Jennifer did this at every house. She always drank a glass of water. She always managed to drop her empty bag. I asked her how she could drink so much water. She must have had about twenty-four glasses. She didn’t answer. She shrugged her shoulders and walked with her head up, eyes up. I sort of remembered something about a water test for witches. But I also sort of remembered that it was something about witches being able to float on water that was outside their bodies, not water that was inside their bodies.
I asked Jennifer why she didn’t wear a mask. She answered that one disguise was enough. She told me that all year long she was a witch, disguised as a perfectly normal girl; on Halloween she became undisguised. She may be a witch, I thought, and, of course, she was a girl. But perfect never! And normal never!
I can say that Jennifer collected more treats on that Halloween than I had in all my years put together including the time I was a mouse in my sleepers with the feet in. Because I was with Jennifer each time she went into her act, I managed to collect more treats on that Halloween than I ever had before but not nearly as many as Jennifer. My bag was heavy, though.
Jennifer and I parted about a block from my apartment house. My bag was so heavy that I could hardly hold it with one hand as I pushed the button for the elevator. I put the bag on the floor while I waited. When the elevator arrived, I leaned over to pick up my bundle and heard my Pilgrim dress go r-r-r-r-r-r-i-p. I arrived at our apartment, tired and torn, but happy. Happy because I had had a successful Halloween; happy because I had not met Cynthia on the elevator; and happy because my costume had ripped. I wouldn’t have to be an itchy Pilgrim another Halloween.
3
SCHOOL WENT VERY WELL THE next day. We played dodge ball in gym; I got Cynthia out. I aimed a good one right at the back of her legs; it almost knocked her over. It wasn’t much fun getting after Cynthia in front of the teacher, though. Since the teacher was a grown-up, Cynthia acted sweet. She smiled when she got called out and pretended that it was the nicest thing that had ever happened to her.
I didn’t mind “staying after” that day. It was cloudy and chilly. There was nothing special to do during the afternoon, and no one special to do it with. Miss Hazen made me write “I will not be tardy” one hundred times. I used a lot of time doing it. I practiced all different kinds of printing and all different kinds of writing. A couple of times I tried to write as Jennifer did but decided that I would need something more special than a ball point pen. I numbered the lines in Roman numerals, and that took a lot of time. I had to figure out whether 49 should be XXXXIX or XLIX or IL. I’m sure I enjoyed my punishment much more than Miss Hazen did. Maybe she wished she had made me write it only fifty times. She would say things like, “You’ll just have to go faster,” or “Are you almost ready?” or “You work much faster than this usually.”
I finished. Walking home alone seemed less lonely when there weren’t a lot of other kids walking in two’s and three’s. Even the cop who guards the school crossing had gone off duty. I was walking calmly and patiently; that’s the way I was feeling. Miss Hazen zoomed past me in her car. She didn’t notice when I waved to her. When you’re driving that fast, I guess you have to concentrate on steering. I’ll bet she was glad that the cop was gone. The little woods said November now; maybe because it was cloudy.
A little way into the woods I spotted a note tacked to the Jennifer tree. For me! For me! I knew it was for me. It was written on brownish paper in Jennifer’s peculiar handwriting. It said:
I folded the note and left the tack in the tree. Then I zoomed the rest of the way home wishing that it could be Saturday in five minutes.
• • •
The rest of that week seemed to have a month’s worth of days, but Saturday came. It was a golden day full of the smells of autumn. I told my parents that I’d skip going grocery shopping with them. I told them that I had some work to do at the library. No argument. I was usually a nag for them to take to the A & P. I wasn’t very popular at the A & P either. Once I had rammed the cart into a big mountain of cracker boxes. Avalanche! I told the manager that I’d pick them all up, and I did. I arranged them very artistically; the aisle was blocked for forty-five minutes. I hadn’t been very popular at that A & P since.
