heaven. I think of the first book my Patient Scholar introduced me to. I remember the joythat permeated my spirit. The joy that settled in my heart through the years as I read each book. I realize now that I never got to the passage on vanity in Peter’s tome that he so much wanted me to read. Would that passage have saved me? Would it have kept me from lusting for the ring? But there is no purpose in thinking of Peter’s tome now. It is back in my cabin. Or was. It may now be ashes.
I must think of Peter’s other book. The book that stirred his child soul—that made him want to ride on a deer’s back—that made my Asa’s eyes shine with wonder. I will go to the special land of the book. I will go into a forest, an enchanted forest where no human being will dare to tread. If I am not in the presence of humans, I can do them no harm. What will it matter if I am a witch, if I never work the evil of the demons? I will live in isolation. Safe isolation. Oh, even merry isolation.
The directions Peter gave as I was thinking of other things that first day I met him, the directions my conscious mind never heard, those most important directions are all stored perfectly in my deepest mind. I follow them now. I follow them tirelessly.
I see at last the mountains and I know that the enchanted forest nestles in the foothills.
six
CANDY
I am boiling beets. The beets grow wild, but in more profusion than would have occurred if I hadn’t nurtured them along. My beet field covers a wide swath that runs in a half-moon shape to the south of my home. The smell from my pot is sweet, as only beets close to pollination time can be. The water that came from the clear mountain brook nearby is now thick and soupy. I am making beet syrup for my candy.
Above my door, up to the roof peak, along the eaves, and yes, in truth entirely around the house, runs a garland of pink peppermint candies. The peppermint is a green plant, but the round candies are pink from the beet syrup. In all these years I have found no way to take the redcolor from the beet. So all the candy that covers my house is red to rose to pink. I would love to have it be green, like the mints Asa put on our cabin so long ago. Still, it may be better that it is not green, for green would have made the memory of Asa so strong I might not be able to bear it. And the beet color is pleasing. Luscious rose brittles capture the light in air bubbles that seem to move on a sunny day. They line the outer walls. Bright red buttery caramels form a cornice on every window. Palest of jellied gumdrops stick up in cone-shaped mounds along the roof. I know they are all delicious, though I do not indulge myself. Their sight is enough of a pleasure. The entire log house is decorated with candies. I’ve achieved a harmony of lights and darks that would bring a flush to my Asa’s face. I know that. Or maybe I just fool myself into believing that.
I have changed. I do not indulge myself in memories of Asa. When I first came to these enchanted woods, I thought of her. And her image would come to me so strongly, her smell, her feel, that it was all I could do to keep from racing back, through lakes and forests, to hold her again. I no longer think of her, for if I do, the knowledge of her life will come to me, and I will not be able to resist any longer. And so I no longer know what Asa would like or dislike. I only imagine. I only dream.
I have changed in other ways, too. Never have I yielded to the temptation to use magic, though in my hours in bed I am told formulas for bleaching the beet syrup. When I arise—not awaken, no, just arise, for I never sleep; I will never open my body to the incubi that used to hang in my corners like cobwebs waiting for sleep to overtake me—when I arise, I wipe the formulas from my mind and go to work boiling beets. Or, if it is not near the pollination season, I busy myself with other tasks.
There is so much to be done when one lives outside society. I
I must think of Peter’s other book. The book that stirred his child soul—that made him want to ride on a deer’s back—that made my Asa’s eyes shine with wonder. I will go to the special land of the book. I will go into a forest, an enchanted forest where no human being will dare to tread. If I am not in the presence of humans, I can do them no harm. What will it matter if I am a witch, if I never work the evil of the demons? I will live in isolation. Safe isolation. Oh, even merry isolation.
The directions Peter gave as I was thinking of other things that first day I met him, the directions my conscious mind never heard, those most important directions are all stored perfectly in my deepest mind. I follow them now. I follow them tirelessly.
I see at last the mountains and I know that the enchanted forest nestles in the foothills.
six
CANDY
I am boiling beets. The beets grow wild, but in more profusion than would have occurred if I hadn’t nurtured them along. My beet field covers a wide swath that runs in a half-moon shape to the south of my home. The smell from my pot is sweet, as only beets close to pollination time can be. The water that came from the clear mountain brook nearby is now thick and soupy. I am making beet syrup for my candy.
Above my door, up to the roof peak, along the eaves, and yes, in truth entirely around the house, runs a garland of pink peppermint candies. The peppermint is a green plant, but the round candies are pink from the beet syrup. In all these years I have found no way to take the redcolor from the beet. So all the candy that covers my house is red to rose to pink. I would love to have it be green, like the mints Asa put on our cabin so long ago. Still, it may be better that it is not green, for green would have made the memory of Asa so strong I might not be able to bear it. And the beet color is pleasing. Luscious rose brittles capture the light in air bubbles that seem to move on a sunny day. They line the outer walls. Bright red buttery caramels form a cornice on every window. Palest of jellied gumdrops stick up in cone-shaped mounds along the roof. I know they are all delicious, though I do not indulge myself. Their sight is enough of a pleasure. The entire log house is decorated with candies. I’ve achieved a harmony of lights and darks that would bring a flush to my Asa’s face. I know that. Or maybe I just fool myself into believing that.
I have changed. I do not indulge myself in memories of Asa. When I first came to these enchanted woods, I thought of her. And her image would come to me so strongly, her smell, her feel, that it was all I could do to keep from racing back, through lakes and forests, to hold her again. I no longer think of her, for if I do, the knowledge of her life will come to me, and I will not be able to resist any longer. And so I no longer know what Asa would like or dislike. I only imagine. I only dream.
I have changed in other ways, too. Never have I yielded to the temptation to use magic, though in my hours in bed I am told formulas for bleaching the beet syrup. When I arise—not awaken, no, just arise, for I never sleep; I will never open my body to the incubi that used to hang in my corners like cobwebs waiting for sleep to overtake me—when I arise, I wipe the formulas from my mind and go to work boiling beets. Or, if it is not near the pollination season, I busy myself with other tasks.
There is so much to be done when one lives outside society. I
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