Witch on the Waters

Coincidentally, the day of my tenth birthday was also the day I first saw the witch. I awoke to the usual incessant droplets of water leaking from the weak ceiling and splattering onto my face, streaking across my cheeks like teardrops. I sat up. Neither my mother nor father had called me yet, which meant I had either woken too early or today was a special day. Luckily, soon I was to discover it was the latter. Moments later, my sister leapt through the doorway, her roughspun frock bouncing almost as enthusiastically as she was. She lunged towards me, her small, bright eyes wide and full of childish excitement. 

“Wake up, wake up!” She chirped. Her voice always sounded like that, like a morning bird’s early call. Her facial features, too, remind me of that of a bird’s: pointed, slightly upturned nose, bulging eyes that are just a bit too far apart and hair that tumbles in curls and frames her face like feathers. Baby bird, I called her. Her real name I hadn’t used in so long, I could scarcely remember.

“I am already awake,” I replied, slipping out of bed and stalking across the room. While my sister is the bird, I was the tiger, fearsome and unafraid yet clever. Usually. 

“Happy birthday! Happy birthday!” Reaching the doorway, I spun around and bowed dramatically.

“Why thank you, thank you.” All of a sudden, I was wrapped up in a big bear-hug, surrounded by the hairy, muscular arms of my father. I heard his gruff voice:

“Happy birthday son!” I giggled as he lifted me into the air and spun me like I was still a child. But I was not, I was ten. I was a man now.

My mother was in the kitchen, bent over a black pot producing enough steam to fill our entire house. Er, shack. Let’s not glorify the place. 

“Well hello, birthday boy,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She turned around to reveal a platter in her hands, a steaming plate of eggs.

“Mother, thank you so much!” I rushed forward and ripped the plate away without thinking twice. Immediately I sat down at our cramped table and bent over the food, gobbling it down ravenously. I could feel her hand placed gently on my shoulder, watching me eat the meal. Looking back, perhaps I should have been more grateful or offered to share it out. But I lied when I said I was a man then. I wasn’t. I was still just as petty, selfish and naïve as I had been the day before. 

“Son, you have grown up now,” my father announced, taking the second seat at the table which was across from me. “So I have a proposition for you.” This was the one thing that caused me to halt and look up from my indulgence.

“What is it, father?” He took a deep breath.

“I wish to take you fishing.”

We lived in a coastal town, so it was safe to say that our community entirely revolved around fishing. My father and his father and his father all began when they turned ten and finished when they died. That was just how it was, no two ways about it. The men bulked up hauling the boats and catch about, while the women stayed behind and looked pretty, flitting from one fishing household to the next. That was what my mother had done and it was what my sister one day would do. When she wasn’t only six, of course. 

“I would love to go fishing!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “Oh, do you really mean it?” I knew he meant it, but I was too caught up in it all to make sense or be truthful. My father grinned.

“Yes, I really mean it. Be ready, son, we set off in ten minutes.” So I shoved the rest of the eggs down my throat, thanked my mother again and in ten minutes was outside the house with a ratty cap on ready to fish. 

Soon my father joined me and we set off on the waters, the wooden oars of the boat pushing aside the tides as we made our way through the tumultuous wilds. We left behind the overgrown shoreline that our home was perched on and were soon enveloped in the neglected forests that framed much of the length of the river. A tiny splatter of water flew onto my face, sent flying by the force of my father’s rowing. I stood proudly beside him, puffing out my chest and keeping my head high because I did not want to admit even to myself that without him I would be as small as can be. Looking out at the woods, which continued to roll out onto the horizon, I just wanted to tuck my knees under my chin and curl up. I closed my eyes and pretended that the spray of the river water was the usual drip of leakage from our old ceiling. Suddenly there was a lurch and my eyelids flew open.

“What is it?” I asked, quickly beginning to panic. My father set down the oars and rose to his feet, his head swinging this way and that as he surveyed the scene. 

“I don’t know.”

“But you stopped.”

“I didn’t mean to. Something…stopped me.” Then I saw her. In the treeline, nearly hidden in the shadows of the tendril-like vines and branches long enough to strangle a giant. No, she would not be abused or masked by nature. She stood out, and although all I caught a glimpse of her scraggly black hair and pale face, it was enough to set my heart at a pace so fast I wanted to rip it out. I could hear it in my ears, feel it in my chest. I cried out and clutched my father’s arm.

“Turn around!” I begged. “Please, turn back father!” At that point, I was already wailing. My father looked around for a bit in panic before he too saw her. Immediately he picked up the oars and we began to row back. Throughout the entire journey, I clutched the sides of the boat, trying to calm my frantic breathing. Eventually, when we broke from the forests and our shack was nearly in sight, I gathered the courage to ask:

 “Who was she?” My father turned back to me, his expression hard and stoic.