When I got to the library reading room, I knew Jennifer was already there. Her wagon was parked by the encyclopedias. She was looking at a big book of maps when I came in. Libraries are for whispering, and I soon discovered that Jennifer whispered beautifully, with many nice sssssssssssss sounds coming out like steam out of a kettle.
I whispered, “Hi.”
She whispered back, “Did you bring something to eat?”
“No,” I said. “A & P day. The cupboard was bare.”
She closed the atlas and looked at me for what seemed like a very long time. Leaning way over and in such a quiet voice that it was almost zero, she said, “I’ve decided to make you an apprentice witch.”
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
“Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ ” I must have looked worried. She didn’t let me waste time; she came across soft but fast. “If you really want to be a witch, nothing you have to do will seem like too much. If you don’t really want to be witch, everything will seem like too much. Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ “
I answered, “Yes.”
“We’ll start today,” she said and got down from her chair. She replaced the huge book of maps on its proper shelf before pulling the wagon toward the check-out table. The wagon was loaded with seven heavy, large books. She handed these up to the librarian one at a time and then replaced each one in the wagon after it had been checked out.
The librarian said to Jennifer, “Did you finish last week’s supply?” I guessed that Jennifer was well known at the library.
Jennifer sighed and said, “Of course.” She grabbed the handle of the wagon and pulled it out the door and down the steps to the street. Those steps are steep. But not a single book fell out of Jennifer’s wagon on the bumpity way down.
That Saturday Jennifer was dressed as she was usually dressed for school. That is, she wore a skirt. I later learned that she never wore jeans or shorts. She always wore a skirt. It was always an ordinary skirt. There was one thing about the way she was dressed that Saturday that was unordinary. Around her neck she had a gigantic key. She had it hanging from an old yo-yo string. The wagon was heavy with her books. Jennifer had to pull it with both hands behind her, and she had to lean way over to make the wagon move. That made the key hang very low; it would clung the sidewalk every now and then.
We headed for Samellson Park. We didn’t talk much on the way. I didn’t ask Jennifer where she lived and whether she had any brothers and sisters and where her father worked. She didn’t ask me either. I suspected she knew everything about me anyway. There wasn’t too much to know. I am an only child.
When we got to the park, we walked toward the fountain. First, Jennifer took a drink. I’d never seen anyone love water the way Jennifer did. Then we sat down on one of the benches nearby. The water fountain was in the center of a cement circle. There were paths leading to it from four different sides of the park. I’d guess that the circle was about nine feet across. I soon learned that much as she loved water, Jennifer was more interested in the cement circle than she was in the fountain.
“Now, if you’re ready,” she said, “we’ll begin.”
I would have been more ready if Jennifer had not seemed so serious. She was as serious as a doctor ready to give me a DPT booster shot. A witch doctor, I thought. When I answered, I tried to sound firm and a little bit annoyed, the way Jennifer did with the librarian. I said, “Of course.” Jennifer could not be imitated. My voice came out loud Elizabeth instead of cool Jennifer.
Jennifer took a piece of chalk out of her pocket and made a chalk mark all around the edge of the concrete circle. That crazy key kept scraping along the concrete as she bent over. I hoped that after I became a witch’s apprentice, I wouldn’t get goose pimple
s from that noise any more. After the whole circle was completed, Jennifer took a candle from her pocket. She lit it and stuck the candle onto the concrete near the bottom of the fountain by dripping some of the wax first. After standing there with her eyes wide open, staring at the big sky, she marched out of the circle straight over to me.
“Watch me,” she said. “When I’m ready, I’ll point to you. When I point to you, you may enter the magic circle. But be quiet. Don’t sneeze, burp, or breathe loud. Also, don’t talk.”
Then Jennifer walked back to as near center as she could get without actually standing inside the fountain. She closed her eyes and spun around three times, holding her hands straight down at her sides. As she spun around, she chanted:
“Xilka, Xilka, Besa, Besa;
Xilka, Xilka, Besa, Besa;
Xilka, Xilka, Besa, Besa.”
