A Day At The Museum

I saw them across the street while I waited at the bus stop. Three high-school girls, tittering amongst themselves. Two were chain-smoking and trying the push the third into smoking with them. She would accept a cigarette, make smoking motions, then use the fag as a gesturing tool, allowing the wind to burn down the cigarette for her.

I was sitting on the bench, braiding some length of twine while waiting for the bus. Short lengths, not meant for anything in particular at the moment, but I knew they would be needed later, so might as well use this waiting time productively.

The wind blew their conversation across the street in snatches of conspiratorial giggles and mutterings. Today was not a holiday. They should have been in school. The older two girls were experienced ditchers, they gave no fucks to anyone that looked at them. The third girl glanced nervously about.

“Bet she’s a witch.” “How do you know?” “Look at her! Look at that hair! That’s not natural!” “Black people have fluffy hair.” “Not that fluffy. Does Beyonce have fluffy hair? No. Shit aint’ natural.” “It’s a devil’s mark.” “Oh, come on!” “She’s cursed, and her hair is her mark of her curse, so that everyone can see. But people just think she’s ethnic and shit.” “Yea, she’s a witch.” “And she’s watching you.” “Yea, know why? Because you’re easy bait, and shit.” “She’s going to spell you!” “You two are full of shit! She’s no witch, she’s just…” “Just… what?” “You know, there’s only one way to settle it.” “You want to hang with us, you have to be daring.” “Go do it.” “Go ask her if she’s a witch.” “Make her prove it.” “If you command her in Jesus’ name, she has to comply if she’s a witch.” “Yea.” “This is too far!” “Then go back to nursery, you little baby!” “Suck on your mom’s tit, baby!”

They started to push her. She stormed off to my surprise, but not to theirs. They continued catcalling her and verbally berating her until she came to the marked street crossing. To our mutual surprise, she crossed the street and came down the sidewalk towards me.

The two girls exploded into barely muffled giggles. “She’s gonna do it! She’s really gonna do it!” The third girl, becoming more brave with each step, stormed towards me. I continued making my short little braids, as if I was completely ignorant of what was about to happen.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?”

I looked up at a freckled face, framed by barely constrained red hair. I smiled disarmingly. It only made her more nervous. I nodded, subtly. The gesture caught her by surprise. She knew, that I knew, what she was about to ask. And she knew, that I had just given her explicit permission to continue.

“Are you a witch?”

Across the street, the two girls fell over in peals of laughter. “She did it!” “What a gullible shit!” “We shoulda had her ask for a lick or something!” The wind carried their words over to me, and to the red-haired girl. She bit her lip and tried not to cry at realizing I had not only heard the entire exchange, but that the two girls she looked up to were using her.

I answered with the following nineteen lines of spontaneous prose.

Some will say that I’m a witch.
Some will say that I’m a bruja.
Some will say that I’m a con-man that is easy on the eye.

Some will say that I’m too dark.
Some will say that I’m too prim.
Some will say that I’m too clean to know how to craft and scry.

Some will say that I’m a bastard.
Some will say that I’m unhoused.
Some will say that I’m unknown to the covens that they know.

Some will say that I’m immoral.
Some will say that I’m a danger.
Some will say that I’m the doorway to the paths they’re ‘fraid to go.

Some will say that I’m a liar.
Some will say that I’m a seer.
Some will say that I’m the last one they expect to shank with truth.

Some will say that I’m nothing.
Some will say that I’m something.
Some will say that I’m a different face to each that dares to view.

What am I to you?

I didn’t answer her question directly, but turned it back to her. She stood there, silent for a few seconds.

“No fair! You practiced your answer!” I shook my head. “You came up with that on the spot, just now?” I nodded. “I don’t believe you. That’s too neat.”

“It’s not neat. The rhyming is clunky.”

“Your hair… it’s so… fluffy.”

“This is black folks’ hair. I’m about medium nappiness. I can actually run a comb through it dry, but it tends to break a lot. Hair has nothing to do with one’s propensity for witchcraft. It’s like skin color. There’s a lot of different types out there, and a lot of it is manipulated to look different.”

“But… Beyonce…”

“Beyonce’s hair is straightened. She goes through a lot of trouble to make sure her appearance is a certain way. She wants straight hair, she appears with straight hair. But I can guarantee you, it didn’t grow out of her scalp that way.”

“Oh.”

“Shall we turn the tables on those two bitches?”

“They can hear us!”

“Not with the wind blowing in the direction it is, and as fierce as it is.”

“Okay… what do you have planned?”

“You’ve ditched school for the day. If you show up at home, it’s going to be shit. If you go back to school, it’s going to be shit. But your only alternative is hanging out with those two, who are shit.” She nodded, sadly. “Then hang out with me.” Her eyes widened. “I’m headed to the museum to catch up with some friends. You never did answer my question back to you, so I’ll ask another that will be easier for you to answer. Want to meet a real witch? I promise, she won’t snack on any of your body parts. She prefers free-range noms anyway.”

