Witches vs Wizards

by Adam Bennett

  Mr Rogers.

  The thought of her next-door neighbour made Agnes's skin crawl. Uncle Charlie had told her enough of the selkie legend to know precisely what Mr Rogers had taken… and what it meant for the woman sitting before her.

  “He took your skin,” she began slowly, not wanting to scare the woman again. “Didn’t he?”

  The woman's grip on the jacket tightened as she pulled it around her and looked up to meet Agnes's eyes. It was the first time she was able to see her friend from the beach and she was far more beautiful than Agnes had even dreamed. Her bright blue eyes were the colour of the sea, and her skin was pale like the moonlight. She held the girl’s gaze for a moment before Agnes felt a tickle in the back of her head.

  Can you help me, little one?

  "Bloody hell!" Agnes stumbled back, falling onto the sand as she looked up at the woman who was slowly rising to her feet. The girl, still confounded, stuck her finger in her ear and tried cleaning it out, still struggling to wrap her mind around the selkie’s words.

  We haven’t much time. Her words filled Agnes’s head once more as she looked to the east. Dawn will be upon us soon, and I must return to the sea or else…

  “Or else what?” Agnes managed to stand on her feet, though not nearly as gracefully as the selkie standing beside her. She tried to keep the panic from her voice, but she could sense the urgency of the matter despite the calm look on the woman’s face.

  I will be his forever.

  "His?" Agnes furrowed her brow as she began to put the pieces together. "You mean Mr Rogers?" She tried not to gag at the idea of the beautiful woman before her being stuck with the likes of Mr Rogers, a grumpy old witch. She had never liked the nasty old man and never trusted him—she might have even admitted that she was afraid of him—but as she looked at the selkie's sad eyes, she knew she didn't have a choice in the matter. "What do I have to do?"

  My skin. We need to get it back from him before the sun hits the sea.

  “You mean,” she tried to keep her voice from shaking, “we have to go in there?” She pointed to his house just down the beach, the shades drawn across the windows, the porch sagging beneath the weight of the house, and a strange green smoke billowing from the chimney.

  Yes, little one.

  "But he's a witch!" Agnes cried. Despite Toby's attempts at convincing her otherwise, Agnes knew it was true: Mr Rogers was a witch. His strange house, eccentric personality, and hatred for children were all proof of it. Throw in the green smoke from his chimney and the blue light glowing from his fingertips, and you had a first-class witch on your hands that would probably stop at nothing to keep Agnes from getting the selkie’s skin.

  Is that a problem?

  “Well, sort of, if you think about how he could hex us or turn us into cockroaches!”

  You can always stop him with your magic.

  Agnes stared at the selkie before admitting sadly, “I don’t have any magic.”

  Well, of course, you do, little one. Every creature has magic. Leaning down, she placed her hand on Agnes’s chest. It’s hiding in here.

  Agnes couldn’t help but smile at the idea.

  Taking a deep breath to try to calm herself, Agnes turned to look at Mr Rogers’ house before nodding to the selkie. “Follow me,” she whispered, her heart already beginning to pound in her chest.

  Toby had once snuck into Mr Rogers’ house to prove to Agnes that the old man wasn’t a witch. Of course, it didn’t work, but it did show Agnes that the basement window was always unlocked.

  The pair silently slipped in through the open window and began to pick their way through the cluttered house. Piles of wrinkled, smelly clothes were scattered through the basement with used plates and bowls piled high on tables and chairs that were falling apart. Agnes held her breath as they made their way up the creaky stairs, wondering if the old witch knew they were here.

  As Agnes pushed the basement door open, she peered out into the dim glow of Mr Rogers’ home. It was just as messy and cluttered as the basement, but instead of clothes and trash, his home was littered with thick leather-bound books, scraps of paper with notes jotted down in a messy script, and candles burning so low, the wax was ruining the carpet. Shelves lined the walls and were filled with books, trinkets, and jars of colourful juices threatening to bubble over. There was no doubt in Agnes’s mind. Mr Rogers was most certainly a witch.

  The little girl and the selkie stood still, listening for any sound of movement in the house before they dared step inside, their eyes searching for where the seal skin might be hidden.