On the third spin, and with her eyes still closed, she pointed right at me. I walked into the magic circle, scared, shaking, and certainly not talking.
Jennifer took the big key from around her neck, twirled it over her head, and laid it on the ground near the center of the circle. Next she took a pin out of her pocket. She pricked her finger; and without even asking permission, she pricked mine, too. Holding her hand over mine, she placed both our hands on the key. Each of our fingers dripped a drop of blood onto it. Jennifer picked it up, spit on it, and handed it to me. So I spit on it, too. She held the key over the candle to dry the spit and the blood. The candle made cackle sounds as she did this. When the key was dry she put it back down on the concrete and blew out the candle. Then she took her forefinger that had been pricked and hooked it to my forefinger that had been pricked. We marched around the key three times before she stopped and picked it up. Holding it out by the yo-yo string, she chanted:
“So thee and me shall never part,
Wear this key around thy heart.”
Jennifer put the key around my neck. The yo-yo string was so long that the key hung not around “thy heart” but around “thy knees.” Looking me hard in the eyes she stuck out her pricked forefinger. I stuck out mine. We hooked our fingers together and shook them up and down three times and did another marching around the magic circle.
I was so impressed with the ceremony that I still didn’t want to say anything to break the magic spell. The big key kept clunging me on the knees. I waited until we walked out of the magic circle and were standing back at the bench before I said, “Don’t you think this string is a little long? Unless now that I’m an apprentice my heart has slipped down to my knees.” I laughed at my little joke. Jennifer didn’t laugh.
She said, “I got it from a very tall witch.”
“May I shorten it some?” I asked.
She replied, “You can tie it up, but don’t cut it.”
I lost no time tying it up so that it hung over my heart. My knees already felt black and blue.
Then Jennifer said, “For the first week of your apprenticeship you must eat a raw egg every day. And you must bring me an egg every day. Make mine hard boiled. And you must read this book about witchcraft; it tells about some of my famous relatives. They were hanged in Salem, Massachusetts.”
I said, “A raw egg?”
She said, “I knew you’d ask that. R-A-W. Leave my egg by the tree. See you next week.”
And that’s the way Jennifer and I parted that first Saturday. We walked in opposite directions. I looked back after I had taken only a few steps. I couldn’t see either Jennifer or her wagon. They had disappeared.
All the way home I thought about my friend, Jennifer, the witch. I also thought that I had gone out an ordinary girl and had come back a witch’s apprentice. I didn’t feel different except that I felt like throwing up every time I thought of eating a raw egg. Every day! For a week!
4
HOW I MANAGED TO EAT a raw egg every day the next week was less of a mystery than what happened to the hard boiled eggs I left for Jennifer. I left the egg every morning on my way to school. On two mornings I left our apartment so late that I was almost tardy for school again. But when I walked home at noon, the egg was always gone. There was always a little brown piece of paper with the words:
I wondered how she managed to pick up the egg and still get to school on time. I never saw her that week.
Here’s how I solved the problem of the raw egg: milkshakes, that’s how. My mother didn’t usually make milkshakes because I am what is known as a fussy eater. Such as I won’t eat anything cooked with tomato sauce. I won’t eat the crusts of bread, and I won’t even taste anything with mayonnaise. I never eat eggs. Even when I was a little baby before I knew better, I knew better. I never ate eggs then either. Poached or boiled, scrambled or broiled, I never eat eggs.
Every day that week I asked for a milkshake. My mother would say “no.” Then I’d say that I’d like her to break an egg into it. She’d be delighted at that. I’d drink my milkshake and hardly know I was drinking a raw egg.
I’d boil the egg for Jennifer the night before and keep it in my underwear drawer until morning. I read parts of The Black Book of Witchcraft, but I couldn’t finish it. It was an encyclopedia. I read about the Pilgrim witches in Salem, Massachusetts. One of them was Captain John Alden, who was the son of Priscilla and speak-for-yourself John. Some of them were little kids. Just like Jennifer; just like me. Some of them were hanged.
