It's Witchcraft

"Guilt is born in the same hour with pleasure--like anything and its enemy."

-Ama Ata Aidoo, "Changes"

***

The problem for Merricat was that there was more to being a witch than just doing witchcraft.

Merricat had always been good at witchery; she could hex livestock with a word, spoil cream by looking at it, and give the Evil Eye at a hundred yards.

Sometimes, when she really put her mind to it, she could call up storms and batter poor ships against the coast, and then sit on the cliffs and watch the black shapes of the sailors bobbing in the waves.

She wasn't cruel, or even ill-tempered; these were just the things that witches were expected to do.

Once, when she was very young, Merricat had asked her older sister, Aradia, whether witchcraft was evil. Aradia had said that evil was an artificial concept created by the patriarchy to stigmatize feminine empowerment and that what was evil for a woman could be a sacrament for a man, and anyway who was putting these ideas into her head?

When she asked their Aunt Lolly the same thing, Aunt Lolly said that evil was in the eye of the beholder, an that in the old days they'd say it was god's place to judge, 'But god is dead, poppet, so good and evil are what we make of them, and witchery has always been what's good for women like us."

Finally she asked Great, Great, Great Aunt Jezibaba about it, and all Jezibaba said was, "Yes."

Merricat never was really satisfied that she'd gotten the right answer. But she wanted to be a witch all the same...

But to be a real witch meant she'd have to go to the sabbat on the Brocken mountain on Walburga's Night, and swear to the Black Man, and perform the Kiss of Shame, and write her name in the great book, and only after that would everyone else really accept her.

She was old enough now to make the trip--nearly 20, and older in fact than many of the others had been for their first time. Certainly old enough to make her own decisions. (Because nobody is born a witch, it always has to be something chosen.)

But the only way to get to the Brocken was to fly there. Some witches used brooms or staves or long-handled spoons; others traveled on the backs of goats or rams or other beasts; while still others simply flew naked through the night air under their own power.

No matter what the means, all of them used the same charm for it: The flesh of an unbaptized baby.

This was hard to come by, as people kept annoyingly strict track of their babies, and enough blabbermouths had let the secret out that even those who didn't bother much with church usually had their little ones baptized anyway--just in case.

Some witches who were midwives waited until a child was born dead (it was always just a matter of time) and then smuggled the remains away. Others turned the little body over to the parents for burial and then came back at night to dig it up, but this was a risk because some inconsiderate people insisted on baptizing the dead and spoiling the whole thing.

In any case, Merricat was no midwife. She could have broken down and gotten some from someone else--Aradia at least would probably have helped. But a witch was supposed to live by her wits, and if she didn't have wits enough to make her own way then she'd never be accepted.

So as Walburga's Night approached, Merricat sat at her looking glass, brushed her long hair out (50 strokes on each side), and thought about what to do. Somewhere in the house her sister was singing, and downstairs a prodding noise at the window near the stairs told her the cat wanted in; outside, the wind was promising rain, but for a moment she ignored all of that. All she was thinking about was the night coming up.

This was finally going to be her year to reach the Brocken, she decided. Of course, she's said that last year too, and the year before that, both times sitting at this very same mirror in this very same house, on nights very much like this night.

But this year was different; this year, she had a plan. It would be dangerous. And it would be difficult. And it might even mean doing some things she'd regret...

But once she'd decided it, there was no going back, because a witch above all is supposed to be firm in her resolve.

Everyone would approve of her when it was done, she knew--Jezibaba, Aunt Lolly, everyone. And if getting that approval meant bending a few rules and keeping a few secrets along the way...well, if that wasn't a young witch's prerogative, then just what is?

Laying aside her brush, Merricat turned out all but one light and laid in bed to write in her diary and lay out everything that she'd have to do The first step would be easy:

All she had to do was find Peter Quint.

***

Everyone knew Peter Quint was rich.

They knew a lot of other things about him too, like that he was a widower three times over, and that none of his marriages had lasted even for a year.

