I Worked For A Witch
First of all, I didn’t know she was a witch. She didn’t look witchy at all. How many of us look like what we are? Besides, I had student loans to pay off. And here was this nice old lady, in the woods, where I often went to hug trees. I’d seen her ad in The Times so I thought I’d combine forest meditation with, I hoped, an interview.
Interview went okay. She’d never seen a black girl before. I’d never seen a witch before. So, we were even. I remember her being fascinated with my skin, my hair. “May I touch it?” she asked so sweetly. How could I say no?
She put me on spider duty: catching them, sorting them by size and spell. (First tip off.) But I kept screaming and stomping them. So, after asking if I could read and write, (Thank God I could: got me out of spider territory), she put me on spell chores: transcribing, making copies, etc. She said her glaucoma was getting worse. (I thought I caught a whiff of weed some evenings.) I could live with this new assignment, even though by now I knew she was a witch, but she made the best cinnamon buns. She always liked it when I stuffed myself.
You know... there always comes a point when you know you messed up, when, if anatomically possible, you’d kick your own butt. Repeatedly. The next month was her turn to host the monthly meeting of Witches and Bitches. They all looked like witches to me, black pointy hats, brooms, black maxi dresses, bad teeth. If bitches attended, they dressed in the prevailing black. Besides: what does a bitch look like? Usually, by the time you find out, you’re so up the creek without a paddle. I’d made up my mind then to give notice and quit. Did you know that witches have really bad gas? You’d think they’d cast a lavender spell over themselves to get rid of that stink. And a roomful of them? Dear God, I nearly suffocated. Yeah. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was time to go.
One morning when the witch went out for her daily skulking walk, I practiced how I would give notice since I didn’t relish being turned into a frog or moss. I’m a firm believer in it’s not what you say but how you say it. A tiny knock. I opened the door to these two little white kids, a boy and a girl. All skin and bones. Sweet as pie. The girl’s name was Gretel. The boy, Hansel. Brother and sister. I cooked breakfast for them, gave them cold milk to drink. I didn’t think the witch would mind. In between bites, they told me their father had left them in the forest. Didn’t give ‘em a blanket, bread or bye. Just walked away. Just then the witch returned. Her eyes lit up in a way I didn’t like. She pinched their little cheeks and went to baking cinnamon buns. My gut told me to hold off quitting.
For a while, everything was fine. That witch was cooking her heart out. Yummy butter dumplings. Stuffed cabbage rolls. Honey biscuits. German potato pancakes. We were all gaining weight. I even wished I’d packed some pants with elastic waists. I told Ms. Witch her food was so good it made me want to slap my momma. Ms. Witch just looked at me and said no problem.
Anyway, one morning the kids and I were going out to pick some flowers. But Ms. Witch said Hansel was such a handsome, strong lad, would he please stay and help her? Red flag. Red flag. Why didn’t I stay? Gretel and I said we’d wait for him. Ms. Witch said, go ahead, she and Hansel would join us in just a little while. Red flag. Red, frickin’ flag. When we got back, Hansel was locked in a cage, crying his eyes out. Gretel screamed, tugging at the cage.
“Let him out!” I demanded, my anger getting the better of me, making me forget that I was mere mortal. Ms. Witch only smiled. “In due time, dearie. In due time.” When a witch calls you ‘dearie’, things are bad. Things are really bad. And I noticed for the first time a key tied to her waist.
A deep, almost palpable gloom settled over me and the kids. Only the witch was happy. She hummed and smiled for no reason. And she must’ve put a spell on the food she fed Hansel. He was ready to burst out of that cage any day now.
And then she unlocked the cage. Gretel ran crying to her brother. They locked on to each other like sleeping otters. Meanwhile, the witch took no notice, proceeding to start a fire in the oven. Opened the door She smiled a sweet, scary smile and poured honey into her voice. “Hansel, I am so sorry. I made a mistake. I thought you would enjoy being fed such special food, just for you. Your little body must ache. I’ve built a special fire to take away the pain. Climb in. You’ll feel better.”
But the kids didn’t move. The witch looked at me. “You climb in. Show them it’s okay. They like you. They’ll follow you.”
And I thought. And I thought. For a lie that would let me live. And the kids. “Ms. Witch, I would gladly help you but I’m claustrophobic. Maybe…maybe if you just put your hand in, to show Hansel how soothing the fire can be…”
It sounded like she swore under her witch breath, but she went to the oven, reached her bony hand in and…
And I pushed her witchy butt in. Slammed the door. Yelled for Gretel and Hansel to drag the chairs over. I rammed those behind the oven door. And we ran for our lives. Ran through the woods. Didn’t stop until we got to the stream. I hugged the kids and explained to them I was going to take them to a better place to live. To Miss Helen’s. They wanted to stay with me, but I explained that I had student loans. “What’s student loans?” asked Hansel. And I started to tell him a big, blood red monster with sharp teeth and a humongous mouth that munches your future forever. But that’s not what you say to kids who’ve just escaped a witch and an oven. So. I did what grown-ups do when they don’t want to tell you something. I changed the subject. Told them I’d come and visit them often. And I have. They grew up. Happy. Loved. Spilling with laughter.
Hansel’s a vintner. Owns a lovely vineyard in Napa Valley. His Chardonnay is to die for. Gretel writes and illustrates children’s books. She’s won both Caldecott and Newbery Medals.
You say you’ve never heard this version? Not surprised. Hansel and Gretel both told everyone who’d listen who saved them, pushed the witch in. But that truth didn’t sit well with the powers that be. So, I was erased. Replaced. That bothered the kids. They said it wasn’t fair. Kids crave fairness like cookies. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I told them being erased didn’t stop me from living. Matter of fact, as a black woman, I was used to being erased. I kept living. I keep living. Funny thing: once you transcribe for a witch, you hear and understand so much more, beyond mere words spilling from humans. When people speak, it’s a crap shoot. As for me, I’m transcribing elephants. Did you know elephants chirp? Squeak? Roar? All this and more. Will keep me busy for quite some time.
Oh. Before I forget: reading is so important. Did I tell you I learned something from Ms. Witch? Remember she had me working on her spells. Well, I used one on that no good, heartless fool of a father that left his kids in the woods. Without a blanket, bread or bye. I cast a spell of monstrous flatulence on him. Constant, epic stinky gas that would gag a roomful of witches. He stank to high heavens. He stank all the way down to hell. His wife left him. The village exiled him. He lived in the woods where his smell alerted every moose, rabbit, grouse and mouse of his sorry butt. So he could never hunt. He couldn’t even fish. Every living thing gave him wide berth. Hope he’s still there. Without a blanket, bread or bye.
Rose Maria Woodson’s poetry has been nominated for both the Pushcart and Best Of The Net. Her poems have been published in Revolute, Worcester Review, Cider Press Review, Rappahannock Review, Folio Literary Journal, Comstock Review, Pedestal Magazine among others. Her fiction appears in Oyez Review, Glint Literary Journal and Litro Magazine. She is the author of two chapbooks, Skin Gin, 2018 Winner of Quillsedge Chapbook Competition and An Ombre Of Absence, published by Dancing Girl Press, as well as the mini-chapbook, Dear Alfredo, published by Pen and Anvil. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University.
