The Magic Circle

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “But she’s in shock,” shouts Peter. “People in shock don’t bleed.”

  The pastor has turned heel and is climbing over the woodpile to the crowd.

  “And you stabbed her in the thigh, in the fattest part of the body.” Peter’s voice rises in a screech. “Blood runs the thinnest there.” He is hysterical now. “And it was on a scar. Scar tissue doesn’t bleed.”

  The pastor is lost in the crowd.

  I look at Peter and rage with pride at his knowledge of anatomy—the knowledge I imparted to him in our weekly discussions. The irony of the situation does not escape me. I fight the laughter that would burst from my throat.

  And now the crowd has pushed Peter back. The woodpile is growing, as though it is a thing alive. I hear a flutter and look toward it. Bala stands in the crowd. Her eyes meet mine. I cannot read behind her eyes, though I try. Is she the incarnation of the demon Baal? I have been asking myself this for the past forty-eight hours. I have looked for clues in Bala’s words and actions of the past nine years. I can find no clear evidence. But even if she is Baal, what does that mean? Can she help who she is? Was she trapped like me? Did she long for a bauble, or was her weakness more worthy of sympathy than mine? Is all evil the result of entrapment? I want to talk with Bala, if only for a moment. I have been kept in isolation since I bit the child’s finger off. I have talked with no one, not even Asa. But I must talk with Bala; I must know her secret, if she harbors one. My mind reaches out to hers. I fail; her mind is shut to me, her eyes filmed over. The crowd presses on her, and she retreats.

  The ache in my thigh is unrelenting.

  Peter scrabbles once more across the woodpile. But this time he grabs Asa’s arm. He pulls up the velvet sleeves. On both arms there is a ring of green moles, like a circle of green mint. The devils are making a game of our demise. They think they are clever. Peter wipes a tear from his cheek and wets Asa’s arm with it. It does not turn to ice. “Asa is not a witch!” Peter lifts both arms above his head and shouts so that the veins in his neck stand out like ropes. “Asa is not a witch!”

  A large man pulls Peter away with one hand and pours pitch on the wood with the other. He is Wilhelm Lutz, I am sure. I delivered him. He resembles his mother. A pious woman. These are all pious people. Pious witch burners.

  “Cry, Asa,” shouts Peter. “Show them you are not a witch.”

  Asa’s eyes register briefly on Peter. “Cry?”

  The big Wilhelm lights the fire. As the glow rises, a hush falls across the crowd. The only noise is the deafening crack of the fire.

  I focus on the women’s faces. Many of them are looking around nervously. As the flames grow, the fear in their eyes begins to subside. They realize they have been lucky this time—they have not been denounced as witches. All women are in danger of the frivolous denunciation. Oh, would that my own denunciation had been frivolous! I would give anything to burn here as a holy woman, falsely accused, rather than as the witch I know I am.

  But then the voices start within my head. “Work for us.”

  I have no hesitation. “No.”

  “Work for us, and we will give you the gift of metamorphosis. You can turn into the salamander of Vermillion. You will be fireproof. You can slink away into the woodpile, and they’ll never find you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “The work is easy. Easier than sorcery.”

  “Never,” I say.

  And now the voices are silent. And only one thought repeats itself quietly in the back of my mind. “Work for us, and we will save Asa.”

  Trade my soul so that my daughter can stay on this earth, in this brief interlude we call life. What kind of trade is that?

  “She’s going to burn if you don’t agree. Her blood will boil. Her eyes will burst. Her skin will split. And still she will be alive and feel every cell’s agony. We will keep her alive to the very last moment.”

  “No,” I force myself to say.

  “And she will blame you. She is blaming you already for the pain. She is cursing you.”

  My Asa is cursing me.

  “She hates you.”

  Asa’s first scream pierces my soul. Her skirt is on fire.

  “Yes,” I say to the devils, as though my tongue has a life of its own. “Yes, I will do your work. Save Asa.”

