Date: Wed, 13 Oct 1999 15:53:06 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Organization: University of Calgary Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: BOO WHO? Excellent! Another entry! Remember, deadline is October 20th. Entries and crits to me, and I'll pass the crits along to the authors -- who are, of course, remaining faceless at this time. Robyn ---------------------------------------- Boo Who? I hate Halloween. Have you ever tried to find a toad on an Autumn evening, even when the moon is full? You have to be able to see the moon, you know. If it hides behind a cloud it won t do. Oh no. And so you re chilled to the tops of your torn pantyhose, turning over rocks that transform fingers to ice without so much as an incantation. The damn creatures hibernate, which should make things easy. But under which rock? Beneath which log has Mr. Toad carved out his cozy Toad Hall? And so you finally roll the right stone, grab the beastie and squeeze him dry and stretch his skin tight on a couple of twigs. Actually, I use wooden hors d'oeuvres skewers. Twigs bend. And then, dew-wet and bone-chilled, you sit cross-legged in front of the package while it "cures in the moonlight," until sun up. Have you ever spent the night reciting Medieval Latin without a flashlight, and backwards in the bargain? The phrase "cold as a witch s tit" has its basis in fact. After that, if you can imagine, New World wart-of-toad doesn t quite make it. Some difference in the enzymes, I should think. I could send for something from Europe. I understand the Devonshire coven is doing wonders with freeze drying. But there s the expense, and always the possibility of a visitation from the United States Customs Service who figure you re smuggling magic mushrooms or some other controlled substance. "Hallucinogen?" Here insert a chuckle that does not resemble a cackle. "Why, of course not, Officer. It s just a spice for an exotic cooking class I m taking. Would you like the recipe?" And if I did send for something, what would happen? The next thing you know some Romanian hag puts you on a mailing list or, worse, you wind up as Customer of the Month on her web page. I ll be damned if I ll be "outed" by Euro trash. Oh, it works for some. Living in the light. I "logged on" to one of those chat rooms, the sort where people try to get laid long distance. (Now, if I could whip up a spell for that I d be on easy street.) The room was named "Caldron," and it was filled with silly buggers and wannabes, except for one. I d signed on as Witchiepoo, which I thought clever, until the computer told me that I was Witchiepoo322. So much for originality. Anyway, I was curious. What could be the topic of discussion? I mean, witches are a limited subject. There hasn t been a memorable witch since Oz. Vampire movies have been made regularly since silent films, but what about us? We re an empty genre: a straw doll with a pointed hat and false teeth forgotten in a glass. The conversation was drivel, of course. Mostghost, whoever he was, kept asking women if they wanted to look under his sheet. Similar foolery. And then I received an instant message... a whispered aside in a crowded room. And it was from her. She had actually used her name. Calpurnia. No one does that "on line." You don t use your name and you don t share your password. It s the modern invitation for someone to steal your soul. No suffix numbers tacked behind that name. Anglo-Latin died out in our native England, oh, some years ago, so as a "handle" it was unique. If she d spoken, or written, or whatever you call it, I would have known her. But she d sat in some dark corner of the ethereal room, motionless and quiet just as she always had been. A still malevolence, like a mantis. "Hide in plain sight" the message said. "The Inquisition s flame is out. Salem is a tourist trap." I was stunned, and I should have shut down and thrown the computer out the window. But instead I stared at her screen name, then tapped out the words, "How did you know me?" The answer fired back. She must have been composing her reply even while I was typing. I hate the ones who can read me. "I am a supernatural being, darling." Well, yes. Though not in the dictionary meaning. We are not unnatural. Not outside of nature. We are super-natural. Think of Superman. Or of what supe rsaturated means. My sisters and I are more natural than nature. The commonplace becomes magic. Things of the earth combine to do the unearthly. My tools are all around you. Scale of serpent, light of moon. Cloves bought right off the spice rack. All those silly sounding things are pigments on my palette. We live ever so long, but then we take care of ourselves. By eating the right things, if you get my meaning. We may be killed quite easily. No one need search for a silver bullet. Lead will do the trick. Fire burns me as well as you, as history shows amply. Disease that begins within my body never takes hold, but I may be poisoned, or I may poison myself with smoke or drink. In point of fact, while I may harm others, and do not hesitate, I can do precious little to protect myself. And so each of us makes a choice. How does a being, born in a pre-literate culture, survive in the age of the microchip? In Toronto a small coven haunts Yonge Street: body-pierced, leather-clad witches in platform shoes. They draw looks of disdain from tourists, but never suspicions. And if they keep to themselves more than most, well, they are simply anti-social. Or the coven that lives somewhere near Stonehenge and makes a nuisance of itself every solstice by blathering about the dawning of Aquarius and pyramid power. By acting the fool, they create safety. I myself chose to disappear. From a public that might turn ugly, and from my sisters who certainly are. That is my heresy, for which they want me dead. You see, there is nothing witchy about me at all. I drink Pepsi from a can and down pretzels. The gingerbread on my cottage is curvy wood, not confection. To my mind, there s nothing quite as disarming as a white cotton frock covered with sunflowers. In my own Hell s Kitchen I create potions in a Cuisinart, but they are no less lethal for that. I ex-covented myself a century ago and have kept as far away from my weird sisters as possible. I have been safe from the world, but now am discovered by them, thanks to my foolish on-line excursion. Curiosity killed the black cat. My departure ruined the baker s dozen that they see as strength, and that I knew was dilution. My wager, (and I have had a century to plan for this Halloween) is that I am stronger than them all. My familiar, a fat, gray Tabby, (black is a giveaway) quivers with the knowledge that they are near, and the Senders have told me as much. So thoughtful of them to send the image of me bound to the ancient Oak spreading over the Donna Reed picket fence that guards my little home. "Fire is for heretics, my dear one," Calpurnia sent. "We learned of it s purgative purity centuries ago." She tends to alliteration, but then so do I. It is the medium of my art. They are come. Indian file they enter my garden of pungent herbs, closing the squeaky gate behind them. Calpurnia, last in line like a priest or a matador, has opened her mind to me. She wants to tear the white pickets from my dainty fence and use them for kindling at my feet. I shall use that. For the thing that really makes us eternal is an endless capacity for revenge. And I can carry a grudge until stone crumbles. And now I rock in my chair... and stroke my cat ... and sing up a storm. Whistle up a whirlwind. I am the one of Power now, and I can see through walls. Mist rises from my garden, dramatic, like dry-ice fog licking at the feet of Lon Chaney. The Twelve are amused. "Next she ll jump out and shout Boo! " says one. I moan like the wind, but musically, magically, melodically, wordlessly, and in harmony with my familiar. The mist pours from the roots of my garden, swirling now, as I wring it into the shape I command. The moon smiles coldly on the spinning cloud I have created, at my mistical mystical tornado. Cat and I close our eyes and listen to the screeching of thousands of nails wrenched free, entering the maelstrom, joining hundreds of pointed white sticks that swirl and pierce, so that twelve old women scream in turn and die like St. Sebastian. At dawn I will lay twelve new flower beds in formal fashion. Living apart has its advantages, and in Spring the bulbs I lay now will explode in feminine splendor. I am droll. -- =====================***********======================= Robyn Herrington rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Editor: New Currents in Teaching and Learning/InfoServe University of Calgary Ph: 220-2561 Leadership lifts a person's vision to higher sites, raises a person's performance to higher standards, and builds a personality beyond its normal limitations - Peter Drucker =====================************======================