The Witches of La Befana

                 At fifty-three, petite Calliope Carre didn’t look a day over forty. In fact, with her perfect smile and extra curly brown locks, she could often pass for a much younger woman. To her, it was all about the energy. If she put a bounce in her step and shook her shoulders just right, she could make people believe whatever she wanted them to believe. Ce-ce, as she was called by her friends, had a special power.

               All her life she had known she was unique but she didn’t realize just how unique she was until she began divorce proceedings, five years prior, from her abusive husband, Franklin. Towards the end of their marriage, she could feel the force welling up inside her, like water building up behind a dam. Then it happened, she was able to release this pent-up inner energy and direct it into something useful.

               It was six years to the day, beneath this very oak tree, that she finally let her gift loose upon a little grey squirrel. It was the sixth of January, La Befana, Sister Basil Philipa would tell her later: The Feast of the Epiphany. The small rodent darted across the road in front of a car. The vehicle passed over it but its excessive speed created a whirlwind that pulled the animal from the pavement to be hit by the transmission housing.

               Barely alive, the wounded creature managed to crawl across the road to the sidewalk, only to die at her feet. Her heart welled with great sorrow and she knelt down to stroke the squirrel's grey fur with her finger. When she made contact with the animal, it was as if she was being electrocuted and could not pull her finger away. But this was no electric shock. It felt more like heartburn, only it originated from her hips and slowly made its way up her torso to her left arm.

               Horrified, she thought she might be having a heart-attack. Her thoughts flashed back to her parents, her timid mother and abusive father. Did he have a history of heart disease? But he was not her real father, she recalled, as her niece revealed to her ‘the secret’ surrounding her birth. She could feel a tiny bubble traveling along her bicep towards her elbow, to her outstretched finger. She saw a dim yellow light, like a flame, spread over the chest of the lifeless body. Suddenly, the squirrel popped back to life, looked at her, terror stricken, bit her hard on the finger and ran off.

               “Ow!” she yelped. Startled but glad to be free. Her finger smarted but there was no blood. Uncontrollably, she burped, loudly, and a small puff of dark smoke escaped her mouth.

               She remembered the euphoric feeling she experienced after the incident and that she grew so tired she had to sit down on the low wall where she now sat. Her blue and white Volkswagen Eurovan was parked in front of her on the street. Blue was her color, Sister Basil told her. It anchored her power and helped her direct it more easily. Her mind went to the elder woman who was now bedridden in an apartment near Bryn Mawr Park, where she also lived.

               It was Sister Basil who approached her on this very day, two years ago, as she sat on a bench amongst the grove of large oak trees in the park. It was near to the house where she rented an apartment from her friend, David. She was waiting for a locksmith to come and open the latch that no longer worked with her key. She found this odd because the lock had never given her a problem before.

               An old woman, garbed in the dark blue habit of an order of nuns she often spied walking around this urban preserve. All was covered by the thick azure cloak except her wrinkled face and gnarled hands that clutched a rosary of wooden prayer beads.

               Staring straight ahead at the trees in the glade, the old woman spoke, “La Befana.”

               Her accent was thick and Ce-ce would later learn it was Italian, of a dialect spoken by people who dwell in hilltop villages of the Abruzzo province in central Italy. She remembered their first exchange with incredible clarity; that was the day she found out she was a witch.

               “You no can get in? Si!” The aged crone barked at her.

               “Yes,” Ce-ce replied, surprised.

               “You don’t know, yet, do you?” The old woman asked, cocking her head to the side and peering at her with her one good eye; the other eye was completely clouded over and teary.

               Confused, Ce-ce couldn’t help but stare at how cracked the nun’s lips were and marveled that any sound could make its way through such deeply furrowed canyons, thick and crusty from dried saliva. She didn’t answer. Clutching her large brown leather purse to her chest, she gazed at the lumpy old bag in the blue outfit.

               Sister Basil Philipa's body spasmed, her spine began to twist unnaturally and she let loose an incredibly strange utterance, “Arghabracalamacaloff!”

               Ce-ce’s pursed changed color to bright periwinkle blue. The younger woman gasped and dropped her bag, letting it fall onto the bench.