After his first wife was found at the bottom of some stairs he'd inherited the silver mine she'd come into after the death of her father--a lifelong friend of the young Quint, who it was said had expected to inherit much of the holdings himself.

The second time he married it was to a promising young debutante, and Quint, much older now, had seemingly been intent on securing an heir. When the doctors delivered bad news about her propensity for miscarriage, he was reported to be in tears about it--as he was at her funeral after she took poison. Or at least, the medical examiner, another good friend of the respectable Quint, said that she'd taken it herself...

He wasn't too broken up to marry again just five months later, this time to a distant cousin of his latest departed wife, one who had evidently inherited from a much more fertile branch of the family tree, as she ushered in a son in less than a year.

The proud papa didn't even bother to stage his third wife's death as anything except murder, although the official story was that she'd been strangled by housebreakers in a bid to steal her jewelry. Probably he was too hasty, as the baby died not long after, a crib death.

That was the last of Quint the bridegroom, although as he grew older he maintained a rarified taste for young women--that much everyone knew too, and that he bought their company by offering "charity" to the family of any pretty girl who showed up on his doorstep. And lots of girls did it, despite his reputation--because where else was that kind of money going to come from?

Merricat, of course, had never been to Quint's big house, where the servants' gate was always open in the afternoon for any passing young lady to come in and present herself while he passed the time in his gardens or, during the winter, his greenhouses. Nor had she thought she would ever need to..

But needs must when the devil dries, she thought as she slipped through the little gate at the edge of the ponderous estate, with the fur-lined hood on her cloak pulled down over most of her face. She carried a basket with a checked kerchief laid over the top, so that to anyone who saw her going in she could plausibly claim to be delivering something. Of course, the basket was empty, as were most of the ones carried in by girls on days like this.

The gardens were all neatly manicured lawns with perfectly square corners, and hedges trimmed like a gentleman's mustache. Quint's huge, many-gabled house was dark--not just darkened windows and doors and dark under the eaves and dark in color, but dark in a way that made it feel shadowy even in the afternoon sun.

There'd been an older house here once, but Quint tore it down and built this one--he hated for anything of his to have belonged to someone else first. The area around the house was called a garden, but not much actually grew here: few trees, and certainly no flowers. Mostly the place was full of statues, their alabaster skins creeping with moss and vines. Merricat imagined the old viper Quint turning people to stone with his gaze and leaving their shapes out here to bleach in the sun...

She had never actually met the man himself--never even seen him--but she recognized him all the same, because who else could he be, sitting on a lounge chair surrounded by hedges, gray-haired but rosy-cheeked?

He wore a full-fur, deep-collared coat, of the sort that had been fashionable in his college days, as well as many rings, and he looked a bit like a strange little doll from a carnival game dressed up. He was drinking gin and listening to music on a phonograph with a gold horn (Merricat found him by following the sound of it), but really what he was doing was waiting to see if this was one of the days he'd have a visitor like her.

His small, almost delicate face changed as she approached, initial pleasure giving way to surprise and, perhaps, guardedness: It was obvious from her fur hood and lace gloves and tall riding boots that Merricat was not the usual poor girl come to barter favors, and a man with Quint's history learned to distrust any kind of surprise.

But all he said was, "So you're here, and before we discuss anything you must join me for a drink. I won't hear no--there's too much for just me, and it'll go to waste if you don't."

The liquor was cold and tasted like pine, and Merricat persisted on standing even after she'd accepted it. Her hood was still up, but Quint could see her face. In spite of his suspicious nature, he was already showing interest--how could he not?

He asked her name, and normally she would have given the wrong one or just not answered--names have too much power to part with lightly. But if he caught her in any lie- (Merricat was of course an excellent liar, but he was a sharp old goat and it didn't pay to take chances-) it would spoil the whole thing.

So she told him the truth, despite knowing that he'd respond by making "Pss, pss," sounds, as if to a kitten, and calling her "Kitty Cat" instead.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of--that is to say dear, what are you doing here? You want something, I imagine?"

