The Magic

THE MAGIC

         The weight of seventy-two hard years bent my back as I made my way around my modest home with a halting shuffle along the hardwood floors. The crone who looked back at me from my dresser mirror was barely five-feet tall, and wore her smoke gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. Soon my time would run out.

         That is why I pleaded with my daughter, Joy, to allow my granddaughter, Jennifer, now twelve, to spend her summer vacation with me. I needed time with Jennifer to see if she showed an interest in the things I could teach her -- things her mother could never grasp. To my delight and Jennifer's distress, Joy consented.

         But our first night together was off to a rocky start.

         "Little Mama," Jennifer pouted, using the name she had bestowed upon me as soon as she learned to talk, "Why can't I watch television longer? I'll put the volume way down so it won't bother you."

         "Because, baby, it's ten o'clock. And Little Mama wants to talk to you . . . tell you stories."

         She tossed her long, fiery-red hair, "I'm a little old for bedtime stories."

         "Not the kind I'm going to tell you. Now turn the television off and come lie next to me."

         She flipped the television off and took a place beside me on my big bed. The box fan on a table at the foot of the bed blew cool air over us. The pleasant smell of the "3-in-One" oil I used to lubricate the fan motor filled the air, and the droning whirr threatened to drown out my soft voice. I put a fresh dip of fine ground snuff between my gum and my dentures and began to talk. Jennifer didn't seem to be listening when I began my story, but I told her anyway.

         “When I was a little girl, up in the Ozark Mountains, we lived in a wooden shanty, a mile or more from our nearest neighbor, down a dusty path. We were ignorant folks, though we didn't know it at the time, and superstition was a real part of our everyday lives . . .with good cause. Things happened back then that people now wouldn't believe possible, but I swear to you, everything I'm saying is the God's honest truth.”

         I could tell by the tilt of her head she was listening now, though she continued to gaze into the fan.

         “One day I was walking to the creek for water when I heard a shishing sound in the tall, sun-dried grass alongside the path. Mind you, this was early in the twentieth century and wild animals a'plenty roamed those hills and woods. I hurried my steps, my bare feet tossing up dust puffs behind me.

         "There wasn't a sneeze worth of wind a'blowing, but off to my right I saw the grass waving in a straight line, like something was moving right along with me...but staying down low, so's I couldn't see it.”

         I spat tobacco into an empty soup can I held balanced on my belly and felt a thin brown trail of snuff escape down my chin. I wiped it away with a tissue.

         “That's when it came out of the grass. Black on top, red on the belly, with little red triangle markings along its sides. It must have been five-feet long, but it was hard to tell since it had its tail in its mouth and was rolling like a wheel toward me. The grown-ups called 'em hoop snakes, or mud snakes, and said they were harmless . . . but I wasn't about to find out.

         "I lit out a'running as fast as my seven-year-old legs would carry me, but that old snake rolled right beside me! I just knew he was going to let go of his tail and sink his fangs into me instead, so I darted off the path, into the grass. I looked back over my shoulder at that snake, happy to see him a'hooping on down the path, when I collided with something and fell back hard on my bottom.”

         I shivered as I re-lived the event in my mind.

         Jennifer had turned toward me. Her emerald-green eyes now filled with curiosity.

         “There I was, propped up on my elbows in the grass, looking at the hem of a long black dress and high-top, button-up shoes. I peered upwards slowly. The woman I had run into was as tall as a man and as thin as a split-limb fence post. She wore a tolerant smile. I couldn't see her eyes for the wide brim of her black felt hat.

         "The woman held her hand out to me, and I let her help me to my feet as I slapped at my dress, sending up a dusty cloud. I was covered in sticky burrs.

         ‘Are you all right, child?’ the woman asked, tilting her head back enough that the rest of her face was visible.

         "Her nose was long and slightly humped, like the mountain range to the north. Her eyes were brown, but the light caught her just right and gave them a reddish cast. I thought she was beautiful." ‘Yes'm, I'm fine. I was just running away from a hoop snake. Did you see it?’

