SHADOWS

by Jonathan Nasaw

  "It's my apartment too."

  "Not anymore it isn't."

  Helene heard doors next: the bedroom door opening and closing, the front door slamming, then a refrigerator door. A moment later the waitress entered with an ice pack for Helene's cheek.

  "Are you really a witch?"

  A laugh; a picturesque toss of the long hair. "I suppose I'll do until the real thing comes along."

  "And you put a curse on him?"

  "Damn straight."

  "It wasn't straight at all." Helene couldn't believe she said that. She felt her face growing hot, except for the cheek with the icebag.

  A dismissive flap of the strong-wristed hand. "Kindergarten stuff. Suggestion. The easiest spell there is. You could learn it, you know. In fact, you'd make quite a witch yourself—you're already telepathic—that bit with the tip tonight? Most people don't pick up on what I'm putting out anywhere near as strongly as you did."

  Helene gathered her sheet of poems off the floor and stuffed it back into the envelope. "I didn't exactly pick up on what Stan was putting out."

  "College girl, eh?"

  "Barnard."

  "A chickie fresh from the Barnyard. Stanley, Stanley, Stanley." The waitress sighed—her chest heaved impressively under the leotard. "Tell you what, chickie. How about I make us a cup of tea while you ice your eye there, and I'll hip you about all them big bad wolves out there drooling for such a tender young pullet."

  "I'd rather hear about the witches."

  "That too."

  * * *

  "The first thing you have to get out of your head is the idea of the wicked witch from fairy tales. That's just Christian propaganda—although the Crone is one of the aspects of the triple Goddess. Wicca is a religion—it's older than Christianity. Lots of tradition, lots of ritual, pantheistic, animistic, neopagan for the most part. But no dogma—faith is not required, and every coven gets to define itself. Nobody even agrees about where the word Wicca comes from. In Old English, wit is the root for wisdom, same as today, but in Indo-European wic had two meanings. As a noun it meant 'religion' or 'magic,' but as a verb it meant 'to bend or shape.' In my coven's tradition, Dianic—women only—we say a witch is a wise woman who uses magic to bend or shape reality."

  "What do you mean by magic?" Helene wanted to know. The two women were having their tea in the cozy little kitchen. A plywood board over the bathtub served as their table; the green Melmac cafeteria-style cups were from the Pet.

  " 'The science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with will.' " Moll was quoting Crowley, though Helene didn't know that yet.

  "But what sort of magic? Like spells and stuff?"

  "Spells, prayers, potions—they all work together. Although as Bensozia always says, potions work without spells a lot better than spells work without potions."

  Moll drained her teacup, then set it down decisively on the bathtub table. "But I really can't say any more about that." Then, casually, "Unless of course you decided to take initiation, join the coven."

  "What's involved in that?" asked Helene, also casually. But she was being coy—somehow she already knew she was going to do it. For all the wrong reasons, no doubt: because she hated Barnard; because she already had a crush on Moll, though she'd never had any leanings of this sort before—or experience, except for one summer at sleep-away camp when she was twelve; because she was still in shock; because she was a silly goose of a girl, eighteen years old and green as grass; whatever the reason, it was as if past and future had switched places. Her past, Helen's past, was blurry and unreal, while the future seemed as sure as if it already happened.

  And Moll must have known she had her hooked; still she played the line out with great care. "Not much. But it would have to be tomorrow—that's the Equinox Sabbat. If not, you'll have to wait until Samhain for the next Sabbat, and maybe there'll be another candidate by then." She stood up, towering over Helene. "But this is all going too fast for you—I'm sure you have to get back to your dorm."

  Helene glanced at her watch, a Lady Bulova, a graduation present. "Uh-oh. Too late for that. I haven't even signed out, so I sure can't sign back in after curfew."

  Off-handedly: "You can crash here if you'd like."

  "Crash?" It was the first time Helene had heard the word used in that context.

  "Sleep over. C'mon, help me change the sheets so they don't smell like Stan."

