The Magic Circle (8 page)

The vision must be sealed away.

The rage must not win.

I have lived here nine years now. The same amount
of time that I served as a sorceress. At first I was never alone. They sent me imps. The earliest imps were wolves. I asked them if they ate grandmothers, and they smiled slyly. I offered them beet skin to gnaw on. They ran off.

Then came the small cats. They rubbed around my ankles and made me yearn for human contact. So I went to the hawthorn and wrapped my ankles in brambles that kept the cats at a distance. They mewed piteously. So I went to the dandelions and stuffed my ears with milkweed. They lay about the floor in piles, licking one another, being a family, breaking the heart I no longer have. So I went to the belladonna plant and chewed and chewed until my pupils opened so wide I could not see. Never did I use magic. The cats ran off.

And, of course, through it all were the nets of beauty, strung out to entrap me. For years I was wary of these nets. I was on the lookout for minerals—the precious stones and metals that had marked my nine years as a sorceress. I expected the spray of the lake in a storm to turn to emeralds. I expected raindrops to turn to diamonds. I planned my response: I would gaze impassively upon the gems, then look away. But the devils knew I’d never touch another crystal. They didn’t waste their time, Instead, they sent a different type of ornament.

Once when I was following a natural path barefoot
through these great southern fir trees, the path itself turned to velvet black stones. I picked up a stone and realized it was jet. Against my will, my eyes saw how the jet would shine with a vigorous polish. I wanted to throw it away—to hurl it at the skies. But I knew better. I placed it down gently, exactly where I’d picked it up from, and walked home and put on shoes. I never went barefoot again.

Another day I was raiding a honeycomb when a large chunk of brown tumbled from the rotting tree. When it hit the ground, it split, exposing the golden honey glow of amber. I patiently set the honeycomb back in the tree trunk and turned my back on the amber. I went home. And I trained my tongue to favor rosemary, savory, and thyme. No more sweets for me. No more visits to the honey tree. From that day on I even forbade myself the taste of my own candies.

Yet another day I knelt on the shore of a large lake and let the sand sift through my fingers for the sheer silky pleasure. The grains of sand turned to pearls. They glistened with the white innocence of Asa’s soul. I wanted to form a cup with my hands and drink of them. Instead, I brushed off my hands and stripped and swam in the cold waters until I was numb.

Nature’s beauty turned ornamental, fashioned from
plants and animals—these things lure me not. Nor do the surprisingly fragrant orchids, which come in shameless profusion. Nor do the yellow clouds of canaries, the melodious birds that were unknown to me before I came to this land. No assault on my vision or smell or hearing can win.

I cannot be tempted by that which lived or lives, any more than I can be tempted by that which never lived.

Eventually these assaults on my senses ended. Or, rather, eventually I stopped noticing them. Or, in truth, eventually, though I still noticed, the callouses on my spirit prevented wounds. I am impervious to nature’s perfection.

Sometimes I catch a spider regarding me silently. I move closer. Once a sunbeam split through dew on a web and danced all colors along my eaves. But I turned my eyes to the spider alone. To the spider’s eyes. I always look carefully in a spider’s eyes. And sometimes I think I see a spark of fury in those eyes. I allow no impish cobwebs in my home. I sweep with a broom made from the witch-hazel bush. Fitting name, I think.

Imps usually come to witches to help them perform their evil magic. Since I perform no magic, their presence cannot be mistaken for a cordiality. And since I am immune to temptation, they are not here to lure me. They
have but one purpose: They are spies. The furious spiders that appear on my walls, on my pillow, in my cupboards less and less frequently in these last few years, they are all spies. I rub the shelves with vinegar each day, out-lawing the dust that can hide spiders. My home smells of fermentation, but it is a clean acidity. It is the best that I can do. The energy I once focused on healing and loving the divine being now works to keep the devils at bay.

At times, though, I am alone. Totally alone. I believe I am alone now.