  “Cry!” screams Peter, over the roar of the fire. “Cry, Asa. Don’t scream, cry!”

  And Asa is crying, tears streaming down her face. The ropes that bind her hands are suddenly loose and she holds her arms out for all to see. The moles are gone.

  Peter leaps into the fire and drags Asa to safety. They are rolling in the brush. They are screaming with pain. They are wet with tears. I think I hear “Mother.” I want to hear it.

  “Asa is not a witch,” says Bala loudly. “It is only the Ugly One.”

  “Asa is not a witch,” says another voice.

  “Asa is not a witch.”

  A group carries Asa and Peter away to the stream. Asa is struggling. Is she trying to get free of them, to come to me? Or is she writhing in pain from her burns?

  I am left with my cloak afire. The heat within me brings exquisite pain. My skin peels into chips not unlike the bark of a black cherry. And in a second the pain ceases. My cloak collapses into the flames. I slink out of the gold ring that encircled my finger before and now encircles my smooth belly. It melts in a sudden puddle that bubbles and boils. I crawl quickly into the woodpile, knowing how to be a salamander against my will. I learn the folk wisdom is wrong: Salamanders are not so cold they can put out fires. The fire rages on. But I am so cold it does not scald me. I shiver. Why does so much of life just happen to us? I would have gladly perished. But it was the trade. I was not allowed to perish. Asa is alive. It is a malignant trade. An evil trade. But I have made it, and nothing can reverse it. I am polluted. I am wicked.

  “She’s gone! She disappeared!”

  “She burned up. There was nothing to her. No blood, no guts. The witch is a burst bubble.”

  I am in the smoking earth now, digging along. And now in the grasses. It is a long way to the cabin. I could make it in another form much faster. But a salamander will not be seen. I crawl diligently all night. By dawn I arrive. The cabin is closed. I sense the villagers in their homes. They are waiting for full sunlight before they loot. They are afraid that spirits lurk in the shadows of the cabin. I haven’t much time. I resume my old form—the form of the Ugly One. I tie the porcupine-quill box to my chest. It is small but heavy. I peer out into the dim light. No one is about yet. I long to walk forth as me, even naked as I am now. But among these villagers I can never be me again. I become a weasel. A common, quick weasel. I must move swiftly and quietly. I must be surreptitious.

  A group of women gathers by the stream. Bala is in their midst. They are preparing to loot; I know that. I want to hide the box somewhere that Asa can find it. I stay at a distance and listen hard. Just one word of Asa, that’s all I want. And suddenly I realize that Asa cannot have the jewels in this treasure box. They would take them from her for sure. The jewels serve no one now. And what about my Asa? Will she be taken care of? An orphan without a dowry. But I know Peter will see her through. Maybe Peter will even marry her. I want to know that future, but I cannot. There are walls in my knowledge. If I climb those walls, I must be ready to know whatever lies on the other side. I am not ready. There is some knowledge I must never let myself know.

  I run at first randomly. Just away. Keeping far from villages. But then I find I am on a southern path. When I come to a lake, I know I must metamorphose once more. But not to a fish other fish might eat. Nor to one that villagers might try to catch. I must be as revolting to others as I am to myself. I know what I must become. I change—now primitive and efficient. I am eyeless. My mouth puckers. My head is adorned with fleshy horns. I ooze into the water, full of hate for myself. I am a slime eel. I hold the treasure box dry on my tongue. I travel from lake to lake. The lakes are many and large. But the water is c
ool and fresh. Fresh water, like what runs in my veins now. No more salty tears for me. No more tears of any sort. Witches are doomed to be dry-eyed forever. Oh, blessed tears of the pure of heart! What I would give for the privilege of tears again.

  I travel endlessly. Now I learn to curse my fear of heights—for flying would be so much faster. On land I am ever the untrustworthy weasel. In the waters of the great river I have reached at last I am ever the despised slime eel. I keep my ears open for sounds that betray humans. If I cross the path of a human family, I may not be strong enough to resist the voices inside my head. They will demand I eat a human child. This is the initiation rite; this is what separates a witch from all her past for the rest of eternity. But the animals I pass are no threat to me, nor I to them. They have no souls. The devils do not waste their energies with animals. They do not urge me to eat them.

