by H.T. Night
There she was, Paris, The Most High Witch, sitting in my passenger seat. Probably on my chewed-up piece of passion fruit, sugar-free gum. But she didn’t have to know that, or maybe she knew but didn’t want to disturb our newfound magical rhythm.
With a snap of her fingers my car had started up again and we headed toward Norm’s. The spot for witches and their newfound apprentices, apparently.
I was still taken aback about the whole spell concept. It was a scary thought. “You’re telling me,” I said, “the finger snapping where you turned my car back on was a magic, spell thingy?”
“Yes, I am telling you all of that,” Paris said. “Want to test me?”
“Do I want to test you? How am I supposed to do that?”
“Ask me for anything under a hundred bucks. I’m not a genie.”
“All right. I want a Slurpee from 7-Eleven,” I said.
“A Slurpee?” she said in surprise.
“Yes, a 7-Eleven blueberry Slurpee.”
“This is your test? A Slurpee?”
“I’m thirsty,” I said. It was a very dry night.
“Okay,” Paris said. She thought about what she would say and then she said, “Many ways, many days. Show Sahara she don’t need no man giving her a blueberry Slurpee in her hand.”
The casual urban lingo had thrown me off, but it was charming to say the least. Suddenly, soon as I blinked a sixteen-ounce blueberry Slurpee appeared in my hand. It was in a 7-Eleven cup and it was freaking cold.
“Am I dreaming?” I asked Paris. “Have I died?”
“You’re not dead, Sahara,” Paris said to me. “Magic is real. The second you embrace it, it becomes your lover.”
“My lover?” I asked. I didn’t know why, but that embarrassed me.
“Yes, magic will intoxicate and give you feelings of passion, desire and the other things that a lover might give you.”
“It’s just a Slurpee,” I said. “Getting a blue tongue out of it is as intimate as I’m getting with this thing.”
“I’m speaking about the Magic behind the Slurpee. You know what I’m saying and for some reason you want to avoid it. You’re resisting the Magic and all that it holds because all your life you have been taught the opposite.”
“Can I drink this Slurpee?” I asked, avoiding the deep sentiment by Paris. I needed to digest what she said to me.
“It’s a Slurpee. Blueberry, my favorite too. Knock yourself out,” Paris said, smiling.
I took a sip and the Slurpee quenched my dry throat. Very tangy. Probably the most fun I had experienced since giving Robert his going away hug.
I was just about to take another sip when it dawned on me that I had just witnessed an actual witch perform actual magic before my mascara-caked, bloodshot eyes. I was damn tired and beside myself. “Can you drive?” I asked.
“Your car...right now?” Paris asked.
“Yes, I’m not feeling well.”
“I’ll drive,” Paris said.
I pulled over and both of us got out of the car on the side of Commonwealth Boulevard and switched sides. As soon as I sat down in the passenger seat I looked at the clock on my dashboard. It read 1:30 a.m.
What the hell am I doing out this late? And with a flipping witch?
“Instead of Norm’s Restaurant, do you mind if I take you somewhere else?” Paris asked.
“Is this where you drive off to a weird distant spot and kill me?” I said, half-kidding. “I mean, I was completely kidding.”
“Look, Sahara. I like you. If I was going to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago. I don’t waste my time with any drama. All you been doing is giving me drama.”
“Do you kill a lot of people?” I asked.
“I haven’t killed anyone. That isn’t what I do.” Paris looked at me and shook her head.
Yeah, I’m the one who sounds like they’re making no sense...
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I balance out the bullshit,” Paris said. “If I see a guy mugging a woman, I’ll do a spell that trips him up and he falls to the ground. Or, if I see an old man who needs help getting out of his car because he’s handicapped, I might give him a momentary strength spell. I look out for others. I look out for those who can’t look out for themselves.”
“You’re like a witch superhero?” I said.
“No, I’m just a witch. You can leave any kind of superhero out of it. I’ve done too many things I’m not proud of.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant by that. I mean after all I was trusting this person with my car minutes after meeting her. But this was a highly unusual circumstance. But still, I’m weary. That was my nature, to trust and then question myself until I was weary...even after I had convinced myself she was an actual witch, hopefully not of the wicked variety either.
I continue to slurp while she drove my car. “You look like a witch but you don’t talk like what I would have suspected. I can almost hear a hint of a country drawl in your voice.”
“Born in Mississippi,” Paris said.
“Of course, you were. You’re a witch from Mississippi?” I said it with sarcasm and irony.
