Do Drop In for a Spell

by Kerry Blair

One cloudy October afternoon of the year I turned twelve years old, I ventured across the street from my house, pushed my way through reedy honeysuckle vines that had been left to run wild, and climbed thirteen stairs to the witch’s front door. There I rapped lightly and waited to be turned into a toad for my audacity. Everyone I knew, young and old alike, shunned the old woman who lived in that house. I always had too, but that particular day I was a girl on a mission. I was selling magazines. If I sold just two more I would qualify for the grand prize drawing for a portable TV. Unfortunately, every house in our small town had already been canvassed by prize-crazed adolescents. Every house except the witch’s. Nobody went there.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday. Before I could sneeze, a miniature tiger wrapped itself around my ankles, purring so loud it sounded like a growl. The autumn breeze was cool on my bare arms and I shivered. Or maybe it wasn’t the wind that raised the goose bumps. Maybe it was fear.

The witch opened the door and I stared in open-mouthed wonder. I’d never before seen white carpeting or black lacquer furniture. (This was the olive-green/harvest-gold 70s, after all.) And nobody I knew had red Oriental silks or a crystal chandelier, so a living room of gingerbread and gumdrops would have surprised me less. Even the air was bewitching—Verdi, I learned later. (In our house, if the stereo was on Slim Whitman was yodeling.) The witch was appropriately garbed in a long black sheath and wore slippers of emerald satin—presumably because the ruby ones belonged to her sister in the East.

I couldn’t speak, but the old woman saw the brochure in my hand and took it from me. She invited me in and I went. It’s not so surprising when you think about it. Gretel fell for the gingerbread. Snow White fell for the poisoned apple. I fell for the witch. And I fell hard. It was four years before I left that enchanted parlor again any time I didn’t have to. I only left then because she left me first. Even the best witches are not immortal.

Ardena Leer (the most beautifully named enchantress since Morgan LeFay) introduced me to a world I never knew existed. I’d long been a reader, but I’d never dreamed there were books like hers. Leather bound, gilt-edged works of Emerson and Browning and Dickens, they were the source of her magic. All the beauty and all the wisdom in the world was at her fingertips. She wielded it with power, reverence, and great generosity.

In the first of many books she gave me—a small tome of Shakespearean sonnets—Ardena wrote in a spidery script: Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit. It was a spell of the strongest variety. She wouldn’t tell me what it meant and she extracted from me a promise that I would ask no one else. I must learn to read the magic words for myself. Twelve university hours of Latin later, I am probably the only girl on my block who speaks a dead language. (Frankly, Latin hasn’t done me much good in life, but I figure it might still come in handy when I die. I’ll be able to take the gospel to any Romans Paul might have missed.)

I didn’t realize it until I sat down to write this paragraph, but I’ve long subscribed to only two magazines besides the Ensign: Writer’s Digest and Smithsonian. I probably don’t have to tell you they’re the same two the witch bought from me. Alas, my carpet is regrettably beige and my furniture is shabby chic, but my slippers are emerald (or ruby) and my silk scarf is Oriental. I have copies of most of the books that were in Ardena’s library and Verdi is among my CDs. In my lap is a cat, purring so loud that it almost sounds like he’s growling. The honeysuckle vines along my fence are dying back now, but I’ll let them grow wild again next spring.

So while I’m not a crone quite yet, I’m becoming. At least I hope I am. Every October (and many months besides) I think of Ardena Leer, town witch. It’s the noblest calling to which I’ve ever aspired.