There were things that were obvious, and some that weren’t. She was definitely not normal. On her first full day at the house, she climbed up the slope and sat on the white rocks at the top of the property to “look at the sea,” as the previous resident hag had advised. The creeping bush actually blocked her view of it, but she discovered if she stretched her neck out and perched with the edge of her bum, she could make out a sliver of blue in the distance. And then she just kept sitting there, like a Lady in a grotto, serene and unfathomable.
Two weeks later, she’d acquired a Familiar. The cat was black, of course, but surprisingly cute, which was probably a calculated choice. She claimed it was already a year old to anyone who asked, but it was much smaller than the obese felines that prowled the neighbourhood. And mostly normal, but what gave them away was how it would follow her as she slowly shuffled in her jandals up and down the street, murmuring incantations that sounded inane enough to be harmless cat talk.
She had a husband who donned a suit and drove to work every day as if it were the ’50s–that wasn’t strange, not in a neighbourhood like this that felt stuck in time. But she was by herself at almost all hours, always alone, or with her Familiar, who by now was an extension of herself. He was a physical manifestation of her curiosity about the people who lived around them, a furry ambassador–or spy–who padded around their properties on his cutie paws as her own thoughts pried and processed, imagining how these people’s days played out. The two of them would sit under the small fruit trees in the garden at midday, pretending there was enough shade. She dreamt of running up and down the mountains around them, not on two wheels like everyone else, but hovering in the canopy, flying on the wind. The Familiar narrowed his green eyes at crawling ants, eager to gobble up skinks, but was sensitive enough to appreciate the sight of a bumblebee on a flower. After their reveries, she would pluck a stalk of grass and draw mysterious shapes on the ground, her Familiar darting at them in frenzy.
There is a language between them that is unsettling. His meow is a trilling that ends on a high note, as if he’s always asking a question. When she seems to have disappeared into the bowels of her lair, the neighbours hear him “asking” for her, calling her to him, to the garden, their pagan sanctuary. He is desperate for her presence, and only when he has it can he truly enjoy its delights: the damp root beds, sinking his claws into nectarine tree trunk, hiding behind screens of wild fennel. Undeniable proof of his mistress’ spell over him is how he takes to cuddling. She easily scoops him into her arms, and her low incantations into his fur he mistakes for a purring that stirs primeval instincts. He bumps his head into her chin, pledging complete devotion. Her power over her Familiar sometimes extends to her husband, who is safe from sharp claws when he dutifully combs the shedding or picks him up with affection.
But the Witch is often alone. Lonely. Her hair turning blue was both a cry for help and a beacon of feigned indifference. Her life is composed of obsessive rituals, as if unfolding the clothes horse on wash day just so will make her spells work. Putting the clothespins here, they’re at the perfect height so I can twist my torso like this… Spacing the garments will maximise airflow and drying efficiency… But she knows the power inherent is weak.
She needs a stronger mandate of power. So she sets off on quests. She walks into the woods, into fields, under the sun, searching.
doloresappreciationsociety 