Section I:
Three elements are necessary for witchcraft: the witch, the help of the Devil, and the Permission of God.
She closes her eyes and the face comes. Staring at her, a visage floating in the darkness, not floating, just there. It’s a face you don’t want to open the door to see, like, if you did you would slam the door but it would be too late the thing would have its arm in the door and everything would start happening really fast. It scares her and delights her, so she stays eyes closed. Daytime, normally ‘out there’ and she in her room silent with closed eyes and feeling the worst kind of menace. She opens her eyes, bed, pillows, teddy bears, desk, posters. She closes her eyes again but it’s gone. She grabs a bottle of water and leaves the house.
Now alone in the forest down from her house and across the railroad tracks, it slopes down to the gorge. She takes her shoes off, hides them under a rock and ferns. The soft dark earth gets between her toes, the crush of worms and bugs mixing with that putrid dirt aroma. Once there is no sign of the street she sits on the damp leaves and sticks of the undergrowth…the sound of running water and only a faint hum of the suburbs. She pulls her skirt up exposing her vagina to nature. It’s a hairy little thing, she thinks, looks good with this brown muck underneath it. She pushes her fingers into the ground, then rubs it on her thighs and sometimes brushes her opening (a thrill). More dirt on the fingers and more of it getting rubbed into herself, feeling the grains mashing between her fingers and soft lips. She hears something move in the ferns, pulls her skirt back down and feels watched, also, stupid to get lost in the moment like that. Noone is there but she gets up anyway. A bird sings the whip-like song it does, another one responds.
Back in her room she lights a candle and tries to stare at it without blinking. Looking for the face of Jesus to emerge or the brilliance of God to beam from this too bright naked white flame. Her eyes begin to water but she doesn’t waver and as the tears (but not really tears) come she feels something like God there and tries to keep that in her mind over and over until someone, a sibling, moves about upstairs and the creaking of the footsteps snaps her out of the trance. Closing her eyes again now and there is only the burnt retina sting of the flame bursting through the darkness and the face cannot appear and she takes some tissues and cleans under her skirt.
Section II:
The powers of witches, and how they recruit.
She takes his hand and leads him away from the town. It strangely not far, next to a highway but she makes it an escape anyway, her calm demeanour. The boy is under her trance, doing what she wants, following really. She asks him to lie down and he does. ‘Close your eyes’ she says and he does. He lies there, blind, waiting, tingling with anticipation. He open his eyes to see her crouched just a few paces away from him, examining different branches. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Looking for a wand….this one is good. See? One branch points to the Earth and the other to the Heavens’. He says nothing, somewhat in awe and also trying to calculate this sentiment. ‘I thought I told you to close your eyes’ she says, and he obeys. Another few beats of dark bliss for the boy until he feels a spindly branch tip on his face, tracing his skull and then the line in the middle, from his brow down the nose to his chin. This happens a few times, each more delicate that the last, he doesn’t smile, there is a reverence to be maintained: be a perfect subject. She leans over him, he can feel it, then gently kisses his mouth, he doesn’t dare react. More soft kisses and she says things like ‘you are mine’ and ‘beautiful boy’ and other strange sweet things, kissing every now and then so that he can swoon and not care and start to fall in love. He opens his eyes to look at her, she isn’t smiling, instead looking at him like he’s an object. He smiles and then she does. She starts again with the branch, gently touching his bare arms (t-shirt) and letting him look this time. Her scent is a mixture of human-type smells and a strange herb he’s never smelt before, but herbal yes. He wants more kisses but that part of the ritual is finished.
The walk back to town, he brushes the grass off his back and she looks forward, as if dreaming. They stop to do the departures and they kiss properly, with tongues and a normal human passion. It’s not once but a few times where their inexperienced mouths clash teeth and they giggle and keep going anyway. When they have finished the boy realises he has a lot of saliva in his mouth but he wants to hang on to it but has to swallow to talk and says ‘sorry…my big teeth’. She smiles and says ‘it was lovely’ and it’s really a goodbye.
