Angela’s Xanadu
Yes Satan, really
Routines are a curious thing. Some people can only survive with schedules humming and surprises, even good ones, kept to a chilly nil. To others, routine is curse, a Sisyphean drudge-stone of panic inducing obligations. But routines, rituals, cycles, these are the lifeblood of the forest witch. Living mostly off the land as I do, I must bow to the cycles of nature in order to survive. My seasonal schedules are sacrosanct, my rituals keep me in touch with my dark lord and keep my power flowing. And all of this routine living ensures I am ready for whatever surprises come hiking up my hill. Do I like the surprises? Not usually.
It’s December on the mountain. Not yet the solstice but that long, dark night is creeping closer. The snow is deep, we’re confined to the cabin and outbuildings. Many lives are wrapped in seasonal slumber. Early winter is a time of processing for me. Gathering what I’ve dried and preserved during the summer and mixing potions, and poisons. This particular day on this particular December I was bottling and labeling dried insects harvested during the summer. It isn’t common knowledge I’d imagine, eye of newt and tongue of frog being as well known as ingredients as they are, but arthropods are quite important in the potion business. Take moths, for example, these are used in necromancy spells, as they symbolize death and transformation. On the lighter side, butterflies are good for contacting ancestors and loved ones. Bees are useful for divining and prophecy. Beetles, depending on the species, have many functions in magic and, well I could go on, but I have a story to tell.
As I said, bottling bugs. The dogs were out on patrol, monsters rarely hibernate, but one of the cats was up in the window watching big fat plumules of snow slow fall and settle. She started chittering, I looked up to see her with a paw against the pane.
“What is it, Agnes, a squirrel in an overcoat?”
She looked sharply at me, Agnes is not one for jokes. I stood and stretched, bug sorting can be a little on the tedious side, especially if the ant species get mixed. I put a kettle on and went to the window. Some poor dear in a fur-lined parka was trudging up the steps. I opened up my senses and tried to feel their intentions. Intentions travel slower in cold air, though, and they hadn’t made it far enough up the steps yet. So I waited, standing in the window behind Agnes while the fire crackled.
The defrost tea was steaming on the table when a knock thumped through the cabin. I answered to find a middle aged woman in middle aged woman garb, faux-fur lined parka in light gray, cashmere sweater in dark pink, and brand name jeans. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her Uggs were not coming back from this trek unscathed. The costs of magic are steep. I tapped the sign by the door, the one that says to take off all your winter shit before you step inside. She huffed.
“I don’t want it to get stolen.”
“By whom, my dear? Did you see a lot of other people milling about on your way up here?”
“You never know.”
“I know. Take it off outside.” I slammed the door in her face. Possibly I was stiff and a little grouchy from separating the ant species, fortunately my own tea was done steeping. A nice simple mint green tea I always drink for a mood refresher. A few minutes later she knocked again and I ushered her inside to her seat. She looked at the tea.
“It’s ok, it’s just to warm you up. I’m not going to drug you and steal your outerwear. Pinkie swear.”
“You make me sound like a nut.”
I closed my eyes and took a sip of my own tea, inhaling the mint into my very soul. Thinking less irritable thoughts. Wondering why introspection wasn’t taught in schools.
“It’s good,” I heard her say through my happy thoughts of little children solemnly analyzing their behavior on the play ground. I guess I took the ball because I wanted to play but I was afraid to ask if I could, Ms. Wilson. Imagine the well adjusted adult that child would grow up to be….
“Are you going to talk to me?” She sounded hesitant. I opened my eyes.
“Of course. Angela, is it? Tell me your problem.”
“You know my name, don’t you already know my problem.” Her eyes were wide.
“I do, but you telling it to me will provide much needed nuance.” I really should just put that on a sign outside, too.
She sighed. Poor dear, I was shattering illusions left and right.
“I’m bored. I’m sick of my routines. Sick of doing the same things every day. Sick of being me.”