The Witch and The Apparition

I’m standing in my living room looking toward the kitchen and dining room. It’s a bright sunny morning as the sun’s rays shine through the windows. All my things are neatly arranged on the shelves. The tablecloth straightened with fresh flowers. There are others in the room dressed in church wear. My husband has just died and we buried him today.

I’m looking at my house for the last time. In my day, I don’t have rights to anything in the house. It belonged all to my husband, since a woman is considered the property of the husband and has no legal rights. I am therefore in the grace of my brother, and if there is no brother, then my brother-n-law. In my case, my brother-n-law was my husband’s sister’s husband. He took everything with a hug and the cowardice of a smile. He chose not to care for me and so I was “sentenced” into the wild like all the other women.

Through the years I learned not to begrudge my brother-n-law. After all, I was a witch. He could have turned me in to the authorities and sent me to the stake. Of course, his family’s reputation would have been marred. So in his attempt at a deal, he chose just to steal my home. I didn’t even get to keep my herbs or potted jars. The only companion I took with me out into the parched desert sun was my prayer shawl from my altar. It was also a gift from my husband. Did he know I was a witch? Of course. He was more open minded than most. Just as long as I didn’t involve him or keep it out into the open when he was home, we lived in harmony. He preferred simplicity and order. That’s why I loved him.

We all have our favorite spot. My home became a hill, a mound really, beside the only road that traveled into my once hometown. It’s easy to beg for food or belongings or anything that might protect you from starving and the heat. Not that too many people take pity on a wild woman, who looks like no one they would meet up with in the church hall. I dare say not even my relatives would no my name if they saw me now. Still, every now and then, someone will leave something behind or my appearance will make him or her nervous enough to leave me an ounce of something.

I’m not sure if I even remember a time before such as this anymore. It is too fancy a dream having lace hats and jewelry. For all I have now is mangled hair and worts. My shawl has become as parched for color as I am for nourishment. There’s not much nutrition in dust. Still mud can be a cool consolation by dusk when the shadows cool the blisters. I’m tired of the same curve in the road, the same rocks, and the same rust brown. But it is way too dangerous to remember lavender fans and the snatches of laughter by the cool drink of lemonade.

The only things that follow me around are the mites in my hair and the old man who has claimed me as his property in this barren land. Though he has certainly tried to make me his, I am no man’s property anymore. He seems to be content with the fact that no other has come to challenge his right. Still, in an odd way, he comforts me. He maintains his distance, but he makes sure I am not harmed. Language passes for grunts mostly. How long has it been? Been since what? I am but a grain in this world’s shoe. When will it finally be over and I can move on to rest?

Then one day, my prayer was answered, in the most unlikely manner. Two gentlemen came looking for a party, drunk from too much passion wine and ready for more. The best place for kicks is out of town to look for a wild woman to ravage. After all, what law would one have broken? And who would know or care? I knew it was best to stay at my mound after dark, but the road had been busy all day. I thought possibly one more stranger would spare a glance and cast me luck. All I found was the strength of two men dragging me to an unseen spot and tearing off my clothes.

For a moment I was truly terrified. Then I realized, my end was surely about to come, and I welcomed it. My shawl was the first to be torn as the two young men cornered me against the hill. Conversing over who should go first and who should hold me down, they shoved my garment up to my waist. That’s as about as far as they got, though. My “protector,” that old man from across the road, flew from above the mound and jumped on top of them. The men were too drunk to defend themselves, let alone against the raging of a madman.

I at first wondered how he knew where I was. Then for the briefest of moments I saw myself standing on the side of the road, clothed in the raven black evening dress I wore when my husband died. The apparition was pointing to where I had been dragged, while looking at the old man who was searching for me when he couldn’t find me by my usual spot. The apparition spoke to the man, but he didn’t understand the language and continued searching down the road. Again, the apparition spoke to the man. Once she got his attention, she pointed toward the site where the men were throwing away their drinks and stripping my clothes.

I saw through the apparition’s eyes. I watched the old man jump on top of the men and beat them silly until they freed themselves and ran back into town. Then once again I was the wild woman who had just been saved by my only friend in this God forsaken land. The old man found my prayer shawl and wrapped me back up as best as he could. I had no strength to speak, so I just stared at him. The apparition stayed visible in the road. I limped over to the blue mist woman and stared at her.

“Remember, who you are!” she demanded.

I bent over, shook my head, and grunted as I walked away from her.

“You had a life before coming out here. Are you going to give up on that person? She is still you!”

I used to treasure what I once was, but how many times have I seen my reflection to know I am nothing what I used to be? If I was such a profound person, why couldn’t I make it out here by myself?

“You are a witch! Don’t let yourself die! There is still much for you to live!”