               For a brief moment, the old crow was no longer this bent-over shell of a human being. She sat straighter and looked at her with both eyes wide open, the cloudy eye was no longer clouded. The sun darkened momentarily and wind shook the leaves on the trees.

               The sun brightened and Ce-ce could see she was just an old woman again.

               Her voice tired and seeming spent, Sister Basil said, “This is your color.” Then she slowly rose and walked away.

               Ce-ce recalled how mad she was when she finally called the locksmith and found he was not coming. She returned to her front door and was shocked to find the aged nun leaning against the wall of the alcove, counting the strands of straw on the broom used to sweep the steps. At this point, she was certain Sister Basil was crazy, probably schizophrenic.

               The old lady ticked off the last few straws and shouted, “Ha!” as the door suddenly flung itself open.

               The old woman grabbed Ce-ce’s arm, scaring her nearly out of her skin and demanded, in an eerie voice, “The present!”

               Shaking her head in disbelief at what was happening, Ce-ce remembered that she had a vase in her handbag. It was a gift for her part-time roommate and landlord. It was hand-crafted by Navajo Indians in New Mexico. She reached into her purse and handed it to the old woman who would not take it. She merely motioned with her hand towards the open doorway.

                Sitting on the wall beneath the large oak tree, the place where the squirrel had died, she rehashed the story, related to her by Sister Basil, about La Befana: The Feast of the Epiphany. She spoke of an old woman who refused to accompany three wise men following a star. A star that led them to the birth of the Christ Child. She told how the lady was condemned to an eternity of delivering presents to children, on the same day, every year since Jesus' birth.

               During the months that followed, she found herself visiting the ancient nun in her apartment by the park and was educated in the peculiarities of her situation. The crone told her that, on the day of La Befana, she would not be able to enter a home if there was a broom out front until she counted all the hairs on the broom. A lot of strange events in her life were beginning to make sense.

               Beneath the oak tree, sitting on the stone wall, she reached into her blue bag and produced a troll-doll dressed like a little nun wearing a blue habit. Standing up on the wall, she reached up and plucked a dried brown leaf from the oak tree and sat back down. Placing the doll in her lap, she crumbled the leaf into tiny pieces and showered them over the small figurine. Bending forward, she inhaled deeply and blew away all the shards with one mighty breath. She repeated this odd behavior, twice more, before she sighed and placed the doll back in her purse.

               She got up and went to her van. Thank God, she said to herself as she climbed into the driver’s seat, that the curse doesn’t extend to car doors. She started the engine and turned on the heat full blast. She crawled into the back where her mobile massage table lay folded up. The table helped her earn a living as a licensed massage therapist.

               She opened a cabinet door and pulled out another troll-doll. This one had blond hair and a big belly. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, she placed the blond troll-doll in a brown wood box. She threw two dried oak leaves from the tree into the box and closed the lid. 

               Ce-ce had been practicing witchcraft ever since she met Sister Basil. It was a slow process and the old woman was not very forthcoming with information. Apparently, being a witch was not tantamount to being rich. The little money she got from her divorce settlement helped her buy this van and the massage table but that was it. She barely made enough from her appointments to cover her rent and food bill.

               Not so, she thought, for the other witches living around the park. There were at least four, that she knew of, though they never talked to her. They all lived in nice houses and were very well-dressed. She suspected they were witches because she saw them talking to Sister Basil, at one time or another. The oak trees in the park attracted witches, Sister Basil told her; the trees protected them and enhanced their powers. She tried approaching one of the other witches but was not even acknowledged by the other woman, who looked much like her: curly-brown hair, fair skinned and a bright smile. There was no smile that day.

               Until now, Ce-ce had learned very few enchantments. One thing she did know was, on this day, her powers were greatly increased. The leaves from the oak tree, which she could now see in her rear-view mirror, also had a special effect on the objects of her affection.  

               The first troll-doll was for Sister Basil. The second, the one with the blond hair and big belly, was for a man she met dancing tango, a passion of hers acquired during the last years of her failed wedlock. She rarely found men she liked and this one danced tango. She wanted to see if she couldn’t create a spell that would keep him in her life.

