Nature of the Witch

by Helen T. Norwood

  “Did you…a knife?” The man asked, his words tumbling about as he tried to cut through his alcohol fogged brain and process what was happening.

  “Let me take you back to your flat,” Jack managed to smile but his heart was thumping in his chest. He could have seriously hurt the man. If he was honest he'd wanted to seriously hurt him.

  Jack accompanied his surprise visitor to the flat below. The door was open and displayed a scene of pure carnage. This was obviously the place where he'd heard the party the previous night.

  “Happy New Year!” He called in after the man as he closed the door. The man muttered something in return and then there was a thud as he collapsed somewhere in the vicinity of the settee. Hopefully he wouldn't remember anything when he awoke.

  Jack took a deep breath. Thank goodness he hadn't hurt him. He decided to go for a walk to clear his head. It was still cold out but Jack didn't mind. For no reason at all he walked a different route than normal, reaching the end of his road and turning left instead of right. Left took him towards more flats, and he was just crossing through a car park when he heard a strange sound. He stopped and listened. He heard scuffling and groaning coming from the corner of the car park. It was dark in the corner but he could just make out the silhouette of a group of boys.

  Teenagers, he thought.

  He was about to carry on and leave them to it when he noticed the shape of someone lying on the floor. The shape moved and looked as though it was trying to crawl away when one of the lads gave it a mighty kick. The shape let out a cry and began to roll about groaning.

  Instinctively Jack called out and rushed forward, “Hey stop that!”

  The boys looked up. There were three of them. Two were wearing baseball caps and he would guess they were late teens, not much younger than him. They advanced upon him instantly, like a pack of lions distracted by better prey.

  He realised he hadn't really thought it through, but he wasn't too fazed. Three to one might seem unfair but he'd grown up in care and he knew how to defend himself. From a young age he'd come into contact with some pretty disturbed children and had quickly toughened up. He might be outnumbered but they were kids, even without seeing them properly he knew he was bigger and stronger.

  As they stepped out of the shadows he braced himself for a fight, but he didn't see a fourth person creep up behind him or the bottle rise above his head. He just felt the blow, an excruciating pain filled his whole head and then he went down.

  Chapter Two

  There was the sound of voices somewhere above him. He tried to climb to his feet but his head was spinning so much he wasn't sure if he'd landed on his back or his front. He waited to feel more blows; after all, they seemed the type who wouldn't miss an opportunity to kick a man while he was down, but none came. He kept his eyes closed, partly because when he tried to open them it felt like someone was hitting him with a hammer and partly because he was trying to compose himself.

  He took some deep breaths but it didn't help. His head was throbbing and he could feel the anger starting to simmer gently inside. His temper was a strange thing. He had been an angry and resentful teenager which had resulted in a few scrapes. But in those days his temper had been like an explosion that came from nowhere. He had spent years learning to control it and now his anger didn't present itself as a mad rage anymore. Now it was more like a mist that fuzzed his thoughts so that he couldn't think straight. He took another deep breath and looked up. It wasn't working. The mist was descending.

  The reason they had left him alone after he fell was that they had found fresh prey. In front of him two leant nonchalantly against a car, relaxed, laughing, their faces hidden beneath their baseball caps. One, who was covered in pimples, gripped the arms of a terrified young woman. The fourth lad was tipping the contents of her handbag on the floor.

  The woman, who looked to be in her early thirties, implored them feebly, “Please leave me alone.”

  The lads were out of it, possibly drunk but in his opinion they'd taken something. Their eyes were wide and bloodshot, their movements were clumsy and the laughter was slightly manic.

  But this didn't excuse their behaviour. He knew their type, had grown up with them in the children's home, and they were just bullies who picked on people they thought were weaker to make themselves feel better about their own miserable lives. They were young and thought they were invincible.

  But they had definitely picked on the wrong guy. He rose unsteadily to his feet. One of the lads noticed and prodded his friends until they were all staring at him in a bemused manner.