The girl looked at me oddly after the last sentence. I just smiled and chuckled.

“You’re kidding about the eating, right?”

“Yea, I am. I know she’s strictly heterosexual, and doesn’t touch minors with a ten-foot phallus. But she likes to ham it up when dealing with folks trying to shame her for being a witch openly.”

“In public?” I nodded. “At the museum?” I nodded again. “Will there be others?”

“A few magic workers. Not all are witches, though. You’ll be my guest. We’re going to stroll through the museum and share some things we know with each other. And have fun. I’ll even pay for your bus ride there and back.”

She remained standing, suddenly suspicious. “Why? Why are you offering this to me. You don’t even know my name.”

“Because why not. You have a cell phone in your pocket, you keep fingering it as your worry stone. Help is a phone call away. We’ll be in public. You know how many security cameras there are in a museum? A metric shit-tonne, that’s how many. At the worst, you can meet a slice of humanity you’ve never met before, in a safe place, where you can be comfortable and be yourself because there will be no expectations on the table. Or you can cross the street and run with those two. Either way, chances are, we will never meet again.”

The bus pulled up and came to a stop before me, obscuring her and me from the two older girls. I didn’t wait for her to answer. I got up, put my braiding away, and stepped on the bus. When I turned to go down the aisle, I found her right at my elbow.

“I have a student’s pass. Trips to and from the museum are always free for me. And my name is Melinda.”

We sat down on a tandem seat. “Hello, Melinda, my name is Weaver.”

“Weaver? Oh, because of the threads you were braiding. I get it.”

“Yea… something like that.” The bus pulled into the street, and I was able to get a glance at the two older girls as they saw the bus seat was empty. The shock of realizing Melinda had accompanied me to adventures unknown was a delightful sweet to taste.

On the bus, Melinda was equally frightened and excited. She asked if she was going to be inducted into a coven. “I wouldn’t want to be part of any coven that would have me as a member. I know better.” Would she be forced to participate in any rituals. “Over my dead body. One, you’re a minor. Two, I invited you, which means I’m responsible for your safety. Three, I’ll eat a bitch if they try.” Would other people recognize my friends as witches, and would she be in trouble for being with us. “One. Maybe. Possibly. But then again, she’s often mistaken for being a Lolita cosplayer, which she also does. If you wanna see Brenda steam, compliment her for her steampunk attire, then hide behind me.”

At the museum, we disembarked. “If they look like everyone else, how will you recognize them?”

“Oh, you silly girl, you still think there’s a ‘witchmark’ or something? There isn’t. That entire bus could have been filled with witches and I would have been none the wiser. How a person wants to look on the outside is entirely up to them. We all agreed to meet by a certain statue at a certain time. And here we are. Hermes! Messenger of the Olympian gods! And a trickster. Watch out for this one. Take nothing he says at face value.”

“Hermes Trimestigus, you mean. Dispenser of wisdom.” The speaker turned to confront me with a playful glare on his face. Double my age, and half my hair, the man tipped his hat towards me. “Hello Weaver! What’s this, you have a new charge? Dare you have… a student?”

“No!” I play-slapped him on the arm while he chuckled. “This is Melinda. Who should be in school but decided she wanted a real education instead of regurgitated pablum. She had the choice of accompanying me to the museum today, or becoming part of the town’s laze-about problem.”

He tipped his hat towards Melinda. “Well met, Melinda. You may call me Stoic, or Stanley, whichever is more comfortable to you.”

Melinda tugged on my arm. “Are these witch-names? Weaver? Stoic?”

I laughed. “No, many of us met over the Internet, so we still use the handles we first met each other with, even in face to face meetings. For some, names are something to be hoarded and hidden. For some, names are part of language and communication. For my group, you’ll find that names are both. No one is going to tell you a name they don’t want you to know. So whatever name you are given in this open and public place, is a name that you are free to use.”

Her face said she didn’t understand a single thing I said. Her eyes said the understanding was already brewing.

“Weaver, there’s a lot to this witch business, isn’t there.”

“There is, and there isn’t, Melinda. But here is the bottom-line to it. Rule 1: Do what is right, to you. Rule 2: Don’t do what is not right, to you. Rule 3: You determine what is right and not right for you. Rule 4: Allow others the same freedom.”

Strong hands grasped me about my waist and easily picked me up. Setting me to the side, the large woman said to Melinda, “To summarize Wordy Weaver here: Live your life as you see fit!” Stoic nodded while I complained about being manhandled so ungracefully in public. “Weaver has a kid?”

“No, Brenda, Weaver has a tagalong for the day.”

