Fornever
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INSPIRATIONS THAT WE DEEM OUR OWN
Part 1 - Awake at Midnight - I
He lives with a witch. He knows this because she has a cauldron in the kitchen and likes to make potions (but she likes pottery more). She can also fly, and use a broomstick, though perhaps not both at the same time. Her garden is full of special plants: some are purple all over, the trees bear things other than fruit (like the one time a little girl dropped out of the oak's branches), some of the flowers sing, and butterflies are always afraid to go in; only the moths stay.
She dresses all in frilly blue, is only probably as old as he is (which isn't very old at all), and doesn't keep a cat much less a black one, but he knows that she is a witch. She even told him so herself- it is the first memory he has of her, of anything.
"You are going to live with me," the witch had said to him then. "People call me a witch, but you should not worry. I will not eat your toes when I am hungry or cut off all your hair to make a love potion."
"Why would you do that?" he had asked.
"People believe silly things, and because of that they say silly things too," she answered. "Your room is on the second floor. The door will have your name on it. You will have a bed, a desk, and a chair."
"But what is my name?"
"Take this with you," she said, and a pen drifted gently into his hands. "I have a love potion I need to make- one that does not need your hair to work. Look through your room. If you need anything else, you can tell me and I will see what I can do."
It was clear to him that the witch wasn't going to be answering any more of his questions. With a whoosh of loose fabric, she turned her back to him and started to pour water into the cauldron, reaching for a container on the counter. He had stayed behind to watch for a little while, but potion making looked extremely boring so he left for the stairs as she told him to.
He had found his room easily enough. There were only three doors upstairs and all of them had labels. The first door said WITCH, the second BATHROOM, and the third was blank. He paused in front of the door, pen in hand. So, did he have no name, truly?
The only sound came from below: the witch's gentle humming.
At that moment, a flash of memory came to him: a cool winter day; a vase of dying flowers; a feather; a shared blanket of fur; yuletide carols, the witch. She is laughing at him, and reaches out to hold his hand. The person whose body he is in says something, she replies, and she calls him-
*
There are only three doors upstairs, and all of them have labels. The first door says WITCH in big blocky letters. The second says BATHROOM, full of loops and fancy curls. In the same hand, the third says ARASH.
*
There is no library in the small house, but the witch keeps some books in the kitchen. Two of them are cookbooks, one of them is a gardening magazine that, judging by the state of the pages, seems to be at least five years old, and one of them is a children's book from a library he has never visited. The three others, the witch tells him not to touch, as those are her magic books. Arash is skeptical, but he obliges.
He finds himself wondering about those books a little bit, but the impulse to flip through them isn't strong enough as to be overpowering. Besides, he isn't about to disobey one of the witch's orders in her own house.
Still, there is a saying about curiosity and cats for a reason.
Arash is eating lunch, and the witch has just placed one of the books down next to a thick folded blanket. "I will go check on the plants," she says. "I shall be back soon."
He nods, not opening his mouth to speak. She had chastised him previously for speaking with his mouth full of food, though she spoke with a sort of exasperated fondness that Arash had found mildly disconcerting at the time. The witch nods back to him and disappears from the room, and a few seconds later Arash hears the door open and close.
The entire house is silent, but outside the flowers burst into joyous song which he can clearly hear through the open window; that would mean that the witch is already at the gates of the garden, then. The sunflowers are talkative, however, and she will likely be away for a little longer than he thought.
His eyes wander around the room. He doesn't know how long he's been here; time has become just another word. Neither he nor the witch age, and though days and nights go by, it is as if the passage of years ignores the house and its inhabitants completely. Even if he's lived for a hundred years, there is always something new and interesting to find; just last night he discovered an interesting pattern of spider webs in the far corner of the well-lit kitchen.
And today, it's a very large find indeed.
Arash stops eating for a moment, setting down his utensils. The pile of books is still there, but the book at the top is one of the forbidden ones. It's the one with the purple cover, but he knows nothing about it beyond the fact that the witch thumbs through this one the most often of all. He frowns, feeling guilt rise through his throat as he considers going over to take a peek at the book. Well, it isn't as if he'll touch it; he's merely going to glance at its title. That can't do any harm, can it?
From outside, there comes a rasping sound and a thump, perhaps the sound of the oak tree dispensing another object. The witch will have to stay behind to clean up whatever it is, giving him ample time to look at the book. It's as if the plants themselves are helping him.
A vine slithers in from the window. It waves a few leaves at him, and then retreats.
Arash hesitates, a small smile tugging at his face. The moment passes, though, and he moves to the pile of books at the other end of the kitchen. He takes one deep breath-- he technically isn't disobeying any orders, but his stomach is still roiling as if it were the witch's cauldron- something bitter and heavy stewing within. For a moment, he debates with himself whether or not to just go back to eating. No matter what he chooses, the witch will never know.
But he has already come this far. So he stills the guilt bubbling around in his gut and takes the quickest, briefest of glimpses at the title.
'Men of Truth'
*
"I have found a cat," Arash says. "He dropped out of the oak tree. May I keep him?"
The witch pauses in her mixing, frowning sternly at him. She looks to the small kitten which he holds out to her. Arash waits patiently; the witch likes to take things at her own pace, and rushing her will do him no favors. For a moment, the soft purrs of the orange cat and the low simmering of the witch's potions are the only sounds that fill the room. Finally, the witch turns away and looks back to her cauldron.
"Cats are not to be trusted," the witch says with an almost frightening certainty. "They will abandon you when you need them most and make nuisances of themselves whenever it is most inconvenient for you. But if you are in a situation where your life is on the line, the best thing you can do is to follow a cat. Of course," she adds, eyeing the ball of fur and purr in his arms with distaste, "you must make sure that its life is in danger as well. Else, it will be as likely to lead you into more trouble as opposed to out of it." She critically examines whatever it is she has in the cauldron, before picking up a bottle of green substance; he can't quite see the label from where he is.
"You are much better off getting a dog," she says. "Dogs are loyal to you and they stay with you until the end. If you treat them well, then they will be your closest companions for life, and beyond."
"Then I shall name him Dog," he says.
The witch sighs. "The nature of a cat is to look out for only itself; calling it a dog will not change what it is. It is impossible for any one thing to change its nature."
"The nature of clay is to be lifeless, and yet I am here. That's what you made me for, isn't it?"
She lets him keep the cat.
*
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< Message edited by Fornever -- 3/11/2013 11:17:10 >
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