  “Man you're stupid,” said pimples, letting go of the woman's arms, “you should've stayed down.”

  “Yer,” joined in one of the baseball caps, “what's your problem? You like pain? You probably get off on weird stuff like that.”

  The other lads laughed raucously, as though he'd said something hilarious.

  “My problem,” Jack said calmly, “is that I live in this neighbourhood, and you're really lowering the tone.”

  “Lowering the tone?” Pimples repeated. He stared at Jack, trying to work out whether Jack was serious or whether it was conceivable that someone could be poking fun at him.

  “Yes,” Jack continued , even managing a wry smile, “and I can't abide behaviour that might impact my house value.”

  When no one answered, and they all stared at him as though he'd grown an extra head he added, “I might be looking to sell this year you see.”

  Pimples swaggered over indignantly, “What the f….”

  But he didn't get to finish the sentence because Jack's fist smashed straight into his cheekbone. It opened up instantly, and as he toppled backwards the blood was already pouring down his face. His friends, although startled, jumped straight into action. The two wearing baseball caps charged at him, shouting and swinging. He gave the first one an easy hand-off, batting him away as though he were a pesky fly, and landing him hard on his back-side. The second one he stopped with a punch that snapped his head back violently and toppled him onto his back. He landed on a kerb and it knocked the wind out of him so that he lay there, gasping and squirming.

  And that left one. The last lad came at him but, after seeing what had happened to his friends, looked as though he was regretting it. He half-heartedly swung at Jack in a manner that suggested he had decided to back-out a little too late. Jack dodged the punch with ease and brought his knee up until it collided with the guy's chest with a crunch. Then as the lad doubled over Jack brought it up again with another crunch.

  He could've walked away at that point. He had obviously won, but his adversaries were down, not out. A couple were even trying to stagger back to their feet and besides, the mist was down. This nasty, cowardly, arrogant bunch of dim-wits needed to learn a lesson, and one they wouldn't forget; one that would make them think twice about picking on other people.

  Pimples was the first to his feet. He had started to move away, perhaps hoping to leave.

  “Man you're stupid,” Jack mimicked, “you should've stayed down.”

  As Pimples turned towards him Jack punched him again, catching the opposite eye and cheekbone and guaranteeing that his face would be pretty colours in the morning. The other lad climbing to his feet was one of the baseball caps, the one who'd landed on his bum. He was rubbing it and looking at Jack in wide-eyed fear.

  Jack grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, causing the lad to scream.

  “So you enjoy hurting other people? Think it's funny? How does it feel when the boots on the other foot? Why aren't you laughing now?”

  “I'm sorry!” The lad cried out. “Please, you'll break my arm!”

  Jack could hear the lad's shrieks growing louder and knew the arm was close to breaking, and yet his brain wasn't telling him to stop. He carried on pushing until he heard a woman's voice behind him, “Stop! Let go of him!”

  It was as though he had been woken from a dream; he dropped the boy's arm and turned around. The woman he
was supposed to be saving was staring at him as though he was the criminal.

  The lads took the opportunity and bolted, practically climbing over each other to get away in an 'every man for himself' kind of fashion.

  No honour amongst thieves, he thought as he watched them.

  The woman was hurriedly trying to scrape the contents of her handbag off the floor. He bent down to help but she backed away, and when he held out her brush she snatched it off him as though he might consider beating her with it if he held it for too long.

  “I'm sorry…” Jack faltered, “…they just erm…made me angry…”

  The woman didn't answer; she was visibly shaking and a tear rolled down her cheek. She rose to her feet.

  “You looked like you were going to kill them,” she said, her voice quivering as more tears escaped, “I know what they did but…but I mean, they're just kids.”

  She turned and ran in the direction of the flats.

  “Didn't feel like a kid when he smashed a bottle over my head,” Jack grumbled.