  Not a word was mentioned about sex. While the two women stripped the soiled bedding, Moll explained to Helene a little about the initiation ceremony (by and large, it would be the same ceremony Martha would undertake this Halloween night thirty years later), about the Misikidak Helene would have to memorize. But the clincher as far as Wicca was concerned came in a remark Moll called through the bathroom door while Selene was brushing her teeth.

  "If you were a witch, you know, you could never allow something like what Stan Kovic did to you to pass unrevenged. It would weaken your power. And all the other witches in the coven would be bound by oath to help you take that revenge—it would be their religious duty."

  Although she had brought her toothbrush and a change of clothes, Helene had neglected to pack anything to sleep in, so Moll lent her one of her own denim shirts. In Ludman a denim shirt marked you as a farmer's kid, but Moll's denim was soft and smooth and as blue as her eyes. Helene changed into it while Moll was in the bathroom. She was already so excited about the prospect of joining a coven of witches that it hadn't occurred to her—not consciously, anyway—that that night might be something beyond a pajama party sleepover.

  But when Moll emerged from the bathroom stark naked and climbed straight into bed Helene's whole body started trembling. Moll must have felt it—the bed was only a rickety double-wide cot on casters. She rolled onto her side, facing Helene. "I think we'd better have a little talk, woman to woman."

  "Okikikay," was all that Helene could manage, and the way her teeth were chattering she barely got that out.

  "Just nod—I'm afraid you're going to bite your tongue off—and you might need it."

  The trembling worsened.

  "Joke. That was a joke. You are scared, aren't you?"

  A nod. "Ninininervous."

  "Well I don't blame you. After all, you were nearly raped tonight. But this is different. I'm not gonna rape you, I'm not going to seduce you—shit, I can't believe I'm saying this—I'm not even going to touch you. Unless you want to. Now here's the deal…"

  It was not a very complicated deal. If Helene rolled onto her left side, facing the wall, they would sleep. If she rolled over onto her right side, facing Moll…

  * * *

  When Helene awoke the next morning, she was still lying on her right side. I'll never sleep on my left side again, she promised herself sleepily. Moll told Helene the Tale of her own initiation over breakfast (bagels, the first she had ever seen, much less tasted) and afterward brought her to the strange little bookshop called Covenstead and introduced her to Andred and Bensozia, the two old witches who owned the place, and served as joint high priestesses of the Village Coven.

  She purchased the tools for her initiation—a dagger and cords and an incense holder and a silver cup—that morning. Andy and Benny, who reminded her strongly of the two sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace, agreed to let her pay them off on the installment plan, then showed her into the back room, which really was a covenstead, the place where a coven meets. It was bigger than the front of the shop, furnished in thrift-shop Victorian: thick Oriental rugs, soft chairs, flocked wallpaper, bric-a-brac by the carload. In one corner the walls were covered with silk hangings, like the Gypsy fortuneteller's tent at the county fair back home.

  There was yet another room behind the covenstead where the witches kept their herbs, potions, powders, and poisons, as well as a cabinet containing—oh good heavens—dildos. It took her a moment to even think of the word; Helene had never actually seen one until she found herself in the back room of the covenstead staring at a whole dick museum—
a collection of wood, stone, rubber, wax, and primitive battery-powered plastic phalluses in every shape, size, and color imaginable.

  She spent the rest of the morning and afternoon studying for her initiation. Andred—the rounder, softer of the pair of priestesses—helped her with her Misikidak, her witch's catechism, while Benny and Moll pored through the ancient tomes looking for just the right potion for her to use against Stan.

  Around two o'clock the other witches began arriving; Andy and Benny locked the store at three, formed up the circle, and kicked off the Sabbat celebration in the back room with the initiation ceremony; by four-thirty Helene was Selene, thirteenth witch of the Village Coven, signed, sealed, and named for the Goddess of the Moon.

  Afterward about half the coven stuck around to help their new sister plan her revenge (as well as the post-Sabbat orgy—women only—scheduled for midnight). They cast a few spells, of course, the way Selene had always imagined witches doing, but the most important element of her revenge proved to be much more down to earth. It was a potion, a powder made up of a whole cocktail of different herbs and substances, some of which, like brucinetta and cantharides, were deadly poisons in stronger doses; she ground them up herself in the back room using a medieval mortar and pestle, while Moll explained how the potion was to be administered.

