Never upset a Witch …

Not if you want to live!

In Tom Sawyer Mark Twain used words to the effect “Time had ceased, eternity had begun”.

So—?

So he triggered this short story in my mind—that, coupled with endless blasted religiosos banging on my door in the name of God (which God? Only theirs of course; you know … the One and Only Good Guy who is going to rapture us all to Eternal Bliss). I liked that ‘eternal’, it has a certain simplistic appeal about it.

Anyway, on with the show and I hope you hate it:

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THE BLESSING

 

He called me a vindictive witch just once too often.

Vindictive? Never! Possessed of a well-developed sense of justice, maybe, but never vindictive.

All I want from life is a fair shake of the dice. Cheats make my stomach hurt. Seeing a rat like him pervert the system to ruin innocent people made me want to spit. Having him use the system against me was much worse.

The biggest mistake of my life was marrying him.

The second biggest mistake was expecting a fair deal in the divorce, he is a lawyer. Sure, I fought tooth and nail for my rights, and fell right on my face. There was nothing I could do—the final ruling wrapped me up so tight I squeaked and left me with nothing. I had to go to him cap-in-hand and beg. It’s hard to be vindictive when you’re on your knees.

Vindictive? No, definitely no.

Witch?

Oh, yes.

I’m a witch. Not your traditional ‘black cat and broomstick’ witch, more your 21st century witch, high-tech and hold the eye of newt.

I do have a cat, though. She is my beloved pet and has been with me since I was a little girl. She is my family, my darling, and now my whole world.

As far as witches go I’m successful despite the big mistake in choice of husband (even a witch can be blind sometimes).

He knew, of course—the slime knew I was a witch, right from our wedding night. There were some things that had to be explained, and of course he wanted proof.

Well, one thing led to another, and his wealth multiplied as a result. Not that I minded. What witch wouldn’t want to be married to a highly successful lawyer, pinnacle of his field? But as time went by his demands grew, and grew, taking over until he was utterly obsessed by ambition. And the more he prospered by my efforts the more I saw him for what he was and the more I grew to despise him.

But there was one thing I always denied him, the one thing he coveted above all else. There was this one thing he craved, for which he pleaded, threatened, bullied, and begged. This I would never grant, no matter how much he groveled or blustered. Sure, it was within my power, and his desperate efforts to force it became the final nails in our marital coffin.

So, just as he’d planned, I went to him on my knees, begging.

He was munificence itself.

Sure, I could have access to the house. Sure, I could take my things away—my Book of Shadows, my waxes, my herbs, my robes and iron dagger. Sure, I could even have the house itself, if I wanted. I could have the house and pool, the garages and buildings, the trees and gardens, the stables and fields and woods and beach. Sure, I could have the cars and bank accounts and investments, he would relinquish all claims to everything … if only …  if only I would make him immortal.

Of course I said no.

So he called me a vindictive witch.

Vindictive I have never been. But I, too, have a limit, and can be pushed only so far. He pushed me too far with those words, on top of everything else, like planning to starve my cat to death.

So I gave him what he wanted.

He was over the moon with my decision. Overcome with emotion, tears streaming down his face, blubbering with gratitude—he gave me everything. Lock, stock, barrel and bolt.

The fool!

It cleaned him out. But he knew, and I knew, that even if it took  a lifetime he would recoup his losses. In three lifetimes he could be the richest man in the world. In four lifetimes he might be ruling the world. We both knew that.

The imbecile!

He’d thought that by withholding immortality I was being vindictive. But vindictive didn’t come into it — not until he’d pushed me that little bit too far. Vindictive only began once I’d given him what he wanted.

He wanted immortality, “the same as you witches”.

Immortal? I’m not immortal. No witch is immortal.

We could be, we can choose to live for hundreds, sometimes thousands of years, but no witch would ever be immortal. Given the choice of immortality or instant death every witch in the world would opt for death at once, without hesitation, even by the blessed holy fires of the stake.

Immortality, the ancient dream of mankind — and this numb-skull thought I’d withheld it from spite—? Hell, I wouldn’t wish that dream on my worst enemy. Not even on him. Not until he threatened to let my cat starve slowly to death, locked in his house … then I saw red.

So I granted his wish.

Certainly, he will prosper.

He is much too clever to fall in love. He will enjoy thousands of years of affairs and adventures, but never be fool enough to love. In a hundred years, lonely or otherwise, he will be one of the wealthiest men on earth. His personal accounts will rival those of sovereign nations; and centuries of endless success and adulation will never tire him.

He will be enjoying the fruits of my labours aeons after I am gratefully dust myself. Millennia after I have shuffled off this mortal coil he will be drinking the finest wines and sleeping with the cream of the world’s women. Long after my atoms have dispersed on the winds of time and change, he will be fearlessly conquering everything anyone can throw at him. And why not?

He is immortal. As part of the package I made him invulnerable as well. Nothing in the universe can harm him. He stands at the very peak of development, physical and mental. His brain is razor sharp, perceptive, brilliant; and he is the perfect specimen of manhood. He has it all.

The idiot.

He won’t begin to see the cracks until several thousand million years have passed. By then he won’t even remember my name, but my atoms will be laughing, laughing, laughing.

Laughing as the sun slows down, expanding as it cools. Laughing as our friendly little star becomes a swollen red giant, drying up the waters of this planet, killing off all life.

All life-forms, that is, except one.

The surviving perfect specimen of Homo Sapiens will be able to reach out his lonely arm from the seared surface of our planet and touch the face of the sun itself, so obscenely large will it have grown as it dies.

His agonies will last for billions of years more, then billions of aeons, until in about three trillion trillion years the universe collapses inwards on itself in a reversal of the Big Bang from whence it sprang. Eventually it will collapse into a singularity, a dimensionless point of timeless infinite mass. Somewhere in that nowhere will be a demented yet perfectly formed human being, alone and endlessly screaming in the midst of an eternal non-existence.

Vindictive witch, he’d called me.

Witch—yes.

But hardly vindictive …

— END —