  In her hurry she'd left a couple of things behind, eye-shadow and some mints, but Jack didn't think she'd appreciate him running after her with them. He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. She was right and he felt bad. He'd let his anger control him and instead of helping the poor woman he'd scared her half to death. As he slowly turned towards home he heard a cough.

  He suddenly remembered the reason he'd got involved in the first place; he'd seen them kicking someone on the floor. Watching him quietly was a guy who looked to be in his late sixties, although the bruising to his face made it hard to be sure. His hair hung down past his ears and looked untamed and a little frizzy. It was light brown in places and grey in others. He had a matching beard and he was watching Jack with intelligent, blue eyes. A strangely amused expression adorned his face, a bemused smile playing on his lips, as though he was at home watching a sitcom on the telly, rather than a man who had just been beaten up.

  “Are you okay mate?” Jack hurried over. “Can you stand?”

  “Why are you calling me mate?” The man asked in genuine confusion. “We've only just met.”

  “It's just an expression.”

  “Ah,” said the man nodding, “you're being friendly.”

  “I guess. Look, I can phone an ambulance from my flat. Do you think you can walk there? It's just around the corner.”

  “I don't need an ambulance,” the man pulled himself to his feet, refusing Jack's offer of help, “however, I will come back to your flat.”

  Jack hesitated, “I've only really got a couple of plasters. You could do with a doctor looking you over.”

  The man shook his head adamantly. Then he stepped closer and to Jack's astonishment he took hold of Jack's head in his hands and, leaning in so that their faces were almost touching (which made Jack feel very uncomfortable) he said quietly, “You have a great skill. You just need to learn how to channel it properly, how to control it.” After a pause he smiled, let go of Jack's head and said loudly, “Now, where's your flat?”

  “Right,” Jack said slowly, “so how many times did they hit your head?”

  “A fair few,” the man replied pleasantly, “now, your flat?”

  Jack held out his arm but the man refused and gestured for Jack to lead the way. Reluctantly Jack did as he was told. The man stayed a step behind him and started to hum softly.

  Jack shook his head in bewilderment. The guy seemed completely unfazed by the night's events.

  I don't know if you were crazy before they attacked you, but I'm definitely calling you an ambulance when we get in, he thought.

  Chapter Three

  “So, about that ambulance…” Jack said, clapping his hands together, “why don't you have a seat and I'll give them a call?”

  The man shook his head, “I told you no ambulance.”

  Worth a try. I'll have to distract him and call when he's not looking. He watched the man wander round the flat and wished he'd tidied up a bit instead of doing paperwork. However, it seemed to meet the man's approval as he turned to Jack and said, “I like that you live simply.”

  Jack wasn't sure if that was a compliment but he chose to take it as one, “Thanks.”

  He guessed he did live pretty simply. There were no photos up, mostly because he didn't have anyone that he wanted to look at on his walls every day. And he never got sentimental about possessions so had no qualms about chucking things out, which meant he never had to worry about clutter. He also wasn't particularly interested in technology, never had been. He had no computer games; as far as he was concerned they killed brain cells. He only used his computer for work. He'd rather read a book or make his ornaments.

  “Tea?” Jack asked, ushering the man into the sitting room.

  “Don't mind if I do,” the man sat back in Jack's armchair, “and now that I've got your attention we need to talk.”

  “Got my attention?” Jack repeated. “Talk about what?”

  “You don't really think that I couldn't handle a bunch of kids do you?” The man chuckled. “Well of course I could, but I needed us to meet.”

  Jack stared at him, “Of course you could. You're saying you deliberately got your arse kicked so you could meet me?”

  “That's right. First tea, then we'll talk.”

  Jack opened his mouth to say something but the man waved a hand at him, “Tea, then we'll talk.”

  Jack sighed and forced a smile before leaving the room.

  “Right away sir,” he mumbled.

  He flicked the kettle on and then crept back into the hallway and picked up his phone. Time to call the crazy, old man a doctor, and in his opinion it was a head doctor that was needed but he'd call an ambulance and let them worry about that.

