fear having disappeared, replaced by an unshaken resolve to claim my future, my birthright, I said, “Ladies, I am – Herder…”
The first and second witches gasped.
The third one smiled.
Although I was puzzled, I continued, “I claim my future, the future of all who wish for immortally… I claim the earth, itself…for Wicca.”
All three witches laughed, cackled and applauded in wild excitement.
At this point mum came into the room. “What is all this noise about?” she asked. Then she saw the three witches with me at the centre.
“What are you doing with him?” she asked.
“Nothing, dearie,” said the first witch.
“See for yourself,” said the second one.
The third witch waved mum in, allowing her safe entry.
“Are you all right?” mum asked, touching me.
I remained silent.
“Jeremiah, are you all right?” mum asked me again, her concern for my wellbeing increasing.
“Herder, my name is Herder,” I told her coldly.
“But, you’re my son, Jeremiah,” she insisted.
“Jeremiah is dead, and so too will be anyone who calls me by that name.”
“Jeremiah,” mum repeated.
I lifted my right hand, and I said, “You die.” With that, a bolt of ice-cold lightning streaked towards my mum, killing her.
The witches cheered.
I woke up in a pool of sweat, with mum’s radiant smile shining down on me.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said softly.
“I was?”
“Yes, it was a wild night – it must have upset you,” she continued. Pulling the curtains open, she said, “It’s a lovely day, with plenty of leaves to kick about and loads of conkers to collect.”
It was a lovely day; it was the best day of my entire life because my mum, my very own mum – was alive. God bless her.
Things That Go Bump In The Night
During our childhood, we all had something we were scared of, when the lights went out. Mine was the box of toys stored underneath my bed.
During the day I loved that box, the box that contained all of my favourite toys, the ones that I loved playing with on Saturday mornings, when I had a lie in, when mum gave me breakfast in bed. I can still remember it so clearly, rushing through breakfast as fast as was humanly possible, so mum could take away the tray and replace it with my box of toys from under my bed. Once it was there, safely ensconced on top of the blankets in front of me, I would make my way through it, playing with every one of my toys, oblivious to the world outside. I was so happy.
During the day, I saw my toy box as no threat; it was my best friend. Unfortunately, after dark, when mum had turned off the light in my bedroom, that very same toy box turned into something so scary it had me shaking with fright.
I know now that I was just being silly, that a simple toy box could never in a million years have posed a threat to me. However, when I was young, in the dead of the night, I was so scared of it.
It happened without fail every single night. I would be lying in bed, relaxing, beginning to drift off into blissful slumber, when a thumping, bumping sound would awaken me, with a start. The first few times it happened, I had absolutely no idea what it might be or where it was coming from, but over the course of time I realised the thumping, bumping noise was coming from my toy box. Do not ask me why – that is just how it was.
Despite hearing this sound on so many occasions, the only thing I felt brave enough to do upon hearing it was to shut my eyes tightly and try to ignore it, hoping I might fall asleep, and thus it be gone. I was only seven years of age at the time – what else do you think I could do?
BUMP – I heard a sound; I froze still in such fright.
BUMP – I closed my eyes; I closed them so tight.
BUMP – I prayed to my god, to save me this night.
BUMP – I heard it again; it was away from the light
BUMP – Should I reach to it and fight for my life?
No! It is too dangerous, too risky, this is my plight
BUMP. It went on and on and into the night…
A note: To this day, I have no idea what it actually was. I never had the courage to look into my toy box whenever I heard these noises. All that I know is that I heard them, and they almost scared me to death.
This situation continued in an uneasy stalemate. I played happily with my toy box by day, yet feared it by night. One day, however, something happened that brought this to a head. It haunts me to this very day...
It was a Saturday morning. As per usual, I rushed through my breakfast, eager for mum to remove the tray and place my beloved toy box onto my bed. I was so eager to begin playing with my toys. It was winter, and cold outside, with a smattering of snow upon the ground. Mum lit the oil stove and placed it carefully at the end of my bed.