  I travel night and day, always against the current, always fleeing. When a voice begins in my head, I shout, “Away. I am going away,” until the voice weakens to nothing. I am dredging my mind for my first conversation with Peter. He told me about the book under his pillows. He told me about a special land where wolves eat grandmothers and young beggar girls are princesses for a night. He told me that land is full of enchanted forests. That is the land whose stories Peter recited so often to my Asa. That is the land she loved.

  The book under Peter’s pillows is more real to me now than any so-called sacred book. The land in that book is more alluring than heaven. I think of the first book my Patient Scholar introduced me to. I remember the joy that permeated my spirit. The joy that settled in my heart through the years as I read each book. I realize now that I never got to the passage on vanity in Peter’s tome that he so much wanted me to read. Would that passage have saved me? Would it have kept me from lusting for the ring? But there is no purpose in thinking of Peter’s tome now. It is back in my cabin. Or was. It may now be ashes.

  I must think of Peter’s other book. The book that stirred his child soul—that made him want to ride on a deer’s back—that made my Asa’s eyes shine with wonder. I will go to the special land of the book. I will go into a forest, an enchanted forest where no human being will dare to tread. If I am not in the presence of humans, I can do them no harm. What will it matter if I am a witch, if I never work the evil of the demons? I will live in isolation. Safe isolation. Oh, even merry isolation.

  The directions Peter gave as I was thinking of other things that first day I met him, the directions my conscious mind never heard, those most important directions are all stored perfectly in my deepest mind. I follow them now. I follow them tirelessly.

  I see at last the mountains and I know that the enchanted forest nestles in the foothills.

  six

  CANDY

  I am boiling beets. The beets grow wild, but in more profusion than would have occurred if I hadn’t nurtured them along. My beet field covers a wide swath that runs in a half-moon shape to the south of my home. The smell from my pot is sweet, as only beets close to pollination time can be. The water that came from the clear mountain brook nearby is now thick and soupy. I am making beet syrup for my candy.

  Above my door, up to the roof peak, along the eaves, and yes, in truth entirely around the house, runs a garland of pink peppermint candies. The peppermint is a green plant, but the round candies are pink from the beet syrup. In all these years I have found no way to take the red color from the beet. So all the candy that covers my house is red to rose to pink. I would love to have it be green, like the mints Asa put on our cabin so long ago. Still, it may be better that it is not green, for green would have made the memory of Asa so strong I might not be able to bear it. And the beet color is pleasing. Luscious rose brittles capture the light in air bubbles that seem to move on a sunny day. They line the outer walls. Bright red buttery caramels form a cornice on every window. Palest of jellied gumdrops stick up in cone-shaped mounds along the roof. I know they are all delicious, though I do not indulge myself. Their sight is enough of a pleasure. The entire log house is decorated with candies. I’ve achieved a harmony of lights and darks that would bring a flush to my Asa’s face. I know that. Or maybe I just fool myself into believing that.

  I have changed. I do not indulge myself in memories of Asa. When I first came to these enchanted woods, I thought of her. And her image would come to me so strongly, her smell, her feel, that it was all I could do to keep from racing back, through lakes and forests, to hold her again. I no longer think of her, for if I do, the knowledge of her life will come to me, and I will not be able to resist any longer. And so I no longer know what Asa would like or dislike. I only imagine. I only dream.

  I have changed in other ways, too. Never have I yielded to the temptation to use magic, though in my hours in bed I am told formulas for bleaching the beet syrup. When I arise—not awaken, no, just arise, for I never sleep; I will never open my body to the incubi that used to hang in my corners like cobwebs waiting for sleep to overtake me—when I arise, I wipe the formulas from my mind and go to work boiling beets. Or, if it is not near the pollination season, I busy myself with other tasks.