         "She nodded." ‘Many strange and mysterious things like that in these woods. Oh, look, you're bleeding,’ she said, taking my arm in her slender hand and turning it so she could see my elbow.

         Sure enough, I had scraped myself on a rock or something when I fell. It was bleeding real good.

         ‘I can fix that for you, child. Come with me. My house is just over the ridge.’

         I pulled away from her and stepped backwards.

         ‘Now, now, that needs to be cleaned. And I have some fresh-baked cookies to take the pain away,’ she said, her smile growing wider. ‘Won't you come with me?’

         Cookies were in short supply around my house, so I nodded. She led the way and I followed. ‘What's your name, child?’ she asked.

         ‘Eula, ma'am. What's yours?’

         ‘Melanie,’ she said, holding her skirt up nearly to her knees to avoid the burrs.

         In just a few minutes we topped the ridge and started down. Her house rested on a gentle, grassy slope and was made from wood planks, like mine. But hers was painted! White, with green at the shutters and along the eaves, it was a lovely house. A small rock path led up to the door. The inside was cleaner than any house I'd ever seen, and the aroma of cookies near made me faint.

         She seated me at her kitchen table and pushed a plateful of cookies toward me. ‘Help yourself, Eula.’

         I took three and wolfed them down while watching her. She brought a bowl of water, a clean cloth and a small, brown bottle to the table and sat down next to me. ‘This won't hurt at all,’ she promised, dipping the cloth into the water then dabbing the dried blood from my arm to expose the wound.

         It was a good'un . . . deep and spread wide.

         Next, she tipped the brown bottle and caught a few drops of liquid on the cloth. I swear I thought I saw it smoke, but before I could withdraw my arm she had set the cloth over the wound, then laid her fingers over the cloth. It tingled. I looked up at Melanie and saw that her eyes were closed and her lips were moving silently as if she were praying. Then she lifted her fingers from the cloth and waved her hand over it twice, from left to right. ‘Have another cookie,’ she offered."

         . . . And I accepted," I said, spitting into my tin can.

         "Were they good cookies, Little Mama?" Jennifer asked.

         "Best I ever had, before or since. But let me go on . . ." I said, fluffing my pillow and leaning back against the headboard.

         “Melanie lifted away the cloth. I peeked to see the wound again, but it was gone! Gone like it had never been there. Only a circle of pink remained on my flesh where the gash had been. I looked up at her in wonder, but before I could say anything, a huge, raven-colored cat leaped to the table top across from me. It sat motionless except for the last inch of its tail which twitched and undulated like a worm on a fishing hook. ‘This is Malcolm, my cat and companion,’ Melanie said, smiling.

         I reached out to pet the animal. Cats were rare in the mountains. They were easy prey for the abundant wildlife, and didn't last long.

         Malcolm allowed me to rub his big, square head. It was the beginning of our friendship, and, I guess, the beginning of the whole miserable sequence of events that followed.

         That evening, after I left Melanie's house and finally fetched the water from the creek, I told my mother about the nice lady, her pretty house and the way she fixed my arm. My mistake was telling Mama this while Mrs. O'Banyon, the preacher's wife, was visiting. She had her brand new six-week-old baby boy with her and he cooed and gurgled in his wicker cradle.

         ‘Lord help us,’ Mrs. O'Banyon said, her normally pinched face becoming more sour looking. ‘Sounds like she used black magic on your arm! And you say she has a big, black cat? Why, witches keep them evil things around to house the spirit of demons!’

         ‘Oh, no, Mrs. O'Banyon, Melanie is really nice,’ I argued.

         She fastened her mean little eyes on me. ‘We'll see,’ she said.

         I spent many a happy afternoon at Melanie's, after I hurried through my chores. She always had time to talk to me, to teach me things. And fresh cookies and cold milk were ever plentiful. Malcolm, too, seemed happy to see me when I came to visit. His deep meow sounded exactly like ‘hello’”

         I shook my head sadly, remembering.