  He'd pressed the first button when a voice from behind him made him jump, “Kitto.”

  Jack spun round guiltily, holding the phone behind his back, “Sorry?”

  “Kitto,” the man repeated, “I never introduced myself. My name is Kitto.”

  “Oh, right. My name's Jack,” there was an awkward silence for a moment before Jack added, “unusual name.”

  “Cornish,” the man replied, smiling pleasantly. There was another silence before the man said, “How's the tea coming along?”

  Jack managed to place the phone back on the table behind him, “Yep, I'm doing it. Why don't you sit yourself down?”

  As Kitto made his way back to the living room Jack returned to the kitchen and carried on with the tea. After a moment he thought he'd try calling the ambulance again, but as he poked his head out of the kitchen door, Kitto was waiting by the living room, “Need a hand bringing it in?”

  “All under control,” Jack disappeared back into the kitchen, cursing under his breath, and picked up the tea. He carried it through and took a seat. He watched warily as Kitto sipped his drink. He wondered whether he was some homeless guy who was trying to scam a bed for the night; he had that look about him. It wasn't just his hair that had that slightly wild, not-often-brushed appearance; his straggly beard also needed some attention. His clothes looked too big for him and needed an iron.

  “Now for our talk,” Kitto placed his cup on the coffee table.

  “Yes our talk,” said Jack uncomfortably.

  Just smile and nod, he told himself.

  “What I have to tell you may be hard for you to believe,” Kitto spoke slowly, “at first anyway. Do you have any opinions on the matter of witchcraft?”

  “Opinions about witchcraft?” Jack tried to suppress a smile. “I haven't really thought about it.”

  “No, why would you?” Kitto laughed. “Up until now it hasn't affected your life, but I'm afraid it's going to. It's not only going to affect your life, it's going to become your life. You see, I need to tell you that witchcraft exists and that, in the past, some people were chosen to live the life of a witch.”

  Jack did as he had planned and smiled and nodded, “I see. And am I one?”

  Kitto pull
ed a face, “No! Are you crazy? Witches are women.”

  The irony of Kitto calling him crazy wasn't lost on him.

  “Isn't that sexist?” Jack couldn't help but ask mischievously.

  “Possibly,” Kitto conceded giving the matter some serious thought, “but you see, it's nature that chooses the witch and, as the name implies, Mother Nature is a woman.”

  “Ah, so she's biased then,” Jack said.

  “I think we're getting off track. However, I would add that a male witch wouldn't be called a witch, he would be a warlock. It's not completely impossible for one to exist and yet I have never heard of one. OK? Can we move on?”

  “OK,” Jack grinned, “so I'm not a witch…I mean warlock so what do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I want to talk about your destiny,” Kitto picked his tea back up and took another sip. He paused before saying, “You are chosen to be part of the Gwithiaz.”

  “Gwithiaz?” Jack repeated. “What is that, welsh?”

  “Cornish,” Kitto replied, “the history of the Gwithiaz lies in Cornwall. It's where we were born. The term means guardians.”

  Jack nodded slowly whilst his mind tried desperately to think of a means of getting this nutter out of his flat, “Look, I have work tomorrow…”

  “Just listen to my story,” Kitto said softly, and he leant back and told Jack about the witches, about the Daughters of the Earth and the Gwithiaz and the terrifying Creatures.

  Jack couldn't help but listen enthralled until the end of the story. When he'd finished, Kitto said, “It all died away around two hundred years ago. But we are heading into new and exciting times. Once more we will begin the time of the witch.”

  A silence fell upon the room and Jack caught himself momentarily mulling over what Kitto had told him. Then he shook his head dismissively.

  He folded his arms and decided there was no harm in humouring the old guy, “That's a nice story but I have a couple of questions.”

  “It's not a story,” Kitto said intensely, “it's history, and a history that very few people are privileged enough to hear about. Now, of course you have questions, fire away.”