The Magic Circle

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Asa has lost interest in mints. She is a young woman now. Fourteen years old. She no longer begs Peter to tell her tales of the land of enchanted forests. Asa has other concerns. She dresses in velvet. Her fingers are still bare, for she awaits the perfect ring. But her hair is capped with a lace bonnet. There are ribbons of many colors woven into the strands, and she wears diamonds on the soles of her shoes. No one else knows; no one can see them. No one tries to rob her.

  I wear my brown cloak. I know that external beauty is not my fate, despite Peter’s remark when first I healed him. The boy was blinded by the joy of health. He has never since called me beautiful, though we see each other weekly. That is as it should be. It is only the eyes of God that see me as beautiful now. And the eyes of God are the only eyes I care about.

  But there are other ways that the world sees my value. I am the healer for this region of the world. People travel days, at great personal expense and hardship, to visit me. They are always rewarded for their pains. I am an agent of God.

  We live in our cabin still. Asa lives here more to humor me than anything else. She cannot sense the lightness of this cabin as a home, no matter how often I try to explain it to her. I see her walk on the town streets and look with interest at the nobles’ homes. I know already that she will marry a noble. Perhaps the son of Geiss the Fat. He has walked toward Asa twice now. Each time I have managed to whisk her away. Geiss the Fat is a puritanical fanatic who would deny his daughter-in-law all beautiful things; I know that. Asa would suffer in his home. Still, soon I will have to give her up. It is right. She is a woman.

  I have trouble imagining the cabin without Asa. She would gladly take me with her to any noble’s house. That I see in my head, although I have not tried to develop my powers as a seer. But this cabin is where I must stay. It is a humble abode. I cherish the safety of humility.

  In the corner of the cabin, in a box made of porcupine quills, is a treasure: more jewels than any noble here-abouts owns. I have told Asa to stay away from the porcupine box and never talk of it to others. No one else dares to enter our cabin—the home of a sorceress. So the jewels are safe. When Asa marries, I will give her the box of jewels as a dowry. She will leave, not by the mercy of a noble, but with his great gratitude for catching her. And I will stay here.

  I am like a treasure myself. When I think like this, sometimes a finger of fear makes a cross on my heart. The Patient Scholar who taught me to read alerted me to many perils: Knowing my own value is dangerously close to hubris. I have discussed this with Peter. He has proven himself wise in many matters. He says hubris is a form of vanity, as is all pride. I must not anger God with pride. Yet denying my value would be a lie. It is right to recognize value, and then to know its true source: I am a treasure not because of my intrinsic worth, but because I am an agent of God. I am one of God’s jewels. I abide by the lesson of the amethyst.

  “Ugly One,” hisses Bala.

  I know without turning it is Bala. She is the only one left who does not call me Ugly Sorceress. She has come silently across the grasses. Yet even the field mice make this dry grass crackle. I wonder if she has flown. I see a vision: In the next life she is a starling. For an instant I see through her future eyes and I am chilled with my fear of heights. I shudder. But that is not the only reason for my shudder. My vision is impure. Bala could never become a bird—animals have no souls. I do her a disservice to think this way. I banish the vision.

  “Peter sends this,” says Bala.

  I turn and receive the book. Peter has been my source of reading for nine years now. I look at the plain black cover of the book that Peter told me he would send. I open it and stare at the graceful script. It is Hebrew. I know no Hebrew. I will sit in the sun and let God translate this ancient testament for me. Peter thinks there is something important in the text. He is sure there are passages about vanity that will touch me. I did not ask Peter where the passages were. I start at the beginning.

  “How did you learn to read?” asks Bala suddenly.

  I feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her eye. She suspects me of something. But there is no evil in knowing how to read. So her suspicion is really just jealousy. “A scholar taught me,” I say as disarmingly as I can. I fight the color that wants to come to my cheeks at the mention of my Patient Scholar.

  “Why would a scholar bother with you?”

  “My mother asked him,” I say unwillingly, which is partly true. My Patient Scholar began teaching me for my mother’s sake. But he continued teaching me for the sake of a different bond—a bond that strengthened each time I saw him.