He watches her go and tries to remember every detail of the last half an hour and replays each tiny heart jumping moment over and over, catches himself smiling uncontrollably, still trying to taste her on his tongue and lips but it’s fading.
Section III:
The trial, interrogation, torture, and the formal charging of the accused.
The train from her station is on the hour so it’s really easy for her to negotiate hygiene and dressing etc all the time because how easy is it to synchronise to the hour, it’s like a natural thing we’ve programmed ourselves to live by. And she leaves in that same mist of elderflower, nag champa incense from her bedroom, a crystal used as a deodorant, so, in ten minutes she’s going to smell like herself, at that time of the month her pheromones are all sweet and full of that stuff that men pick up without knowing they are still animals. The breeze is fresh and each step away from the house feels good, in fact, just twenty paces have completely excommunicated her from the home life, it’s now the trees and the keep-on-going city and the cars and her alone body mixing in with the rest of everything. The fear, the hope, the potential, stuff like that for a teenager. The station has the same mix of old people, families, weird loner guys sitting outside of the usual established protocol of sitting and waiting, smoking or spitting or else crouching weirdly with a hooded jumper as a mask or uniform. When they get on the train it’s almost a prerogative to split apart as much as possible… she ends up on the bottom level with two other teens at the back, and older man in front and her in the middle, a few seats down from a guy who is clearly in the army with his full camouflage outfit and mild-green duffel bag. The doors close, the train pulls away, there’s a good ten minutes until the next stop, the train has to wind down the mountain and enter the plains leading to the next town. There is about twenty or so breaths until the army guy gets up, walks down the aisle and stands over her, a smile on his lips, says ‘hey…how are you?’ and she hasn’t had this before and it’s weird and politely says ‘hi’ and he asks ‘can I sit here for a sec’ and she, not knowing what/why says ‘ok’ and he does and leans over and says ‘you’re very pretty’ and she smiles. Blushes, squirms, all that and he laughs and outs his hand on her lag and she moves back and he says ‘what’s wrong?’ and she says ‘nothing’ and he says ‘okay’ leaving his hand there and says ‘is everything ok?’ and she says ‘no’ thinking then that the old guy will get up and do something or that the world will help her but of course the train keeps moving. He slides his hand up her leg a little and says ‘you know I’m in the army… (slides hands further, under her skirt)… and I don’t…(further)… get to see many weird girls like you… what is this in your hair?’ he says, sliding his hand back off her bare skinned leg and sits back, asking about the metallic bead encrusted thing she has used to tie half her hair into kind of side pony tail. “oh…oh, it’s…just a…’ ‘ Hey, what’s wrong’ he says, making her feel even more closed in. She tries to get up but he stands over her and she moves closer to the window, this guy in green khaki now next to her, in the aisle. ‘You look so cute’ he says, now putting his hand straight up her leg under her dress, pushing a finger against her underwear and leaning over her. ‘Stop’ she says, squirming down into the seat. ‘Why?’ he says, looking her in the eyes and rubbing his fat fingers roughly over her vagina. ‘What are you doing?’ she says…’what?…’ and he’s really leaning in and pushing away her underwear and kind of over the top of her, moving the cotton away and trying to force a finger into her vagina and saying ‘it’s okay it’s okay’ and just doing it and she says ‘hey!’ and what the fuck are the rest of the passengers doing and as he gets most of a finger into her, she only thinks the next station is coming, the next station is coming and he keeps moving his finger(s) in and out and saying stuff but she’s not listening anymore and how the fuck did this happen and what the fuck is happening!
Assessment:
She did not cry out therefore she is not a witch so we have delivered a good soul to heaven.
Healthy children. They have the same red hair as their mother. They have a father who has never known that his wife was once alive and was hurt. And I can see in her face is that thing that the survivor human has where they say it with their face. Behind you, like when you leave a place, how distant it seems, in time, even if you live right there, right next to it still, you do that thing where you pretend that that wasn’t you or more accurately isn’t you. Anymore. The little girl you have borne comes running to you and you pick her up with her full toothed smile that makes it easy to never ever remember or regret or be even reminded of. Each night going to bed there is a prayer where you say help my father, help my mother, protect my children.
