Read Online The Magic Circle by Donna Jo Napoli - Free Book Online
Authors: Donna Jo Napoli
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did I use magic. The cats ran off.
And, of course, through it all were the nets of beauty, strung out to entrap me. For years I was wary of these nets. I was on the lookout for minerals—the precious stones and metals that had marked my nine years as a sorceress. I expected the spray of the lake in a storm to turn to emeralds. I expected raindrops to turn to diamonds. I planned my response: I would gaze impassively upon the gems, then look away. But the devils knew I’d never touch another crystal. They didn’t waste their time, Instead, they sent a different type of ornament.
Once when I was following a natural path barefootthrough these great southern fir trees, the path itself turned to velvet black stones. I picked up a stone and realized it was jet. Against my will, my eyes saw how the jet would shine with a vigorous polish. I wanted to throw it away—to hurl it at the skies. But I knew better. I placed it down gently, exactly where I’d picked it up from, and walked home and put on shoes. I never went barefoot again.
Another day I was raiding a honeycomb when a large chunk of brown tumbled from the rotting tree. When it hit the ground, it split, exposing the golden honey glow of amber. I patiently set the honeycomb back in the tree trunk and turned my back on the amber. I went home. And I trained my tongue to favor rosemary, savory, and thyme. No more sweets for me. No more visits to the honey tree. From that day on I even forbade myself the taste of my own candies.
Yet another day I knelt on the shore of a large lake and let the sand sift through my fingers for the sheer silky pleasure. The grains of sand turned to pearls. They glistened with the white innocence of Asa’s soul. I wanted to form a cup with my hands and drink of them. Instead, I brushed off my hands and stripped and swam in the cold waters until I was numb.
Nature’s beauty turned ornamental, fashioned fromplants and animals—these things lure me not. Nor do the surprisingly fragrant orchids, which come in shameless profusion. Nor do the yellow clouds of canaries, the melodious birds that were unknown to me before I came to this land. No assault on my vision or smell or hearing can win.
I cannot be tempted by that which lived or lives, any more than I can be tempted by that which never lived.
Eventually these assaults on my senses ended. Or, rather, eventually I stopped noticing them. Or, in truth, eventually, though I still noticed, the callouses on my spirit prevented wounds. I am impervious to nature’s perfection.
Sometimes I catch a spider regarding me silently. I move closer. Once a sunbeam split through dew on a web and danced all colors along my eaves. But I turned my eyes to the spider alone. To the spider’s eyes. I always look carefully in a spider’s eyes. And sometimes I think I see a spark of fury in those eyes. I allow no impish cobwebs in my home. I sweep with a broom made from the witch-hazel bush. Fitting name, I think.
Imps usually come to witches to help them perform their evil magic. Since I perform no magic, their presence cannot be mistaken for a cordiality. And since I am immune to temptation, they are not here to lure me. Theyhave but one purpose: They are spies. The furious spiders that appear on my walls, on my pillow, in my cupboards less and less frequently in these last few years, they are all spies. I rub the shelves with vinegar each day, out-lawing the dust that can hide spiders. My home smells of fermentation, but it is a clean acidity. It is the best that I can do. The energy I once focused on healing and loving the divine being now works to keep the devils at bay.
At times, though, I am alone. Totally alone. I believe I am alone now.
I am setting the beet juice outside to cool when the doe runs past, fear making her hooves fleet. I do not ask her why she runs. I could, but I resist. Years ago, when I sat quietly on the south side of a hill admiring a fox family lolling about outside their den in
And, of course, through it all were the nets of beauty, strung out to entrap me. For years I was wary of these nets. I was on the lookout for minerals—the precious stones and metals that had marked my nine years as a sorceress. I expected the spray of the lake in a storm to turn to emeralds. I expected raindrops to turn to diamonds. I planned my response: I would gaze impassively upon the gems, then look away. But the devils knew I’d never touch another crystal. They didn’t waste their time, Instead, they sent a different type of ornament.
Once when I was following a natural path barefootthrough these great southern fir trees, the path itself turned to velvet black stones. I picked up a stone and realized it was jet. Against my will, my eyes saw how the jet would shine with a vigorous polish. I wanted to throw it away—to hurl it at the skies. But I knew better. I placed it down gently, exactly where I’d picked it up from, and walked home and put on shoes. I never went barefoot again.
Another day I was raiding a honeycomb when a large chunk of brown tumbled from the rotting tree. When it hit the ground, it split, exposing the golden honey glow of amber. I patiently set the honeycomb back in the tree trunk and turned my back on the amber. I went home. And I trained my tongue to favor rosemary, savory, and thyme. No more sweets for me. No more visits to the honey tree. From that day on I even forbade myself the taste of my own candies.
Yet another day I knelt on the shore of a large lake and let the sand sift through my fingers for the sheer silky pleasure. The grains of sand turned to pearls. They glistened with the white innocence of Asa’s soul. I wanted to form a cup with my hands and drink of them. Instead, I brushed off my hands and stripped and swam in the cold waters until I was numb.
Nature’s beauty turned ornamental, fashioned fromplants and animals—these things lure me not. Nor do the surprisingly fragrant orchids, which come in shameless profusion. Nor do the yellow clouds of canaries, the melodious birds that were unknown to me before I came to this land. No assault on my vision or smell or hearing can win.
I cannot be tempted by that which lived or lives, any more than I can be tempted by that which never lived.
Eventually these assaults on my senses ended. Or, rather, eventually I stopped noticing them. Or, in truth, eventually, though I still noticed, the callouses on my spirit prevented wounds. I am impervious to nature’s perfection.
Sometimes I catch a spider regarding me silently. I move closer. Once a sunbeam split through dew on a web and danced all colors along my eaves. But I turned my eyes to the spider alone. To the spider’s eyes. I always look carefully in a spider’s eyes. And sometimes I think I see a spark of fury in those eyes. I allow no impish cobwebs in my home. I sweep with a broom made from the witch-hazel bush. Fitting name, I think.
Imps usually come to witches to help them perform their evil magic. Since I perform no magic, their presence cannot be mistaken for a cordiality. And since I am immune to temptation, they are not here to lure me. Theyhave but one purpose: They are spies. The furious spiders that appear on my walls, on my pillow, in my cupboards less and less frequently in these last few years, they are all spies. I rub the shelves with vinegar each day, out-lawing the dust that can hide spiders. My home smells of fermentation, but it is a clean acidity. It is the best that I can do. The energy I once focused on healing and loving the divine being now works to keep the devils at bay.
At times, though, I am alone. Totally alone. I believe I am alone now.
I am setting the beet juice outside to cool when the doe runs past, fear making her hooves fleet. I do not ask her why she runs. I could, but I resist. Years ago, when I sat quietly on the south side of a hill admiring a fox family lolling about outside their den in
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