  A flash of memory crosses Bala’s eyes. “Your mother did many unusual things.”

  I hold the book tightly. “I am an ordinary peasant, like you, Bala. The only difference is that I read. If you like, I will teach you.”

  She laughs. “The only differences are that you read and that you are a sorceress.”

  I hope her laugh is sincere.

  “The Baron von Oynhausen’s newborn has an extra finger,” says Bala quickly. “They are bringing her to you this afternoon.”

  I pay little attention. An extra finger is a trifle. This search tor physical perfection is uninteresting to me. It is pain and disease that I want to eradicate. But I will shrivel the finger.

  I know without calling forth all demons that it is Baal’s work. Baal has three heads, and out of spite, he causes extra fingers, toes, even eyes to form on newborns. I look at the sky. “Bala, run tell the baron that he must come before noon.” I know that Baal never cooperates after noon. “Run.”

  “The baron won’t like that,” says Bala. “He has traveled for four days to come to you. He wants to rest before the ordeal.” Bala shakes her head. “Don’t antagonize him.”

  I think of Bala’s name and Baal’s name. A simple permutation of letters turns one into the other. I never noticed before. I look her up and down, but I see no evidence of extra parts. “Tell him,” I say.

  Bala leaves, muttering. I cannot hear her words.

  I open the yellowed pages of Peter’s tome. The language is sparse and poetic. It sings to me. I read for hours.

  The morning passes, and the baron arrives late in the afternoon. He is pompous and blustering. If I send him away, there is little chance that he will take it gracefully. If I call up Baal, there is no chance that he will cooperate.

  But the finger is an easy problem. I hold the tiny hand in mine. The extra finger goes out to one side. I can solve this problem without summoning Baal. I can easily bite off the finger. A simple midwife’s job, and I am, beneath it all, a simple midwife.

  No one must see me bite the finger. I take the baby in my arms.

  “Where are you going?” The baron blocks my path.

  “The baby and I must be alone,” I say, my eyes on the floor in the position of humility that the baron requires.

  “Where is your magic amethyst that I have heard much of? The one of a violet so sharp it stuns.” His voice betrays more than the worry of a father whose baby has an extra finger. He wants to do this thing, whatever this thing may be, right—and he has no idea where to begin. He needs something solid to place his faith in.

  I pull the amethyst from my cloak and hold it up for his inspection. I do not tell him that the brilliance of its hue is merely evidence of the iron impurities within. He would be flustered. He may be a dullard of sorts. I sympathize. I want to soothe him. I hold the amethyst closer to his face.

  “Draw your magic circle here. I will watch.”

  “It is dangerous, Sire,” I say, my eyes on the ground. “The baby and I will be within the magic circle. We will be protected. But those outside the circle are vulnerable.”

  The baron clears his throat. “I will watch.” He leans over my stooped body and lowers his voice so no one else can hear. “How far away must I stand to be safe?”

  I make the simple calculation in my head. If he stands by the pond and I am in the birch grove, he can see our forms and be reas
sured the baby is there. But he will not be able to see my mouth close around the finger. “Come,” I say.

  I plant him by the pond and carry the baby up into the grove. The baby sleeps in my arms.

  I pull out the amethyst and hold it up to catch the sun. I want the baron to see. I draw a magic circle, knowing that I will not use it. The baron knows nothing.

  I set the amethyst on the ground inside the circle. I need it not.

  The baby nuzzles against my breast. I lean over her and bite away the finger with one swift gnash of the teeth. The baby shrieks. I put my finger to the open wound and sing. My voice is raspy and old, but my words are charmed. The infant’s sobs are hiccoughs now.

  My ears catch the noise. Life stirs in the dry brush. I look. A field mouse has strayed into the open. It nudges at something yellow in the dirt just outside the line of the magic circle.

  I watch as the baby’s hiccoughs subside and she sleeps again. The yellow is light and dark. Gold. The mouse gives a flick of the nose, and the ring flops over. I can see all of it now. It reminds me of something. Grape leaves with clusters of grapes. Spanish gold. I think back to Otto of the West Forest. Is this the ring his wife wore? The ring I marveled at so many years ago, before I ever thought of joining the league of healers? And, yes, there is the figure eight in the middle. But the ring is on its side, and now I see. Oh, yes. I laugh at my own stupidity. It is not an eight at all. It is the snake that swallows its own tail—it is the infinity symbol.

