M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Tracy” was all he said.

“I know, Bob. She’s very pretty,” I said with a nod, keeping my voice even. “But I was wondering if we could talk about something else for a moment. What do you think?”

“Tracy came to see me,” he muttered. “She luvz me.”

“I’m sure she does,” I agreed. “But I really need to talk to you about something else, Bob. Do you think we could do that?”

“An ah luv her.” He started nodding.

“Bob, I’m serious.” Without thinking I projected urgent anger into the flow of energy as I spoke. “I really need to talk to you about something else for a minute.”

The old man grew very still and almost visibly inched away from me. I wordlessly chastised myself for losing patience so quickly. I could already feel my hold on the ground weakening.

Bob stared at me for a long measure, brow creased and a frown pursed on his chapped lips. I mentally beat down my impatience and imbued my voice once again with calm.

“I’m sorry, Bob. It’s just that this is very important.”

“We kin talk if you want,” he answered slowly, blinking at me with a somewhat confused expression. It was as if he was unsure as to why he was bothering with me in the first place.

On a supernatural level I had managed to capture his fleeting attention. Now I had to keep it. Whatever form of mental disability this man had been cursed with, it was manifesting itself as a melange of unfocused and simplistic behavior. I felt like I was talking to a small child. In some very real ways, I suppose I was. It should have made my task just that much easier. Instead, the randomness of his jumbled thoughts was only serving to make my head hurt.

“That would be great,” I replied. “Yesterday you and I were talking about a Bible you had in your pocket. Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” he nodded vigorously. “I ‘member. You wanned uh’know ‘bout thuh fire.”

“That’s right,” I echoed in a soothing voice. “You were telling me about the fire and something that was in it.”

“Ah found sum cig’rettes.” He grinned at me proudly. “Whole pack. I wuz gonna smoke um too. Till thuh lady wit the pritty hair mashed um up.”

“Bob, what about the fire?”

“Uh lady.” He cocked his head slightly and nodded at me. “Summon put uh lady in it. She had pritty hair.”

“The lady in the fire?”

“No, thuh lady what hurt me. She wuz mean but she had pritty hair. She mashed up mah cig’rettes.”

“She’s not here right now.” I locked my gaze with his and struggled to keep him on a track I could follow. “She’s not going to hurt you. Now tell me about the lady in the fire.”

“Didju know Tracy come to see me tuhday?” he answered matter-of-factly. “Ah toad her ‘bout thuh truck.”

My ground was continuing to strain and weaken as I fought to insinuate myself into the old man’s stream of thought. I was embarrassed and even somewhat horrified that such a plebian task should be so difficult for me to perform. At the very least I should be able to maintain a simple ground without expending all of my energy on it.

“What about the lady in the fire?” I pressed. “Did you see who put her there?”

“Ah got a new coat too. Tracy gived it to me. Did’ju see thuh truck too?”

“What truck, Bob?”

I didn’t know it was happening until it happened. The very last thing I could recall was reaching frantically for an imagined handhold as my ground severed in a blue-white shower of ethereal sparks. Every last erg of energy I had generated was catapulted forward like a rubber band stretched to its limit, and then released. No longer doled out in a controlled fashion, the rush of supernatural static impacted the old man full force before rebounding threefold. I didn’t even begin to have a chance to erect a defense against the returning tidal wave of energy. Not that I could have done anything to protect myself against an onslaught of my own making anyway.

In less than one second I became painfully aware of the sensation that follows the deployment of an airbag.

“Are ya’ gonna talk or did ya’ go mute on me?” Ben’s voice reflected from the tiled walls of the men’s room. Its sharp echo died a quick and painless death after a single hard repetition.

I had yet to say a word since leaving the interview room. All I’d been able to do was nod the affirmative each time Ben asked me if I was okay. The moment I had stepped into the freedom of the hallway, I wordlessly made a beeline for the nearest restroom with my friend trailing along behind.

“I can talk,” I answered him softly.

“Finally! He speaks!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I returned hoarsely and nodded without looking at him. “I’ll be okay.”

“So what gives? You were just sittin’ there yakkin’ with the old guy, and the next thing I know he’s screamin’ like an idiot, and you’re holdin’ your head like you’ve just been clocked in the face with a two-by-four,” he described. “Ya’ wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?”

Fortunately, the old man’s screaming had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and he was now perfectly content to be once again drooling over his picture of Tracy Watson. Had it been otherwise, I’m sure there would have been much more commotion than had actually occurred.

I was standing at the sink holding my hands cupped beneath the spigot as I stared into the mirror at my drawn face. Soon they were filled to overflowing with cold water. Before answering him I took a moment to bury my face in the pool of chilly liquid before it could all seep through my fingers. Slowly I massaged the water against my burning skin, allowing my fingertips to linger at my temples for a long moment before falling away. At this moment, with the way I felt, I would have welcomed the headache that had plagued me on the previous day.

I remained pitched forward, leaning on my forearms against the basin, remnants of the water dripping from the end of my nose to splatter against the porcelain. The spigot continued to trickle with a liquid hiss, spewing its offering into the sink to disappear down the drain.

“Backlash,” I answered succinctly.

“Backlash?” he repeated the word in an almost questioning tone as if it were alien in meaning.

“Backlash,” I echoed.

“From what?” he asked after a moment.

“From me not being grounded.”

“That some kinda Witch thing?”

“You could say that.”

There was a loud ratcheting followed by a mechanical thunk. The pair of noises repeated twice in close succession, shadowed only by their dull echoes, then silence fell in behind them. A tearing sound came close afterward, and a moment later my friend was handing me a wad of paper towels.

“So why weren’t ya’ grounded?”

“I seem to be having trouble with that particular task lately,” I answered as I accepted the towels. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Any idea why?”

“I wish I knew. I guess it really started about the time the whole thing with the pool water happened… I suppose that shock to my system might have something to do with it… But, to be honest this whole investigation has had me off kilter,” I offered. “The idea of someone reviving the Burning Times must have affected me a little worse than I originally suspected it would.”

“Okay, I’ll buy all that.” He began pacing between the basins and the stalls. “But ya’ seemed okay yesterday. I’ll admit you were a bit unsettled but nothin’ like this. You’ve gone downhill in a big way all of a sudden, white man. What’s different now? What else is goin’ on?”

“Well, I think it might be what I mentioned earlier that I wanted to talk to you about,” I admitted as I dabbed the brown paper at the wet spots on my face. “I had a pretty serious dream last night.”