Sure.  Yeah, whatever.” And he begins to walk again.  He’s just as quick as he was before—possibly even quicker, like he was trying to get away from Creepy Old Lady instead of just walking her towards the broom department.  He’s also looking back in my direction, nervously.  I afford myself a small grin, and even a Creepy Little Old Lady wave.

“Here we are, lady.” He say, scratching his elbow again as we arrive in front of the brooms.  There’s all manner of brooms here.  Cornhusk brooms, pushbrooms. No besom brooms, of course.  You don’t buy those.

My young friend is silent as I choose a broom, no doubt expecting me to ask to be escorted to the cashier, or for him to carry the oh so heavy broom for the oh so poor weak old lady.

The broom I choose is a cornhusk.  No paint on the handle, and the husks bound well and tight.  It’s as good as any other, I suppose.  I turn it over, pretend that I’m examining it closely for any defects.  I rifle the stalks through my fingers, taking care to touch each one.

I then place the head of the broom on the floor, and give it a few good swipes.  First in front of me, then behind me. 

“Lady, are we done here?” the young man asks.  He clearly doesn’t care.  I didn’t expect him to, and to be honest, I don’t really care if he cares or not.  Not my job.

“Almost,” I say, and I sweep the area around his feet in a circle, spiraling outward.  After sweeping, I inspect the bristles once more.  Satisfied, I tap the top of the broomstick on the cement floor.  The ‘thunk’ it makes echoes around the warehouse, spreading out from beneath like a small wave. 
I absently touch him on his shoulder.  “Thank you, young man.  Yes.  That will be all.”

Relieved to be rid of me, he walks off.  Using the broomstick as a walking stick, I make my way to the cashier and pay for my purchase.
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The fire burns high and bright.  Thick smoke fills the air, hiding and revealing the moon as it rises. 

The wind brushes against my skin, whips around my outstretched arms, making gooseflesh appear.  It brushes along my naked thighs and my sex, nature’s breath caressing me like a lover.  A shudder of pleasure goes through me, a tingling that begins at my forehead, going down and out my fingers, my breasts, and my toes. 

It feels so good to be back, O Mother.  It feels so good to be here, away from the city, away from the dead concrete and glass.  Here I need no disguise.  Here I am beautiful, one with my Mother, the only one who truly matters.

Although Mother cares for her children, she cannot always supply for them.  It’s a sad truth.  No one grows up if they’re coddled.  Birds do not fly unless they’re pushed out of their nest.

Money doesn’t grow on trees.

I know that Mother understands that I use her gifts to keep me alive.  And I know that she doesn’t judge.  She is Mother to all, not just to me, and others have different beliefs and needs.  I believe Mother is Love, and Judgement, and Protection.

I also believe that I need to pay the rent.  And the heating bill.  And buy food.

I pick up the broom and hold the head before me.  Whispering words of power, I hold my fingers close to the broom’s bristles.  Small flakes float from the broom to my hand.  I hold the flakes in my hand, and close my eyes, picturing the scruffy boy in the orange apron scratching his elbow.  I picture brushing a spiral around him with the broom, remember the words I spoke under my breath and see the lines of power curl along the spiral and into him.  To him, I was just some dumb old lady who needed a broom.  To me, he’s a meal ticket.  To my client, he is someone who cheated on her. 

To the spirits, he will be an irresistible beacon.  A magnet for fire and misfortune.

It’s amazing, I think as I use the broom’s handle to draw the circle.  In my day we would have to have a possession of the target’s, or a lock of his hair, or a nail clipping in order for a proper connection to be established.  But now, thanks to science, we know that what we call ‘the essence’ of a person is not the hair or the possessions, but his DNA.  Hairs have DNA in the skintips, for example, and possessions contain trace amounts of DNA from being handled so much.

Flakes of skin, say, from scratching a rash on your elbow, work just as well.

Around the circle I draw ancient symbols.  Glyphs that represent the names of long forgotten spirits, beings that existed before the earth orbited the sun, before night and day were counted.  Names mortals are forbidden to speak.  Only through primitive pictographs and squirming, living lines can they be contacted.

I bite my thumb, ripping off a scab that has never healed, and never will heal.  Warm, coppery blood fills my mouth, and I spit a mixture of blood and spit into the center of the circle.  Over each glyph I hold my thumb and squeeze it, letting the blood drip.  The price paid, I suckle my thumb, cleaning the wound.

The broom is no longer of any use to me.  I toss it into the fire, where it burns like the rest of the wood.

The wind picks up as I raise my arm, my fist holding the young man’s skin.  I call out to Mother using the sacred words, I implore the unspeakable spirits, calling upon my blood to bring them forth.  I make my request on behalf of the wronged, and ask Mother and her siblings for Justice.

I am no longer a Little Old Lady.  Mother pours herself into me; gives me an aspect of her being.  I am in Mother and she is in me.  My legs are no longer short, but long and strong.  My breasts no longer sag with the weight of centuries of gravity, but are taut, supple, and life-giving.  My hair is no longer grey, but long, silky, and the colour of the leaves in spring and autumn.

The Others respect Mother more than they do a mortal, and are more inclined to listen to her. 

They speak to me.  Not in words but through images and the purest of emotions.  They are Anger, and Avarice, and Will, and Fear, and Hope, and Love and Compassion, and they hear my supplication through the Mother’s voice, and they obey.

Mother leaves almost as soon as they do.  Once again I am a frail old woman.  My hair wiry, my breasts heavy, my womb barren.   With her presence gone, the wind dies.  The fire is now a pile of glowing embers.  I kick them with my foot, wincing briefly at the sharp heat.  I silently chastise myself for throwing the broom into the fire.  I could have used it to scatter the ashes.

I leave circle and ashes and return home.  My cat, Gardiner, meows loudly,  waiting to be let in.  I slide the patio door open and I nearly trip over him as he rushes in.

I reach around the corner and grab my phone, dial my client’s number.

“Yes.  It’s me.  Yes.  It is done.  He should be feeling the effects within the hour.”

I pour Gardiner some food, turn on the heat.  It’s cold without clothes on.

“No, it won’t stop until you say the word.  Yes, the word on the invoice I gave you.  No, don’t say it now.” I roll my eyes.  Kids. 

“Good.  So when shall I expect payment?  Fine.  Thank you.”

And then, she asks me a question.  “I’m sorry?  Oh!  You mean  ‘Ever mind the Rule of Three, three times what thou givest returns to thee.’ How can I do what I did, knowing about that law?”

I smile.  “Darling, you hired me.  It was your desires that were being fulfilled.  Not mine.  Yes.  Well, if you do need my services again, you know how to contact me.”  Gardiner’s nuzzling against my hand, purring and wanting to be petted.

“Yes dear,” I say, answering her final question.  “I do offer protective charms.  Why do you ask?