Little Witch

by Ann O'Nonymous

  

She looked to be about nine years old, with big blue eyes and curly blonde hair, framing her face from the black hood of the cape she was wearing. In one hand she carried a besom (broom to those who do not know) and a nearly empty trick-or-treat bag in the other. Around her neck she wore a silver pentagram pendant that seemed to glow against the black dress background, to tell all the world of her witchiness. The dress itself had several occult and astrological symbols (although, for the uninitiated, it would be hard to tell one from the other) woven into the fabric.

On this Halloween, nobody paid much attention to one more little witch going door to door, blending in with the ghosts, PowerPuff girls, Fairies, Princes, skeletons, an occasional Batman and such, all seeking candy from relative strangers by asking three little ritualistic words: "Trick or Treat!"

But if you had followed her for maybe a block or two, you would see that she stopped only at a few places, and there she gave things out – not get candy for herself.

At the women's shelter, she left a check – enough to keep them going for six months. At an unemployed single parent's home with a new baby, it was money for diapers and food. Many more benefited from her generosity!

It was after taking care of a very abusive husband (really, you do NOT want to know) that she saw the menacing trio -- not one of them in a costume, except for the "Nixon" masks. There they stood, collecting the treats others had worked to get, threatening passersby that were smaller than them.

"Typical bullies," thought the little witch, "we could use a lot less of their kind."

"Well, lookie what we done gots here," said one ungrammatically, the apparent leader.

"Ooh, a bad ole witch! I'm s-o-o-o scared! More candy for us," stated another.

"Okay, little witchiepoo, hand over yo' bag or else," said the largest.

"Or else what?" she asked. She could see through their disguise, just as if it wasn't there. Indeed, to some all people show a certain quality, for want of a better word, to the world at large – a brightness of spirit in their heart, or the blackness of a person lost to greed, bullying, and a lack of an inner attribute called faith. After some thought, she stated, "I know you, and all you have done! But since you want what I have in my bag, so you shall receive it."

(Shall we take a look for ourselves at this "menacing trio"?)

Jason Martin had been a bully for years, starting as a boy of five. He deliberately broke things, and constantly harassed his unemployed single mother for items she couldn't afford, and to stop his constant whining, she gave in. Now, at fifteen, he was a terror on the school grounds with fisticuffs (Ooh, a big word for fighting), foul language, theft from teachers and smaller students, and a general disregard of all authority. It was also thought he was selling alcohol and other drugs to kids.

Mike Wilson was another teen troublemaker. Believed to have killed several neighborhood dogs just for the fun of it, he was headed to jail big-time. For now, he was content to pick on little girls, lifting up their skirts or dresses and making crude remarks to the other two. He was a beneficiary of Jason's drug sales.

The third in this group of civic misfits was Charlie Jones. He was, at age twelve, the youngest and the biggest – at five foot eleven inches. Although shoplifting was his specialty, he liked to beat up smaller boys when he was drunk. Also, he was the muscle – but definitely not the brains, often saying, "reading and thinking is for suckers."

The little witch turned out her bag of goodies, and handed over the three candy bars. One called "Baby Janes" went to Charlie; the next, "Miss Priss" went to Mike; and the last, "Windows Dressing" went to Jason.

"Gee, I'm real sorry – that's all I got!" the little witch said. "I think you'll like those candies – I hear they're real g-o-o-o-d."

Jason drew back his hand as if to slap the girl, but simply shoved her away as if she was of little concern to him, now having surrendered what little she had. The others pushed her around a bit, then down to the ground, and out of their way.

She watched the trio as they went down the street after another victim, munching on the ill-gotten bars as they went. She smiled an inward smile, thought about where she was going next, dismissing the group being of little importance to her, as there were other duties to perform.

Paul Smith saw the interaction as it went on, and would have intervened, if necessary. He would get the brunt of the beating, as there was bad blood between him and that group, but she was just a little girl, out to have some fun on a beautiful night! Why, he asked himself, are there always those who have to spoil things. She hadn't done a thing to them, so why did they bother her? He followed the little witch as she made her rounds.

She knew she was being followed – her perception (through meditation) was more acute than the average person. As she sensed he meant no harm, she allowed him to catch up to her.

"Hi Paul," the little witch said brightly, a smile in her voice.

"Err, hi. Emm, how did you know my name?" he asked, full of curiosity.

She giggled softly, smiled, then stated (for it was a statement), "I've seen you at school, and a friend told me your name."

As he wasn't in costume, he smirked at the logic of that simple explanation. "Oh," he replied grinning broadly.

"And, if I may ask, why no costume for you?" she asked, as they walked down the pumpkin and corn shuck decorated street, light poles festooned with black-and-orange streamers; decorated houses with inviting porch lights on, and children scampering to get that last piece from weary door-answering folks.