Her words trickled in hope. But I knew that hope was a luxury that became as fleeting as my right to own my own things or to see my husband’s face again. And yet, when I turned to return to my little mound, I looked at the road and couldn’t bear one more morning staring at that same encrusted path. I turned to the apparition, looking at my former self again. I was dressed in a rich vibrant colored dress that had no holes or raveling threads that tickled the legs. My hair was brushed and smooth. My skin was soft and porcelain. My eyes were piercing, instead of the vacant sense I felt most days. I could be that again? I dared to ask silently. Then finding the spit to coat my vocal chords I spoke in a language I hadn’t used in many years.

“What do I have to do?” I hardly believed I still remembered how to speak. The old man was visibly shaken by my noise and looked at me strangely.

“Believe. That’s it.” She handed me a broom, the witch’s most preferred traveling method. Some used to ask why. It’s no so much that it is comfortable, but it allows you to be close to the moon and stars. A person who claims majesty without first looking upon some of the scenery I’ve seen knows not what majestic is.

She hovered in the air resting on her own broom, “Well?”

I grabbed the broom she held out for me. The energy, adrenaline, and the woman I used to be, the witch that I am, began swelling in my veins. I was truly alive, in how many seasons? “I believe.” I responded, with such confidence. I ran down the path toward town and jumped on the broom.

For a second I did fly. Then I fell flat on my face in the dust. I heard laughter behind me from the old man.

But I stood back up, brushed the dust off my non-colored clothing and responded again to my soul, “I believe.” As if to say, you have no choice, this is what we know and this is what will be done. The soul must have received the message. I jumped back up on the broom and flew.

Of course I slipped off. I wasn’t use to flying and those handles are so narrow. But I held on with my hands and propped my elbows on the shaft.

“Are you okay, do you wish to stop to readjust yourself?” The apparition offered.

“No, I am just fine. I’ll fly like this.” She nodded and we raced toward town. It wasn’t exactly easy, but I so missed the sensation of freedom that nothing could distract me from the moment.

As we reached near the outskirts of town I saw several people walking on the road in straight lines. It looked like some sort of ceremony. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Another demonstration.” She said.

Demonstration is not a word I quickly forgot. That meant my fellow sisters were being executed as a reminder of punishment to those who decided they could think and worship for themselves. Whether that meant being an actual witch or someone who considered herself equal to a man, it didn’t matter; both were blasphemous. Somehow the priests thought it better to cut off the head before burning our bodies at the stake. Possibly so that our wicked mind could be severed from our heart and that God could still have a chance to save our souls.

I watched as four priests, dressed in black robes, swung incense as they chanted and walked solemnly to the execution site. Behind them were six women dressed in red gowns covered by black robes. Bringing up the rear were two more priestly guards.

Filled with so many years worth of anger and rage, not only from what I had to endure and what women were reduced to, but for what these religious hypocrites call holy and cleansing I determined, “We have to do something.”

My apparition and I flew down over the crowd, which scattered. I stepped to the ground and began to untie the ladies while my other half kept the priests running. One of the women grabbed a stick on the side of the road and began to beat one of the priests. Bashing him in the neck, she tried to dislocate his head. The apparition landed and began to help her.

While watching the priest being tortured, and the warning fear that we could all still be rounded up, I realized there was a far better way to take care of these men. We didn’t need to beat them to kill them. All we had to do was touch our brooms on either side of their necks and the deed would be done. “Wait! Like this!” I shouted.

The apparition and I being the only ones with brooms danced among the priests and swung our besoms like choreographers. Upon contact, the priests sank to the floor. Trying to chase after them took to much effort, so we re-channeled our energy and made contact with one of the women who was a witch and in the power of three even the priest hiding behind the rock gasped his last breath. The adrenalin surged through my veins and it strengthened my soul. By fighting back I no longer felt like a victim. This town may demand a certain life for a female, but my world was not going to be that way.

I did not know the women who I had saved, but over the years they became closer to me than, in some ways, my husband ever was. They took me back to their dwelling and here I have stayed. My apparition left that night, once I was safely delivered into the hands of my new family. Sometimes I wonder if she was simply the power within me that wasn’t willing to die and demanded an appearance. I’ve never asked her. Sure I’ve seen her since, but only when a serious ritual is performed that requires a deep-seated trance or one of our most celebrated festivals calls in all Goddesses and Guides.

The land I live in now is cool, lush and green, and never wants of something to drink. My appearance is as it was in the beginning of my journey. The lice are creatures of the past. Worts are but an herb for the potions. I don’t know all the reasons why I ever became that beggar. But perhaps the most important reason is that in the universe’s wisdom I was given a chapter to experience death, so that I may be reborn as a legend.