I am setting the beet juice outside to cool when the doe runs past, fear making her hooves fleet. I do not ask her why she runs. I could, but I resist. Years ago, when I sat quietly on the south side of a hill admiring a fox family lolling about outside their den in the warm morning sun, the serpent devil slithered up behind me and licked my ears. Instantly I could hear the loving encouragement the vixen gave her kits. I fled, full of the pain of loss. From that moment on, I have understood the language of every animal, large and small. Yet I never talk with them. I know their company would only make the forbidden idea of human company more attractive. I learned that lesson from the vixen. I do not even allow myself to eavesdrop. I must shut my ears now so that I cannot hear this doe’s anguish.

A flock of starlings is startled. They rise into the air in a noisy cloud of black and yellow. I hate starlings, of course.

And a family of squirrels is racing by. The younger ones are curious, running back to the source of the fear, disappearing for many minutes, then racing on ahead again.

I am not curious myself. Curiosity is an innocent emotion. I am only anxious. I shut myself in my candy house and build a fire. Most living creatures are afraid of fire. I grab my witch-hazel broom and hold it ready to thrust into the fire. I can use it like a torch if I must defend myself. I wish I could light a starling afire.

Suddenly my window breaks. That window of spun-sugar glass. The pink shards melt in the heat from the burning bird. A starling lies on my floor enveloped in a red and yellow sphere. My ears hurt from its silent shriek. Before my eyes the flaming wings turn to ash and nothing is left but smoke.

Oh, why did I allow myself a wish? Oh, dreadful wish. I fall to my knees and lean over what isn’t there any longer. I have exercised an evil power without meaning to. The very fact that the devils have left me alone for so long is a type of seduction. I have been seduced into killing this bird. After nine long years I am still vulnerable.
Oh, misery that owns my heart. I must stay on guard always, even if the devils are distant. For the evil power is mine always. It is a task not to use that power. A wearisome, difficult task. I must be vigilant.

I leave the safety of the hearth and walk to my bed. I lie down and shut my eyes. I will not sleep.

And yet I feel the sleep overtaking me. My eyelids are thick and wet as lily pads. I tell myself I could easily open them, but I don’t want to right now. It is by choice that I lie here with shut eyes. My choice. Yes.

I don’t know if I slept. It is possible, for as the voices come to me, I feel that I am awakening. But the voices are not within my head. My body freezes. The voices are outside my home.

“Throw me down some gumdrops, Hansel,” says a light, high voice. The sound is musical, but the words cut me as deeply as any sword. A child is outside my home. A human child!

“Here, Gretel.”

I hear the sound of something breaking from my roof.

The child named Gretel laughs. “Maybe we won’t starve, after all.” Her laughter is not totally gleeful. A hint of panic whets her voice.

I am totally alert. I am scanning my deepest thoughts. I find nothing to be afraid of. Yet I must not let down
my guard. I remember how my mouth watered at the vision of my own grandchildren. I am not trustworthy.

“Candy is good, Gretel,” says the child Hansel. “All the time they’ve been lying to us. Candy is wonderful.”

“Hush. Don’t say wicked thoughts. We are eating this candy only because we need to,” says Gretel with a full mouth. “Recall the pastor’s words. We must deny pleasures of the flesh. We are not eating this candy by choice. We are not sinners.” There is fear in her voice. Her pastor is a powerful force.

“I’m eating it because I like it,” says Hansel.

A smacking sound comes from Gretel’s mouth. I know her tongue is working at the sticky gumdrop in her teeth. “It is sweet, I admit.” She gives a small, childlike laugh. “Very sweet. And the cottage is so beautiful. I cannot believe how beautiful it is. It is like heaven itself.”

Her voice is full of awe. These children are agog at my home. The girl Gretel called it a cottage. The word sounds warm and cozy and happy. I feel myself standing up, not knowing what I am going to do next.

“Oh, this one has peppermint flavor. Gretel, taste this.” There is the sound of something breaking from my roof again.