               This was the first time she had tried to craft an enchantment from scratch and it was a lot harder than making a good pie crust. This man, Edgar, was laid off from the phone company. She decided to try and use her power to get him a job close to where she lived. 

               She liked Edgar because she could control him. Not that she needed to be a witch to do that. She learned a long time ago that men were easily led. She often felt sorry for them. To her, men were like hungry dogs that couldn’t keep themselves from tipping over the garbage can. She liked them but they often made a real mess of her life.

               Today was the final day of her seven-part incantation. Each day, she would come to the tree and pull two dried leaves from La Quercia, the Italian word for oak and the name she had given to this tree that seemed to have a special connection to her. Then she would drive to the headquarters of Philadelphia Cellular and circle the building seven times in her Volkswagen Eurovan, the troll-doll in the wooden box on the passenger’s seat of the vehicle.

               Upon completion of the seventh revolution, her phone chimed with an incoming text from Edgar. Her heart leapt: success! She parked the van and pulled out her iPhone.

               ‘Guess who just got a great job? With Navajo Cellular! Yeeeehaaaw!’ It read.

               “Dammit!” She said, and slammed her open hand on the dash. The spell had work but not the way she wanted it.

Dejected, she returned home. As she walked towards the doorway of her apartment, the wind blew a strong, lengthy gust and clouds darkened the sun. A shiver ran up her spine. The change in direction probably save her life.

            Walking across the park and past the oak trees, she headed towards Sister Basil’s to see how she was doing. Inside the brightly lit dwelling of the ailing nun of the Order of La Befana, the young witch went to her bedroom. On the wall above the headboard was a huge tree limb from an old oak; there were no indicators that it was fastened in any manner to the wall.

            Ceci didn’t know what she would say to the older woman but her inner compass told her she needed to be here. Ever since the incident with the squirrel, she began paying closer attention to her intuition. Sitting on a padded footstool, she grabbed Sister Basil’s hand and held it. She found the touch of the old woman’s skin reassuring, calming. Maybe, she thought, her fears were ill-founded.

            Without warning, the nun awoke, her eyes wide with horror as she looked at Ceci.

            “Mal’occhio,” she spoke, but the word was unfamiliar to Ceci. Again, she repeated the strange word, “mal’occhio,” and fell back into unconsciousness.

            All her fears returned with a force magnified in intensity. Her nerves were firing on all pistons. She stood up and went to the doorway. A voice inside her told her to turn. When she did, there was Sister Basil, or what looked like her, for the holy woman still lay in bed. Ceci froze, her eyes fixed on the apparition.

            It was smiling, wryly. In her head, the young witch heard the elder speak quite clearly and with a slight chuckle, “The girls don’t like competition,” she heard the voice say, “you’re going to have to fight to prove your mettle.” And then it was gone.

            Trembling, she nearly ran back to her apartment, scanning the buildings surrounding the park. Several women were standing in doorways or in front of open windows. She did not stop to stare but she was acutely aware of a certain color identifying each one: red, black, brown, grey, yellow.

            The wind caught her feet and almost blew her back to her doorway. She slammed the door behind her, threw her back against it and slid to the ground, her knees bent. With her eyes closed she found relief in the silence; it was almost too silent.

            She opened her eyes and there was her ex-husband, Franklin, standing at end of the hallway leading to the kitchen.

            “What are you doing here?” She asked, confused and still shaking. Seeing him brought her back to her senses. Her nerves calmed, hardened, then became steel.

            “Honestly, Calliope, I don’t know,” the tall, handsome man said, seemingly confused.

Then his expression changed, his eyebrows furrowed and he gazed at her with malice in his eyes. “You’re mine,” he said and began walking towards her, “you’ve been sleeping around, haven’t you?”
            Shocked, Ceci said, “Franklin, it’s been five years. You don’t own me.” Afraid to face the women in the park and penned in by the advancing ex-husband, she tried to slip past him but he caught her by the arm and slapped her across the face. She swore to herself that she would not let this happen to her again. She could feel the sting on her face and the slight taste of blood in her mouth as she raised her eyes to face her attacker. The pent-up air suppressed in her lungs came rushing out of her mouth as a loud sigh, bringing along with it, a surge of power, infusing her arms with superhuman strength. Both her hands slammed his chest and she pushed her attacker off his feet. He faltered as his body tried to compensate for the unexpected retaliation, and fell with a mighty thud onto his ass.
            He sat there, momentarily stunned by this unexpected reaction from his prey. He was aghast and looked at both of his empty hands, as if asking them how this could have happened to him. Then he slowly raised his eyes. Each incremental movement of his head upwards, told her he was working himself into the rage he once used as an excuse to beat her like a dog, years ago.

