The Wiccan on the Green (Lesson 20)

Young Jimmy stood at the front garden gate to the cottage at the end of the row beside the village green. His friends taunted him from across the street. “Go on, Jimbo! You done it! You’re a scaredy-cat,” various voices shouted, delighted at his trepidation.

            “He won’t do it. He’ll run home crying to his mum,” hollered another. Jimmy looked back at his so-called friends, his face red and puffy, his tears just below the surface. “Look at him; he’s gonna boo-hoo.” Chants of “Jimbo’s a cry-baby! Jimbo’s a cry-baby,” from merciless voices rang in Jimmy’s ears, the banter, and mockery accompanied by exuberant laughter and whooping.

Jimmy pushed open the gate and stepped inside, bringing a sarcastic cheer from his watching friends, enthusiastically anticipating and hoping for his next miss-step. He thought maybe he could throw a rock at the front door from here, ‘it’s only six or seven yards away; I couldn’t miss it.’ He thought better of the plan – throwing rocks at people’s houses for whatever reason had never gotten him anything but trouble in the past. ‘I best leave the gate open, in case I need to get outa here a running,’ he assured himself. He still couldn’t believe how his amazing good luck had turned into incredibly bad luck in such a short time. ‘It just ain’t fair,’ he told himself, ‘it just ain’t fair.’

Jimmy had spent the afternoon with his friends, the ones who now harassed him from afar. They had been playing a game of pick-up cricket at one end of the village green – no teams, no one keeping score, just a group of nine and ten-year-olds playing in the summer sun. Late in the afternoon, the sun dissolving slowly into twilight suggested it was about time to go home for tea. For the last ball of the game, Jimmy was at bat. The ball pitched slightly on his leg side. Making one of the best strokes he had ever made, Jimmy connected bat with ball square on, driving it over the upturned faces of awe-inspired, gaping-mouthed young fielders for what should have been six runs. The ball flew beyond the green, over the road, over the high wall, and into the back garden of the end cottage beside the village green.

The mood of his team-mates switched from amazement to mirth in the space of a few seconds. “He hit it in the witch’s garden!” they yelled, gloating. “You know the rules, Jimbo – you hit it there, you go get it!” shouted one.

            “And be sure to get our ball before she turns you into a frog!” shouted another.

            “Better not go in her house. She won’t let you out,” screamed a third voice, laughing.

            “Don’t look her in the eye – she might just turn you to stone,” taunted yet another.

Popular tittle-tattle among village pre-teen boys had the sweet grey-haired old lady living in the end cottage, with her pointy nose and wicked sense of humor, pegged as a witch. On reaching early teens, their obsession usually turned from fear of witches to pop music and girls. The sweet old lady, aware of her reputation, took delight in playing the part, often scaring the fire out of many a cocky young’un. Desperate mothers sometimes told their miscreant young offspring that they would ‘go fetch the witch’ if they didn’t behave, although none could recall an actual follow-through on the threat.

Jimmy reached the door. ‘I don’t know about all that witches stuff, I don’t know if what they say is true, but I don’t wanna find out.’ The sound of the heavy doorknocker echoed through the cottage. Jimmy started to tremble uncontrolably. He instinctively took two steps back and stood poised ready to run – when the door opened.