The Magic Circle by Donna Jo Napoli

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 cool 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 Iam 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