Sitting on the grass (there was a chair nearby, but she ignored it), Merricat arranged her skirts and the folds of her cloak around her like the petals of some enormous hothouse flower.

Once she was finally done, she said, "Actually, YOU want something."

"Do I? How very rude of me. I don't think it's ever come up before."

He smirked, but she ignored it.

"You're not a god-fearing man, are you Mr. Quint?" Merricat said.

"If God were here I'd challenge him to croquet--and I'd cheat."

"You want people to know that the things you have you got for yourself. But that leaves you in a hard spot when you want something that should be impossible: Men like you can't pray for miracles."

"What a charming exposition," Quint said. "Now dear, I'm becoming depressingly suspicious that I'm not going to fuck you, so why don't you tell me what it is you're selling, since it's obviously not what I'm really interested in buying?"

He punctuated his words by emptying his glass in the nearby hedge, the discussion having ruined his enjoyment of it. Merricat went ahead anyway.

"You want a girl who does things all the others can't. Not the things they won't do--the things they can't. The one thing especially that you want, the thing that's supposed to be impossible: I can do it. I can do it for you."

At this point she lowered her hood, and, raising the point of her chin, she looked old Quint right in the eyes. His gaze was flinty, pointed, openly hostile, and for a moment Merricat worried. This was dangerous for her--she had power, but so did Quint in his way, and she couldn't be certain of what would happen if he decided this was all too provoking. Yes, this was a risk--this moment above all others.

But the moment of peril passed, and all Quint said was, "Can you really?"

Merricat nodded.

"I think you know that when you leave here I'm going to look into who you really are, and if I find out this is any kind of con, very ugly things are going to happen to you."

"And if you find out I'm telling the truth?"

This Quint thought about longer, seemingly giving her real consideration for the first time. "Then we'll meet again, here. At night, I suppose. Is there a day that's best for this sort of thing?"

"Saturdays."

"Saturday then. And you'll name your price. But I'm not in a mood to fuck around about this, so if you're not serious this is your last chance to say so and walk out of here in one piece."

Standing, Merricat brushed the blades of grass off her skirts. "I'll be here Saturday night," she said. "But there can't be a soul in the house: Send every servant home for the night, even the ones who never leave you."

"A fine time for someone to rob me."

"No," said Merricat. "A fine time for someone to give you everything you ever wanted."

***

So it came that Merricat returned to the big house, this time during the dead of night and wearing a different cloak, one so big and heavy that it covered her completely and hung all the way down to her ankles. She wore the same boots and carried the same basket, covered with a red-checked kerchief, although once again it was mostly empty.

True to Quint's word, nobody was here, and the only thing lighting the house was a single tallow candle left on the threshold of the front door. Merricat had worried that maybe he'd refuse to follow instructions (men did that sometimes, even when it hurt their interests), and she couldn't have anyone around who might interrupt them at a delicate time.

Picking up the candle, Merricat waded into the old, dark house. Here too she was putting herself in danger: The house was Quint's domain, and she was alone in it. The heels of her boots clicked on the polished floor, and the small yellow flame burned in her outstretched hand, barely illuminating anything, but defying the darkness nevertheless. Even with her heavy cloak on, it was cold here.

She found him just where he was supposed to be, sitting in a dining hall by himself. There were no other candles here, and that was when she knew she really had him: The darkness actually wasn't necessary at all, but she'd told him it was just to make sure he was committed enough.

"It's time," she said, putting the candle on the edge of the table.

Then, "Take off all of your clothes." Seeing how much this pleased him she hastened to add, "But don't try anything."

Grudgingly but dutifully, he stripped down, almost manhandling the expensive clothes. Beneath them, his skin was pink and delicate.

"Good," she said. "Now kneel." She'd have liked to tie his hands, but this she knew he would not agree to--too easy to just cut his throat and rob the house. She had to trust his ambitions to hold him to it when she said, "Whatever you do, don't move from this spot."

From the nearly empty basket she took a jar with a waxed stopper and a very fine paintbrush with sable bristles. Inside the jar was blood--her own. Most of it she'd saved from her menstruation, but in the end she'd had to bleed the hard way to get enough before tonight--and the pain added something extra to its potency.