  The ring’s glory shines warmly. It seems almost liquid, like the purest gold. And now it comes to me as a revelation: The ring’s essence is holy. The precious stones that nobles have given me—Asian rubies and sapphires, African diamonds—all shine with earthly beauty. Even the amethyst I use to draw the magic circle was not holy on its own—it became holy through being blessed. But this gold shines with heavenly beauty. With an intrinsic holiness. I want that holiness. I want the lordly gold. I want the purest mineral of all to mark my purest of souls. I want all to see this ring adorn my heavenly beauty.

  The mouse scurries off. The baby sniffles in its sleep. The blood has already stopped flowing. The world is at peace, waiting for me to act. I look again at the ring.

  The ring is perfect. And, oh, yes, of course, the ring is not for me. How could I make such a mistake? Asa awaits the perfect ring. Have I not thought this just today? This ring is for Asa. Of course. The ring will adorn her, and, in turn, her glow will light my world. Oh, yes.

  Yet the ring lies outside the magic circle. Would that I could call the mouse back to flip the ring within the circle. But what am I thinking? I have summoned no demons. There is no reason to suspect that demons lie outside the circle. And since I am pure of heart, no demon that is not summoned can harm me even outside the circle. I am giddy with anticipation. I laugh. I laugh with the inebriation of the rapture to come. When I am in control of myself once more, I plan my actions. I will slip on the ring and hide my hand in the folds of my cloak. Later, when I am home alone with Asa, I will present it to her. I can see her loving face. Oh, what grace God has given us.

  I reach my fingers tentatively toward the ring.

  It glows.

  I am touching the magic circle’s periphery now.

  The ring dazzles.

  I slide my index finger into the ring.

  I am snatched from the circle. The baby falls to the ground and wails. I am squeezed until I feel the breath of life going. I cannot shout.

  Voices hiss around my ears. “We have you. At last.”

  “You were not summoned,” I want to say. But I have no breath.

  As if Baal can read my thoughts, his three voices say, “When you bit the finger, you released us.”

  But I bit off fingers when I was a midwife, I am thinking, and you never came then.

  “It is you who drew the magic circle, you who made this moment a challenge. We merely rose to the challenge. We are permitted to accept a challenge.” The voices laugh in a three-part harmony. “Heavenly beauty! Look at your heavenly beauty! See how they gape at your heavenly beauty!” The voices are raucous. “Throw away your amethyst. You will no longer summon devils. Instead, we will summon you!” The laughter is like the screaming of wildcats. “You are no longer the Ugly Sorceress. You are the Ugly Witch.”

  The light is fading. I feel darkness about to overtake me. I want my ears to go deaf. I must not allow myself to hear the words I know will come. I have been pronounced a witch. There is an order to come—oh, damned and hellish order. I must not hear it. I hold my palms tight over my ears.

  But the voices are too clever for me. They bypass my ears entirely. They speak inside my head. “Eat the child.”

  I close my mind. Demons are stupid, not clever. I must not think they are clever. They are stupid. All of them, every last one, was tricked into devilhood by the acts of Satan. If Satan could trick them, so can I.

  “Stupid, are we?” The voices boom inside my head. “No one tricks us. Eat that baby!”

  I am thrown on the ground. My ribs split. The air rushes back into my lungs. I breathe unwillingly. “Never,” I say.

  The laughter is deafening. “You have but one choice.”

  “I will never serve the forces of evil,” I scream.

  And suddenly footsteps are loud and multiple. The baron’s men rush at me from every direction. They come out from behind every tree.

  “She’s a witch!”

  “I saw her eat the finger!”

  “She works with devils!”

  “Burn her!”

  The air is filled with starlings.

  five

  FIRE

  What proof do you have?” Peter’s voice rises over the rest.

