The Witch of Little River

“The way gossip travels between one end of this island and the other, “ my grandmother was saying in a voice like ice, “It's a wonder there's any road left! Now, if you please, one of you will tell me how this....this sheer..... rubbish about Edwina Frost got started! And you'll oblige me by bein' quick about it or I'll know the reason why!”

Ruthie and I stared fixedly at the floor, hoping against hope that it might swallow us whole.

“If either of you expect to leave this room,” Nana said in her most severe tone, “I advise you to dry your tears and speak up before I lose my patience! Come now, I know you didn't make it up your own selves!”

Ruthie tightened her grip on my hand, telling me what I already knew, that there was no way out. We were going to have to own up.

“Betty Jean told us,” she mumbled dismally.

“She heard it from Gloria.” I added.

My grandmother sighed hugely.

“And who did Gloria hear it from?” Nana demanded, her voice frigid with disdain.

“She said Juanita told her...her cousin's boyfriend....” my voice trailed off and Ruthie had to take over for me.

“He saw it with his own eyes!” she finished with just the tiniest, most infinitesimal speck of defiance. My heart sank even lower.

“Saw what exactly?” By then Nana was actually growling and we were wishing we'd never been born. She reached out and grasped roughly at my chin, forcing me to make eye contact.

“She was making brooms!” I wailed.

“To fly on and steal children!” Ruthie said desperately and burst into tears, “She stole the Albrights!”

Nana let go of me and sank back into her chair. Her shoulders sagged and she covered her eyes with one liver spotted hand. There was no sound except for Ruthie and I sobbing helplessly and the ship's clock in the background. My grandmother, pale faced and visibly shaken, lit a cigarette and closed her eyes, wearily waiting for us to cry ourselves out. The ship's clock chimed the quarter hour before she spoke again and her voice was even but hard.

“It might interest you to know,” she said tightly, “that little Connie Albright got the measles and it went through the whole family like grease through a goose. The doctor quarantined all twleve of them because it's contaigious. Moreover, Edwina Frost is a weaver.  She weaves blankets and shawls and baskets for the tourists and when she hasn't much work, she weaves brooms. To sweep with. There's one in my very own pantry and probably in every house on this island. All of which you could have found out quite easily if you'd bothered to ask.”

Ruthie and I cringed at the contempt in her tone but it was about to get much worse.

“I'm ashamed of you both,” she said bitterly, “Very ashamed that you would be so cruel to someone you don't know, more ashamed that you would spread gossip and most ashamed that I had to drag it out of you.” This brought on matching floods of tears but gained us no mercy.

“I will decide on a punishment later,” she said cooly, “for now, you can go to your room and think about what you've done.”

“We're sorry!” we blubbered, not quite in unison, but it was useless. She would not be moved.

The knock on the door came two days later when we'd not been out of the bedroom except for meals.

“Girls!” Nana called, “There's someone here to see you.”

We came down the stairs uncertainly. And there she was, the woman we had called The Witch of Little River, the falsely accused child stealer and broom rider. She was tall and thin with a long braid of silver hair twining over one shoulder. She was wearing sandals, a plain brown dress that reached her ankles and a necklace of sea glass.

“Girls,” my grandmother said calmly, “Miss Edwina Frost has come to call. You'll do well to close your mouths and remember your manners.”

“Come in, children,” the lady in the brown dress said kindly, “I don't bite.” And this I do remember clearly. She smiled. Our trepidation eased slightly but we were still feeling those anxious butterflies.

“It's all arranged,” Nana said evenly, “Miss Edwina has agreed to have you visit for a week and learn weaving and broom making. I expect you to be proper house guests, be tidy and quiet and help out as needed. If you pay attention, you might learn something.”

When, ever so slowly, it began to dawn on us that this was the punishment, relief washed over us like the incoming tide. For whatever reason, Nana had chosen this totally unexpected way to teach us a lesson. We looked at Miss Edwina - however could we have possibly thought her to be a witch? - and saw only a middle aged woman with kind eyes and a healthy tan. No warts, no elongated chin, no blackened talons at the tips of her fingers. The Witch of Little River captured us with an entirely unexpected spell of forgiveness.

Our week with her stretched to two. We learned a little about weaving and spinning and broom making and a lot about growing up and the value of not being part of the crowd. She taught us how to draw water at the well, how to hoe a garden, build a fire and pill a cat. At night we sat on her front porch and she taught us songs about sailors and shipwrecks and lost loves. She knew Bible stories and fairy tales equally well and told each with delight, making both a little magical. Toward the end of our second week, she surprised us with an illustrated copy of The Wizard of Oz.

“They only had the one copy,” she told us, “So you'll have to share.”

She'd underlined the passage where Glinda, The Good Witch of the North, tells Dorothy that she herself is a witch and that only bad witches are ugly. When she showed us, we laughed 'til we cried and hugged her neck fiercely. On our last night, she gave us each a hand woven basket of polished sea glass and a promise that she would teach us to make necklaces the next summer.

I still have my sea glass but Miss Edwina took sick that winter with pneumonia. She wouldn't leave Little River, Ruthie wrote me, and she died in the spring. She was ten years younger than I am now.

Every now and again, I think about having a necklace made from my sea glass but I never get around to it. I think I like it too much just the way it is.