Working by candlelight, Merricat painted the exposed canvas of Quint's naked body: She painted him with old words, powerful words, words that meant great things in languages few people remembered. She painted seven letters in seven rows, and then read them in every possible direction, left and right, up and down, backwards and forwards, and when she'd read every sacred word that could be made out of all of them, she felt a hot rush in her blood as the witchery took hold.

At last she painted a circle on the floor and warned Quint not to step out of it or try to reach across the line. And finally, when all of that was done, she cast off the heavy cloak, revealing that beneath it she was of course naked except for her tall boots, and on her pale young skin he'd painted other words, even stronger words, words that answered and countermanded the ones she'd written on Quint--because above all she had to maintain her own power here.

Kneeling on the hard floor, Merricat took the phial of sacred oil from the basket and poured it out onto herself, letting it run in rivlets down her soft skin and across the beautiful taboo of her naked body. With delicate hands she rubbed it onto and into herself, so that her flesh glowed in the dim and flickering light of the candle flame, and she particularly took her time cupping and massaging her small breasts, rubbing her own fingers over the sensitive flesh until she shivered and felt goosebumps rising across her arms, shoulders, and even the flanks of her thighs.

Quint of course was watching everything, and she heard his breath convert to low grunts, like a barn animal; the visible effect on his flesh was quite obvious. That was good: Even at his age, seemingly, there was nothing to worry about in that department.

She worried of course that despite what she'd told him he wouldn't be able to contain himself, but he kept right where he was, even when Merricat finished moving her hands over her body and took the last thing out of her basket, a smooth and polished phallus that now she slipped beneath herself, parting her legs with the gliding motion of a butterfly's wings and allowing the tip of her red tongue to catch between her teeth as it went inside of her.

The shape fit inside her body precisely, filling her up and filling her out. Leaning back on her free hand, she spread her legs wide, letting Quint see the promising pink opening at the crux of her thighs; even in the dim light, she was sure he could conceive every inch of her body; even more than that, he could SMELL her, she knew. The scent of sweat, naked flesh, and earthy sex was a potent incense that men like him never forgot.

Rocking back and forth, she moved the shape in and out of herself, and when something between a growl and a moan welled up in her throat she let it out. In the darkness, Quint's breath caught on itself, and she knew she had him; even so, she drew it out as long as possible, luxuriating in the steady thrum of pleasure she was creating deep inside her own body.

Merricat could have brought someone else along to help with this part; she could even have called up a spirit of fleshly pleasures--or more than one--to assist. Indeed, many witches with many times her experience would have felt it not just preferable but necessary to have that kind of help with this particular charm.

But as always, Merricat prized doing things her own way--ALL things, as it happened. And besides, it didn't matter: Quint only had to watch for a few minutes before she heard the tell-tale groan, saw his frame sag--andjust like that it was over.

With the burnt-down stub of the candle, she spied what she was looking for on the floor underneath Quint: a few telltale, sticky drops that he'd released. Now that he had produced, the formulas painted on Quint's naked skin seemed almost to glow in the dark; the old man swayed, and she knew that the hot feeling of witchcraft was in his blood too, only for him it seemed a terrifying thing.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, like the croak of a frog. "I feel...why do I feel so strange?"

"Because it's working," Merricat said. "Just like I promised you, it's working. It will feel strange for a while."

"Will it hurt?"

"Life hurts. That's all this is: life, but at a faster pace."

"Why can't I see?!"

"It's dark in here," Merricat said; the candle was almost burnt out. "You'll be asleep soon. When you wake up it'll all be over, and you'll have exactly what you wanted."

"I...I..."

Quint kept trying to speak, but the words didn't come. Then Merricat blew the candle out, and everything was black.

***

The rain had come on by the time she got home. Merricat's sister, Arradia, was still up, having promised to wait for her, and she practically shivered with excitement as she threw the door open and let the soft golden light inside the house send her own shadow spilling down the steps.