         "One day, as I walked down the stone path to Melanie's door, I heard a terrible wailing from inside the house. I rushed inside. Melanie sat on the floor with Malcolm in her lap. Her white apron was soaked in crimson. Malcolm's head hung loosely upon his shoulders and his little pink tongue hung from the side of his partially open mouth. ‘They've killed my Malcolm,’ Melanie cried. ‘For no other reason but meanness.’

         ‘Who killed him?’ I asked, choking back my own tears.

         ‘The preacher. He shot Malcolm. Caught him out in the woods and shot him. He barely had the strength to drag himself back here to me. Too far gone for me to help.’

         ‘How do you know it was the preacher?’

         Melanie looked up at me and her forehead furrowed. ‘Why, because Malcolm told me, of course.’

         I didn't question that -- it seemed sensible coming from Melanie.

         Melanie got to her feet, wrapped poor Malcolm in her apron and the two of us gave him a decent burial among the wildflowers, where butterflies drifted from place to place by the dozens. The prayer Melanie said over the small grave was in a language unfamiliar to me, and her eyes burned as she came to the finish. ‘I am a peaceable person. But I will not take abuse without also taking revenge,’ Melanie said with conviction. ‘The O'Banyon's have some trouble coming to them.’

         The very next day was Sunday and most folks from the area were in Preacher O'Banyon's church, which was just behind his house and fields. When he wasn't preaching, Mr. O'Banyon raised cattle. This day he looked down from his pulpit, his eyes seething with some internal fire. He slapped his worn Bible then shook it above his head. ‘There is a witch among us!' He boomed. ‘And she aims her black magic at me, God's messenger!’

         The twenty-five or so people in the congregation looked uneasily at each other and whispered among themselves.

         Then O'Banyon continued. ‘Here are the signs of the devil I have seen this very morning: my two milk cows have dried up. No milk flows from them to feed my family.’

         Oooo's and ahhhhh's from the pews.

         ‘But there is more! My well, which has been full of sweet, cool water, has turned bad. Filled with the taste and stench of sulfur! Brimstone! Satan's candy!’

         Now the people were quiet, wide-eyed in fear. They leaned forward from the wooden benches upon which they sat, eager to hear what the preacher said next.

         O'Banyon reached down and lifted a gunny sack above the podium. My family and I sat in the back row and I stood up on the bench to see over the head of the tall man in front of me. ‘This is the final proof that a witch roams our mountain,’ O'Banyon said, dumping the contents of the sack onto the floor in front of the podium.

         People in the front row flowed to either end of the bench like waves parting. The lump on the floor was a black and white newborn calf. Four dead eyes were rolled up in the calf's two heads.

         ‘Our Bible, the living word of God, tells us to suffer not a witch to live! Are we going to let this hag, this pawn of the Devil, practice her dark powers on us?’ O'Banyon asked, already knowing the answer he would receive from his easily influenced audience.

         A chorus of angry ‘No’s!’ shook the rafters.

         ‘Who is this witch, Preacher? Where can we find her?’, a red-faced, thick-necked farmer asked.

         Preacher O'Banyon lowered his head and let a long sigh escape his lips. ‘It is a woman called by the name Melanie, who lives on the eastern slope of Razorback Ridge. My good wife, Sarah, first heard of the woman's evil ways and reported them to me. She has been warning me of bad luck -- and now it has fallen upon us.’

         I noticed he left out the fact that he had killed Malcolm. But I was already in flight. Off the bench and through the doors, I paused long enough to rid my feet of the uncomfortable shoes I was made to wear to church, and, once barefoot, I ran in a long-legged stride to warn Melanie of the danger she faced.”

         I spat in the can. My eyes were moist and I felt my lower lip quiver. Jennifer took my wrinkled, blue-veined hand in hers and squeezed gently. I leaned over and kissed her smooth, unblemished forehead, then continued my story.

