Must Be the Season of the Witch

Witches have their season. They come and go like fashion, yet never quite go out of style. They congregate around high times of history. Flying overhead. Landing on the unsuspecting. They rise when cultures clash, when crisis looms, when no answers can be found. Such was the climate during the 60s. The youth among us stepped off the platform of conformity and sought answers on the plains of adversity. Courage marched arm-in-arm with fear. Youthful foolishness threw rocks at the windows of convention. Moments of serendipity, like Woodstock, left undying hopes that life could be peaceful. Posters that read, Fighting for Peace is like Balling for Chastity took on an eternal meaning. The Vietnam War raged on. ~ Art school in the 60s was filled with students and teachers all vying for the top fashion spot in the hip and cool category. There was one girl on campus, though, who didnt seem to be concerned with the competition at all. Her daily attire never swayed in the fickle winds of fashion. Day after day, her demeanor starkly stated, This Is Who I Am. Long black velvet cape. Downcast eyes. Hair so dark that it looked like she had dumped bottles of black motor oil all through it. Deep red lipstick applied so thick that it shimmered like blood. She showed up for drawing class on Tuesday evenings. Always sat in the back. Never let anyone see her work. Rileys curiosity got the best of her one night. So, whats with the cape? You wear it every day, hot or cold, sun or rain, Riley stated. It protects my heart, the girl replied. She opened the cape to reveal a long black t-shirt with an embossed red heart sliced in two by a silver sword, blood spurting outward. Words running across the top read, Bloodshed. Drink and be satisfied. Thats a statement about the war or something? Riley asked with all naiveness fully displayed. Yeah. Its how we witches feel about war, she replied with a cool nonchalance. Youre a witch? Riley asked with what must have been a surprised look. What? Youve never talked to a witch before? Well, no, I havent, replied Riley, recovering her composure, so tell me about your witch life. Im Riley, nice to meet you.

Must Be the Season of the Witch 2011 by Kathleen Rowe Franks

skywavewriters@gmail.com

Must Be the Season of the Witch

Im Krala. You want to go for coffee? Sure. In the space of the next three hours, Riley heard Kralas story of growing up in San Francisco with her mom and her brother, Nat. She told Riley all about her mothers coven, the midnight meetings on the beach, the pet rats that came along, the seagulls they sacrificed on the campfire, the feathers they washed in blood, the skulls they dug up from the maps their mother had that told them where to dig, the sunrise circle dances that left them feeling washed out with the tide. Riley listened. It really wasnt that strange for her to hear all this. After all, Rehtom was into the occult. Riley had grown up on this stuff. Instead of a bedtime story, Rehtom would play the Ouija board with Riley and her older sister, Liz. Excitement would overtake their mother each time the little plastic triangle began to fly around the room. Sometimes the dining room table would rise up and move to the other side of the room, knocking chairs down as it went. Rehtoms manic laughter still haunts Rileys dreams to this day. You dont seem so shocked to hear my stories, Krala said as they were on their fourth cup of tea. No, Riley replied, my mother was into the occult. She wasnt a witch, but I learned a lot about the power of the dark side from her. Hey, listen, Ive got to go. Im having a party on Sunday night at my house. Why dont you come and meet some of my friends? Stop by around seven. You want me to bring anything? No, Ive got it covered. I live across the street from the ice cream parlor. Its the white house with the big porch. ~ The front door was open despite the cool and rainy January evening. Riley stepped into a large foyer dimly lit with a lone blue lightbulb suspended from the ceiling. A long table crossed the length of the foyer. Strewn across were all the trappings of a witches life: tiny skulls, eagle feathers, tiger eyes, canine teeth of various sizes, pelts, spiders pinned on cards, small pots of shimmery liquids, crystals, mirrors, etc. The smell of incense was heavy. Riley hated incense. It gave her headaches.

Must Be the Season of the Witch 2011 by Kathleen Rowe Franks

skywavewriters@gmail.com

Must Be the Season of the Witch

Krala stood behind the table answering questions to a small group of students that Riley recognized from school. Riley continued on to the hallway which led to the living room. Floorto-ceiling red velvet drapes covered every window. The furniture was definitely Victorian. Scratchy wool couches and chairs didnt call out for Riley to sit down. She made the rounds of the room. Every end table had a lamp with a red-fringed brocade shade and a red light bulb beneath. A portrait of Edgar Allan Poe hung over the fireplace. A red light was lit under it to give an eerie glow. An outrageous cuckoo clock with glimmering gargoyles hung over the French doors leading to the dining room. How theatrical, Riley thought. A man in a waiters suit offered her champagne from his tray. Riley hesitated, wondering at that point if she should trust anything going on in this house, but took a glass and smiled thank you. Riley left the red drama of the parlor to find the kitchen, hoping to find something a little more inviting. The inviting sound of people laughing and talking led her down the narrow hallway. She ventured into the light of a warm kitchen with partygoers leaning on the counters, sharing food and drink, some helping with preparation. Ah, Riley, thought, no matter what the place, the party in the kitchen is always this way. Krala came through to announce that dinner was ready and we should all head to the dining room. Riley was surprised to see a dining room large enough for the partygoers. Krala had the table set for twenty-five: eleven on each side, two on the end and one at the head. Ornate old candelabras graced the table and the buffet giving the room a warm and inviting hue. Rileys appetite which had waned from the foyer was beginning to return. Krala put out a five-course dinner like Riley had never seen. Scrumptious summed it up, especially the meat which everyone was raving about. Small chunks of succulent beef in a wine sauce. Some were already asking Krala for the recipe before the meal was over. Near the end, Krala stood up and tapped on her wine glass. My dear guests. I want to thank you all for coming. As you can see, I love entertaining. Youve all brought me much joy with your presence. I hope the meal was as satisfying to you as it was for me. Some have asked how I prepared the meat. Well, I marinated it in wine for a day. Oh, and the cut? Its the arms of a mans body I got from my friend who works at the morgue on Piedmont Avenue. Yes, youve all just committed cannibalism, she remarked as she waved her glass of wine with a dramatic flair fit for the magnitude of the announcement. Shock chilled the room. Several people got up and ran out the back door to puke on the lawn. Others headed for the kitchen. A few remained at the table laughing, most likely out of nervousness. As for Riley, she felt no shock, nor nausea, nor nervousness. She only thought of her mother who would have given her eye teeth to have been there.

Must Be the Season of the Witch 2011 by Kathleen Rowe Franks

skywavewriters@gmail.com