  “If I was a grumpy old witch trying to keep a selkie from returning to the sea, where would I put the skin?” Agnes whispered softly as she began to rummage through the witch’s desk.

  The selkie joined her in her desperate search as they made their way through the main room of the house, digging through papers, pulling out drawers, moving piles of books, and running their hands along the old, worn down bookshelves. The jars, in particular, caught Agnes’s eyes as she watched them bubble under her curious stare. She picked up the smallest jar on the shelf and looked at the fizzy purple liquid inside.

  Where would you hide something you never wished to be found?

  Agnes looked at the selkie, trying to ignore the feeling of hopelessness rising in her chest. After a thought, she admitted, “There’s a floorboard in my bedroom that’s a little loose. I hide my seashell collection and diary in there so my brother won’t find it.”

  The selkie turned to look at the narrow staircase that disappeared into the darkness. His room? It was clear to Agnes that the thought of entering the old man’s bedroom made the woman shiver.

  “Stay here,” Agnes ordered as she marched past the selkie and started to make her way up the stairs.

  You cannot go alone. It’s dangerous.

  Agnes didn't want to think about that too much. She knew it was dangerous—Mr Rogers didn't particularly like her, and if he found her snooping in his room, then he'd definitely turn her into a cockroach. But she knew she couldn’t send her friend up there into his trap… what sort of friend would she be?

  “I’ll be fine,” she tried to assure her friend and herself. “Besides, you said so yourself: I can fight him off with my magic.”

  With that, Agnes scurried up the stairs, her eyes scanning the dark hallway for any sign of her neighbour. The house was as silent as a tomb as she ran from room to room, scowling each time she was met with more books and more piles of dirty laundry. It was the last door on the left that finally offered Agnes a bit of hope.

  There was a bed. Well, a mattress covered in a pile of sweaters and more papers. This had to be his bedroom, Agnes thought, as she wandered along the piles of books stacked one on top of the other, towering over her head. As she walked along the wooden floor, she felt with her bare feet, trying to find if any of the boards were loosened.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The sound of Mr Rogers’ hoarse voice was enough to make Agnes nearly jump in fright. Without responding, she moved to hide behind a particularly wide pile of books, hoping that maybe he would just go away.

  "There's no point in hiding. I've already telephoned your uncle, and he is on his way. I suggest you go home, little Agnes."

  “Not until I get back what you stole!” Agnes called out before she could stop herself. She hated how sure of himself he sounded—all adults sounded like that when talking to children—and she was going to make sure he paid for what he did to her friend.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agnes,” he sighed. “Go home.”

  Agnes remained frozen, desperately trying to think of a way out of this, but with Uncle Charlie on his way over and sunrise fast approaching, she was quickly running out of time.

  Glancing around the pile of books that shielded her from her next-door neighbour, she noticed he was standing protectively over a loosened floorboard in the doorway.

  “Found you,” Agnes whispered triumphan
tly. “Why don’t you come in here and make me go home?”

  For a moment, Agnes actually thought the old man would take her bait. She heard the floorboards creak and she held her breath before looking back to the witch’s secret hiding place. Her heart dropped though when she saw he hadn’t moved from his spot, still protectively standing on the floorboard, his fingertips glowing blue.

  Agnes stared intently at his fingers. She had seen him mutter something as his hands glowed magically before… but she was always safely hidden away in Uncle Charlie's house. Now she was in the witch’s domain, trespassing in his home, and he was ready to strike.

  Mr Rogers could smell the fear on her as he sneered. “I really hate children,” he muttered as he let out a growl, hurtling a spiralling blue orb at Agnes.

  Agnes let out a cry as she scurried away from her pile of books that had now vaporized into a pile of ash. She spun around in horror, staring at the witch who continued to glare at her, no doubt offended that she had survived his attack.

  “Don’t make me kill you, girl,” he sighed, clearly growing bored with chasing small children and throwing magic spells at them.

  “Not until you give me back what you stole!” Agnes glared at the man. “Don’t try to lie. I saw you take her seal skin, Mr Rogers.”