“You’re Brenda?” Melinda’s eyes seemed to never close as she took in the six foot, seven inch woman dressed in layers of lace and embroidery while cinched tight with a black silk covered girdle. Looking like a cross between a flamboyant goth and a fey Lolita, Brenda attracted attention and she loved it.

“But, if that’s steampunk, where are the gears?” Brenda’s mouth dropped open while Melinda fled giggling behind me.

“Weaver! Corrupting the youth already! I’ll give ya gears!”

Our number increased to seven adults and Melinda. I told them about Melinda’s “friends” and the question they teased her into asking. As we walked through the museum, Stoic would point out certain paintings here and there and talk more of their history, the meanings of the symbols in them, and the esoteric teachings that were hidden in plain sight.

In between viewings, Melinda found her courage and asked about many misconceptions of witchs, witchcraft, and magic in general. Our group composed of a lineaged Wiccan, an ordered ceremonial magician (Stoic), a brujo (that takes offense when people call me a bruja), a don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-about-labels witch (Brenda), an eclectic pagan, and a secular witch (that did not appear as or with a m*oose, so I know who it wasn’t, and no I’m not explaining this explanation further). They fielded her honest questions, corrected her misinformation, made jokes with her, and placed her at ease.

In return, we found her naivete to be refreshing. When Stoic was explaining paintings, she would ask the most simple of questions, but they were questions we all had overlooked because they were simple. Stoic did not take offense to answering “beginner” questions, if anything we took advantage of her cover to ask them ourselves.

The day wound down, and we buzzed through a gift shop on the way to a cafe on the grounds for afternoon tea. We each bought a little souvenir for ourselves, except for Melinda. She looked longingly at some of the items, but kept herself a too respectable distance from anything. I know that stance far too well. I caught Stoic’s eye, who had also noticed the behavior. He merely nodded at me, and withdrew until he was behind our group.

At the cafe, I whispered a suggestion in Brenda’s ear. She made loud talk of being hungry enough to eat a horse and the horse’s squire. She ordered an appetizer and lunch, then “bullied” the rest of us into ordering lunch as well. When I tried to get Melinda to order, reminding her that as host, it was my responsibility to make sure she eats as well, Melinda mumbled something into her lap about not being hungry. Many eyebrows were raised at the table, but no one said a word.

“Shit. I ordered too much. Again.” Brenda’s appetizer arrived, and it was a considerable amount. “Guess you’re going to have to help me eat it.” Without asking, she began serving everyone at the table a portion of the appetizer, including Melinda. Melinda started to sputter a refusal, but we barreled on into food and conversation.

She tugged at my arm, but before she could raise the courage to speak, I spoke. “I don’t care if you have money or not. My only concern is if you are allergic to anything. I’ve listened to your stomach for the past hour, and I’ve been in the situation you are now. You are my guest. You are hungry. If you truly can’t eat, then let it be for a physical reason. There are no social classes at this table. I shall be more offended that you did not eat, even a token’s worth, than by any cost that shall be incurred.”

“Is this a witch thing?” “No, it’s a human thing.” She smiled and said she’ll take a little so not to offend.

A little nibble turned into a plate of appetizer to start, and a plate of lunch to finish. She thanked Brenda for ‘tricking’ her, and the rest of us for ‘putting up with her’.

“Are you leaving us, Little Seeker?” Stoic reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief wrapped item. “It’s not time to go just yet. Can you wait a few minutes more?”

“Why did you call me ‘Little Seeker’, Stoic?” She had meant to rise from her chair, but the still wrapped object has her attention.

“There are those that ask about witches and witchcraft because they want a denotation of the terms. There are those that ask because they want the connotation. There are those that ask because they have come face to face with it and are trying to understand. And there are those that ask because something deep down, deep below, resonates. I call you ‘Little’ because you still have one more growth spurt to endure before reaching your final adult height. I call you ‘Seeker’, because that is what you have been doing all afternoon. You ask not in curiosity, but because there is something that pulls you.”

He unwrapped the object. It is a small porcelain key from the museum’s gift shop. He picks it up, kisses it, and passes it to Brenda sitting on his left. Brenda cut a length of thin black satin ribbon and began tying an intricate knot on the key’s open handle.

“You are still too young to be delving deep into witchcraft, however. That is my opinion, based on what little I have been able to infer of your home environment and background. If you were to begin a serious endeavor now, you will be placing many things at risk. It can wait until you’ve left schooling.”

Brenda finished tying the knot, kissed the key, and passed it on to the brujo on her left. The brujo took off one of his many beaded necklaces and wrapped it around the key, careful not to wrap it around the satin ribbon. He clasped his hands around and said an inaudible prayer. When he opened his hands, one of the beads was free from his still closed necklace. He slid that bead onto the ribbon and tied it in place. Redonning his necklace, he kissed the key and passed it to the Wiccan on his left.