            But that was then, this was now; she was a new woman, a woman of strength and new found power. She didn't need that power now, however, she had a gun. 

           She looked at him and realized she only had a split second to react, but that was all she needed. Cat-like, she dashed down the hallway and disappeared in the bedroom. In the darkness she found her 12 gauge semi-automatic shotgun and felt  the clip to ensure it was fully loaded. Then she emerged from the darkness to confront her assailant, a slight smile moved across her lips.

            He stared at her in horror. “I don’t know how I got here, honest! I didn’t mean to hit you,” he pleaded, “please, you’ve got to believe me.”

            Recalling her gun safety training at Lucky Lou’s Shooting Range, she braced the weapon against her right shoulder. She didn’t need to aim; he was close. He stepped towards her and she pulled the trigger with steely resolve. He changed direction in mid-stride.  Miraculously, the man remained on his feet. Adrenalin rushed through her body once more and she squeezed the lever again and again. She pumped a fourth round into her ex-husband that propelled his body through the door, tearing it to shreds, and into the street where he fell flat on his back, his legs twitching.

            She stepped through the splinters of the entrance and stood over the body. It was then she felt the eyes of the coven upon her. They were all watching, she thought, and looked around the park. Returning the gaze of each pair of eyes watching her, she counted them: eleven. With one bullet remaining in the gun’s chamber, she rested the end of the cold metal barrel against the bleeding carcass on the ground but did not avert her gaze from the other witches as she pulled the trigger a final time.

An hour later, it was getting dark. The park was filled with the flashing blue and red lights of a dozen police cars. Yellow tape cordoned off an area around the entrance to Ceci’s apartment. She sat in the back of one of the cars, being questioned by an elderly detective smelling of coffee and cigarettes.

            “Miss Carre,” he asked, “tell me again why you had to fire ALL five rounds into the assailant, your former husband?”

            Undaunted, disgusted by the man’s odor, she answered, “Because I still had more bullets left. What don’t you understand?”

            The detective shook his head and got out of the car.

            Ceci recognized a man amongst all the uniformed and plainclothed law enforcement officials. It was John Carozzi, a city councilman who happened to be one of her dance partners at the tango parlor they both frequented. She liked to call him Johnny. She caught his eye and shot him an appealing glance. It worked. Johnny went over to one of the officers and, a minute later, a uniformed young man opened the door to the squad car.

            “Ma’am,” he said, gesturing back towards her house, “you can go back inside. There might be follow up questions later but you were obviously defending yourself. Do you need a counselor? We can provide one….”

            “No,” she said, “I’ll be alright.” She exited the car and walked past the councilman. “Are you coming tonight?”

            He pretended not to notice, then glanced her way and winked.

            Three hours later, the young witch was seated at a small cocktail table in a large warehouse in South Philadelphia. Adorning the walls were giant doorway casings from mansion houses and castles, seeming like giants towering over the gathering of about one hundred tango dancers. Two huge fans, halfway up the cavernous ceiling, hovered forty feet above the crowd, each the size of a commercial airliner’s propeller, circulating the air with soft whooshing sounds as they swung their enormous blades.

            There was a wall in the center of the dance floor and the couples moved around it counter-clockwise, in two lanes of traffic. The place was dimly lit and seductive tango music emanated from speakers located somewhere in the darkness of the ceiling space.

            She spied Johnny, seated ten tables away, and waited until he looked at her. When he did, he held her gaze and nodded towards the dance floor. Nodding in affirmation, she waited until he got up and came to her table before joining him in a tango embrace.

            Ceci loved the tango. Before she knew about her special powers, tango helped her deal with the strange force growing inside her. She loved the anonymity, wrapping her arms around strange men, their smells, feeling their energy. Maybe, she thought, her attraction to this imported folk-dance from Argentina was a desire to play with men’s sex drives and still be able to escape before they turned into lust-crazed wolves, kind of like playing chicken with the devil.

