Sugarcane and Indigo

Witches, Birds, and Accountants

Once upon a time there was a boy who by all accounts should've been born a cuckoo bird. He had dark eyes, the type that people put entirely too much meaning into. The type that made a God of stories particularly interested in his. His name isn't that important - names rarely are.

    Some names are given with the implicit expectation that you'll grow into them. Some names are given like a second-hand pair of shoes - pinching too tight at the seams, filled with the unsettling feeling that you'll outgrow them. And some names - well, some names have no meaning till you fill them to the brim with life.

    His name, you'd be smart to note, wasn't any of these types of names. His name was given like a fact, like a handshake with little more fanfare than a how-do-you-do.

    So, no, this boy's name isn't worth telling; isn't worth memorizing. But his story? Well let's just say it's the prequel to a much more interesting name.

    This boy had two sets of parents. Though he didn't get them in the way one usually acquires them. One of his fathers - the one he'd grow up calling dad - came from a long line of accountants. The other - the one he'd never know anything about - also came from a long line of accountants. Their stories aren't much worth telling. Neither is one of his mothers who proudly noted herself as the descendant of a long line of doctors. But his last parent - the reason that if fate had a sense of humor he'd of been named cuckoo - well, she was descended from a long, long line of witches. And her story - well, her story is the story of Nowhere.

Zula was an odd child. The type that would hold off blowing out her birthday candles so that she could save her wishes for when she needed them. She was the type of person who so full-heartedly belonged in her body that seeing her live her life left you feeling holy. She was the type of girl who had eyes too grown for her face. The type that on an adult would look too serious and on a dying woman would seem too jovial and on a child gave the never-ending impression that she was up to no good. 

Zula became the type of woman the bible would've told you to burn.

The type that could call rainstorms with a wish, could calm tornadoes with a smile, could cry a hurricane into being. Zula was the type of woman whose life was so far past filled with magic that no amount of damnation, incantation, or divination could bring her to bat an eye.

She fell in love with a man possessing the most ordinary type of magic there is.

She fell in love with a man whose heart was simply good. The type of man who caught spiders just to let them out of his house, the type who wore sweaters in the summer just in case she got cold and wanted his, the type who saved every last birthday wish for her.

I remember when she first set eyes on him, the accountant.

It was a snowy January day. The type of day that was so unremarkable that it blended like an oil spill into the next one and the last. She was walking out of the coffee shop next to the witch, carrying a cup of coffee. She had just flipped her hair over her shoulder to laugh at the witch's joke, when she crashed into the outsider.

Her coffee cup upended in her hand, spilling all over the accountant's plum colored suit. The man let out a startled gasp, his round rimless glasses sliding to the end of his nose. He reached out to stop her from falling over. Apologies were on the tip of both their tongues when they met eyes.

    There's a lot to learn about a person in their eyes, you know.

    His were saying hello to hers till the day he died.

    The moment hung in the air like a christmas ornament suspended from a branch: beautiful and delicate. Even the snowstorm around them seemed to go soft and fuzzy when their eyes met.

    "Hi," he breathed out, hand still cradling her elbow to steady her.

    Zula's answering smile seemed to coax the sun out from hiding. "Hello," she whispered back.

    The accountant stared at her for moment - just a moment - longer. Zula's friend, the witch, cleared her throat loudly and the accountant seemed to remember himself, suddenly.

    "I'm sorry, Miss..."

    "Zula," she responded with a toothy grin.

    "Miss Zula," he breathed out, tasting her name in his mouth. After a moment he continued speaking. "I'd offer to buy you another drink but I really must be going. It's my first day at-"

    "It's alright," she cut him off, "I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again real soon."

    The man hesitated for a moment, every bone of his body telling him to stay, but the world has a way of convincing a man his bones are wrong. So with a reluctant nod he turned and kept walking down the street. The witch waited barely a moment before she turned to Zula.

"Child, why were you smiling at that man in that hideous suit?" The witch demanded, drawling out her words like they tasted bitter.

Zula responded without looking away from the accountant's retreating form. She wanted to know if he'd look back, just once before he rounded the corner. He did.

    "Iris, don't you know? Purple's the color of kings."

    I'd tell you how this story ends, but just this once I'll let you believe it's happy.

    Instead I'll tell you about their son. Their son whose story is only worth mentioning cause both his mother and his daughter shared a similar, peculiar fate: they'd both find themselves bleeding at the foot of a God. Surprisingly, one would live to tell the tale. But enough about boys who should've been born cuckoo birds or the boy's mother or daughter. You're probably more interested in his son.

Hey Guys! Thanks for reading this part. I know it seems totally random but it's important to the later plot. Leave a vote, comment, or add if you liked this chapter. What did you think of Zula? Did you recognize the witch? Do you know who the son is?