(the land of make believe)
Feb. 1st, 2011 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamwitchIn the land of make believe, the girl changed with the seasons.
Sometimes she wasn't a girl, and sometimes she thought there were no seasons.
She lived in a modest hut with a sprawling garden full of poisons and treasures, and she kept her heart hidden beneath the oak next to the rose next to the fern patch next to the tomatoes and the dark, dark apple tree.
Her name was unimportant, but if you called, she always came. She always came when you wanted her.
In the land of make believe, the girl changed with the seasons.
+ + +
In the winter, when there were stars in her eyes, she stood naked out in the fierce, unforgiving sunshine outside her hut, waiting for night to fall. She would be waiting for a friend: her one friend. He had promised he would come, and he will. He will.
Her friend is a sorcerer; her friend is a fire-storm; her friend never lies, even as she lives a life without time or reason or remembrance. He would come for tea, and he would stay, he said. He would stay this time.
He came today; the shortest day, the darkest day. He came today.
He touched her cold skin and he smiled; he touched her mouth and bade her speak; he drew a robe of furs over her breast and she felt weak. He picked a dead bough to bid her walk; he rode away on his dark horse, he rode after a bird of prey. He rode, he flew, she never knew. She only waited as she stood and grew too solemn and too blue. She never knew.
He'd come that day, she always knew, and then it had been time for change, another season to exchange.
+ + +
Time to change, she thought when the boy went away. Time to change, she thought when her belly broadened. Time to be someone else, she thought when the trees fell and the leaves flew in through the window.
In the spring, she took a branch from a barely-budded tree and put it in a glass, breathing on it and waiting for the blossoms to arrive come May. She snipped the flowers and pinned them in her hair, willing the summer to stay away.
There was always something secret in her garden, come spring. Something deadly and secret, that grew from the exact spot her heart rested, beneath the tree next to the ferns and the tomatoes and the roses.
Something nasty waited there for some brave soul to come along and dig it out, and show her old heart to the blinding light of spring. It will rouse and come when it's called, she thought. It will unfurl its claws and flash its eyes and bare its teeth, and when the brave soul quavers and tries to flee, it won't let them. It will drag them down into the ground, where her heart is. It will drag them down and smother them; it will drag them down and there would be nowhere left for them to go. It will wait so patiently, oh so patiently, until their heart is bare and raw and resting quietly beside her own.
And then it would be time for change.
In the summer, she hid underground, her white hair growing and growing until her cheeks turned sunken and her hips turned wider than ever. She was no longer a maiden, lying pregnant in the earth, her eyes full of worms and her nails sharp enough to kill.
The baby would claw its way out of her barren stomach, ripping her open and screaming louder than the wailing of the harshest summer storm. The wind would screech and blow and bellow, and the rain would pour, but the witch wouldn't hear. The witch would lie still as bones in the earth; still as secrets; still as dreams.
And then it would be time for change.
In the fall, she picked silver apples, because they were ripe and tinkled in the breeze. She dunked them in red poison and set them out on the windowsill, waiting for the lovely child to skip by and steal one.
When the girl comes (because it is always a girl, because girls are brave and silly and true), the apple would gleam with false color, and she would bite into it, tasting the inside and the outside, the truth and the lie. And then she would fall apart as the leaves do, in the fall. And then she would fall to the ground, falling. And then she would ask for her mother, but her mother is dead. The mother can't come when you call, the witch would cry. The mother can't hear you, she would say.
But I can, she'd scream. I can.
And then it would be time for change; for all the seasons to exchange.
Sometimes she wasn't a girl, and sometimes she thought there were no seasons.
She lived in a modest hut with a sprawling garden full of poisons and treasures, and she kept her heart hidden beneath the oak next to the rose next to the fern patch next to the tomatoes and the dark, dark apple tree.
Her name was unimportant, but if you called, she always came. She always came when you wanted her.
In the land of make believe, the girl changed with the seasons.
+ + +
In the winter, when there were stars in her eyes, she stood naked out in the fierce, unforgiving sunshine outside her hut, waiting for night to fall. She would be waiting for a friend: her one friend. He had promised he would come, and he will. He will.
Her friend is a sorcerer; her friend is a fire-storm; her friend never lies, even as she lives a life without time or reason or remembrance. He would come for tea, and he would stay, he said. He would stay this time.
He came today; the shortest day, the darkest day. He came today.
He touched her cold skin and he smiled; he touched her mouth and bade her speak; he drew a robe of furs over her breast and she felt weak. He picked a dead bough to bid her walk; he rode away on his dark horse, he rode after a bird of prey. He rode, he flew, she never knew. She only waited as she stood and grew too solemn and too blue. She never knew.
He'd come that day, she always knew, and then it had been time for change, another season to exchange.
+ + +
Time to change, she thought when the boy went away. Time to change, she thought when her belly broadened. Time to be someone else, she thought when the trees fell and the leaves flew in through the window.
In the spring, she took a branch from a barely-budded tree and put it in a glass, breathing on it and waiting for the blossoms to arrive come May. She snipped the flowers and pinned them in her hair, willing the summer to stay away.
There was always something secret in her garden, come spring. Something deadly and secret, that grew from the exact spot her heart rested, beneath the tree next to the ferns and the tomatoes and the roses.
Something nasty waited there for some brave soul to come along and dig it out, and show her old heart to the blinding light of spring. It will rouse and come when it's called, she thought. It will unfurl its claws and flash its eyes and bare its teeth, and when the brave soul quavers and tries to flee, it won't let them. It will drag them down into the ground, where her heart is. It will drag them down and smother them; it will drag them down and there would be nowhere left for them to go. It will wait so patiently, oh so patiently, until their heart is bare and raw and resting quietly beside her own.
And then it would be time for change.
In the summer, she hid underground, her white hair growing and growing until her cheeks turned sunken and her hips turned wider than ever. She was no longer a maiden, lying pregnant in the earth, her eyes full of worms and her nails sharp enough to kill.
The baby would claw its way out of her barren stomach, ripping her open and screaming louder than the wailing of the harshest summer storm. The wind would screech and blow and bellow, and the rain would pour, but the witch wouldn't hear. The witch would lie still as bones in the earth; still as secrets; still as dreams.
And then it would be time for change.
In the fall, she picked silver apples, because they were ripe and tinkled in the breeze. She dunked them in red poison and set them out on the windowsill, waiting for the lovely child to skip by and steal one.
When the girl comes (because it is always a girl, because girls are brave and silly and true), the apple would gleam with false color, and she would bite into it, tasting the inside and the outside, the truth and the lie. And then she would fall apart as the leaves do, in the fall. And then she would fall to the ground, falling. And then she would ask for her mother, but her mother is dead. The mother can't come when you call, the witch would cry. The mother can't hear you, she would say.
But I can, she'd scream. I can.
And then it would be time for change; for all the seasons to exchange.
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