            The politician was not the best lead but she wasn’t here to win any contests. At 6’2”, she found the dark-haired man enjoyable company to waltz around the track to tango music. His hands wandered a little too freely, she thought, but, since he’d done her such a big favor today, she decided to let him run around the yard without a leash, at least for just a little while.

            His libido was strong this evening, she surmised. She wondered if he was married, if he had any kids. She loved his smell, the feel of his muscular frame, the power that emanated from him. This was a man who made weighty decisions that affected the lives of many people: highway construction approvals, shutting down mass transit, preparation for emergencies. Each one left a residue that gave him a unique cosmic scent. Taking a deep breath, she melted into his embrace and lost herself in the complex rhythms of tango music.

            Ceci felt something stab her in the hip, she knew right away what it was. Yuk! She said to herself, he’s aroused. I shouldn’t have let that happen. When the music ended, Johnny propositioned her for dinner and asked if he could he walk her to her car, .

            “Yes,” she replied to the first question, “and no. Go sit down, calm your jets, Tiger.” With those words, she parted his company and walked back to her table to find it was occupied by a lovely woman with long, dark curly hair.

            When Ceci approached the table, the woman stood and looked her straight in the eye. She was slightly taller than herself, dressed in a blue-ish black skirt that was short and tight. The strange lady wore a black blouse so sheer Ceci could see her peach-sized breasts bobbing around inside, unencumbered. She wore little makeup on her face except deep black lipstick and some eyeshadow. Her eyes were dark brown and she had several piercings, one in her nose that sported a small diamond and one in her eyebrow that bore, what seemed to be, a tiny black pearl.

            The stranger glanced towards the dance floor and back to her.

            Ceci was taken aback. She marveled at the audacity of this newcomer to invite her to dance tango as a lesbian couple. She had danced with women before, usually at practice sessions when men were in short supply. This, she thought, was an obvious come on. The woman nodded her head once more and brought her feet together with a click, causing her breasts to bobble around in her shirt. Ceci stared at them and found them enticing. Then she noticed an unusual aroma that reminded her of pine trees. Was it patchouli?

            She had crossed a threshold today, when she pumped that last shotgun blast into her ex-husband’s chest. She decided then that there was no turning back and, to go on, there would have to be no barriers. She accepted the invitation and nodded her head in acceptance.

            The second their bodies embraced, Ceci knew the other woman was a witch. Discerning no immediate threat, she let herself be led around the room by her fellow Wicken. She closed her eyes and pressed her head into her partner’s cheek to get a better connection. Visions of dark, choppy waters lapping at rocky shores beneath hillsides covered in tall pine trees, filled her mind. She experienced the intense emotions of a little girl being raped by her father, beaten by her mother and endless toil. A great sympathy welled up inside her and she let it flow into her partner. This was a sister, she thought, astonished.

            For a moment, the other lady looked at her with disbelief that faded to relief.

            Ceci felt as if the stranger had just let down her guard and let her into her soul. She noticed her mood change from sadness to joy to playfulness, as her partner led her into a variety of delicate, sensual movements. The music slowed and the two women held each other gently. Ceci turned her head and saw the councilman staring at the pair, slack-jawed. The other woman must have noticed too because she stopped dancing.

            Then the two ladies looked at each other and shared the same thought. Ceci turned back to Johnny, made eye contact and nodded towards the door. His jaw dropped even further. The dancers looked at each other and laughed, then looked back to the councilman to reassure him they were serious.

            Thirty minutes later they were back at Bryn Mawr Park, standing in front of a nine story building. Ceci learned the other woman’s name was Nadja and that there were two other women in her building who were also witches of shades of black. One lived on the third floor, the other on the sixth and Nadja’s apartment was on the ninth. She didn’t have to tell Ceci that this meant she was more powerful than the other two.

            Inside the apartment, Ceci found it was decorated with oriental rugs, brass urns and a few paintings of men adorned with odd small hats that she guessed were Turkish in origin. Nadja led her two friends into the bedroom and sat them down on a large circular bed, covered with satin pillows of different sizes and colors.