  “This is about the selkie?” The witch narrowed his eyes, not willing to be outsmarted by a little girl. After a beat, a light seemed to go off in the old man’s head as he smiled wickedly. “She’s here with you. Isn’t she?”

  Agnes probably would have hated the old man if she wasn’t so afraid of him. “Don’t you touch her!” She wished her voice would stop shaking as she stood to face the old witch.

  Mr Rogers threw his head back and laughed. “And what could a little girl possibly do to stop me?”

  Agnes glanced down at the glass jar still clutched in her hand. Lifting the bottle before her, she watched as Mr Rogers took a nervous step back, his eyes locked on the purple juice bubbling inside.

  “Where did you get that?” he demanded to know.

  Agnes smiled at the power she realized she now had over the witch. “I stole it from you,” she replied simply. “Just like you stole the selkie’s skin.”

  “You have no idea what that is,” Mr Rogers declared. “You should put it down before you hurt yourself.”

  “Myself?” Agnes glanced back and forth between the bottle in her hand and the man standing before her. “Or you?”

  “Agnes, please,” Mr Rogers begged. His fingertips were glowing once more, but he still refused to move from the doorway. “Put the bottle down.”

  Agnes watched as the man’s hands continued to glow brighter and brighter, his lips muttering something silently under his breath. It would only be a matter of time before he would lash out at her again, and Agnes needed to get the skin, get the selkie, and get out before it was too late.

  The witch was clearly afraid of the jar in her hand, and so, without a second thought, she uncorked the glass jar and splashed a bit of the purple juice at him.

  The explosion took her breath away. She was thrown back against the wall, a pile of books falling on top of her and protecting her from the blast. As Agnes coughed and blinked her eyes, she looked up to find that her innocent splash of potion had blown a hole through the side of Mr Rogers' house, revealing the sky to the east growing brighter with the sun. Ignoring the fact that the old man was laying on the floor, unmoving, Agnes leapt to her feet and stumbled over to the loose floorboard beneath the door.

  It took a bit of prying and wiggling with her tiny fingers, but she managed to pull the board up, revealing the witch’s secret treasures.

  Agnes begrudgingly admitted that the old witch’s treasures were far more interesting than hers. Amulets that spun on their own, something that looked suspiciously like a dragon scale, and even a vampire hunting kit. Agnes dug through the floor, her fingers finally brushing against what she was looking for—something soft and smooth and slightly wet from the sea.

  “Got you,” Agnes sighed in relief as Mr Rogers stirred beside her.

  Without waiting another second, Agnes fled down the narrow staircase into the waiting arms of the selkie. The woman wrapped her arms around the girl, tears of joy falling down her porcelain cheeks as Agnes placed the sealskin into her hands.

  You did it, little one.

  “You were right.” Agnes smiled at her friend. “My magic beat the witch.”

  As if he heard her thoughts, a howl echoed through the house, shaking it in the night. Agnes held her breath as she listened to his footsteps bang down the stairs, coming closer and closer to them.

  Agnes could already see the blue light shining from his hand, and she knew it was time to leave. Wrapping her hand around the selkie’s wrist, she ran for the back door. The selkie and the girl dodged the witch’s attacks as he blasted his house apart all around them. Chairs exploded, their stuffing clinging to their hair, food splattered across the walls, and the door they were about to push through was blown away, releasing them into the night air.

  The sky was getting brighter as Mr Rogers chased them, calling after them as he threw sand all about them with his magic spells.

  “Go!” Agnes yelled to the selkie, pushing the woman before her. “I’ll slow him down. Get to the sea!”

  The selkie paused, refusing to let go of Agnes’s hand. Staring intently into the girl’s eyes, she smiled as she said, Thank you, little one. Your magic saved me.

  “Anytime.” Agnes tried not to blush as she added, “Will I ever see you again?”

  Oh yes, the selkie assured her. I will never be too far.

  “Get back here!”

  Mr Rogers’ voice was far too close for Agnes’s taste. Turning to look back at the selkie, she pushed her to the water. “Hurry! The sun is rising!”

  Sure enough, the water was beginning to shimmer with the early morning light.