"Oh, my little sister is going trick-or-treating with her girlfriends and I just felt like I would be in the way – so, I just took a walk."

"Don't you like your sister's friends?"

"Oh, that's not it! They are all girls, and, well, I am a boy – I would be out of place – you know, a fifth wheel," Paul replied with a tired laugh.

The little witch detected a note of sadness in his speech, his head slightly bent, fighting the tears a boy of his age should not be showing. "You love your sister very much, don't you?" It wasn't really a question, more of a statement of truth she wanted to hear from him.

"I- I- Yes, I love her and her friends, only . . ."

"One boy in a group of girls – brrrr! Imagine what other boys would say – 'look at that sissy, hanging around girls.' And all the time they would be envying you. Ever think of that?"

"Not really."

"Hold on; got to stop at this house," she said as she started up a walk flanked by several comic tombstones. On the porch, in a chair, sat a scarecrow, and to its left an anatomically correct skeleton hung from a hook. Some windows had lit toothy pumpkins; others silhouetted black cats. Hanging on the door was an archaic peaked-hat witch riding on a broomstick.

He watched as she rang the bell, and when a young woman answered, he heard the little witch say, "treat" only. She handed the woman an envelope, and quickly moved away before the woman could react.

"What was that about," Paul asked curiously as she rejoined him.

"Oh, she was takes care of some children and never asks for payment. She is lonely, and needs a good man who really cares about her. I just pushed a button," the little witch replied.

As they got nearer to Paul's house, the little witch asked, "Your sister is having a party tomorrow for her girlfriends only – would you like to go?"

"I guess so, I do like all of them," he quickly replied, not knowing what she had in mind.

"Good! Once you do this, there is no turning back," she stated. "Again. I ask, In the Name of the Goddess, do you want to go to her party?"

"I would, but . . ."

She frowned a bit, then said, "For the third and last time, do you want to be closer to your sister, to have her friends as your friends, to enjoy her and to be more included in her life. It will start with this party, but it will not end – not even in death. This has to be your decision! For the third time, do you want to go to her party?"

It was the finality that got him – the "not even in death" part. So he asked, "Even in death – what do you mean by that?"

"In my belief, each time you live it is a learning experience, and when you die, you go to a place of rest. After a time, you are reborn in another body, and you carry over a part of the old you to that new existence," she quietly explained.

"Oh," Paul said. Well, he did take part in all stages of his sister's life, from helping to change her diapers to giving her baths as a baby to taking her hand to cross streets when going to school. Even helping her with school projects and homework. In his mind, a decision was made, and he said, "Yes, I do – please, ask me no more."

The pretty girl smiled, then handed him some bars of chocolate. She then said, "There's a beautiful full moon tonight. Take one bar, give one to your sister, and one to your mother. Have them all enjoy the bounty of Mother Earth. The others are for your sister's friends. Blessed Be," she said as she walked off.

Paul watched as she disappeared into a nearby wooded area, known locally as "Bishop's Seat woods" because of the strange rock formation in the center. He wondered what those candy bars could do to bring him and his sister closer. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked up the decorated path to his house, examining the strange "Love Me" bar. Inside his first words were, "Hey mom, guess what I met!"

The little witch walked into the moonlit forest, directly to a small clearing containing a circle of stones, in the center of which was a crudely drawn pentagram. Taking her athame, she cut an entry, and went to the center to perform her cleansing ritual (sorry, this is a secret rite – can't disclose). Kneeling, she prayed, "Most Gracious Goddess, grant me peace and forgiveness for what I have done this night. I ask in your name that all I have touched this night find the love and happiness denied to them, that those who are punished learn the hard lessons they need to learn, and that by my action none have been harmed now or in future times. Blessed Be."

A little witch walked into the woods, but a full-grown man walked out. Mr. James Baker was the principal of John Adams Middle School, and was well aware of what could happen, and would follow closely the lives of those the little witch visited. He looked at his pentagram, smiled as he placed it in his pocket, and walked the short distance to his home whistling Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries."

- - - - - - - - - .- . - .- . - - - - . - . - . . - -

At home, Paul gave his sister a bar of candy and his mother the other bar. As they listened to the little Batgirl's exploits, they enjoyed the chocolate treat along with a cup of warm milk before ending a long, happy day.

Some distance away, a trio broke up to head for their respective homes, and a night's sleep that will bring changes – many changes in many lives.

. . . - . . . - . . . - . . . - . . . - . . . -

Paul woke up around eight a.m., stretched, then, in a kind of shock, examined what he was wearing – a girl's nightgown! "Now how did . . ."

"Good morning sweetie," came from mom standing in the doorway, "and how are you this fine day?"

"Mom, I . . . I . . ."

