The Near Witch

by Victoria Schwab

When I was small, the wind sang me lullabies. Lilting, humming, high-pitched things, filling the space around me so that even when all seemed quiet, it wasn’t.

News spreads like weeds in a place so small.

He taught me that everything has a language, that if you knew the language, you could make the world talk.

“Fear is a strange thing,” he used to say. “It has the power to make people close their eyes, turn away. Nothing good grows out of fear.”

My father taught me to chop firewood. I asked him once if he wished he had a son, and he said, “Why? I’ve got a daughter just as strong.” And you wouldn’t guess it by my narrow frame, but I am.

Would Otto know what to look for? Grown men can certainly act like little boys, but can they think like them?

The morning is a stealthy hunter, my father used to say. It sneaks up quiet and quick on the night and overtakes it.

My mother might swear by kneading, but I swear by walking, by running. Moving. I haven’t stopped moving in three years.

It is a strange thing, the way the world goes quiet when we hear our own name, as though the walls grow thin to make way.

Magda looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. Or I’ve grown up. It’s kind of the same thing.

Funny how when we start to tell a secret, we can’t stop. Something falls open in us, and the sheer momentum of letting go pushes us on.

“It’s amazing how much can change in one day, let alone three. In those three days, I watched my uncle stiffen. I watched my mother become a ghost. I watched my father die. I tried to take in every word he said, tried to commit them to memory, tried not to break inside.

The thing about bad news is this: All bad news might spread like fire, but when it takes you by surprise it’s sharp and hot, gobbling everything up so fast you never have a chance. When you’re waiting for it, it’s even worse. It’s the smoke, filling the room so slow you can watch it steal the air from you.

My father used to say that change is like a garden. It doesn’t come up overnight, unless you are a witch. Things have to be planted and tended, and most of all, the ground has to be right.

“My brother told me that the moor and witches are like everything else, that they can be good or bad, weak or strong. That they come in as many shapes and sizes as we do.