aka The Clockwork Witch

I heard the man across the restaurant, excitedly telling his server about his “vision quest”.

I reached into his mind and watched the finale before he spoke it: stripped nearly naked, hooks pulling his skin on both sides of his torso, darkness, firelight, drums, and a heavy dose of ayahuasca.

He said his vision brought him here, to our little out-of-the-way hamlet, by the shallow lake, by the thick woods, between the mountains.

And I saw his vision: the surging water, the sudden collapse, the sky lit by fiery aurorae.

He had seen something he should not have seen.

I twisted his vision, brought it from the past to the present, parked it in place, amplified it with my own magick.

His head went back, eyes wide, mouth slack open and keening like a dying animal.

I turned back to my companion, the witch. She had a name, but I called her “the witch”.

“Someone call 911,” she said.

The police and paramedics gently took him away, for observation, for his own safety.

Most everyone there was part of the plan. Most everyone there knew what had really happened and breathed a sigh of relief.

Others just shook their heads, feeling sorry for a man who had some sort of nervous breakdown at a crowded restaurant.

I took the witch's hand and said we needed to talk to her father.

This man's vision was not part of our plan and what it showed was troubling, too troubling to talk about in mixed company.

She was unconcerned. She didn't see what I saw.

As we exited into the street, into the cool night, into the moist air, we talked about what we'd accomplished in three generations.

We'd made this town prosperous. We made it comfortable.

We were in brochures and discussed on message boards and social media.

“a haunted little town”

“a beautiful, if quirky, gem”

“strange tidings, lovely people”

This place was alive and we bled off the excess slowly, for our own benefit, for the benefit of everyone who called this place home.

What he had seen was like a tidal wave, like the water, once sucked out to sea, suddenly pouring back in, overwhelming everything.

I was old enough to know what this meant but I said nothing of my fears to the witch.

Fear? Was it fear?

Or was it a sense of the inevitable. Of knowing this day would come.

Was it relief?

Could the emotions of a thing like me be described in such simple terms?

The witch smiled, and intertwined our arms.

It was a cold night and I could see her breath.

The parking lot of her father's office, the only office building in town, was empty.

A witch like him didn't need to drive.

There was no warning.

The parking lot exploded in front of us as a house made of metal and wire seemed to dig its way up through molten asphalt and churning earth.

I recognized it at once; “the clockwork witch,” I said out loud.

The witch at my side did not understand.

To her “the clockwork witch” was an urban legend.

A tale to terrify young witches into behaving.

“The clockwork witch” had been the creator of this place, had filled it with potential, with purpose.

She'd created a nexus (a nadir, really), a place where all magic must flow and would feed and feed until she had the power to rule everything, everyone.

But she was betrayed and locked away by her students, by her lessers.

How had they found the words to bind her?

How had they discovered the symbols needed?

How had they devised such clever wards without help?

I knew what happened, because I was there.

Yes, of course I knew.

She was trapped outside of time, outside of space.

A pocket reality where she could play god or goddess, do whatever she wished, create, destroy, anything.

But away from here, away from us.

We steeped in the magick, siphoned a little off the top, before releasing it back into the world.

What flows here, we use simply, for our own benefit, for the benefit of the town.

We share. We cooperate. We thrive.

For generations.

Now, here she was, the clockwork witch reborn.

She could not be as strong as she once was, the power was no longer here and breaking free could not have been easy.

But some magick requires only the correct way of thinking and reality will bend all on its own.

And the witch beside me disappeared, vanished.

I believed her father had probably done the same.

Not by choice.

No, the clockwork witch had them.

She looked so human as she stood before me, an old woman in one view, a towering fiend from another angle. I saw both simultaneously.

She knew me, remembered me.

It had been hundreds of years for me, for her, who knows? An hour, a weekend, a millennium?

I was standing before her.

I did not move nor was I moved, I was simply in front of her now whereas previously I had not been.

I bowed before her. As was my position.

The position she had appointed.

“Watcher,” she said.

“Master,” said I.

“Am I?” she said.

I said nothing.

“Watcher, tell me what has happened.”

She did not mean with words but with my mind I exposed all the centuries of memories, of meetings, decisions, of births, deaths, agreements made and broken, waters risen and fallen, the shift from the forest to the edge, from hiding to inviting, to deceit and capitalism.

I showed her almost everything.

I felt her disappointment.

I was supposed to shepherd them, not become their servant.

She raised a phial of liquid to her lips and drank.

I knew these phials and felt this was the remains of the father of the witch who had been my companion.

“Mary” had been her name. I felt shame in using it now.

At one angle the clockwork witch great taller, broader, in another, she grew younger.

She lifted another phial and spoke to it: “what is it you want?” she asked.

And Mary's voice said, “I've only ever wanted  a small coven of my own.”

We both felt the truth in this. Mary had been part of the great work because it was her birthright, but her heart was never in it, not like her father.

The clockwork witch felt no anger or hatred from her.

“Then have it,” she said, tossing the phial back into the pocket dimension in which she had been trapped.

I wished Mary well.

“Watcher,” she said to me.

I felt the sting of her eyes, the depth of her gaze.

She reached into me, deeply, deeper than I'd even allow myself to venture.

“You betrayed me,” she said.

There was no emotion to her words. I could feel her words and there was no emotion.

It was only a statement of fact.

I did not remember betraying her, but I felt the truth in it.

It was me. I taught them to capture her.

Then I made myself forget.

