Witchcraft

In Gedric County, which was bayou country by the way, there was a witch. I’d heard stories of her ever since I first visited St. Francis, a small speck of a town in Gedric, going to my grandmother’s house, and every summer since. The house was a nice old thing, stuck in time. The old vinyl record player warbled out tunes of decades past, with the voice of smooth charmers and female bombshells. The walls were covered in photos, mostly black and white, of me, my sister, my older brother usually in his Marine uniform, my father, a couple of my parents, and hundreds of old Hollywood movie stars, Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Rock Hudson, the list goes on. The furniture was mostly blonde wood my grandfather had carved before his death, and a few of my father’s pieces, which he made after watching his carpenter father for hours. My mother still has a wooden bracelet my father made for her, carved with water lilies and their pads and frogs and fireflies. It also has her name, Eloise, carved on the inside. My grandmother’s house always smelled of cookies and cinnamon and burnt wood. The furniture smelled vaguely of cigarettes that my father and uncle smoked, and even my aunt Ursula. My grandmother, a small compact woman, white great white hair, always seemed to smell like apples and bread, because she spent most of her time in her orchard or kitchen. Her name was Astrid, as her parents had been Norwegian. The house was comfortable, and the lights were mostly yellowish in color, and in the evenings I’d sit in the old leather sofa while my grandmother read Sherlock Holmes aloud, and I’d curl up gradually, coming closer to her warmth, and the worn leather, which still smelled of brandy cigars and sawdust, like my grandfather had, before his stroke. The summers I spent there were enjoyable ones, filled to the brim with childish joy and watching sunsets from a tire swings and wading creeks up until my hips, trying to fish with my bare hands. As I grew my childhood playmates gave way to girls and football games and my first test drive behind the wheel of a friend’s pickup. Anyway, back to the witch. I’d heard stories about her, like everyone else. Lived in a small ramshackle house just on the town’s limits, at the end of a little traveled path the branched of the main road. Rumor had it that her house had been there even before the founding of St. Frank’s, belonging to Cajun witches and Native American sorcerers
. I had no idea whether there was truth in the story, but I did know that there weren’t many Cajuns in this particular county in Louisiana, and that the ones did live there were treated with suspicion. I heard stories about the woman, that she flew on a broom at night, cackling and trying to steal the moon. Stories about monsters and bog creatures and spells cast. A story I particularly remember is that she cursed the Thibodaux family with misfortune and sorrow until a seventh daughter present her with a pearl blessed by a priest. Whether there is any truth to the story or not, the Thibodaux’s definitely seemed cursed. Any business venture they had went belly up, their jobs were hard and paid badly, they never could advance themselves, even if their were smart or charming, and every generation it seemed their offspring had at least one drug addict, thief, or mentally challenged member. In my time at St. Frank’s it was Jeffie, who had Down syndrome. As limited as he was, we were all rather fond of Jeffie, because he was like a child, kind, with an easy laugh. Didn’t hurt that he had a pretty sister always looking after him. Tallulah Belle was her name. She was the seventh child of that generation, and I heard she went down to the witch’s house one autumn day. Won the lottery the next. Before that she bred clams for slaughter, and she always checked them for pearls. Like I said, people told stories, but I’d never seen the witch. Id catch glimpses of her house at times, but never saw her. The first time I saw her was the summer before I turned seventeen. My sister, only a year younger than me, spent the summer with my mother in France. She called me halfway through the summer asking for a love potion for our aunt Gigi. Gigi’s name was Georgia and she lived in Nantes where my mother and sister visited, and my sister said she needed a boost. She’d never married after all; instead she focused fully on her job as a jewel appraiser for banks. So I asked a friend for help and support, as my sister knew that I had to go to the witch. My friend only drove me as far as the house, but refused to go any further. I cautiously walked up the dirt path, the hot sun falling on my back. On the porch I tapped the door, which swung open. I called out as I took a cautious step inside, pulling of my baseball cap. “Come in boy, and shut the door.” A voice called from the far corner, while waving a white hand above her head. I closed the door and took in my surroundings. About five cauldrons bubbled and simmered, a few glowing odd colors, or pulsing. The air inside was heavy and sickly sweet, like venomous perfume. On the shelves were jars of conserves, pickled pig’s feet, and newts floating around in ether. The books on the shelves were in Latin and French, but I understood the dealt on witchcraft, and every once in a while on the ledges were bottles and vials of potions. The whole place was had the air of magic. After a few minutes, the witch stood and turned. I wasn’t prepared for the sight. She was short and pale like the moon or a new born calf or milk. One eye was all white as if it had cataracts and the other was a yellowish green color. Her hair was black with white stripes and her hands were young and lean. She was covered in freckles and her nails alternated from blood red to purple. “Well?” Her voice was soft and breathy, and it seemed to belong to someone else. “I…I...I need a love potion”. She stared and said, “Well, well. A handsome boy like you shouldn’t have girl trouble. Are your sure this girl’s worth it?” her voice had an accent to it, but it wasn’t Cajun. She made me nervous, and I jumped to show her she was wrong about me “No, it’s not for me, it’s for my aunt, you see.” It came out in a rush, and I blushed because I sudden like a puppy, eager to please. She looked at me again, but her eyes didn’t focus on me, and yet I felt the weight of her gaze. She reached out one hand and cupped my cheek, turning my face towards hers. My breath left me and I stood there silently, her hand cold on my cheek, her eyes unfocused. “Good” she said suddenly and turned away, and I took a welcome gulp of air. “Sit down, take a cookie. It’ll be ready for you in a minute” she turned back to whatever she was doing and I sat on her couch, which seemed to have torn and been patched up several times over the years, so it had a variety of fabrics and colors and patterns. It was darker there as the windows were closed, and uncomfortably hot. I noticed the coffee table was covered in old newspapers, which were also stacked all around. Feeling awkward, I reached forward for a cookie. It was chocolate chip and tasted wonderful. The chocolate was soft and melty; the cookie had just the right amount of sugar and butter. They remain the best cookies I’ve ever had. I took another and the crone called from her workspace “Glad you like ‘em” I blushed, cleared my throat and looked away. A Siamese cat jumped of the bookcase into my lap, and after my shock, I began to absently pet him. So much for the black cat myth. He purred and curled up in my lap. I looked at my watch, 3:45, so I had roughly three hours to sunset. It was then I must have fallen asleep, as the air was so hot and the smell so oppressive and seductive. All I know is the next thing I knew the sorceress was shaking my shoulder, and whispering “Wake up, boy. It’s ready. Its special too.” Rubbing the sleep from my eyes and wiping drool of my lips I accepted the potions and paid her her fee. It seemed small and as I left she winked. “Enjoy son.” So she thought it was for me. And she’d pitied me and charged me less. Outside I realized my friend was long since gone and I had to walk back. In town people were telling the story of my untimely demise at the witch’s hands.

Word count: 1538, used for Thursday, Friday, and Monday.