  There is so much to be done when one lives outside society. I collect wood for the fire every day. I tend a garden for food, and now and then I catch a brook trout. But when I eat a fish, I smoke it whole, so that red blood never falls before my eyes. I cannot risk the temptation of blood, not even that of the animals. The house is in constant need of repair, to stand against the ravages of weather and time. I repair logs and replace those too damaged for repair. I take care to keep every corner slightly askew, for I know that ninety-degree angles invite demons. I am proud of this house, in my paganistic way. I cannot thank the one of huge hands for this house. I built it all alone, with no blessing and no magic. It was difficult. I was not young and I was not large and I was not strong.

  The form I live in is my own. I am a hunchbacked old woman. But I have iron teeth, and ice water runs in my veins. These teeth, though, these formidable weapons, they have never smashed a bone yet. Of this also I am proud, with a raging pride that burns the insides of my eyeballs.

  I must relax. The rage of pride is not the only rage that violates me. Another rage is real and demands respect. It is a justified rage. I have lost everything I loved, all by trickery. I have lost the right to roll in the hands I served so well. Ahhh, there it is. I say I served those hands well. I am poisoned with pride still. Oh, most hideous and hateful demons, if you are listening now, listen closely. I will beat you yet. I will never never never practice your evil. You have won nothing. I have outwitted you thus far. I will outwit you forever.

  I listen. They do not respond. They never respond these days. Their silence mocks me, and that mocking nourishes my hate.

  The rage burns brighter inside me, and I must relax. I am conscious of breathing this oxygen that rusts our bodies into dust. Part of me wants to breathe faster, ever faster, to speed along my own disintegration. But I know the other danger. I know I must breathe slowly. I must not feed the fire of inner rage with oxygen. For if the rage wins, the devils win.

  I listen harder. I hear no devils inside my head. Maybe they are not mocking me. Maybe they are truly absent. I have kept the rage so well hidden for so long that they may have abandoned me. There is nothing in me to give them energy. I am not fuel for them. Yes, I believe they stay away.

  My eyes light now on the wooden bowl that sits on the shelf above my bed. It is carved into intricate geometric designs. There is no coloring to spoil the purity of the white wood. This bowl took me years to carve. I have smoothed out the inside with sand. Even now I can sit of an evening and rub the bowl with sand to make the inner surface ever more glasslike. The beauty of the bowl stuns my eye. The bowl is a shrine of sorts. It is a shrine to the memory of my daughter.

  Four years ago a vision came to me of Asa giving birth to twins. I would not follow the vision; yet behind my conscious knowledge of the world, I hold this vision sacred. Once, only once, I took
out the vision and held it up to the light like I used to hold our jewels. And my mouth watered with hunger. My own mouth—my own grandchildren.

  The vision must be sealed away.

  The rage must not win.

  I have lived here nine years now. The same amount of time that I served as a sorceress. At first I was never alone. They sent me imps. The earliest imps were wolves. I asked them if they ate grandmothers, and they smiled slyly. I offered them beet skin to gnaw on. They ran off.

  Then came the small cats. They rubbed around my ankles and made me yearn for human contact. So I went to the hawthorn and wrapped my ankles in brambles that kept the cats at a distance. They mewed piteously. So I went to the dandelions and stuffed my ears with milkweed. They lay about the floor in piles, licking one another, being a family, breaking the heart I no longer have. So I went to the belladonna plant and chewed and chewed until my pupils opened so wide I could not see. Never did I use magic. The cats ran off.

  And, of course, through it all were the nets of beauty, strung out to entrap me. For years I was wary of these nets. I was on the lookout for minerals—the precious stones and metals that had marked my nine years as a sorceress. I expected the spray of the lake in a storm to turn to emeralds. I expected raindrops to turn to diamonds. I planned my response: I would gaze impassively upon the gems, then look away. But the devils knew I’d never touch another crystal. They didn’t waste their time, Instead, they sent a different type of ornament.