I felt my body slip away, forget itself completely, become liquid, become smoke, slithering into the ground, but I was caught, and stoppered.

And she drank me.

I felt myself break apart, each bit struggling to remember a single fact, a single bit of information.

That was all I was, information.

That was my purpose.

And I felt each fragment lose its grip until even my own name was a mystery.

I was nothing but her blood, her life.

I was gone.

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons,543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

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Of course I didn't call room service. I know better. But I blush with shame as he asks just the same. He would have seen or heard. And I was taught the rules. I know the rules. I am not to engage unless expressly authorized or permitted while in transit. It's too dangerous. A single word could give us away. He is kinder than I expected. He places both palms on the door and speaks in a soft voice. I know what he is doing and I can feel the strengthening of the door, like it's knitting itself together, filling in the gaps. He has already looked through the peephole. He has already identified the man as an employee by his energy. He has already seen the clean, white towels he holds as he cries “room service” before knocking again. He opens the door and I can hear him say. “I'm sorry, but we didn't call down for more towels.” “I understand that you can tell what room calls come from at the front desk, but we didn't call down.” “Okay. Thanks.” I could not hear the person in the hallway. He closes the door. He does not turn around. His shoulders slump and he sighs. He places one hand on the each side of the door and speaks another incantation. This one is weaker because must cover a larger area, but the walls become denser, like rock. I can feel it. That's why I was chosen. I can feel things in the air; when they are stretched or pulled or twisted. I can feel it. I can twist things, too, but I need training. I can feel his anxiety. Not fear. Fear tastes bitter, and this is merely sour. “We will be having chicken for dinner.” That's code. We are being followed and they are close. He may have seen them. Based on the walls, they must have guns. He wouldn’t have pulled that much into them for just fists or knives. He walks toward our balcony. We're on the 7th floor; the top floor. He slides the door open and I can see him studying the corner of the building. We are right on the corner, so the corner of the building is just to the left. He leans out and places his left hand on the building and speaks to it, while holding his right hand in the air. I can see the air thicken, like a blanket. He can't see it, but he knows what he is doing. I lament that we have no books, no guides, but he doesn't need books. Besides its forbidden to travel in the open with our materials. Our minds are the only tools we may take when we travel. I hear hard taps at the door and wall. I know they are coming. He motions for me jump over the railing and I do. The fall is swifter than I'd like but safe, like diving into water. We both touch down safely. He sees a wandering dog and motions toward it. It tilts its head and looks at him, before trotting over, wagging its tail. He bends down, gently places a hand on each side of the dog's face and stares into its eyes. The dog barks excitedly and yips, it's tail wagging even more. I know he is talking to the dog. That's his gift. He can talk to animals. Any animal really. Knowing the language is not enough, you have to know how they think and he does. He always has. He pats the dog on its head before standing back up. “They know about the Jeep.” That means we cannot drive away. But he didn't say anything about the tunnel, so they do not know about that. We have to make it on foot. Two people burst out of the side door of the hotel and quickly stumble into each other. They did not expect to see us. I can tell. They are holding their hands over hidden guns and are walking stiff-legged toward us. He makes a sign with his left hand and traces a vertical symbol in the air while simultaneously tracing another symbol on his leg with his right hand. “Hang on to me.” I'm little. So I climb onto his back and he runs, faster than a man can run. And the two people who came out of the hotel do not see us. They see us still standing there and they will until they make it to the spot. I can feel the hum of life twisted into new designs, I can feel it slowly unraveling, but it should be tight enough. The road is clear, the trees are singing. We find the silent spot and enter a shadow which becomes a room which becomes a tunnel. He nods to the others there. They were waiting for us. To rescue us. I ask if I can trace fire as we move forward and he allows it. I drag my hands on the walls and twist the dirt and leaves into blossoms waiting to bloom, full of fire and smoke. I know they will be coming after us, even in here, but we have a head start and this is our place, in the earth. We speak to it and it responds. They call out to false gods and beg for scraps of favor or power. We mold what is already present. We are stewards of the awash power always present in the living earth, the planet itself. We contradict the will of all outsiders so we are called monsters and cultists. They seek to syphon the life for their own uses, we cooperate and stay within. The earth listens and, as we move, changes itself behind us. I can hear them entering the tunnel now. They found the shadow door easily enough by following our path, but they do not see what the earth has done. I feel a blast of heat, smell the musk of singed dust and skin blown down the path and the screams of those who went first. Cursing and yelling as they call water out of the ground and water must oblige them such is their power, but it resists. The elements do not resist us because we make no demands, only requests. We reach the other end, our safe haven and he puts up a barrier behind us. Makes the air like glass, like plastic. They cannot pass and can only gnash their teeth as we exit to our city, home. Our safe place. Deep. He does a card trick for a child waiting at the exit. “Pick a card.” The child draws the 7 of Hearts. I do not see it, but I know it. “Hold it close to your heart.” He winks as he says this. The child does. The man shuffles and concentrates and speaks in a deep, hollow, whisper. This is the language of snakes, the language of the wind. Of Metamorphosis. I did not know he could speak to the wind. “I'm losing the image of your card” he says, but it is part of the trick. “Can you look at it again?” The child lifts their hand and gasps. The card has been replaced by a $20 bill. “That's right.” He said snapping his fingers. “I bought your card for $20.” He holds up the 7 of Hearts, “See?” “Please keep the money.” He says even before the child's parents can offer it back. He is kinder than I expected.

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#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Magic #Magick #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons,543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

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