A rushing body came flying in, jumped up on the bed and hugged him. "Oh Paulie, we are going to have s-o-o-o-o much fun together. We have a beautiful Princess costume and I can't wait to see you in it!"

Then, slowly, it all came back. The conversation about how he felt left out, how close he felt to his sister, and the agreement – he would be a princess for the party, and just maybe a few more times after that.

Well after the party, Paul sat fingering the soft satins, nylons and laces of the costume, and wishing fervently that that day would never, ever end – and in an odd kind of way, it never did.

(At twenty, Paul tells his soon-to-be wife all, and is surprised to find she will let him be Anne, his femme persona, whenever he wants. A gained sense of fashion makes him the perfect designer of woman's nightgowns and loungewear. His favorite model turns out to be his wife's sister.)

- - - . . . - - - . . . - . - . - - -. - - - . . - . - .

Jason Martin wanted to stretch but couldn't move a muscle – whoa, there weren't any muscles to stretch! He could see out a big window, into a rising October sun, but . . . where the heck was he?

"Okay, Suzie, let's get you ready for winter," came from behind.

A man approached and started to remove the Halloween costume the dummy was wearing. "Suzie, for this week, you'll be wearing pantyhose, snow boots, a basic black dress and a nice faux fur coat to keep you nice and warm! Now how does that sound sweetie," he said taking obvious delight in dressing and undressing for favorite window-display mannequin.

(Several years down the road, a homeless beggar would tell anyone who would listen about being "window dressing" for this and that department store, specialty shoppe, or even mall store – and the months he spent in clad in bra and panties only.)

- - - - - - - . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - . - .- . - .- . - .-

Charlie Jones woke up, and let out a large squeal – whaaa, whaa! He waved his(?) little arms about in all directions, and kicked about. He could feel the bothersome wet diaper. (The normally-occurring acids in urine were burning his sensitive skin.) As a baby, this was the only thought – get rid of that annoyance!

"I'm coming sweetie. Mommy's got a bottle for you!"

Looking up at the dark haired smiling woman, Charlie started to gurgle and coo, as would any baby on seeing their mother.

Quickly she checked underneath, and stated, "Why you need changing sweetie. Mommy's will change that nasty old diaper for you in a minute, Joanne." She was true to her word, and Charlie (now Joanne) would grow up in a world of love and kindness, instead of abuse and neglect.

(At age nineteen, Joanne Thomas entered a prestigious Ivy League school to pursue a law degree, and would soon graduate with honors. She would concentrate on spouse abuse and gender issues, as well as become a Wiccan HP.)

. . . - . . . - . . . - . . . -

Mike Wilson came down the stairs in the morning to an angry mother and father. He went to the table, turned a chair around, sat and said, "Yo ma, where's mah breakfast!"

"Young man I've had it up to here with your shenanigans! You are a disgrace to me and your father!"

Glancing at his father, he stated, "Hey pop, you gonna let that bitch get away wid that?"

His father got up, walked around the table and grabbed Mike, pulling him to his feet. "You say that word again, and you are going to be flying out a window – child abuse or not! I will not have you say that word to your mother, or any woman, ever again – DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR, punk!"

Scared out of his wits, Mike could only say, "Yes sir, I understand."

"Good! Julie, I think he's ready for the rest – I defer to you on this."

Julie Wilson smiled crookedly, as she replied, "Mikie, ever hear of Petticoating?"

Within a half hour, he was bathed, powdered, perfumed and dressed in silks, satins, laces and pretty bows. In time, he would learn to curtsey, smile at "Oh my, what a pretty, emm, girl," compliment, and master the art of putting on and removing makeup. For the next five or more years, he would have boys flipping up his skirts and petticoats (his mother insisted on him wearing them every day), and he would ride as "Princess something or other" in either school homecoming parade or Founder's Day celebration parade. There was no more need for him to flip girl's skirts, as he became well acquainted with frilly underthings.

(Eventually, a hard lesson was learned. At twenty-five, Mike got his GED and moved on, managing to get a job in advertising writing copy for Woman's Wear Daily. Eventually, he succumbed to a dominant lady in sales. In trying to get an update, she answered with, "He's tied up right now – I'll have him call you back!")

Ah yes, the last on this list: Mr. James Baker, Teacher of the Year – three years straight; Principal of the Year, twice; and father to three charming and lovely daughters, all destined to make a difference in the world. Witch extraordinaire – no! Just one who wanted to show the right path for others to follow.

So, if you see a little witch with beautiful blonde hair and smiling blue eyes, carrying a besom, say "Blessed Be" to her for me, and don't ever take any of her candy from her as you might wind up like me – a computer word-processing program that only works on TV/CD stories!

Blessed Be, from Annie O

Happy Samhain to all!

  

  

  

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