  "It won't be easy. You have to get him to drink a whole glass of wine with the powder in it without stopping, then get him naked while keeping as many of your own clothes on as possible—I suggest you make him think you're still scared of him from last night—and masturbate him as long as possible without letting him come."

  I'm a long way from Ludman, thought Selene when the jerk-off lessons began, Moll demonstrating on a dildo from Andy and Benny's collection. Some of the other ladies had different suggestions. They passed the dildo around, and everybody showed her a favorite grasp or technique. Selene got the benefit of a hundred and fifty years of experience all at once. Poor Kovic didn't stand a chance.

  The effects of the potion were supposed to be temporary. Not that Selene gave a damn. She was digging this. Born to be a witch. No fear, no second thoughts—zapped with adrenaline, a warrior on her way into battle.

  Around six, Moll called Stanley—he'd taken a room at the Chelsea Hotel—and told him to come over and pick up his shit right away or she'd throw it out in the street. They yelled at each other over the phone for a while, then Moll cast the hook, telling Stan that if he apologized sincerely to both women while he was here, she'd take the impotence curse off him.

  He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, and was over in a flash, apologizing his ass off. When he'd finished grumbling, Moll mumbled some made-up Wiccan at him—she'd never actually bothered to curse him or dose him; suggestion alone had done the trick—and told him all was forgiven and the curse was lifted. She threw his stuff into boxes—books mostly, some clothes; Selene offered to help him carry it over to the Chelsea Hotel. Told him she'd always wanted to see it on account of Dylan Thomas had died there.

  It was a long walk up to Twenty-third Street carrying those heavy boxes, but Stan insisted he couldn't afford a cab. Once Selene saw his room she believed him—if Dylan Thomas's room had been anything like Stan's, she could see why he drank himself to death. The color scheme was pea green and mustard yellow. Beat-up old bureau, narrow bed. Not even a chair. She set her box down on the floor and collapsed on the foot of the bed. She didn't have to do much acting to convince him she was exhausted.

  He brought her a murky glass of water. She caught her breath, they talked about Dylan Thomas for a while, then poetry in general. He asked her if she wanted another stick of pot. She told him it made her dizzy, but if he had any wine… ? He did, of course: Moll had thrown a bottle of Mateus into one of the boxes, along with two wineglasses wrapped in an old Village Voice.

  While Stan was in the bathroom rinsing out the glasses, Selene removed the paper bindle with the powder from her purse. "I'll pour," she told him when he returned. "I'm studying tea pouring at Barnard." Next came the sleight of hand: while he was trying to find some jazz on the clock-radio, she palmed the bindle and poured the powder into his glass. It dissolved immediately, and they toasted each other to the music of Coltrane.

  Selene followed Moll's instructions to the letter: "Maintain eye contact during the toast. Drain your glass in one long swallow—breathe through your nose if you have to. If you don't stop drinking while you're holding eye contact, neither will he. Don't worry about getting a little drunk—it'll help with the next part. There'll be an aftertaste; when you're done, make a face if he does."

  It all went off without a hitch. So did his clothes. By eight-thirty the innocent college freshwoman had the worldly-wise poet bare-ass on his back, penis in the air, while she gave him—it—every bit of that hundred and fifty years' experience. It wasn't too revolting, probably because she was a little drunk, and also because she kept reminding herself of something else Moll told her: "The sex isn't personal. Just the revenge."

  Selene found herself performing the last tricky part of her mission as coolly as a veteran. She took his hand and placed it around his penis, began squeezing the hand rhythmically, and started it going up and down, up and down, until it was moving on its own. She delivered the line Moll had suggested: "You show me. Show me how to make it come." Then she pulled her hand away quickly and watched as he began spurting semen the color of blood.

