The Honey Witch

Chapter XXVII

Look to see them rare, in the haunts of dryads, salamanders

and shades; sad beasts of the forest and sighing mermaids.

In shifting shadow, be the Evangeline ways.

~Robert Edevane, Cleric, England 1432~





Prague, Czech Republic

September 1998

In the middle of a vast room stands a grand piano. Although I have reclaimed the Chopin Nocturnes and Etudes from the final hours of childhood, I find they remain a melancholy sound, and I turn to Liszt and Saint-Saëns, despite the pretty Yiva’s pleas for the former pieces.

The tall windows of the apartment are typical of rooms in the buildings of Prague, and open to overlook narrow, cobblestone streets where potted geraniums grow opulent along sunlit balconies. On evenings, when I am alone, I imagine Ana might hear the soothing compositions of Chopin concertos and the others. For a moment, I envision her absorbing the notes on a pristine forest morning, draped in an embroidered Spanish shawl, sent via Aaron Westmore; the only gift she has accepted, from the funds and parcels I have offered repeatedly, and which have been repeatedly returned.

I imagine, as well, the daughter conceived between us on that midsummer’s night: a daughter now born and carried in her mother’s arms. In my sleeping hours, I see she is pleased over the birth of such a vibrant child.

I drink the scotch and water contemplatively, only vaguely aware of ice clanging in the glass. The gloaming stretch of early evening light, over the magnificent spires and gabled rooftops of the ancient city, is a study in contrasts. I feel the tender rhythm of Yiva’s tender breathing as she rests her chin on my shoulder from behind.

She is a beautiful woman, Yiva, tall and doe-eyed, with deep brunette curls that touch just below the curvature of her gently rounded breasts. She delights in wearing my cotton shirts that oversize her frame, but complains I call out in the deep hours of the night, only to awaken with a dark and cloistered despondency.

But she forgives me this transgression, this lovely Yiva, met so serendipitously at a sidewalk café on a fading October’s evening. More attentive than conversational, more companionable than committed and more alluring than loved, her very presence has served as a balm to my unspoken distractions; if not, with equal attendance, my reason. I have watched her slender pirouettes in arabesque and graceful port de bras, within the cylinders of sunlight flooding through the windows, and her concentration feels strangely comforting.

Yiva takes my hand from where she sits behind on the piano bench, and exposes the slight scarring on my wrist.

For a moment, I breathe in, once again, the scent of fern and rose.

For a moment, I am filled with dread and longing.

I watch Yiva’s thumbnail cut a line across the scar, oozing the warmth of fluid from my vein.

I hear the rushing rise of pressure inside my ears, even as I passively observe the droplets of life’s vital fluid splat against the polished cherry wood of the bench.

“Yiva…” I gasp, any reaction to retract my hand rendered incapable by stalled memory.

“Our darling Ethan” Yiva sighs, her voice succinct, yet so very soft, like a feather lightly falling.

I feel the fragrant brush of her breath against my ear.

“We can smell your blood mingling with one of our own a thousand miles off,” Yiva whispers, sweeping her finger across the wound, tasting the blood against her tongue. “One of the seven sisters has loved and you have loved in return. It is why you yet live.”

I watch the webbing slide from beneath her fingernails, closing the wound with an sticky weave. She unties the white silk scarf from her hair and winds it tenderly around my wrist.

“We will look after you,” she promises and rests her head on my shoulder. “I, and my sisters, will be the ones to embrace you; to keep you ever and always from harm, wheresoever you may be.”

I allow an ice cube, coated with scotch, to slowly dissolve on my tongue and soothe the constriction in my throat. It is a macabre ritual we play, Yiva and I. A reminder, perhaps, that I might consider myself more fortunate than the dusty old Fitch, with the unceasingly faithful Dulcy forever at his side.

Perhaps I am but equally cursed, in my appointed guardian.

One day, she will want a child of her own. On that day, I suspect she will cut deeper and leave me bleeding on the floor; or, another will come and the ritual will begin again. Meanwhile, she is known discreetly as Svatý sestra: the holy sister, who tends the forgotten, in less visible corners of the city.

The sun sets lower and carries with it my silences.

There is a boundless perspective to this earth. There is perspective of man, of woman, of child. There is perspective of flora and of fauna, of wind and of water. There is even perspective of our gods, who, in sleep, like death, reveal our desire and in our waking play with our illusion. These things continue to whisper in my dreams and determine each moment in the threaded hours of living. They were revealed in the hills of East Tennessee, when in search of an old man's holy sprite, I came to cherish one woman.

She was not just my Ana.

She was my gardenia.