“That, my son, is a witch.”

I didn’t know what a witch was at that time. I must confess I don’t know if I truly understand now. What I am certain of, however, is that from that day onwards she followed me. For a while, I could not go out on the river. I was far too terrified, so instead my father put me to work in other ways. I made runs into the main town, to the market. But I saw her, hidden in the alley of a building, red eyes watching me. So I didn’t return to the market after that. On the docks, nearby our house, I saw her standing on a long-abandoned boat. This was the first time I caught a true glance of her in all her misery, without the obscurity of shadow. She wore a long white dress that grazed her bare feet and had nails fit for a vicious, wild cat. Between the messy strands of her dark hair, one could see sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones, the facial structure not of the girl she was in stature but that of a decayed skeleton. Something not above human, as one would often believe a witch to be, but less. Sub-human. Animalistic. Although, that might be cruel to the birds, tigers and bears. 

I reached my breaking point when I saw her at my home. I had woken up as always and progressed to the kitchen, hopefully where a semi-warm meal waited for me. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I saw her in the window. It was just her red eyes, but I knew. Horrible tingles traced down my spine and I immediately turned on my heel and marched back into bed, where I remained for the rest of the day. How could I continue like this? I cannot even leave my bedroom without her watching me. And it is not as if I was going insane, my father confirmed he saw her too. I closed my eyes and clasped my hands over them, wishing for them to never be opened again. I must have lied like that for some time because eventually, my mother called urging me to eat something. So I opened my eyes. There she was, waiting. It was only a flash but I swear she was in my room, her face of death staring into my once exuberant, youthful complexion. Red eyes flashed. Then she was gone once more. I was left alone, again.

“Mother, what do you know about witches?” I asked, desperate for answers. She stroked my hair and cooed into my ear, reassuring me that I was safe. When I screamed, she came running.

“They are not real,” she whispered, “do not worry, son.”

“They are! I have seen her, so many times. Father told me she was a witch.”

“I do not believe it.”

“Why not? Who is she then?”

“Perhaps she is misunderstood,” my mother said, pulling away to smile at me and wipe away a tear with her thumb. “Next time you see her, try to speak with her.”

“But-“

“Try.” I nodded, sceptical but accepting my mother’s wisdom. Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe, I really was just a child with an overactive imagination, too small for his boots.

Sure enough, she appeared once more. I had gathered the courage to leave my house and go down to the boat, preparing to set off on the waters with my father the next morning. I heard a creak and spun around. She was there, her fleshy toes slapping the damp boards. I did not cry, I did not run. Remembering my mother’s words, I breathed in deeply.

“Who are you?” She smiled. Truly, she did smile. I swear by it to this day. Her teeth were yellow, rotten.

“Finally, someone asks.” This was not the reply I expected, but it was the one my mother did. “My name is Kemala.”

“W-what are you doing here?” I wanted to curse for allowing myself to falter. She didn’t seem to mind.

“I live here.”

“You are following me.”

“No, I am not. I work, I go about my day. You see me and get scared. Why?” I forced myself to look into her eyes. They were blue.

“I do not know.” Amazingly, her smile broadened. 

“You are ten, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Have you gone to the waters yet?”

“No, but I will. Well, I tried, but we had to turn back.”

“I see.” She paused and looked around.

“Is that your house?” It was startling to see that bony hand extended out to my very home. Even more surprisingly, I was not at all terrified. 

“Yes.”

“Are your parents home?” 

“Yes. Both are, as well as my little sister. Would you like to come in? We might have a little bit of tea.” 

“That would be wonderful. What is your sister’s name?”

“Well, we call her Baby Bird.”

“And what do we call you?”

“Tiger,” I replied sheepishly. Her eyes flashed.

“Interesting."

Willingly, I led her into my home. The door opened and she stepped in behind me. All of my family rose to their feet, alarmed. I waved my arms.

“No, she’s…” Suddenly all the wind was knocked out of me and I fell to my knees, unable to speak or move. She moved forward and one by one my family drops. Blood was shed. Shrieks. A final bird call, final roar of the bear. Then silence.

Now I tell this story to her every night, she enjoys my stories. We sit by the fire, she roasts meat on a spit while I slowly go hungry. My eyes water, she dries me out. In my own home, she commands my every move. She can see my thoughts now, I know she can. Hello, Kemala. I would like to thank you because you have taught me a valuable lesson. Sometimes, a witch is just a witch.