The Witch (2 page)

The doorknob turns, and the door slowly opens
.

The visitor is wondering what the hell he was thinking when he agreed to come here
.

“Hello.” The witch’s voice is charming. There is a

hint of a tinkle, making the visitor feel at ease
.

“Hi,” the visitor says
.

The witch carefully looks the visitor’s figure over and must like what she sees, because she invites the stranger into her home
.

In walks the visitor, eyes darting all around the hall searching for IT
.

“Would you like to come into the parlor and sit?”

The witch leads the visitor into the next room, but the visitor hesitates, taking several backward glances
.

“Come, sit in this chair.”

The visitor thinks the chair looks curiously like a skeleton waiting to be padded. Looking around the room, the visitor sees something much more comfortable. A pile of plush pillows are strewn across the center of the floor. Immediately the visitor heads for the downy softness
.

“Fine, fine. I will sit here myself. You are selling something?” The witch waits patiently; a smile barely lifts the edges of her mouth
.

“No, not at all.”

“Fine, fine.” She earnestly stares at the visitor, waiting for conversation to begin
.

“I’m here looking for something.”

“And do you see IT?”

The visitor glances around the room and notices only a table with several lit candles upon it
.

“No, but then I was told I should see IT immediately upon entering your cottage.”

“Mmmm. Something I would keep on display.” The witch thinks deeply about this. “You must mean the egg. The Russian egg. The bright golden-colored one I used to have.”

“Used to have?”

“So what is your name?”

“Brandy.”

“You mean like the liquor?”

“Yes, Mom was in her cups when I was born. After birthing me, she called out for another brandy, but the doctor mistook it to be my name.”

“Tsk, tsk. I so do feel for you. To be named after an alcoholic beverage cannot be pleasant,” the witch consoles
.

“Being born to an abusive parent was much worse than being called Brandy.”

“Such a shame. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, I won’t be staying long.”

“Please, please don’t go. I am very much enjoying your company.” She shows her teeth, and not a single one is straight
.

“Besides, I wasn’t looking for the egg.”

“No!” She taps her fingers on an arm bone that looks as if it has come from a giant
.

“It would have been nice to see the egg, of course, but that was not my main purpose in coming here.” Brandy crosses his right leg over his left
.

“Ah, a puzzle you are giving me.” The witch snuggles her rear deeper into the bones of the chair. “I love puzzles. Sure you wouldn’t like something to eat or drink? It may take me a very long time to solve this puzzle.”

“Nonsense. I will tell you what I am looking for. You won’t have to guess.”

“No! No! Much disappointment if you don’t let me play the game. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint a frail, old woman, would you?”

“I don’t really have the time to waste.”

“Waste time? One never wastes time when one is engaged in deep thought. Clues. Perhaps you could give me some clues. That might speed up the time it takes me.” The witch sits forward in her seat and leans her head to one side
.

“Okay, if this is important to you.”

“Important? Much is important, but certainly servicing your visit with the appropriate object is most important at this moment.” She claps her hands. “Quick! Quick! Give me a clue, but don’t make it too easy for me to guess what you are looking for.”

“I’ve been sent by a troll.”

“Is that your clue?”

The visitor nods
.

“What kind of troll?”

“An ugly one.”

“But they are all ugly. How am I to guess if you won’t play the game seriously?” Frustrated, the witch rubs her nose so hard the visitor believes it will fall off
.

“He was a talkative troll.”

“How do you know the troll was a he?”

The visitor shrugs
.

“I really don’t know how to determine their sex, madam. And I wouldn’t be interested even if I could.” The visitor thinks all this talk a waste. Why couldn’t the troll have told him exactly where to look?

“Ah, but the sex is important. You see, female trolls always tell the truth, and male trolls never do.”

“He could have lied to me about the—”

“No, no, please don’t give the answer away. We must play this game through. Now, your first clue is that you were sent by a troll of indeterminate sex. This truly gives me pause. You see, I know many trolls both alive and dead.”

“This one is alive, I assure you, for I was just speaking with … er … the troll.” The visitor wonders whether IT could be buried under the pile of pillows on which he sits. Attempting to be inconspicuous, he begins to peel away layer after layer of pillows
.

“If you are uncomfortable there, I will change seats with you,” the witch eagerly offers
.

The visitor, thinking the skeletal chair looks not only uncomfortable but morbid, stops engaging in his pillow toss
.

“No, madam. The chair certainly looks well-made, but I have a bad back, and I don’t think having bones sticking in my back would help.”

“You do have bones sticking in your back. Nice bones, I’d say from the look of your physique. Your little vertebrae are probably a pretty sight.”

“Shall we return to our guessing game, madam?”

“A live troll of indeterminate sex sent you here. And where is this troll now?”

“I presume he is waiting outside for me.”

“And why do you presume that? Did he tell you he would wait?”

“No, but … Why wouldn’t he?”

The witch yawns and stretches her club-like arms
.

“Because he would get terribly bored waiting for you.”

“I don’t intend to be long,” answers the visitor
.

The witch claps her hands
.

“It is time for another clue. Please try to give me a better clue.”

“Better than what I have given you?”

“You’ve hardly gone out of your way to assist me. But that is fine, for we don’t want me to guess too soon and spoil your visit.”

“Arachnid.”

The witch jumps up from her chair screaming. “Where? Where?”

“That was meant to be a clue, madam.”

“Naughty, naughty.” The witch giggles and reseats herself on the skeleton chair. “I have some in the basement, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I am looking for a particular one.”

“Oh, and does this spider sing or dance? Perhaps he calculates quickly inside his head. Or better still, he may be able to lift weights one hundred times his size.”