            “You,” she said to Johnny, in her thick Balkan accent, “stay right here and vatch. Don’t move until vee are ready. Don’t vorry, eet von’t be long.” She dove across the bed, her long dark hair exploding on her back, and opened a cabinet door on the headboard. She pulled out a long pink scarf.

            Ceci guessed it was some sort of cashmir but it was softer and more pleasing than any fabric she had ever touched.

            Sitting next to her on the bed, Nadja stated, “Thees ees troll-fur, you vill like eet. Very, very good! I had to keel three of dem to get eet…not easy.” She looked at Ceci with an expression of loss and sadness. “But, vee vill eenjoy eet now!”

            Nadja took Ceci’s hand and wrapped the end of the scarf around her wrist. When she completed one wrap, the clothed seemed to move by itself to complete several more revolutions. It wound itself around her forearm, then her elbow and bicep, like a snake winding its way up a tree. She found the sensation of the fabric’s touch against her skin stimulating, arousing. Blood rushed to her arm and she saw her skin flush and goose pimples sprout.

            The scarf kept going, seeming to have a mind of its own. It wound itself around her head, tickled her ear, made its way down her shirt, around her torso and beneath her breasts. There seemed to be no end to its length as it snaked its way around her body. Soon it was racing around her limbs like a train on an endlessly winding track, circling her pelvis in a figure eight around her hips and thighs with its sensuous touch. Blood flowed like a raging river to all parts of her body.

            Ceci’s vision blurred. All around her were groping limbs, warm tongues and the ever-moving scarf. Every orifice in her body was engorged and filled. Every sexual desire she had ever conceived was satisfied. She slipped into a state of consciousness where she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or awake. The orgy continued until she couldn't take it any more and her vision faded from her eyes.

The Witches of La Befana: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

            Ceci woke hours later. She didn’t know what time it was, nor did she care. She felt like she had just been to a massage parlor and gotten the works…twice, hot lava rocks and all. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, too numb to even turn her head, she heard the sound of Ludmilla’s voice growing louder from somewhere in the labyrinthine maze of her apartment. It was daylight and she had missed two appointments already, she was sure.

            Suddenly appearing in her vision, towering over her with a silver tray, laden with food and dressed in a black komono, Ludmilla said, “Ah! You are back veeth the pipples, the child-man has gone. Hees beeper vent oof.”

            “What?” Ceci asked, extremely confused.

            “Pipples.” Ludmilla answered. “Us, not zee cheeldreen; zee man-child, zee woman-child. Vee are pipples, zay are cheeldreen.”

            “Oh,” she replied, unsure of what to say next. She thought back to the events of last night and tried to remember Johnny but could only recall the scarf sliding all around her body and smiled.

            Picking up a plate with a small patty of green matter, the black witch offered it to her guest. “Eat.”

            The two sat in bed and consumed a hearty meal of strange cakes that they dipped in sauces, neither of which Ceci had ever seen or tasted before. Ludmilla was very forthcoming with information though her accent made it difficult to understand her. They talked for hours, mostly with the blue witch listening raptly to every word uttered by the other and trying desperately to understand the true meaning of what she was trying to tell her.

            The shadows in the room had changed direction by the time their conversation dwindled. Ceci surmised it was late in the afternoon. From what the other woman had told her, they were living near a vortex, a cosmic anomaly in the fabric of the universe and that witches tended to make their homes near such places because their power increased with proximity.

            Ludmilla warned her about having sex before encounters with her enemies, of which there were many, her abilities would be dampened considerably. The black witch explained that several days were necessary to recover from such events but sometimes witches experienced urges they could not control.

            She also told her there were others; Ceci could not understand what she meant by ‘the others’. She understood that Ludmilla referred to non-witches as The Children and to witches as The Peoples.

            To her great joy, her new friend gave her a checkbook and a couple of credit cards that were drawn on the account of a late husband, of which the black witch had quite a few. She would not have to work anymore but she would have to concentrate on her spells; now that she had begun exercising her powers, she was visible to not just other wickens but also to ‘the others’, whoever they may be.