I am slightly giddy. I speak, but my voice is musical, not my old, rough peasant’s voice. No, it is the gentle
voice of a friend. I am saying, “Nibble nibble like a mouse, Who is nibbling at my house?” My words are sweet as the candy the children eat.

“It is only the wind,” says Hansel from the roof.

What a foolish, innocent child. Would that all of us could be so innocent.

I open the front door and look upon the little girl in braids. Her eyes open wide at my ugliness. She drops the gumdrop, even though her whole body is aching for its nourishment. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth.

“Don’t be afraid,” my sweet voice says. “You must be tired, and I can see you are hungry. I’ll feed you.”

The girl lowers her hands. The boy drops from the roof. He is younger and suffering even more from lack of food. They look at me with fear and hope. The bitter hunger of creeping starvation burns from those eyes.

“I am ugly, it is true,” I say. “But you know better than to be afraid of outer appearances.”

The girl motions to the boy to come by her side. He obeys. He trusts her. I admire that trust.

“Come inside,” I say.

Gretel stands motionless Hansel looks up at her. Then he looks at me. He wants to come inside.

“I have known the pain of hunger,” I say. “And I have
known the pain of loneliness. I can help you. Come inside.”

Hansel takes a step forward. Gretel pulls him back.

“You are a wise and careful girl,” I say to Gretel.

“Who are you?” she says at last. Her voice is young and open and human. It is everything I am not.

“I am an old woman. I live alone. I have a simple life.”

Gretel seems to gather courage from my words. “I am Gretel. This is my brother, Hansel. What is your name?”

“You can call me Old Woman.” I step back so she can see the inside of my home. The kitchen table is within view. A bowl of wild cherries I gathered only yesterday sits there invitingly.

The girl licks her lower lip. Her eyes suddenly become decisive. She walks up and takes my hand. She is older than my grandchildren. But the roundness of her cheeks is familiar. If I could love these children, I would. Her eyes are forceful. I recognize that she is trying to win me over. Hunger has made her desperate. But there is no need for her to work so hard at winning me. I have an instinctive attraction for her.

We go into the candy-bedecked house.

E
ndive soup,” I am saying, “is good for you.”

“With chicken to flavor it,” says Gretel. She pulls a chicken wishbone from her pocket. “I saved this from the last time we had chicken. More than a year ago. It was delicious.” Her eyes shine with the hope of satisfying the hunger that makes her cheeks twitch. “I brought it with me for good luck.” She puts the wishbone carefully back in her pocket. “We need a chicken thigh. A nice, juicy chicken thigh.” She licks her top lip. “The dark meat and blood would add flavor.”

I look at her sharply, afraid the voices will start in my head. “And how is it one so small as you knows the art of the kitchen?”

“I helped my mother cook,” says Gretel. “She called out what I was to do as she spun wool, and I followed the directions.”

“I helped, too,” says Hansel. “I brought Mother the wool.”

“You have a flock of sheep, then?” I ask doubtfully. These children wear old, tired garments. They haven’t the look of children whose parents own animals.

“Oh, no,” says Hansel. “I gathered bush wool.”

I am confused. I look to Gretel for an explanation.

Gretel laughs. “You know, the tufts that remain when flocks are transferred from one grazing area to the next. I showed Hansel how to collect it. That was before our mother died.” Gretel rummages through my small collection of pots and pans as she talks. “I enjoy cooking.”

“Your mother is dead,” I say softly. Orphans have come to me.

“But our father is alive,” says Hansel, sitting at the table, swinging his short, stubby legs.

“And he has married a most wretched woman,” says Gretel.

“A real witch,” says Hansel.

His words hurt my ears.

“She sent us into the woods, thinking we would die right away.” Gretel has chosen a pot. She rubs out the
inside with her filthy skirt and smells it. I would smile at her vain effort if I were not afraid of offending this earnest child. The pot obviously has passed her test, for she now sets it on the kitchen table. “We wouldn’t have even gotten lost except for the fact that Hansel is so stupid.”