“Just because I’m a witch doesn’t mean I’m evil,” Paris said. “We are brought up and taught that witches are evil, fake beings. Both couldn’t be further from the truth. Most witches are some of the most tenderhearted souls you have ever encountered. And you can see for yourself, we’re as real as the sun. I’m not saying there aren’t others who use the Magic for their own gain and self-interest, but that’s their journey. I chose this journey. The journey I’m on right now is a fantastic one. I’m just wondering if you like any part of it?”
“Is it a cult?” I asked.
“No, it’s the opposite. You call your own shots. Not to say that some witches don’t stick together and form covens. But that’s because at the end of the day, we all need someone to have our backs. But we pride ourselves on being individuals.”
“I have another question: What makes you think I want to be a witch?”
“Like I said, I had a feeling and I went with it. If I was wrong, I’m sorry. You can drop me off anywhere you like, and I will never bother you again.”
Paris had called my bluff.
I eyed her as she carefully drove my Mazda. Her eyes focused on the road, but filled with sincerity. Not an ounce of cynicism narrowing them. She could’ve left me right now, wrote it off as no big deal and moved on with her magic-filled, witchy existence.
The question is...can I? Now that I have seen this power, the power of witchcraft, do I want to turn my back on it? Or do I embrace it? Do I make it my lover?
I was a single woman who worked a dead end job. I used to love it, but now, I dreaded going to it every waking morning. I had a dysfunctional unbalanced dating life. I had absolutely nothing going for me, but now? Now I had the opportunity of actually becoming a witch? Who wouldn’t want to be a witch? Honestly, I was tired of being a recovering nerd. I wanted to be the one in control. Then, without thinking, the words came out of me: “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said. “Make me a witch. I want to be a witch!”
Paris smiled and looked at me. You could tell she still sensed some doubt, but I gave her a look that showed I was determined to make my own decision.
She nodded.
“So, how does this happen?” I asked. “Do I drink a potion or something?”
“Why would I have you do that?” Paris asked, laughing.
“What is the ritual of becoming a witch?” I asked.
Paris smiled and said, “There is no ritual. Being a witch is like choosing to be a poker player or a construction worker. You start out with a learning curve, but you are constantly piling on a hands-on experience. Becoming a witch is a skill.”
“A skill? Now, I’m totally confused,” I said.
“There isn’t anything to be confused about. Becoming a witch is a personal choice. You have a 100-percent say on how intense you want your witch experience to be. Some peopl
e go full throttle and take it to the max. Others, like myself, try to make an imperfect world a better place. Both are admirable ways of being a witch.”
I was liking this more and more. I liked having control. I didn’t want moons and ocean tides determining if I became a werewolf or zombie or not. “So, do you have a coven?” I asked.
“Where do you think I’m taking you, sweetie?” Paris said. She smiled at me. “I have a real good feeling about you. The last time I had this feeling, I was right on.”
“Where’s that witch now?” I asked.
Paris looked like she had a hundred things to say about the subject and then, she just stopped and composed herself and said, “Her name was Abigail. She was a good friend and she let magic consume her,” Paris paused. “She was a phenomenal person, and something happened. Everything stopped.”
“What stopped?” I asked.
“She was learning so much that she eventually surpassed me in power. Then one day, it was as if the lights went out. She just stopped doing anything, and became dead inside. Almost catatonic.” Paris tried saying something else but couldn’t, and started to choke up.
This woman, Abigail, apparently meant a lot to her.
“And the idea is, you control the Magic,” I said. “You don’t let the Magic control you?”
Paris smiled at me and said, “That is exactly right. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“So, what’s Abigail’s story these days?” I asked.
“You are a little too green for me to go into the details of Abigail. Just know, someone’s core character will never again be overlooked by me. If we ever talk about the black side of the craft, there you go. A tragic example if I’ve ever known one”
I looked at Paris. Tears rand down her face. There was a love there. I felt badly because I knew better than anyone what it felt like to be screwed over by a friend.
“Abigail isn’t talked about much at the coven,” Paris said mysteriously. It sounded like a warning.
“No problem. I’ll never bring her up ever again.”
“Even though I was wrong about her intentions,” Paris said, “I wasn’t wrong about her sensitivity to magic. So, you might be vetting me right now, but I’m also vetting you.”
“How fun. Two people sitting in a car judging each other.”
“I’m not judging you,” Paris said. “I’m wondering if I’ve still got what it takes.”
“What it takes to do what?”