            Ceci could not believe her good fortune or the generosity of her new-found friend. Her therapy business had been suffering, not because she was deficient at her craft, but rather, she was too good at it. Her clients always recovered much too quickly for her to make as much money as others in her field of practice.

            To her amazement, Ludmilla asked for nothing in exchange, only for her friendship; Ceci was more than ready to give it.

            Ludmilla went on to tell her why they existed; how women had an intuitive ability that allowed them to draw on certain cosmic forces unknown to men and how this ability seemed to manifest itself  in certain women more than others. These women were of those whose fathers were unknown to them and she speculated it might be possible there were no men involved in the conception but she had discovered no proof of this in her seven hundred and sixty-three years of existence.

Ceci wandered back to her apartment, weak-kneed, after the experience. She was surprised at herself. She had always thought of herself as a spiritual, Godly woman. Her and her husband had been members of the local parish of Seventh Day Adventists, during their entire marriage. Her parents had also been faithful followers of the religious order. Until now, she had always considered abnormal sexual practices an affront to God. Last night’s activities, to her, somehow seemed so normal, so natural.

            She thought back on the time she had complained to the Church Elders about the abusive practices of her husband. When she was rebuked by them for failing to submit to his heavenly rite as the head of the household. She experienced a terrible, unbearable amount of guilt and shame. She was ashamed of herself as if she had done something wrong. Now, in the span of twenty-four hours, she had killed her ex-husband and slept with another man and another woman in the same night…in the same bed and she was sure they had acquired carnal knowledge, all three together, simultaneously, several times during the whole pleasurable episode. In spite of committing the most serious of sins, she felt incredibly joyous.

            Picking up her pace, she strode through the park with delightful anticipation at what her new-found life had in store for her. Her pace quickened and she walked right past her abode, lost in thought and wondrous musings of what she might do with her powers and how many sensual encounters lay in her future. She had walked around the park nearly seven times when her path was blocked by a tall woman dressed in a long green down coat.

            The stranger’s eyes narrowed as she confronted Ceci.

            “You don’t know what you are doing,” she said, forcefully, “you fool!”

            The blue witch stopped before she slammed into her accuser and the two stood face-to-face. Ceci was at a loss for words. One moment she was lost in a myriad of sexual fantasies and the next she was accused of being a fool by a complete stranger.

            The other woman, taller than she, grabbed her arm and sniffed her like a dog and said, “You are weak, I should strike you down right now, so strong is the scent of a coupling…with a man…with…another woman…another witch!”

            With these words, the woman towering over her, menacing her with her words, jumped back with a look of terror in her eyes.

            Ceci’s arm hurt from the strong grip of the other woman. She was scared and surveyed her surroundings. All she wanted was a little control over her life, to be free to live and love as she pleased. With these thoughts in her head she ran past the green witch and completed her seventh ring around the park. She noticed the other wickens were out, standing in front of their apartment buildings. Mentally, she made an account of their number: twelve.

            Beginning to become frantic, she met the gaze of the others and shouted, “All I want is some control over my life!”

            Instantly the park disappeared and she found herself in a bright white space. There was no floor and she couldn’t tell what she was standing on, or even if she was standing, at all. She wasn’t aware of her corporeal body but she was aware of the presence of two men on opposite sides of her. She sensed them more than saw them with her own eyes but she couldn’t be sure in this place.  She felt like she was in space, there was no wind, no source of the light, no sun.

            One of the men, the one nearest to her, she sensed was young and tall and handsome but he had a strange odor, she thought. It was the smell of death but she knew instinctively that she liked him. The other man was much farther away from her, almost not here, she thought. An image of him formed in her mind. He was naked except for a loin cloth. His skin was dark and bronze. His hair was not quite shoulder length and jet black. His torso was wide, his legs short and thick and muscular. His feet were planted firmly somewhere, not here. This man illicited an odor, too, but it was not death, it was fear, it was the smell of blood. He was very angry and she could feel his wrath so strongly it made her tremble.

            Afraid, she turned back to the other man, hoping to find comfort but he was just as lost and confused as she was.

            “Who are you?” She asked.

            The stranger replied, “Zach. Where am I?”

            Suddenly she was back in the park, lying on the ground, with the twelve other witches standing over her.