Witchbabe

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submitted by Helen Gould (13 June 99) Infertile? "There are a couple of options you might like to consider," the doctor said. But I felt so stunned that I didn't really listen as she explained them. I was simply aware of her voice droning on like some ghastly background music. After everything I'd been through, all the endless examinations, being poked and prodded in all the wrong places, I wasn't sure I wanted to have any more of the same. I nodded and watched her face, but couldn't take in what she said, until she finally stopped speaking, and the impact of her last sentence sank in upon the sudden silence in the room: "Come back and see me in a week's time when you've discussed this with your husband." "Thank you, doctor. I - appreciate all the help you've given us." I spoke the words numbly as I got to my feet. Clumsily I reached for the door handle and stumbled into the corridor. I hardly heard her mumbled "That's all right." behind me. It came to me as I groped my way towards escape that there were hardly any options really: adoption or surrogate motherhood were what it came down to. A rare combination of circumstances had made me unable to conceive, while otherwise apparently normal. I couldn't produce a child for my husband. Or even for myself. Those circumstances hadn't erased - couldn't erase - the longing to procreate. The dull light in the corridor was that of a February afternoon. The walls seemed grey in the gloom. Feeling like a refugee from a war zone, I lurched towards the waiting room. It was empty. I had been the last patient. I couldn't help feeling, with some part of me that wasn't numb and ruined, that that was fortunate. Infertile! Somehow I made it through the door, into the lobby, past reception, my unsteady feet carrying me relentlessly outside. It was that time of year when twilight approaches as slowly as a cripple, then rushes in like a lunatic. The door closed with a faint click behind me. I scanned the car park looking for my car. Everything looked grey. Even the air was grey, blending somehow into the pallid ground. I had to put a hand out to the colourless brickwork of the health centre to support myself. Yes, there it was, the metallic grey-blue of the Astra almost blending with the dreary greyness that seemed to pervade the car park. I don't want to die without having had a child. And then I remembered. I needed to go to the chemists' first. I couldn't go home and shut myself away yet. I still had to pretend everything was normal. I had to hold back the tears that longed, like subtle entities, to be born. "Damn periods!" I muttered as I turned away from the refuge of my familiar vehicle. It's not even as if I'll ever get pregnant. It's my body mocking me. No wonder they call it the curse! Anger gave me a little more purpose than I'd had a moment ago. I turned towards the shops. They looked as grey as the rest of the buildings. The afternoon light was fading fast. There was a sudden cry. I looked round. A bright flash of red was hurtling towards me. It seemed to come out of nowhere. Sudden pain jabbed my foot. I screamed. "Martin! You must look where you're going!" Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. I looked down. The blur of colour had resolved itself into a toddler in a red coat on a red tricycle. He squinted up at me in the dim light. Irrationally I noticed the trike's pedals were bright yellow. I'd had one with pedals just like that, as a child. "I'm so sorry!" The woman had rushed up and laid a hand on my arm. "I hope he didn't hurt you! He's only just got it, and he loves it, but he's not always very careful with his steering yet!" I stared at her. The happy pride in her voice taunted me. Her bright clothes and prettily-coloured complexion were luminous in the approaching dusk. A deep sense of unreality disoriented me. It seemed as if all my awareness withdrew from my surroundings, at the same time instilling my consciousness with only that same vacant aridity. It hit me like a hammer-blow. I was abruptly aware of my own lank dark hair and was sure my skin was a lifeless, dingy grey. I longed to fade away, be erased with the light, diffuse smoke-like into the air. It was torture just to stand there between the woman and the child. She babbled on, but I hardly heard her. It seemed to me that she spoke in a language I didn't know. Would never know. So simple, yet so impossible. Any old fool can get pregnant, I'd told someone glibly, long ago. Well, this old fool couldn't. A sense of alienation settled around me. Her voice was so much noise in the damp still air. INFERTILE! screamed my mind. I turned and limped to the car, leaving the girl twittering, mid-sentence, and staring after me. I was hardly aware of the dull ache in my foot. The ice was cracking around my frozen heart. That pain I felt. Somehow I crossed the service road, my errand forgotten. I passed under the trees. They were bare of any leaves. The nondescript twigs stretched stiffly into the gathering, sterile darkness. Finally I reached the refuge of the car. With shaking fingers I unlocked the door. Once inside, I collapsed over the steering wheel. Then the tears came. And with them the great hard sobs of grief, and all the feelings I had refused to acknowledge before. I was destroyed. I don't want to die without having had a child. I longed to give my husband a child, the ultimate gift after myself. I knew it was impossible, but I still wanted it to happen. I felt cheated. I want the feel of a child's silken skin next to mine. I want the status of motherhood. I knew how much my husband wanted our child, too. "It's not fair," I whispered to myself. "She's got a kid she can't control, while I can't have one at all." I knew it was irrelevant that the woman couldn't control her child. But it seemed like something to hang my grief on, some perfect and insulting irony. I felt a great guilt too, over my resentment, but I knew there was no denying it. "It's just not fair!" * I never went