The Christmas Witch ...It shouldn’t take a witch to roll the stone from our hearts

“I think the old coot’s lost it this time,” said Ella Baker, handing me my coffee.

Jed Rudie, a local farmer grimaced. “Aw, Phillip’s all hawk and no spit—he ain’t gonna do nuthin’”

Ella shook her head. “I was at the businessman’s meeting, Jed—he’s serious. He and the Smith Brothers have dreamt up this scheme of promoting Pine Valley as Christmas Town.”

Ella called William and Andrew Kincade the Smith Brothers because they looked like the picture of the brothers on the cough drop box—they kinda acted like them too—like they were stuck back at the turn of the century.

“They can talk alls they wanna, but Tom here’s gonna be the one to do sumpin’ and my money says he ain’t gonna—aint that right, Tom?”

Jed squinted at me as if he were going to spit tobacco juice.

“Now c’mon you two—don’t go getting all worked up—there’s laws in this country and we just can’t go rounding up people and putting them in jail for being poor.”

Ella eyed me dubiously. “I sure hope you’re right Tom. The town has fallen on hard times and jobs have dried up—Morse’s idea of re-inventing Pine Valley appeals to a lot of folks who are out of work. Since the mill closed down, tourism seems the only option.”

“Well, I’ve got no intention of rousting any homeless folk, so I’d say, just do your part and talk against him at the meetings.”

“I will, Tom, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

At that moment Tasha Morse, Phillip’s niece entered the diner.

“Hey Tasha,” Ella shouted, “how about persuading your uncle to show some Christmas cheer?”

“I saw the paper, Ella—Uncle Phillip’s just blowing off steam.”

“I hope you’re right, because Tom here’s on a collision course with Phillip and you’re gonna have to decide which horse to back.”

Tasha sat down beside me at the bar. We’d been dating for about a year and it was no secret that things were heading in a certain direction.

“Are you okay?” She looked concerned.

“I’m fine—I think this’ll all blow over.”

Her brow was furrowed. “I sure hope so.”

Ella dropped a coin in the jukebox and punched in her selection. Tammy Wynette crooned in her country twang, sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.

Tasha groaned. “Aw c’mon, Ella—that’s not fair!”

Ella just smiled and joined in on the chorus, stand by your man.

Tasha looked at me helplessly and I shrugged.

It just might come down to Phillip and I duking it out—I sure hope Tasha will stand by her man, I mused.

Phillip managed to carry the vote in a crucial debate that evening. The Businessmen’s Association convinced the mayor and town council it was in Pine Valley’s best interest to arrest homeless people as vagrants and end subsidies to the Mission and the Food Bank.

Needy families were to be encouraged to relocate to New Haven, arguing they had the proper facilities to look after their needs.

I knew I’d be the next item on their list—that’s why I decided to pay a visit to Hazel Samples.

Hazel lives on the edge of town and people call her a witch—I prefer to see her as a herbalist and naturopath, but she has abilities that go beyond that.

I tried for years to keep teenagers from using the local cemetery as a booze can—finally, I went to Hazel and asked her to cast a spell. Never had a problem again—mind you, people can no longer stroll by that place, especially after dark.

“Can you hex Phillip?”

She shook her head. “The time is short—this calls for more powerful magic. Leave it to me and Rumpus.” She stroked her black Siamese.

“You won’t hurt him, will you, Hazel?”

“I won’t touch his body, but I’ll fly in the window and disturb his dreams.”

She shook her dark curly locks and gave a snaggle-toothed smile that chilled me to the bone.

“It’ll be done in a night, before the dawn’s light.”

That night at ten, Phillip Morse, as was his wont, wound his old alarm clock, locked his windows and doors and headed to bed. It was a still moonlit night and he stared at the stars through his parted drape until eventually sleep overtook him and he dozed peacefully in his bed.

A shadow passed silently across the Moon and a dark form entered his bedchamber. Something awoke him from his slumbers and he sat up in bed, fearing an intruder. It was then he became aware of the shadowy figure at the foot of his bed.

“Who are you?” he cried.

“If you shout,” she said, “I’ll sew up your mouth.”

He couldn’t make out a face but knew his intruder was no mere burglar.

“What do you want?”

“I want to show you your town.”

“I know this town—every square inch.”

“But do you see it from the proper angle?”

A force lifted him from the bed and floated him to the window. He opened his mouth to scream, but couldn’t pry apart his lips. The window opened and he was flying high above the fields, soaring swiftly like a bird, and in seconds was suspended above a back alley where a homeless man sat bent over, shielding a wax candle, trying to stay warm.

Next, he was flown like a kite to a run-down part of the town and pressed hard against a window—so hard, he could hardly breathe. He could see a mother piling blankets on her sleeping child’s bed and then lying shivering on her own with only a thin sheet to shield her from the cold.

He was in the air again and flown this time to the cemetery and the old stone mausoleum. The carved wooden doors were ajar and he found himself being forced into the dark recess. He put out his arms to prevent being pushed inside. He struggled with all his strength knowing if he went in, he’d die.

He awoke kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, his arms outstretched on each side of the fireplace box, begging for mercy.

I never knew the details until much later. One night, sitting by my fireplace sipping hot cider, he confessed and told me the tale. I felt sorry for him.

His plans for dealing with the needy and homeless had all been scrapped. In fact, he turned right around and went in the opposite direction. He argued that the Ho Ho spirit he was advocating was not the true Christmas spirit after all—if Pine Valley was to be known as Christmas Town, it would be because of its spirit of charity toward all men.

It’s sad in a way that people won’t help unless they see a need. Phillip wasn’t a bad man—he was just focused on the wrong thing. We don’t need more Missions or food banks—we just need a change of heart.

It shouldn’t take a witch to roll the stone from our hearts so we can feel, or take away the beam from our eyes so we can see.

Image credits: Donkeyshines, Pinterest, Reuters, Google images