  With one last smile down at the girl, the selkie ran to the shore, her feet brushing the surf as she pulled her seal skin over her alabaster legs.

  "No!" Mr Rogers growled as he paused to stand beside Agnes, huffing, and puffing as he struggled to catch his breath. As the selkie disappeared beneath the waves, he turned on Agnes and snarled, "I'd love to vaporize you, you impudent wretch.”

  Agnes watched as his fingertips began to glow their eerily familiar blue, but his magic held no power over her. Lifting her potion up just high enough for the old witch to see, she sighed, “I don’t think you will, Mr Rogers.”

  “Agnes! Rogers! What the hell is going on?”

  “I won’t tell him about you sneaking into my house if—”

  “Don’t worry,” Agnes stopped him, an impish grin on her face. “I won’t tell him that you’re a witch.”

  The old man and the girl slowly turned to face Agnes' uncle who was dragging Toby behind him, his hair still a mess from a long night of dreaming. Mr Rogers quickly doused the light in his hands, and Agnes stashed her bottle behind her back as her uncle marched up to meet them on the beach.

  “Rogers! Your house!” Uncle Charlie cried at the sight of what had once been Mr Rogers’ home, still smouldering from the magical battle that had ensued inside.

  Mr Rogers turned to look at Agnes. For a moment, she feared the old man had lied to her, and he would tell her uncle everything. But she knew he would never admit to being a greedy witch that had stolen the skin of a selkie in the hopes of keeping her prisoner in his home forever. And he’d certainly never tell anyone that he was bested by a twelve-year-old girl even with magic on his side.

  “It’s the darnedest thing, Charles,” Mr Rogers declared, his voice light and playful as he marched Uncle Charlie back up to the house. “Do you mind telephoning the fire department for me? I don’t think my phone is working.”

  Agnes smiled proudly to herself as she turned to stare back out at the water, calm and peaceful in the morning light.

  “So what happened, Aggie?” Toby stood beside his sister, staring
at her as she continued to watch the sea, enraptured by it.

  “I can’t tell you much,” Agnes said coyly, thoroughly enjoying this. “All I can say is that my night was spent gathering proof that Mr Rogers is a witch. No matter what you say.”

  Toby just scoffed as he turned away to make his way to the kitchen to forage some breakfast. “Yeah right. Mr Rogers is a witch. And I’ll bet that makes you a wizard!”

  Agnes stood still, listening to her brother march through the sand.

  She slowly pulled the bottle out from behind her and looked down at the potion bubbling in her hands.

  Somewhere in the deep recesses of her thoughts, she could hear the selkie’s voice echo, The magic is inside of you. Remember that, little one.

  Looking back out over the sea, she declared proudly, “I suppose I am.”

  Broken Wings

  Cara Fox

  There is something rather tragic about a witch with no magic. Cleo knew this to her detriment. She had spent the past year battling to recapture the glories that slipped so inescapably through her fingers after what he did to her.

  No, she would not allow herself to think of him again, not tonight.

  She inhaled deeply and eased back in the worn rocking chair that had been handed down through the generations. Sometimes, when the candles were burning low and the wind outside was still and calm, she could swear the scent of her grandmother’s heavy perfume still clung tenaciously to the faded oak.

  Cleo was the twelfth witch to sit in this chair. Magic was in her blood. It thrummed through her veins, a constant companion she clung to since she first realised the power she held in her hands. Sitting amongst her grandmother’s flowing skirts, even as a tiny child she paid rapt attention to the sermons her mother delivered. Other children learned about history, about how the world was made and how to take their place amongst its neat ranks. Cleo learned about wonders none of them could ever begin to comprehend.

  But everything has its cost.

  Magic was a privilege. It was also a burden. Her grandmother never saw Cleo’s sixth birthday, and she buried her mother under the rowan tree by the stream some three years ago now. Cleo knew that like them, her life wasn’t destined to be a lengthy one. The stories that whispered of wizened old crones told only half of the truth. Their bodies were aged, granted, but inside their souls raged at the dying of their days, at the years stolen from them in return for the magic that poured forth unrestrained.