He took the ribboned and beaded key and passed it over his (untouched) water glass, his (never used and empty) bread plate, his (untouched) knife, and the candle in the middle of the table. He slid a small plain ring off his pinky finger, and tied that in a knot following the brujo’s bead. Once done, he kissed it, and passed it to his left.

The eclectic pagan removed her feather brooch, and carefully separated one of the brown and teal feathers from the adornment. Carefully, she worked the feather through ring, knot, and bead so that it was kept securely in place by the feather’s own barbs. She kissed the key and passed it to her left.

The secular witch took her fountain pen, and with great care, drew a small symbol on the feather. The eclectic pagan watched and nodded with approval. Once done, she kissed the key and passed it to me.

I took the long free lengths of ribbon, passed them them through the ring, through the key’s handle, and through the ring once more so that there were four lengths of looped ribbon. Quickly, I braided the lengths together, creating a short little handle from the black ribbon. I took one of the short little braids I had been working on at the bus stop, and tied that in the ribbon to keep it from unraveling. I took up the handkerchief Stoic has set aside for it, kissed the key, and wrapped the completed talisman in the handkerchief.

As I placed it in Melinda’s trembling hands, Stoic spoke again. “Maybe one day, Little Seeker, you shall begin your journey. If so, these gifts we freely give to you will be of use. Maybe you shall never approach the Unspoken Paths again. If so, may this be a reminder to you of the fun you have had this afternoon, and the mirth you have shared with us.”

Melinda looked like she was going to cry. She was excited. She was afraid. She was trembling from fear and happiness all at once. “Will I see you guys again?”

“Probably not, Melinda. We don’t meet up often in physical space. My flight leaves in the morning. Stoic is visiting from Germany. Just so happened, we were able to convene in this one spot for this one time. Chances are, we’ll never sit at the same table again.”

At my answer, she clutched her key tightly. The ringing of her cell phone caught her off guard, and her sharp yelp of surprise broke our severe faces into cracks of laughter.

“I’m at the museum. … The museum! Yea, I know, I’m in trouble for ditching. … They said what? … A witch? … You want to know why I’m at the museum? Because I don’t want to turn out like them. Might as well learn something one way or the other, right? … … … Yes, I’m grounded until I’m old. I accept that. … Yes, I’m fine. … No! I haven’t been drinking! I just… ” Melinda looked around the table at us. “I’ve just have a different perspective on things, that’s all. Been a thinking kind of day. … Yea, I’ll stay at the entrance. I’ll be at the statue of Hermes! … HERMES, not herpes! … He’s the… uh… I’ll be at the statue with the guy holding a snake wand and winged helmet. Yea, that one. … Okay, Mum. See you soon.” She hung up, and we all let our held breath out in laughter.

“Now let’s hope Mum doesn’t realize Hermes is naked.” More laughter while Melinda placed her wrapped key in her purse. “I’m soooo grounded. But that’s okay. I’m glad I met you guys, all of you. It’s not a long drive here, so I better get going, if that’s okay.”

“You want one of us to be in eyesight, just in case?” Brenda started to volunteer.

“No… uh… Mom is suspicious of anything that isn’t Anglican, doesn’t appear Anglican, and has an accent south of London.” We all nodded in understanding. Melinda waved farewell, and thanked me one more time before leaving the table.

As she left earshot, the brujo leaned over and asked me, “How far are you going to let her get?”. I grinned back at him. “As far as now.” As I slid out of my chair, I slid in between. My black feather cape embraced me as I walked as a shadow behind Melinda. Close enough to be ready to assist her if necessary. Far enough not to register on her senses. While she waited at the statue of Hermes, I waited on the statue’s pedestal.

She was my charge after all, my guest. It was my responsibility to see she returned as safe as she left.

A car paused at the Pick Up/Drop Off section and a red-haired woman came out. She asked an attendant a question, who pointed straight at the statue. As she came closer, the family resemblance was clear. “MELINDA! You are in grave trouble, you little runaway!”

“Sorry, Mom. I … I just needed to get some things sorted out.”

“Well, I hope you sorted everything out because I’m not letting you out of my sight for the next twenty years!”

Melinda’s acceptance surprised her mother. “Yes, Mum.”

“And what were you doing, anyway, the museum isn’t free today!”

“I had a free ticket!”

“So you’re claiming you were inside, this whole day!”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I don’t believe you. Start telling me some of the exhibits while we wait for your father to bring the car around again.”

“Well, there’s a exhibit for the Olympian gods inside… and a botanical exhibit, you’d like that, rare roses! And there’s the tapestries from Turkey, with the most delicate of embroideries, reminds me of Nanny! And…”

Melinda was in safe hands, and going home. I remained hidden at the statue of Hermes until I watched her car drive away. I knew I would never see Melinda again, not in this world.

May your sight be clear, Little Seeker.