         “But I forgot the horses. No matter how fast I ran I couldn't outrun the men on horseback. They flashed past me, big hooves pounding the earth, flinging up dirt and bits of grass. Still I ran, first catching the acrid smell of smoke in the air, then spotting a gray cloud billowing into the clear blue August morning before I topped the ridge over-looking Melanie's house. All of the men from church were there, and one woman, the only woman who owned a buckboard: Mrs. O'Banyon.

         Melanie's wonderful little house was engulfed in flames, crackling and hissing as the wood burned. I walked slowly down to stand with the crowd, feeling sorry that Melanie wouldn't have her nice home anymore.

         Then I heard the scream.

         Melanie was in the inferno!

         I ran toward the door, but Mrs. O'Banyon caught my shoulder and threw me roughly to the ground. ‘Leave it be, child. You've trucked with the witch long enough.’

         "Then the door burst opened and a fine, tall figure, enveloped in searing flame, stood in the doorway. Her dress was mostly burned away and her black hat was alight like the candle on a birthday cake. She dropped to her knees, swaying, but then she straightened for a moment and pointed her trembling right index finger at Mrs. O'Banyon, who held her baby in her arms. In a voice which seemed louder, more piercing than one would think possible, Melanie screamed, ‘To YOU I leave my CURSE!’"

         "I was crawling toward her when she turned slightly and pointed her flaming finger directly at me. In a voice as soft as the wind, so soft I was certain no one else could hear, Melanie sighed," ‘To YOU I leave my MAGIC.’

         "She swayed, then fell to her side, unmoving.”

         The tears which earlier threatened to erupt from my rheumy blue eyes came then, coursing down my furrowed cheeks as I continued.

         “The next day, as Mrs. O'Banyon hung laundry on the line, and tended to her garden, a short distance from her house, she failed to notice that the gate to the pigsty was left ajar. The two huge hogs, named Sodom and Gomorrah by Mr. O'Banyon, made their way into the house. And, while Mrs. O'Banyon chopped weeds away from her radishes, the hogs ate the baby.

         "She and the preacher moved away not long after, but Mrs. O'Banyon's mind was mostly gone by then.”

         I noticed that Jennifer had her thumb between her teeth and was biting down hard. Her eyes were saucer wide. "WAS she a witch, Little Mama?"

         "I surely believe so. But not a bad witch. Just a witch who wanted to be left alone to live her life as she saw fit."

         Jennifer swung her still-childish legs off the bed. "I need to go to the bathroom, Little Mama. Will you tell me more when I come back?"

         I nodded and watched her walk toward the bathroom. She was interested in my stories. A good sign. Her mother had never seemed to care.

         When Jennifer returned, she was half running -- too fast to navigate my furniture-crowded bedroom. In the blink of an eye she stubbed her bare toe against the runner of my rocking chair. Her balance lost, she reached out for something to stop her fall. Her small hand struck the back of the fan and her index finger slipped through the protective horizontal metal bands.

         I heard a dull thud as the blade slashed her flesh.

         The bedspread was speckled with red as blood sprayed from the front of the fan.

         Jennifer screamed and yanked her hand away from the fan. I saw that her finger was gashed from the fingertip passed the second joint. Dead white bone showed through the gaping, gushing wound. Jennifer went pale and swayed drunkenly.

         Moving faster than my age should allow, I rushed to her side. Jennifer looked into my eyes, horrified by her injury. "Little Mama . . ."

         "Shhhh," I comforted her. "Don't be afraid." I lifted her ruined hand close to my lips and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the wound. She gasped as I wrapped her finger in the hem of my dress and held it tightly.

         She watched my lips move silently.

         When I waved my free hand over the mangled finger from left to right, once -- twice, I saw the pain leave Jennifer's eyes and a wonderful understanding fill them.

         In a voice no longer child-like, she said, "Teach me, Little Mama. Teach me the magic."

         And I did.

The End

dm