  I cannot look at him as they stack the wood at Asa’s and my feet. Only forty-eight hours have passed since I was arrested in the birch grove, yet it seems an eternity. Asa has said nothing up to this point. Her face is slack. Her mouth hangs partway open. Her eyes are glassy. We are tied to a young birch tree. They are saying the birch is now evil, because the grove has been my healing place.

  I cannot look at Peter—if he sees my eyes, he will know it is true; I am a witch. I cannot bear to see the pain that would bring him.

  “Show me proof, or she goes free.” Peter’s voice is loud and deep.

  “The witch-marks,” screams Tzipi, Tzipi whose children I brought into this world. Tzipi, whom no other midwife would help because she is not Christian. Tzipi, who gave me the very first ribbon for Asa’s hair. If anyone should be loyal to me in this moment, it is Tzipi. But, of course, if anyone cannot afford to be loyal to me, it is Tzipi. For the others would spring upon her at the slightest provocation. Tzipi has always been in danger. She can only strengthen herself by denouncing me now. Oh, wretched Tzipi.

  If I could cry, I would. I would wail, for Tzipi and Asa and Peter and myself. But witches have no tears.

  My eyes turn to Tzipi, and I can see her old age ahead. I know her son Erik will die before his wife gives birth. I know that within Tzipi a cancer will languidly lick its way from organ to organ. I could have stopped it. I could have healed her, but for this ring that will not budge from my index finger no matter how hard I rip at it.

  I hate the ring now. It was for desire of the ring that I lost all grace. I want to throw the ring away, though it would be a futile gesture. The ring is not the source of evil—it has no power. I know my own image of myself as heavenly destroyed me. Vain image. I forgot the lesson of the amethyst. Oh, wretched drunken stupor that goes by the name of hubris!

  Still, I would be rid of this ring before I die if only I could. I would bite my finger off, if my hands were not tied behind my back. My teeth are iron now. I could bite my own leg in two. And no blood would I taste. I have no blood. Everything about me is witchery.

  “Show me!” Peter kicks his way through the woodpile, “Show me!” he shouts. He is a strong young man now. I am proud of his strength. And I burn with that pride. It is my pride, no one els
e’s. I can no longer even think the name of the one whose hands I used to roll in. I am alone. There is no reason to fight pride any longer. I am excruciatingly alone.

  Tzipi rips my cloak open. On my right arm, where there never was a mole before, there is now a large black one.

  “A common mole!” Peter touches the mole. “See.” He holds his finger up. “I am not harmed. It is a common mole.”

  Suddenly the one black mole breaks into a cluster of moles that forms an eight-pointed star. Tzipi shrieks. She steps backward, hands to her cheeks, shaking her head from side to side. “The mark of the incubi.”

  It is not the mark of incubi; I know that. Incubi are male demons that mate with sleeping women. No demon has mated with me. I have not slept since I became a witch, two afternoons ago in this birch grove. I will never sleep again.

  Peter stares at the mole star. His head is bent over my arm. I feel his tears fall on my skin. They turn to ice as they touch me. “No,” he sobs, quickly brushing the ice pearls away before anyone else can see.

  “Stand aside.” A small man in red robes stands in front of me. “I am Herr Pastor Dean Hartmann von Rosenbach of the Wurzburg Cathedral. I have traveled great distances at the request of the Baron von Oynhausen. You must listen to me, for I am the mouth of God.” He holds a pin the length of his hand. He turns to the crowd. “Another proof?” He points at Peter. “Is that what this misguided young man needs?” He brandishes the pin like a sword. Swiftly he lifts my cloak and runs his fingers across my thighs. He stops at the scar I got as a child, falling from a beech tree. The fall that left me terrified of heights. He jabs the pin fiercely into the scar. The pain is like lightning radiating from the metal. He pulls the pin out just as suddenly. My flesh closes over the hole. No blood appears. The pastor lets my cloak drop. He opens his hands toward the crowd. “Unquestionable, undeniable truth. The Ugly One, this ill-intended midwife, who says she heals and thus thwarts the efforts of our real and verified surgeons, this one . . .” He points to me with his chin, then turns back to the crowd and shouts, “This one is a witch!”