You’ll Be Sorry
But wait, there’s more…
Miss me yet? It’s okay if you don’t. Some days I’m sick of my own company. But I’ve no place else to go, nothing better to do. So here I sit. And wait. And ponder and plan and sob and rage until I pant in frustration or collapse in exhaustion. Sometimes, I even sleep. But mostly…
I’m tired tonight. Thinking too hard, worrying too much.
I know you have nights like this, too. Where you pace your humble abode, all keyed up for reasons you can’t explain.
Do other people live like this? Or do they magically return to welcoming homes each evening?
Maybe they’re already anticipating a great book/movie/TV show with favorite takeout in hand.
Night isn’t a mere punctuation point on a long, exhausting day, but the beginning of a new and exciting chapter.
I see only punctuation points. Here, there, everywhere.
You?
Lovey III sleeps in front of the woodstove. She’s old now. Greets me with a single thump of her tail against the floor instead of rising to standing. Cabin’s small enough it hardly makes a difference.
Most don’t approve of my place. All that remains of what used to be.
Sturdiest structures on the land are now the wind-scoured tombstones, jutting out like broken teeth in the family plot at the edge of the woods.
Families are born in laughter. They die in the faint echo of their forefather’s front door being latched for the final time.
My mother, disappearing one day, never to return.
My father, trying to hold it together until a patch of black ice took him out.
Then it was just me and my grandfather and the cold comfort of used-to-bes and might’ve-beens.
The day he died, I swore to never want again. To never need, to never care. To love was to lose, to lose was to hurt.
And I made good on that threat for the longest time. Until one day…
This memory is on me.
Ring any bells for you?
I opened my front door to discover the Dixon kids creeping around my front porch, carefully stepping over the gaping holes and splintered boards.
“Are you really a witch?” the oldest one dared to ask me, jutting out his chin.
Lovey shoved her boxy head past my legs.
“A puppy! What’s his name?” the youngest boy asked.
One of his sisters shushed him. “We don’t play with strays.”
But I could already tell the littlest one didn’t care. And neither did Lovey. They were both the babies of the family; they didn’t know any better yet.
But the oldest, what was his name? Oh, yes, that’s right:
“I’m Henry,” the boy declared, his voice cracking with the promise, the curse of adolescence. “We’re the Dixons, and we’ve been sent here on a very important mission.”
I waited.
“We must kill a witch!” The tallest girl, sounding as brash and impetuous as her brother.
“To break the curse of the north woods!” The younger girl, finally speaking up.
“And save all the animals.” The smallest one again. “May I pet your dog?”
Lovey wagged her tail, glancing at me inquiringly.
I considered their request, eyeing each one in turn. Their bright eyes, flushed cheeks, robust limbs. I didn’t have to ask who they were or where they were from. You can’t hide their level of privilege.
“I see four tenderhearted babes with thick, meaty limbs. What’s to stop me from grabbing you foolish kids and throwing you into my cooking pot?”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” the littlest one said, crouched down and holding out his hand for Lovey. “I haven’t bathed in over a week.”
“You told Mom—” The older girl, whirling on him.
“I lied. I don’t like baths. Just gonna get dirty again.”
Lovey, now licking gently at those grimy, sticky fingertips. The boy, giggling.
“There are four of us and one of you,” the oldest boy blustered. “You can try to fight us, but we’ll win!”
I merely shrugged. They didn’t know what to make of that. Excellent.
“So I’m a witch?” I asked. “Why would you think such a thing?”
The older two children flushed. Glanced at my wild hair, disheveled clothes. Flushed some more. I let them.
Then finally, because at least the younger two were being sensible and cozying up to Lovey to scratch her silky ears:
“I’ll tell you a secret,” I announced.
Four pairs of eyes locking into focus.
“I’m not a witch, for there are no more witches in Shereford.”
The oldest, already opening his mouth to argue. I held up a finger.
“Once!” I interrupted. “Once there was a witch. She arrived in the dead of winter, no cloak, no shoes, and yet walking unencumbered straight into the heart of the town. The villagers took her in, as good people do. They offered her food and shelter, a heavy coat, and warm boots. And do you know what she did?”
The kids regarded me wide-eyed.
I paused. Dramatic effect for them. A whisper of rage for me.
Epigenetics.
Don’t forget.
Epigenetics.
“She aided in childbirth. Ministered to the sick. Comforted the dying. She revealed herself to be an angel of the highest order. Except, of course, there’s no proving such a thing.”
“I don’t understand,” the oldest, Henry, asked in confusion. “She wasn’t a witch?”
“On the contrary. She was the most powerful kind of witch. An agent of change. Oh, no, such a creature could not possibly be allowed to survive.”
“Did she have a brewing cauldron?” the littlest one wanted to know. “Or a black cat, or magic broom?”
I smiled down at him, then sang softly:
“‘Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well. Red witch, blue witch, black or white. One for love, one for fright. One will dance all night long. One will see you dead and gone.’”
The children, totally mesmerized. I continued:
“‘Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well. Night’s a-comin’, she draws near. Wind’s a-howling…Which one’s HERE!’”
At the sudden explosion in my voice, they all stumbled back. Even the oldest was panting.
“Well?” I demanded to know. “Well?”
“Well what?” the older girl cried out.
“Exactly! You should know. Especially before going on a witch hunt.” I had to smirk at the irony. “Which one’s here?”
They weren’t happy anymore. Their grand adventure had become a little too real and frightening. Life is like that.
Lovey withdrew at the change in my tone. Her new friend had already retreated, clutching his older sister’s hand.
“Ask your father,” I instructed.
“What?” All four kids, blinking in surprise.
“Ask your father. For it was the Dixon family who took in the witch, offered her lodging. And it was your family that later…
“Tell him there are those of us who still remember. Who feel her moans in the rumble of the earth, hear her screams in the shriek of the wind, and taste her tears in the ripples of the river. The past isn’t a memory; it’s a legacy.
Your legacy. Meaning all of you should be able to answer the question. ”
“Wh-wh-what question?”
“‘Ding dong bell. Which witch is in the well?’” Then, because I just couldn’t help myself, I leaned forward and murmured: “Boo!”
The children scattered. One second trespassing on my property, the next long gone. I straightened up but felt no satisfaction. Nothing had changed. Not the past. Not the present.
And most likely, not the future.
Blood. I saw it then. I see it now.
Forever and always.
And then, because it’s my legacy, too, I listened to the sound of her screams carrying across the winds and echoing through the trees.
Do you remember?
Is it all coming back to you? Or do you still need another shot of bourbon, internet video, late-night comedy show to continue dulling the pain?
The end is coming. For both you and me.
A distinct punctuation point. No more additional chapters.
Ding dong bell, the witch is in the well.
Night’s a-comin’.
She draws near.
Wind’s a-howlin’
Which one’s here?