I Known Better
When I was a child, I would take advantage of the door’s inability to close and hide in the coat closet as I watched my mother use the smallest gestures to control the household items. The objects would set themselves down as soon as she heard a sound, as if they hadn’t already done so on their own. My father would rant and rave when he got home about the increasing number of witches in the town. I knew her secret, though my mother would respectfully nod her head in agreement.
I would smile knowingly to myself whenever the ladies in the town would talk about how my mother accomplished so much in a single day. Because, for some reason, being a witch was a bad thing, I knew better than to boast that my mother was a witch.
I was able to clean my room by myself at the age of twelve. Naturally, I took care to conceal this at all times. Everything appeared perfectly normal and unmagical the instant I heard the floor creak or saw the door open. I was aware of every sound in the house throughout the duration of this for a few months. One day, I even dropped the broom I had been controlling with my mind when I heard the cat running by outside. Despite the fact that I didn’t hear my mother’s footsteps one day, I can still hear her gasp of horror as she opened my bedroom door. When she realized that her marriage to the pastor of the local church did not shield her from having a cursed daughter, I vividly recall the terror on her face.
After that, the memories start to blend together. I recall my father not returning home from a hunting trip. I knew better than my mother when she said it was a bear. Soon after, we moved, and the gossip turned from envy to suspicion. The new town was smaller, but it wouldn’t bother you if you didn’t mind its own business. Before moving again, we settled into a small house with two bedrooms for six months. Each late-night knock at the door seemed to make my mother’s worry lines appear deeper. I was made aware of a rule: I was not to use my magic at any time.
We never stayed in one place for too long — one house after another, one town after another. My mother sat me down on my 18th birthday. She appeared to be younger than she was. I had no idea when the last time I saw her face in peace was. I heard her tell me what we were. I had no idea why she thought it was a curse. She talked about what people thought of us and why we couldn’t practice. She said that she wouldn’t do it again because she had become too comfortable; how I could not allow it to occur to me.
After that, I spent a few years living with my mother. On the outskirts of a town, we finally found a small cottage that didn’t ask too many questions. We were, I suppose, welcomed as a widow and her grown daughter. After a year there, I got a little too comfortable. I would descend into the creek and create tiny whirlpools in the water’s deeper parts. Even though I knew better, I would occasionally extract pretty rocks from deep below the almost dry creek bed. It was impossible to avoid that creek because of something about it.
I would always go before the roosters in town would crow, far before anyone would be down by the creek, so I was always careful not to be seen. After a few months of doing this, I heard tiny footsteps crunching through the leaves on my regular walk home. I knew then that we were doomed because I could tell that the little footsteps were running. A group of people with pitchforks and torches had surrounded the house by the time I got back to the town’s edge, where our little cottage was. I had no idea there would be a crowd quite like this. Like a storybook scene, it felt almost real. I could hear my mother’s voice telling me that I should have known better as the thatch roof of our house caught fire.
I was still hidden behind an old oak tree, but a part of me wanted to turn and run. I was aware that I would never receive answers, but I still desired them. As my mother’s words kept coming back to me, I cursed myself. We were not meant to be discovered. But it was done. I was aware that my mother could not be saved. At the very least, I, the one who caused our deaths, would be condemned to a half-life of running. As a result, I quickly considered my options and decided to carry out the one and only action that I was confident would resolve my issue.
The problem with enraged crowds is that they are extremely oblivious. They don’t really think ahead. They wouldn’t have chosen to burn a witch in the late fall, when the town was experiencing its worst drought in twenty years. In order for an ember to fall precisely on the overgrown, dry grass that we called our yard, all we had to do was snap our fingers. The entire group of irate individuals were contained within our house as well as the encircling perimeter of our property. The fire quickly spread from rooftop to rooftop as embers from another snap hit the town’s roofs. I stayed and watched to make sure that only the innocent animals were spared. I should not have left my work unfinished because even children were dangerous.
After the fire, I don’t remember when I made this decision, but something in the ashes told me I could never leave.
Back from the creek, I walk the worn path to where I rebuilt my mother’s cottage. Moss and vines have taken over the rest of the town’s stone structures. At their troughs, the offspring of the animals I saved from the fire eat happily. I’m not bothered by anyone here. They know better when they hear stories about a witch who destroyed a town.