back to see the doctor again. I went to see the witch instead. She didn't look like a witch the first time I met her. We'd got chatting in the second-hand bookshop, quite by chance. I'd noticed that there was a large section of books on magic, and remarked on this to the proprietress. She'd smiled strangely, and I found myself telling her my difficulties a few moments later. "Come and see me tonight," she'd said, "I might be able to help." Of course, I hadn't been able to resist that. She'd told me the address; then a knowing half-smile had lingered about her closed lips. When I arrived, in the middle of a virulent rainstorm, she was waiting for me. She had dressed in a ragged black robe which reached down to her ankles, and she gave me bitter tea which did nothing to soothe my nerves, ragged ever since the visit to the Health Centre two weeks before. We talked for hours, it seemed, but afterwards I couldn't remember what we'd said. It seemed I was aware and unaware, at the same time, of all that had passed between us. How did I let her persuade me? I asked myself, not once but several times. "Come on then," she said briskly, "the time is approaching." And she flung open a door which led into no room at all. At first it had seemed I would step out over a void if I passed through that door. Then I'd seen the ancient and half-rotted fire escape that led up to the disused attic. I'd drawn back, a sharp movement. Panic had suddenly hit me. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to go out there. Half of me hadn't wanted to enter the house earlier on that evening. "You've paid. You can't back out now," she'd said, a hint of malice curving her wrinkled lips and, this time, exposing sharp teeth. It was a moment before I'd realised what was strange about her smile. Her teeth had been filed. I just had time to wonder if she got toothache from it before her little shove propelled me outside. It was a wild night. Thunder crashed around our ears. Lightning strikes split the darkness. I'd always enjoyed storms before; a battle with nature itself held exhilaration for me. This time, though, apprehension replaced excitement as the gale approached. Shutters on windows swung, slammed, swung again. The witch turned on me, urging me on. Her ragged robes streamed at each gust, then fastened wetly back onto her body. We fought to cling to the rickety handrail. Rain surged down in chilling sheets from the growling sky. The planking was slippery. It yielded a little underfoot; obviously frequently-wetted wood. She yelled something at me through the clamour. I thought it was, "Come on!" The wind threatened to pluck me from the fragile staircase several times. I had to climb hand over hand to reach the top. The witch wrenched open the door. Even through the chill, dense arrows of rain, the smell was overpowering, as if strange things had been wrought there more than once before. We almost fell inside. Though I was glad of the shelter, my fear of what would happen next was a hard knot in my stomach. The witch pulled the door to behind us. I shrank back into the chair the woman indicated, wondering about her. How had she come to this vocation? I knew she lived alone in this crumbling house. Perhaps she was also childless. But in her case, I thought, it's from choice. As if sensing my curiosity, the witch spoke. "Rest. You'll need your energy later." I wasn't sure if that was irony in her voice. "I have...preparations to make." I closed my eyes. I could hear her moving about, efficient, not wasting effort. I felt as if I were living a dream. There are many shades of reality. At last she spoke again. "Ready?" I nodded. In the dim room all was quiet. Either the storm had receded, or I'd withdrawn into myself. The witch told me to concentrate. I obeyed, allowing myself to think only of what I wanted. She'd drawn a circle on the floor. The brazier flared with a blackish flame; not smoke. She'd lit candles. They guttered in the wind from the re-opened shutters. It was as if she wanted to invite all the wildness the storm had to offer, right inside the very room. The incense filled the air with a heavy, hot reek. We were both naked. The witch chanted, words that were familiar without being so, a teasing half-memory at the edge of my consciousness. I closed my eyes once more. The atmosphere in the room was sullen. We were waiting for something to happen. I was never quite sure when it did. All I know is that at some point I became aware that the witch's chantings had ceased and that someone - something - was watching me. But not from inside the circle, where I had expected it to be. The witch stood there - protecting herself, not chaining the thing she'd summoned. It was small, yet on a level with me. As I watched, it seemed to flow, change, grow, in an way I could hardly comprehend. When I rubbed my eyes and looked again, it had solidified into a diminutive man. He stood on an onyx table. His eyes were bright blue, almost a turquoise colour, and deep lines ran across his forehead. He could only have been a couple of feet away. His eyes were piercingly bright, as if they could see into my soul. They were ancient and youthful at one and the same time. Yet he was truly only the size of a child of about seven. "I see you want something of me," he observed in a voice gentle as the touch of silk. "Lift me." I lifted him into my arms, as I would have lifted the child I longed for. He clung to my body. Somehow he didn't seem so childlike now. There was something ghastly about his dimensions. Disproportionate. He seemed to swell, with the obscene fecundity of a chemical garden. His trunk was now the size of a man's. I could feel a firm lump pressing against my hip. I grew frightened. For a moment I stared into his face, seeing the wrinkled skin and knowing I was about to transgress against nature. That I should be brought to this... "You cannot undo what you have begun," he said, seeming to read my thoughts as they occurred to me. At this evidence of his power, I grew even more frightened. I tried