The Power of Words

Writers’ Cramp:PROMPT: How about an EDUCATIONAL prompt? Write a story or poem that teaches your reader something.

The Power of Words

I had no idea who dropped the child at my cottage. She didn’t seem to know either. But what could you expect from a three-year-old? They weren’t exactly encyclopedias of information.

Once she got over her shyness with me, after I’d fed her until her cheeks grew rosy, and her tummy expanded way beyond its former sunken depression, she rattled on and on about my fuzzy cat.

“His name is Pumpkin,” I told the girl, which brought a burp of giggles.

At first, Pumpkin merely tolerated the child’s sticky fingers stroking his fur. But in a moment he was purring like an unoiled motor.

After a few minutes, he batted the child’s fingers, rolled over on his back, and practically begged her to play with him. I handed the girl a string. I had to show her how to dangle it.

The fear left her eyes then, and she was soon dropping and parrying like she’d been doing it all her life.

In the weeks that followed, when no one came to claim the child, I grew fond of her, fond enough to offer a name. I called her Chi, hoping the Chinese name for the force of all life would provide her a certain strength of will. After all, as far as I knew she had no family, no name, no substance other than that which I chose to give her.

Perhaps that is so for most children. I do not know since I am a witch and thus without any practice in such matters.

Months sped by. Months and years. The child grew, blossomed, became. Chi grabbed the heart of Pumpkin . . . and of me.

Since Chi had no one but me to teach her about the world, I imparted what I knew. Herbs, spiderwebs, daily chores, and witchcraft. Our lessons grew deeper.

“But why is it done like this?” Chi asked, her voice petulant for she always wanted to play outside, to dally in the sunshine.

“Lines hold the colors inside,” I told her. “What would happen if you scribbled all over my sketches of Pumpkin?”

Again that giggle, the one she always carried inside her. It licked at the goodness of her soul, then bubbled out with warmth and joy. A sharing that made me smile. Always.

“That’s silly,” Chi said. “I wouldn’t see the picture of Pumpkin anymore. He’d be all over with color, and the lines wouldn’t show up. Poor Pumpkin would be nothing but a smudge then.”

“Yes, and that is witchcraft, my dear. For to color inside the lines brings us the spell we desire. Thus each word must be precise, the flow word for word repeated exactly.”

“Okay, Molly. I’ll memorize it good.”

And so she did. Mostly. In her childish voice she sing-songed. And the flow surprised me with the strength of its power.

A single lilly on a mat
Beside a frog oh, so fat.
A hand passes o’er
Leaving twice more
Of lilly, frog, and mat
Thanks be to that.

A neophyte rarely produces lily, frog, or mat. If done correctly, the bewitched second grouping forms an image of each of the first, an image that flickers, then fades away almost instantly. A more practiced student can magic the objects into existence, so that one can touch their shape, even clasp the lily in hand for a few moments. Only the true witch, the experienced pro, will make her characters live and continue living.

Six-year-old Chi, on her very first lesson created not just images, but substance. The lily gave fragrance, its whiteness nature’s perfection. The frog joined its brother and hopped away. The mat lay side by side with its twin, neither differing the slightest.

From then on, the lessons held an inner tension for me, for I knew that Chi must do each spell correctly. Absolutely perfect in inflection and syntax, for any errors would be harsh on the world -- dangerous, in fact. Chi had that kind of power.

But the young take lessons lightly. Chi preferred to play outside in the sunshine. She’d rather scamper about with Pumpkin, chasing shadows, moonbeams, careless frogs and crickets.

The day came when a lesson did not go well.

Thrice pigeon mixed with thrice rooster plumes,
Darkened by a puff of smoke from two candle fumes
Under the open light of a full moon’s bloom
Bent through the window, shown into this room
Call forth strong magic at the beck of my call
To turn this water into medicine that cures all.

A simple spell, but in the lips of my child, a single word went wrong. The water turned to medicine that cursed all.

Witchcraft has its rules, as does every craft. A carpenter cannot build his house from inferior wood. If termites have softened the lumber, the house falls. Witchcraft’s rules are just as strict. Creating a spell of evil always boomerangs back at the witch.

That day, the water the child had turned into curses exploded. Smoke so heavy it was like thunder clouds at the peak of a storm, rushed about the room, enveloped her, then dissipated. My poor Chi fell instantly into a deep sleep. I carried her to her bed and lay her down.

Weeks have passed. Pumpkin remains at her side, barely eating, rarely going out into the moon shadows to prowl. And Chi, still sleeps.

I hunt through the books, sorting through my chants, hoping to find something that will cure my little one. I believe only the lips of a prince will awaken her, but princes are rare and seldom come when called.

I’m sending out this tale, in the hopes that some reader may know of an agreeable prince and send him this way. If not, perhaps only the lesson in its tale will send goodness into the world, for there is a moral here that we all must remember.

We must remind ourselves that words have great power.