I started writing this a few weeks before Halloween and, in the middle of drafting it I found that, following the incident that inspired it, it was reported that a real life witch had cast a spell on the man concerned. If only dark magic were real....
 |
| @CatlandBooks (facebook) |
The Witch
She unlocks the door, the room is candle cold.
Dust lifted by the urgent draught
dances in the fading light.
Key clink echo, the silence frees
her mind. She has one black thought, one goal;
in a choral chant, a language old
and ancient as the misty seas,
she summons up an icy breeze.
Her buckled hand swipes at the screen
that flickers into life, casts shadows
on the walls where moulds both black and green
hide in the crannies; dark pushes back the light
as autumn day gives up the fight
and yields to ever elongating night.
Mouths move upon the screen but yet
there is no sound, her coal black eyes
are focused now; her breath forms shapes,
tiny animal clouds that form and fade -
dancing deer and stalking wolves
and from her nostrils slithering snakes.
From a heavy great-coat, black (like her hair),
she takes out one, then two small bags.
Slowly and with deliberate care
she looses fraying string that secures
the first; extracts a lump of bread, some fetid
cheese that with maggots seethes and crawls;
yellowing teeth smile at her prize
and she greedily begins to feed.
The second bag begins to twitch and shift
until her head flicks to the side
and with a black and pinpoint glare
she forces it to stop; the thing inside
has felt her power; she begins to rise
and with swift purpose scrapes her chair
and hobbles across the dusty floor
To where a battered cupboard stands;
its doors creak wide as she arrives
and reaches in to its blackened deep
to retrieve a flask, that within her hands,
glows with red and ochre swirls, alive
with colours that seem to hold and yield
an infinity of hues and shades.
She sets it on the table top, between the bags,
the liquid seems expectant now, it glows
and a few bubbles form and rise
then die in a whirlpool that pulls and drags
at everything within its grasp; it knows
that something soon will come its way,
something black and cruel and cold as clay.
She sits again as now, upon the glowing screen,
the man, in tailored suit and perfect hair,
lifts his hand and, with the help of God,
swears to tell the truth. Enraged, but calm,
she hisses
God will not help you, this I swear
and colder still becomes her lair
as fingers tap a rhythmic beat upon the wood
and she chants again her black and hell-bound prayer.
As he speaks, with choking tears, his anger swells;
there is no sound in the ice-chill room
but she can hear each and every word; each denial
as he repudiates the accuser's claim
that he would not blacken or defile
until she snaps and stands and yells out
"LIAR!"
and from her coat she pulls with crooked hand
a ball of white that with unholy force she crushes
down to powder that she casts into the air
where it hangs, suspended, transitioning from white
to black and back and now it seems
that each and every word that freely gushes
from his mouth is formed, in translucent light,
and she nods and whispers "
Truth be here"
Now, with every phrase he utters, form new words
that no longer pair with those he mouths
but instead the truth that goes unheard
in that distant room is now spelt out
in moon-glow luminescence in this lowly house,
each
No becomes a
Yes - the air-words summoned
as the truth by this foul and black-cloaked hag
who reaches for the second bag
and grasps the creature that wriggles and squeals
as her dirt-blackened fingernails dig into
its soft flesh; she lifts and drops it in the flask
with one last awful cry it disappears
into the endless depths and now she feels
the power flow from flask to screen
and, as the inquisitor begins to ask
him where he was that night so long ago
he shudders slightly and the woman knows
that he felt it too, a shiver of his deepest fears,
and that the worst, the exquisite worst, is still to come...
The flask is empty now, its liquid gone,
and she slumps back in the ancient chair,
with lidded eyes her mind flowed back
to an earlier time, when her jet-black hair
was smooth and full, not crackling wild,
when she was no more than a child
with startling looks, innocent, not filled
with secrets old as Time itself
and years, so many years, on her dusty shelf.
That day, so many times the earth has turned
since then; their laughter, her fear, as they followed
her home and caught her in a hollow
dragging, pushing her to the floor
the hand on her mouth, the alcohol breath,
she stared into his eyes, was sure
that this would be the moment of her death.
Beyond, the black night sky, shimmering
with a billion stars as time flowed on.
All she could feel was cold
until they were disturbed and ran
and she heard a woman's voice, so old
and cracked yet with unearthly wisdom say,
Come with me, my dear, you have things to learn
Four seasons passed and that man,
whose eyes she locked with on that day,
stood in the village market square
screaming, ranting, yanking on his hair
until it tore, crying out
Please stop, God help me, what must I do!
and on his hands began to chew
until fresh wounds had opened up and red blood
flowed to join the blackened stains upon
his shirt; the madness in his eyes
as the gore stained hands began to rise
and reached and plucked with nightmare cries
and that man would see no more
or break another person's soul
and, as he lay thrashing on his back,
she stopped her choral chant,
she was again, complete and whole,
and slipped into the shadows deep and black.
Tim Fellows Halloween 2018