“Madam, I am looking for a giant mummified spider.”

“I don’t have him anymore. Used him for a spell, you see. Can I get you some bat wing or toad legs instead?”

“But he or she swore you still had IT in your entrance hall.”

“He lied.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I still have a mummified leg or two, if you’d like to see them.” The witch stands. Suddenly she seems to tower over the visitor
.

“But the spider was important to me.”

“Why? Are you related?”

“Hardly, madam. I was going to write my thesis on the spider.”

“Well, I still have a leg or two. You could go ahead and write a thesis about them. The legs are very long and dark, and I’m sure they have all kinds of secrets embedded in them. Come and I’ll show them to you.” The witch reaches out her right hand toward the visitor
.

“Where are they?” he asks
.

“In the basement.”

“Can you not bring them here?”

“Oh, they are so long and thick. Much thickness for a spider’s leg.”

“How did you get them down to the basement in the first place?”

“A troll helped me.”

“An ugly troll?”

“One of the ugliest,” she says
.

“And did he promise to send me to you?”

“Not you
per se.”

“Just a live human body?”

“He always does. You see, I need a wart from a human hand.”

“Well, I have none,” Brandy says, raising his hands into the air so the witch can view them
.

“Wait! Wait!” The witch prevents him from lowering his hands. “Must see! Yes, must see.” Holding his hands tightly in hers, she scans the flesh. “There, there,” she screams, jumping up and down. “An immature one. It needs time to grow.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Very tiny, the wart. Teensy-tiny wart.”

“Well, the wart probably isn’t big enough for you to use.”

“Mmmmmm. Big enough.”

“If the wart is barely visible to you, how would you remove it?”

“The hand will do.”

Brandy jumps to his feet
.

“Madam, I have no intention of losing a hand. Since you do not have the entire spider, then I must go. I’m sorry; this has been a waste of time for both of us.”

“Daddy, how come the witch can see the wart and Brandy can’t?”

“Ah, Stephen, that is the question. Can she really see a wart on his hand, or does she have some evil plan to use all of Brandy?”

Dad leaned back against the head of Stephen’s bed, the oak solid on his back, a support he could use right now.

“So, let’s see now.”

“Madam, I must insist you stand out of my way so that I may leave.”

“Leave? Why leave? Some cake or biscuits? A spot of tea? No? A taste of my home-brewed sherry? Aren’t you having a good time? I will be ever so lonesome if you leave.” The witch’s face melted into a sulk
.

“Dad, do witches really steal human bones, and if they do, how do those humans walk around?”

“They don’t walk around after their bones are stolen.”

“Is that why Robin is in a wheelchair? Did a witch steal her bones?” Stephen’s round eyes became wider and rounder.

“No. Robin has nerve damage.”

“A witch stole her nerves. Is that what the witch makes her putty out of? “

“Yeah! Yeah, as a matter of fact, that is what building putty is made from.”

“Even the kind that holds our house together?” Stephen began pulling his covers up over his chest.

“Oh, no, we have special putty. We have animal-free putty.”

“Good,” stated Stephen.

“So anyway, the witch is dragging Brandy down the cellar steps when a loud crash is heard at the front door.”

“I thought she was offering Brandy something to eat.”

“But he turned the offer down, and in her frustration she grabbed hold of Brandy and pulled him over to the open basement door.”

“Why was the door open? We never keep the door open. Mom used to say that it got too damp in the basement.”

“Mom wasn’t living with this witch.”

“So none of Mom’s bones are holding up the witch’s house?”

“Mom’s bones are ashes, Stephen. You were with us when we sprinkled the ashes at sea.”

Stephen nodded his head seriously.

“So in rushes the troll. You see, he had a conscience and began to regret sending the young man, Brandy, into the witch’s cottage.”

“The troll’s not going to save Brandy, is he?” Stephen looked disappointed.

“Not if you don’t want him to. Which will it be?” Dad gave a thumb’s up followed by a thumb’s down.

With an evil glint in his eyes, Stephen raised his right fist high into the air.

Mother watched her little boy giggle when his father tousled his hair. Her son’s small feet and chubby legs reached high into the air to push away Daddy’s tickling fingers. The boy’s hiccups stopped the play, and Daddy reached for the carafe on the night table. The glass was in Stephen’s outstretched hands. His father poured a half glass of water and put the carafe back on the table. Slowly the boy drank, bubbling the water occasionally with soft giggles.

By the time the hiccups stopped Daddy had turned on the nightlight and turned off the bedside lamp. He pulled the covers up over his son’s body, tucking the material under the boy’s chin.

They wished each other good-night and muttered their stale warnings about bedbugs biting. Daddy closed the door behind him, and the room fell into peaceful silence.

Love swept across the room to every corner. Mother and son love. Stephen closed his eyes, turned to his side, and scrunched up into a fetal position.

Mommy sat on the bed’s plaid blanket and stared down at the little boy she had planned to teach so much. Father now had that responsibility.

A low throaty snore issued from the boy’s little mouth. She smiled. Even as a baby he had snored. Perhaps it was not her grumbling stomach that made so much noise when she was pregnant with him.

She touched his fisted hand but felt nothing under the weight of her fingers. Her hand appeared to make contact with the boy’s flesh, but it was just a visual deception. Mommy couldn’t savor the feel of his silky flesh or smell the little-boy smell of candy, rich desserts, dirt, fresh wounds, and antiseptics. Only her eyes could remind her of the little boy she birthed. She brushed her hand across his cheek and felt only the vacuum in which she existed. Tears flooded down her cheeks. Why had she left him? she wondered. He needed her so much, and she hungered for his love.