to let go of him, to put him down, but although my hands flailed wildly in the smoke-filled air, still he clung, not, apparently, using his foreshortened limbs, but hanging there against me, leechlike, as if simply defying gravity. He spoke again, in that voice like the subtle caress of silk, and gestured at the same time. "Come," he said. "Lie with me." With him still greedily attached to my shrinking flesh, I climbed on that onyx table. I almost slipped; my hands were too moist to grip properly. I thought he'd suck the heart out of me. Drain it dry and discard it. "Oh no," he said. Now his voice was silk smeared with honey. "That's not the bargain. The bargain is for something else." When the thing was done I was frantic to escape. It hadn't been pleasure, as it was with my husband. I supposed it wasn't meant to be. I remember nothing more, except the overwhelming terror that gripped me as I pulled the door of the attic shut behind me and climbed out on that rickety wooden fire escape again. The storm had rumbled away into the distance, but the rain still fell like arrows to pierce my seemingly fragile skin. At least the act was done and over with. What had been wrought there, no man or woman could now take away from me. I was whole at last, but filled with such terror that I struggled frantically to shut the door on that thing I had called down on myself. I felt defiled. Realising my dreams, I thought, might yet cost me my sanity. How could I bear to live with myself, I who had done this unnatural thing? But for almost eight years, I did, not realising that while my son grew, and played apparently happily, a greater consciousness than I could even comprehend played with me. * It was his seventh birthday today. He sat silently, watching all his playmates playing with the toys we'd bought for him. He hasn't joined in at all. At times I was surprised to see a deprecating expression on his face, as if he was just too good to play like a child. Of course, he's always seemed old for his age, but... Yes, I'm a mother; but I'm never quite sure if this is how it's supposed to be. My husband looks confused sometimes as well, and I know just what he's thinking. He's not quite sure if this is what fatherhood's meant to be like, either. They've all gone home now, the other kids. I turn round as I hear a choked cry from my husband. My son is nowhere to be seen. "How...?" He lies at my feet, the one I went through all this for. I cannot bear to remember the suffering I endured to give him our child. He knew nothing of it. I didn't tell him, thinking to save him pain. He thought a miracle had occurred at last. I know he'd have forbidden it if he'd known. I kneel beside him, crooning to him as if he were my child. He can't hear me. His stomach has been slashed open. His blood congeals in the pile of the carpet. I become aware of my son watching me. It's as if I've looked at him, but never really seen him before. Bright blue eyes, almost a turquoise colour, piercingly bright, as if they can see into my soul. Ancient and youthful at one and the same time. Centuries old, seven years old... Blood drips from his little hands. I stare at him, a sickening understanding slowly dawning. "You left too soon," he said. "We hadn't discussed the price." I was scared. I can't admit it, least of all to him. Still I stare. It isn't just the nausea, it's that I don't know what to say. Since I've realised why he did it, I can't utter the words, even if I know what they are. At last I say, "Why did you have to take him? You had my body. That's a sacrifice, from an otherwise faithful wife." "That's not enough, for a demon," he answers. "A woman's body is a paltry thing. There has to be a price." Of course! He's so clever, giving what his victims want first, so that when he names his price they can refuse him nothing. And: A woman's body isn't a paltry thing to her. The word appalled filters into my mind on a subliminal level. It's followed by self-hatred and disgust. I cannot speak. "I'm going now," he says clearly, and his voice reminds me of the rasp of acid silk across bare skin. "You've had what you wanted from me. Now I've evened things up a bit. See you around...mother." When I look again, he's gone. There's a ring at the doorbell. A woman stands there. Her face is pleasant, smiling, as she speaks to me. "Jennifer forgot her cardigan. I've come back for it -" She looks past me to the slumped, bloodstained figure on the hall floor. I don't know what to do. I move numbly aside as she enters, drawn by the body, fascinated, terrified. Images skip through my mind, ones I would rather forget. I have blocked them for almost eight years. They torture me, with the memory of what I did for and to my husband. I never believed in adultery. Especially not like that. At the time I thought it was the only way. Sirens wail, lights flash. I sit still, as if in a dream I cannot leave. The police are here. Accusation stares out of their faces at me. "Where's the boy?" they ask incessantly. "I don't know," I answer. "Why do you keep on asking me? I don't know!" Somebody's using the radio. I hear a one-sided conversation. "The child may be in danger," he says. Fools! I think. Somehow I haven't the will to struggle to speak the truth. Some ancient compulsion warns me back from the abyss. I'm not sure if it represents salvation or damnation. My lips remain sealed, against all hope, all compassion. A sudden insight focuses my mind clearly on my son. The son that never was. At once innocent and guilty. A shout bursts forth from me, meaningless. I feel the froth accompany it, at the side of my mouth. I rush at one of the policemen, trying to punish him. But it's my mistake. I should have just accepted my allotted fate from God. I see the white shape of the ambulance draw up outside the house. More strangers enter. As they envelop me in a garment that binds my arms around my body in a vile hug, I think of an onyx table in an attic room. My sacrifice. That I should be brought to this...     © Helen Claire Gould, June 1993.