After School

2.31 The Witch

SEPTEMBER 3, 1246

Ravens or crows?
Only the Pagan witch knows.

That's what the deities sing about her. The Witch always believed that it was ravens. Her mother believed that it was crows. Her dead mother wasn't a Pagan witch, so she wouldn't know.

The Witch hummed this melody as she skipped down the golden hallways. She enjoyed her new home. It was extravagant and the rooms had regulated temperatures, unlike the chilly woods. The food was weird. Not disgusting, but different. Good different. Her lips curved up into a tiny smile at the thought of living here forever.

She ran her fingers through her sleek black hair that was tied in a tight bun, finding her hair pleasant for once. Her new black dress that was wrapped around her body perfectly, swished with every bounce of her feet. William Stevenson had gifted it to her so she shall keep this one until the end of her time.

Ravens or crows?
Only the Pagan witch knows.

To the library, she goes. She has seen this library many times before, her first sighting of it a couple of centuries prior. She saw it stand alone on top of the hill, torn in half with vines spiralling out of the cracked bricks. Leather bound books laid on the ancient floorboards, its open pages fluttering in the breeze of every season. She yearned to reach out and pick one up, but she was too deep in the forest. After a hundred or so years, she watched the ivory church being built around it, its shining stones glimmering against the sun's rays and concealing the mystical library. She had seen many commotions like these from her coven, deep in the woods. Although was it truly a coven, if she was eerily alone?

As she neared the heavy wooden doors of the grey library, her footfalls echoed and bounced off the luminous walls. She had never been inside this library or the castle before being gifted it, despite staring at it for centuries. It excited her, thrilled her even, to be trodding around the Church corridors, freely.

It was the same feeling as before when she had the sudden impulse to enter the Church of Willesden. It was a church she had been gazing at for centuries, wondering what commotion went on inside. Although, it was not simply an impulse. It was the Devil's request.

Ravens or crows?
Only the Pagan witch knows.

The memories of that day in the church reminded her of the Christians. The Witch disliked the Devil, but neither did she like their God. She respected their wishes, listened to their discussions, but never felt the same way. It made sense, for she is Pagan. Nature and Her deities are the divine phenomena she prays to.

But what do they say about her being a witch? They say nothing, for she meets no one. Although, back then, when she was young, curious, and desperate for adventure, she sought someone. Anyone. After a while, she met someone. She talked, sung, and danced with him. But then he left. He left when she cursed him because she foresaw him leaving. She realized now it was a stupid mistake, but he would have left anyway when he found out she was a witch. She would realize decades later that it was a befuddling paradox.

She dislikes the Devil, yet she is a witch. How did that come to be? It was difficult for even her to pinpoint, for all she knows is the Devil. And her name. She barely recalled contacting the Devil, on that starry night. Compromising, collaborating, conjuring, cursing. She didn't know why or how it happened, it just happened. The next day, she woke up, wrapped in the Devil's duvet, with His mark carved on her right palm. She dislikes the Devil, yet she answers His every request. There is no swaying the Devil. He only sways thee.

Ravens or crows?
Only the Pagan witch knows.

The Witch pushed open the wooden doors of the library, the burst of wind rushing through her dress and shooting up her blue veins. She tilted her head upwards, puffed her chest outwards, and straightened her back. A grin spread across her leathery face as she marched forward, unable to hold back her anticipation.