Witching Hour

Long after midnight, at the darkest time of night, magic comes out to play. The witching hour starts at 3:33 in the morning, half way to the devil’s hand. The world is hushed, but for the murmurs of sleeping people awaiting the light of morning. In the quiet, magic whispers and dances through the dark to give power to its creatures. At least, that’s how it worked in Salem, but I live in New York now.

In the city that never sleeps there is neither quiet nor dark, so, there is no witching hour. There is no place to find magic unless one is willing to break into Central Park. In the middle of a city that is all loud noises and bustling movement, the park is still and silent. I stand on the grass breathing in the wisps of magic from the air into my blood. I alone drink the magic of New York City. Or so I think.

“Ho! Young Maiden wherefore art thou in this place at such an hour?” a lilting voice calls with a heavy British accent.

I whirl around trying to find the speaker but see only a statue of a young man. He is wearing Shakespearean garb releasing a falcon into the starry sky.

“Pardon me? Who’s there?” I ask trying to be polite.

Spirits forbid, I anger one of the other creatures that gain sustenance from night magic.

“Tis I lady, who speaks, the Falconer who stands above thy head,” says the voice, I look up at him and his falcon’s wings beat, though it can’t fly. Fascinating.

“Know you not, thou beest in grave danger?” the Falconer asks, metal eyebrows raised.

“Danger?” I question. “What sort of danger? We’re alone aren’t we?”

“Verily, at the moment we are alone. However, tis the dark hour. Thou shouldst repair home. Anon, the witches may be present,” he whispers.

I laugh. I almost cackle for the sake of irony. There are, as far as I can tell, no other witches in Manhattan. Brooklyn perhaps. New Jersey, certainly. But magic doesn’t like Manhattan. No witch in their right mind comes here, even by a witch’s standard this was a bad idea and witches had a penchant for making bad choices.

“Laughter? Marry, fie on you! Witches curse when laughed at, I warn thee,” the Falconer yells, voice cracking.

“I would curse them back, obviously,” I reply, a moonbeam wisp of silvery magic slithering through my fingers.

There is a gasp from the statue and a screech of bronze as his eyebrows furrow. It is an unpleasant look for the lad. His brows say puzzled but not curious. The boy’s bronze lips are drawn into a prominent frown, he doesn’t need curiosity as he has already made up his mind to be puzzled and angry.

“Methought thou a lady by thy looks, but thou art a witch. Whereof are you made to have a maid’s body but with the power’s of a devil.”

“You make one pact with a demon and suddenly you aren’t worthy of being a lady or a maiden,” I roll my eyes, “I have magical powers but I’m still a human trying to live a life same as, actually, not the same as you seeing as you’re a statue…sorry”

“This metallic form is the fault of thy kind. A vindictive hunch-back’d hag cursed me many moons ago. I will abhor magic henceforth for the coil it has caused me”

“It seems thou hast not the mettle for the metal,” I say with a smirk, the falconer sighs.

“Har har, the witch has a cunning wit to mock my painful circumstance.”

“Maybe you deserve it. What did you do to the witch?”

“The vile toad thought me fair and fancy I become her new knave. I acquiesced but shortly thereafter met my Maria. I shrift, my duty was oft forget in the rapture of new love.”

“Ah, I see. Your witch was a lover scorned. The green monster overtook her.”

The falconer moved his free hand up to his chin and looked down at me, his frown had eased and a single brow rises quizzically.

“Thou think’st the witch felt love for me? I knew not those of tainted soul could feel the sanguine heat of love.”

“Light of brain knave,” I begin, shaking my head, “I told you witches are just magical people, we have the same need for love as anyone”

“Here methinks the lady witch was not but a mountain of mad flesh with humours all askew, when verily she loved me.”

“Trust me, her, uh, humours were probably all hot for you, that’s why she cursed you so bad. That’s unfortunate. I’m going to help you.”

The Falconer’s previously neutral face breaks into a very wide smile and his falcon ruffles its metal wings as the boy moves to thrust his free arm toward me. 

“Truly? Thou art most generous despite my previous offenses toward thou and thine! I thank thee and extend my hand of friendsh-”

The beginning of the Falconer’s speech is suddenly interrupted as the sun begins its ascent at promptly 4:33. The statue creaks back to its original position, one arm at his side the other extended the falcon on its hand. The head moves up, as though to watch the sun inching its way over the horizon, his face returns to boyish amazement. The falcon’s wings glint in the sun as he spreads them out looking, once again, as though it is on the cusp of flying away.

The Witching Hour is over. I step up onto the statue’s pedestal and shake the now stationary bronze hand. As I begin the walk back to open Witch’s Brew Tea for the day I wonder idly if I have all the ingredients for a pot of Poet-Tea in the back storeroom. I befriended a Shakespearean statue the least I can do is do a little hocus-pocus to speak his language. It only takes a little bit of effort to make a strong and lasting friendship. Demon tainted or not, even witches need a few good friends.