  Oh, it was glorious. Glorious. She couldn't tell whether he felt any actual pain; the way he started screaming when he saw himself coming in technicolor—crimson gobs at first, then red, fading to watery pink—it was hard to tell what he was feeling, other than sheer terror. She hurried out of the room; the sound of his howling followed her through the door and down the hall.

  Of course it looked a lot worse than it was: the brucinetta and cantharides, along with the hard stroking and the prolonged erection and excitement, had caused just enough urethral bleeding to turn his seminal fluid the color of blood. It was sort of like dyeing his sperm. And unless he had sex too soon, which didn't seem likely, the effects of the potion would clear up within a few days…

  * * *

  A few more minutes passed in a silence broken only by the burbling hot tub and the posturing jays. Eventually Selene opened her eyes. "I slept over at Moll's again that night," she continued. "The third week of classes started the next day, but I didn't. Instead I moved in with Moll. She got me a job waitressing at the Pet, and I spent all my spare time studying Wicca. Never wrote another word of poetry. My parents never forgave me. Just dropping out of school against their wishes would have been bad enough in those days, but when I told them that I also wouldn't be celebrating Christmas anymore because I was a Wiccan now… ? Oh my oh my oh my. Suffice to say I never even got around to telling them about me and Moll before receiving what we used to refer to back then as the Never darken my towels again speech."

  Selene seemed to have come out of her trance, but Martha didn't want to take any chances. "Selene?" she whispered tentatively.

  "Dearie?"

  "Was it worth it?"

  Selene tried to laugh, but her mouth was so dry it came out more like a caw. "If I knew that, little witch-to-be, I wouldn't be lying here with belladonna smeared all over my tizzent." She sat up slowly, tightening the towel around her torso. "Which reminds me—I've got one more appointment with the Fair Lady, and it won't do to keep her waiting."

  "Aren't you going to help me with my Misikidak?"

  "Sorry dearie. That you can do on your own. You've heard my Tale, now off you go."

  "Wait. One more question. What happened to that guy Stan?"

  "The word on the street was that he left for San Francisco the next morning. And all he'd say to anybody was that when he got there he was going to ship out with the merchant marine, because one continent wasn't enough ground to put between him and those witches. Now run along and study your Misikidak—I don't want you embarrassing me tonight."

  "So you'll be there,
right?"

  "I'll do my best."

  "Witch's Word?" Martha asked. The look she received from Selene in reply had so much love in it, mixed with so much sorrow, that it frightened her a little. "I said, Witch's Word?"

  Selene took Martha's hand, brought it to her lips, kissed it gently, and sighed. "You win." She crossed both hands over her heart. "Witch's Word. If I'm alive, I'll be there. If I'm dead, I'll give it my very best shot."

  * * *

  The soft slap of Martha's sandals died away. Selene lay back, feeling the heaviness overtake her again. She wondered whether she'd done the right thing, encouraging Martha to join the coven though she herself was ambivalent to the point of apathy. Then she found herself remembering how it had felt to be a witch back then—not just the orgies and the fellowship, but the sense of purpose. She remembered how comforting it had been to feel oneself in the arms of the Goddess, to feel that every casting of the runes in the morning was a cosmic event, that every ritual was sacred, that every moment of every day was invested with magic and meaning according to some grander scheme of things.

  "Ah well, onward and upward," she sighed, reaching for the belladonna tart and raising it to her lips. There was no invocation for the Test of the Fair Lady—if there were Powers and if They were with her, she'd know soon enough. And if she was really lucky, the auld buik had suggested, not only would she not die, but the Fair Lady might show her… well, something important, though it was rather vague as to what. Purposefully vague: A task and a path by the Fair Lady's light, the last couplet in the book promised. The deeper the dark, the truer the sight.

  She took a bite. Bitter. Brack and bitter as the book had promised. A series of shudders wracked her as she forced herself to swallow. Realizing that she'd never be able to get the whole thing down a bite at a time, Selene carried it over to the railing so that if she puked it would be into the azaleas, then held her nose with one hand and crammed the rest of the pastry into her mouth with the other, working her jaws furiously, gulping the crumby clotted mess down as fast as she could swallow.