The Witch Luna

Most fairy tales known to man feature witches. 

They always paint my kind in a darker shade, the villain of the story, the root of all misfortunes, the cause of earth’s damnation.

They forgot one thing: black is not the only color in existence. 

There’s good and bad in every species. It’s what keeps the wheel of life hanging in the balance.  

My tale started when I came of age. 

Like typical fairy tale stories, when the heroines came of age, I was supposed to use my feminine charm to seduce strong men to earn their protection so that I could live happily ever after. Except that my life is anything but a fairy tale. If there’s any consolation, at least I’m the hero in my story and not the evil witch depicted in most books.

*****

My full power was unlocked on my sixteenth birthday, or so I was told. 

Mom took me to the makeshift library in the coven, where she spent her nights when she was not traveling. She guided me to one of the single-seater couches and sat on the opposite side facing me. In her hand was a thick brown book with a laminated cover. The front cover was adorned by a few sprigs of lavender stuck on what looked like a miniature version of a tropical fruit covered by rough, leathery peel and sharp leaves. A crisscrossed purple ribbon bound it together. 

She looked at me affectionately and said, “This is my birthday present for you, my princess. It’s a grimoire, your grimoire,” emphasizing the word “your.” She handed me the book, and I removed the ribbon to see what it looked like inside. It was empty, and the pages were made of thick, handcrafted materials. 

I thanked her, and I could see pride and something else in her eyes, like fear or worry. I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts; I must have been overthinking. 

“From today, you can cast your own spells, create potions, or recreate older ones, only stronger. You can perform rituals, and document everything magical. Use this grimoire, your very own,” Mom said lovingly, just like a prayer. “Promise me you will be careful, Agatha. You can use my grimoire too,” she waved her hand, and a thick, faded, and slightly tattered book with a few scratches and yellowish pages appeared, suspended in the air. She took it and handed it to me. 

“No, mom. I can’t take it. You need them more than I do.” I tried to push her grimoire back to her, but she refused. I don’t like the idea of her handing me her valuable possessions. It’s like…..  

“Listen to me, Agatha." She suddenly became serious, breaking my train of thought. “You have to take this grimoire, but you must keep it hidden. Protect it with your life. Do you understand?” she instructed me in a voice slightly above a whisper. Her hands trembled as she placed them on top of mine. She looked tense and rushed. Something was not right. 

“Read it in secret and master all the spells for your protection,” she said. “Witches and warlocks will hunt you from today. Your age is ripe.” Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she muttered those words I didn’t even understand. She caressed my cheek and kissed my forehead, and her warm lips stayed there for a few seconds.

Before I could ask about my age being ripe, she continued. 

“You are a white witch, Agatha. The most powerful one there is. You are the descendant of the most powerful she-demon ever lived. Many supernatural creatures will try to harvest your power or force you to produce an heir for them.” 

I was dumbfounded. All these years, Mom has been talking about the prophecy, how the white witch will unite all the supernatural species, and how an eight-hundred-year-old warlock who locked himself with a seer inside a pentagram pendant only to awaken when the white witch came of age… It’s all about me. She has been preparing me all along.

“You are my princess, Agatha, If I ….”

The loud wailing and crackling sounds from behind closed doors stopped her from finishing her stories. She closed her eyes for two seconds before releasing a deep, labored breath. When she opened them, she waved her hand, and the grimoire vanished instantly. “Be careful, my love, don’t trust easily,” she added before waving her hand one more time. I felt like the world around me just tilted and found myself hugging the two grimoires as I floated in the air. I seemed to be inside the bubble.

SLAM!

The door banged open, and a tall, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. He had deep, dangerous-looking black orbs, a pointed nose, and thick-colored lips. He looked grim… and …. ancient. He was wearing all-black clothes from head to toe, from shirt and coat to trousers, with old-fashioned black leather shoes. He was playfully holding a sharp-looking dagger on his left hand and a pentagram pendant on his right. A black hooded cloak with an ash-gray inner lining covered his body. He lifted the dagger, pressed its tip to the edge of his hood, and slid it backward, exposing his long, frizzy black hair and mildly luminous face with a few wrinkly lines on the forehead. 

He scanned the room with wary eyes, looking displeased. He tossed the pentagram into the air and opened the inner pocket of his cloak to catch it. His eyes found their way back to my mother.

I could see the terror in my mom’s face when her gaze met the strange man. 

The man stepped inside the room and waved his index finger in the air. One of the elders of Mystic Sisters Coven was thrown on the floor, and Mom immediately got up from the couch to put a protective embrace around her. The elder has patches of purpled bruises on her arms, and her face has two slanting wounds, cutting from the left forehead to the right chin. Fresh blood is still oozing from it. Her nose was disfigured, and the cut just missed the left eye by a few millimeters. She looks as equally terrified as my mom. Three more coven witches stepped inside the room quietly, their eyes trained on the floor. 

“Where is she, witch?” the man asked no one in particular, but the gazes of the three other coven witches fell on my mom. 

I now understand what my mom did. She hid me in this bubble. The stranger must be one of the supernatural creatures she was talking about a few minutes ago. The one who wants to extract my power.

“I will not ask again, witch. WHERE. IS. SHE?” his voice was like thunder, roaring inside a nearly empty room. 

All the rooms in the coven are furnished with just a bed, a side table, and a small wardrobe. It doesn’t even have curtains, only the bare essentials. Although this room holds important books, ancient literature, gems, and artifacts, they are hidden from the naked eye and protected by strong magic. 

“S… She’s gone.” Mom stuttered. The man stares at her listlessly before he releases a deep, frustrated breath. He turned around to the coven witches behind him, squinting, questioning…

Georgina, the redhead witch with hazel eyes, stepped forward and bowed her head, “My Lord, I promise I saw them enter this room five minutes ago,” she declared. 

“Hmm, what a waste!” The man waved his hand, and Georgina fell to the ground with a loud thud, lifeless. The remaining two witches trembled in fear, their eyes reddened from unshed tears. His gaze slowly traveled back to my mom. She and the other elder were slumped on the floor, looking at each other. Their eyes showed a silent understanding and mutual consent for whatever would come. I wished I knew what was going on, but that was just wishful thinking. 

“I suspect you will not tell me where your daughter is, won't you, witch?” Mom raised her head. Surprisingly, she was more composed than a minute ago. She squared her shoulders and looked straight into the man’s eyes with aversion. 

“Baltazar, You. Will. NEVER. Find. My. Daughter. She will master every ounce of power and magic she inherited from Lilith and use it for the greater good of all supernatural species. You. Will. Not. Succeed.” I don’t know if Mom was talking to me or to this man named Baltazar, but it made him furious. Very, very furious.

Baltazar’s eyes turned red. I swear I saw fire in it for a split second. He waved his hand, and my mom and the other coven elder turned to dust instantly. I was shocked! My heart tells me to bawl in agony and fight back, but my logic says it will put my mom’s sacrifice in vain. I covered my mouth to muffle the sobs I was holding. My tears fell like a dam. I was a weeping mess.

I will never forget this day. My mom was murdered in front of me on my sixteenth birthday. 

And all I could do was watch and cry.