The weather was getting colder, and I was ordered to add layer after layer of clothes. I didn’t mind. If my mother said to put on ear muffs, I put on ear muffs. If my mother said to put on knee socks, I put on knee socks. Each trip to and from school had become an adventure. Dressing for that adventure became exciting, too. My mother was amazed; she said that I was acting like a different child. Of course, I was a different child. She thought the eggs were responsible.
On Friday I found two notes. One was about the egg, and one was about meeting in the reading room of the library again. So it happened that we got to meeting in the library every Saturday morning “at 10:00 A.M. o’clock of the morning,” as Jennifer said. We’d check out our books. I usually took out one book besides renewing The Black Book of Witchcraft. Jennifer always took out seven books. I could tell that the librarian liked Jennifer even though Jennifer never said “hello” or “good-bye” or “please” or “thank you.” Librarians love good readers, and Jennifer was that. In fact, Jennifer wasn’t just a good reader, Jennifer was a serious reader.
After we’d checked out our books, we would dump them into Jennifer’s wagon. Both of us would pull the wagon to the magic circle in the park. She always parked the wagon near the bench outside the magic circle. Then Jennifer and I would hook our forefingers together and silently march around three times; the first time slowly, the second time mediumly, and the third time rapidly. We talked about witches in colonial days and the man who liked to hang witches in colonial days: Cotton Mather. We talked about plants that eat insects: insectivorous. We talked about the painter who cut off his ear: Van Gogh. We talked about the guillotine in France, about being shipwrecked on an island without water, about lice and the bubonic plague, and other interesting things.
Every week I ate a different special food and left some kind of food by the Jennifer tree. I didn’t always leave the same food for Jennifer. Apprentice witches have much stricter diets than master witches. One week I had to drink black coffee every day; Jennifer said hers would spill, so we settled on coffee cake for Jennifer. Other foods I had to eat every day were:
1/4 cup uncooked oatmeal; Jennifer got 1/4 cup sugar frosted flakes.
1 raw hot dog; Jennifer got the same.
My mother was not always too patient about my food habits. She couldn’t understand why I wanted a hot dog for lunch every day, especially an uncooked one. But I had this reputation for being a fussy eater. Besides, I was an only child; besides, I was a nag.
Soon it was Thanksgiving weekend. It was on Thanksgiving Saturday that Jennifer decided we should make a magic ointment. There were three ma
in kinds of ointments:
Ointments that make you fly
Ointments that change you into an animal
Ointments that kill people
“Let’s not kill anyone,” I said.
“Okay,” Jennifer answered.
“Let’s make the ointment that will change us into another animal,” I said. “I’d enjoy changing into a giraffe. I’d be tall, and I’d have beautiful brown eyes.”
“They can’t make any noise. They don’t have a larynx, which is a voice box,” Jennifer said. “If I’m going to be an animal, I’m going to be a noisy one. Or else a fast one. I’ll be a panther; they’re fast.”
“But all the panthers and all the giraffes in the whole U.S. of A. live in zoos. We’d be caged! Do you suppose we should become loose animals?”
Jennifer thought a minute and said, “I’ll be a cougar.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A western wildcat,” she answered.
I thought a minute and said, “I’ll take a French poodle; they’re smart dogs, and I’ve always wanted curly hair.”
Jennifer gave me a sharp look and said, “If I’m a wildcat and you’re a poodle, we’re going to fight like cat and dog.”
“Okay,” I said, “you change.”
She answered, “I said cougar before you said French poodle.”
“But I said change first.” Jennifer said nothing. I waited, then I said, “Besides, being first doesn’t make you right.” Jennifer said nothing; so I continued, “People first believed that the world was flat; being first didn’t make them right. It doesn’t make you right either.” Jennifer still said nothing. I waited.