“Now don’t you be going near it, Gerrard,” she warned me. “Leave it alone and it will be just fine.” Mum had a fear of fires. Sitting in my bed, playing with my toys, I was soon as warm and snug as can be.
I listened to mum’s footsteps as she made her way down the stairs, through the hallway and into the kitchen, where she banged the door closed and turned on the radio. I could hear Jimmy Young chatting away happily. Is he still alive?
“Which one of you shall I play with, first?” I said, looking into my toy box with an enthusiasm that is only possible with the innocence of youth. Everything was new to me, then. I loved waking up to each new day, knowing that I would see so many things that I had never before witnessed, things that I knew would amaze me no matter how ordinary they actually were. Custard, I can still remember the first bowl of custard I tasted. It was wonderful; so thick and creamy, tasting of vanilla. We even had packets of flavoured custard, in those days. They came in sachets, six flavours to the packet – orange was my favourite. I wonder why they are no longer available?
Back to the story…
As I removed my toys from the box, giving each a quick inspection before placing it on top of the growing heap of toys to my right, I found my eyes drawn to the oil stove standing silently at the end of my bed. I have no idea why this was so, for I had seen it so many times before. However, for some reason my eyes kept on returning to it.
Cups and saucers; I could hear mum, downstairs, washing the crockery in the sink. Jimmy Young was still chatting away to her.
Smoke; I thought I saw wisps of smoke rising from the top of the oil stove.
“Nah, that can’t be happening,” I said, though studying it intently.
A few more wisps of smoke wandered out lazily from the grating at top of the heater.
“It’s Essso Blue,” I whispered, “It’s supposed to be a smokeless, with no smuts.”
There were no smuts, but there was smoke. Smoke was definitely coming out from the top of the heater.
Returning my toys to their box, I pushed it over to one side and got out of bed. It was much colder than I had thought. Donning my dressing gown, I pulled the cord tightly while sliding my feet into my slippers. They were cold. I glanced through the window; it was snowing again. Leaving the snow, for later, I tentatively made my way across to the end of my bed, and the troublesome oil heater.
The room was so quite, like a morgue. I listed for mum downstairs doing the dishes, but I heard nothing. Jimmy Young was silent.
The heater, the black painted oil heater stood there in front of me, in silence, as if it was sulking.
More smoke; I saw more wisps of black smoke emanating from the top off the heater, but they were bigger this time.
I called out, “Mum, the heater is smoking!”
No reply.
“Mum!” I called out again, “I said the heater is smoking!”
Again, I received no reply.
“Mum!” I shouted. “The oil heater is beginning to smoke.”
Yet again, I heard nothing.
“Where is she?” I
moaned, afraid to take my eyes away from the troublesome heater, but desperately wanting to summon her, for help.
Some more smoke, a few puffs, floated silently away from the top of the heater.
Feeling braver, I approached it. Crouching, I inspected it closer. Looking through the glass inspection window, I studied the flame at its source – the wick. The flame was a yellowy orange colour.
“That’s not right,” I gasped. “It’s supposed to be blue – I am sure of it!”
My eyes drifted to the rickety knob protruding from the front of the heater. “Mum uses this to turn the wick up and down,” I said quietly, half-afraid, yet wanting to touch it. “If she can adjust it, so, I can do it also.” Placing a finger and thumb on the knob, I tried to move it. It moved easily. I turned in clockwise one full turn. Red and orange flames shot high up the inside of the old heater, sending black smoke billowing through the grading at its top.
With shaking fingers, I struggled to turn the knob the other way, to diminish the flames and the black smoke that was making me cough and my eyes water.
The flame returned to its yellowy orange colour. I watched, relieved, as only a few wisps of smoke drifted through the top of the heater.
“At least it’s not billowing out,” I whispered, coughing and wiping my stinging eyes.
I opened the window and pulled back the curtains, offering the smoke free exit. Although the smoke was soon gone, the oily smell stubbornly remained in my room, leaving me wondering how I might deal with the bothersome heater, without mum finding out that I had dared touch it.
“Are you all right, up there?” mum called up from the bottom of the stairs.
“Where has she come from?” I hissed.