“Be someone’s mentor,” Paris said.
“Why would you question yourself over one bad seed?”
“You’ll know soon enough about Abigail and you will understand my regret.” Paris looked at me and said, “So, by me bringing you to my coven, I am making a giant statement to my peers. I haven’t mentored someone in three years, not since Abigail, so they will be extra interested in you, mainly, though, because of what happened last time.”
“Great,” I said. “It wasn’t weird enough training to be a witch. Now, I have a whole witches’ coven afraid that I’m going to become the next super-evil witch?”
Paris looked at me and smiled. “I feel you should know exactly what you’re getting into, even from a social level. If you are truly serious about taking on the craft, there’s a dark side to all of this. It does no good to hide it from the newbies. All I can say is, sometimes the risk is high, but knowing that you’re on the side of goodness makes the fight worth it.”
“Do you know for sure that you’re on the right side?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure if someone would ask Lex Luther, he’d say he was on the right side, and Superman was on the wrong one.”
“This is real life, Sahara. There are no super villains. There are just really bad people who use the craft in a selfish way that it was never intended to be used. You will learn all of this. The last time, I picked a psychopath to mentor. So, I, too, am a little gun-shy.”
“How can you be so sure of me?” I asked.
“I’m not, but you’re the best risk I have come across in a very long time.”
“So, that’s what you do? You’re just a mentorwho’ll be mentoring me?”
“Of course. I found you. As good a fateful connection as it gets,” Paris said.
“And that is important?” I asked.
“It’s probably the most important,” Paris said. “When do you think was the first time I saw you tonight?”
“In the Quickie Mart,” I said.
“It wasn’t,” Paris said.
I got scared, and was afraid to ask the question.
Holy shit! How long has this woman been watching me?
“See, that fear that is right there,” Paris said. “What you are feeling at this exact moment?” Paris asked. “That fear is going to mess up this relationship. It doesn’t matter when I saw you. If you can trust my character, you can trust my intentions.”
“When did you first see me?” I asked.
“Let’s just say, tonight I saw you cozy up with a rather large man.” Paris smiled at me.
“You think he was that large?” I asked.
“He wasn’t skinny.” Paris laughed. “But that’s okay. He seemed into you and he seemed like a real considerate guy. He’s a safe guy. But you’re too young to be with a safe guy.”
“You don’t know me,” I said. “You don’t know what I want. What if I’m fed up with the whole dating game and Robert is exactly what I’m looking for?”
“Is he?” Paris asked.
“We’ve only been on one date, and I’m too much of a realist to believe you can know something like that after one date.”
“Okay, let me ask you this,” Paris said. “Is there a guy in your life that you think is so hot that the very thought of him makes you...well, let’s just say, weak in the ankles?”
“You mean knees...”
“No, ankles. Ovulation tends to affect ankles, not knees. Discovery Health Channel taught me that.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe,” I said.
“Is he someone you wouldn’t dare talk to? But the very sight of the man makes you rather moist?”
I laughed out loud. I really didn’t think of guys like that. In my mind, I imagined how perfect it could be, but I’d never dare date outside my weight class.
“There’s a guy,” I said, with a shrug, “but he’s way...way out of my league.”
“I’m telling you, you can have any man fall in love with you. Every single day, he falls in love with you all over again. You see, with magic, if you want something bad enough, you’ll find a spell that connects with you and if it’s a perfect match, you can get all the toys you want underneath the Christmas tree.”
“But I couldn’t do that. It’d be too weird, knowing he was under a spell. Especially a spell I put on him. It almost doesn’t seem fair to the guy. What happened to making the world a better place?” I asked.
“You’re still doing those things that make a difference, but you’re also not living in poverty while you’re doing it. What you need to understand is that all magic comes from a specific place in the universe. That Slurpee you have in your hand came out of 7-Eleven’s Slurpee machine. That is also one of 7-Eleven’s cups.”
Right then, I thought I was going to throw up. I had been inhaling the Slurpee ever since she gave it to me. I rolled down the window and I threw the Slurpee outside. The cold air felt nice against the night sky.
Paris continued. “So, when you want something, you need to be very careful in how you ask for it. Because you might be taking a child’s last blanket.” Paris smiled as she got off on a street near the city of Temecula.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Ortega Highway.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a highway that cuts up and over a mountain. Not the safest highway. Especially at night.” Paris laughed.
“Sounds lovely,” I said.
Maybe I was with the crazy woman.
Chapter Eight