Wiccan Minions

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Four

(This one features a rare performance by your author in an acting role-LA)

Name Game

(Vital Information)

Before we begin, it is important to know that Satan never cheats at games. In fact she may be the only thinking being in the universe who is honest to a fault when it comes to games of chance. But her truthful nature does not mean that she is a good loser. Oh, she’ll shake your hand and heartily extol your virtues as a gamer; but she’ll never forget the sting of losing. In that regard it might be better if she did cheat, or at least flipped the board to conclude a Monopoly match with a mistrial. But, as we will soon see, that is not her way….

Now On With the Show

The Witch needed a name for her newest season on Earth. The need had nothing to do with business. Her vast wealth and properties were under the enchanted aliases of her human familiars–a trustworthy lot because they knew that something much worse than death (a something most likely to be as creative as protracted) awaited any servant caught dipping in the Witch’s till. Such certainty reinforces loyalty. No, the want of a name stemmed from the idiotic peasant need for labeling things.

For the record, the Witch was born in Gomorrah and was called Myrrh, as in the third best birthday gift for boys named Jesus. But upon becoming a Witch, among the many things she left behind was her name (which she never much cared for anyway). And she wouldn’t have bothered with one at all if it weren’t for the pettifogging peasants incessant need for labels.

Ever since ascending to Witchood, she alternated one-hundred thirty year seasons between Hell and Earth. In the old days, the nameless Witch would wreak havoc on the peasantry until it was time to return to Hell for another hundred-thirty-year sabbatical. There wasn’t anything the peasants could do about her after she had cast spells of obedience on the local authorities–usually the royal and monied clans in any region. Yes, there was a time when a woman who looked thirty could stay that way for generations, and the peasants who populated those rapidly changing generations knew how to look the other way, and taught their issue that it would be wise to do the same.

But even peasants get wiser, thus more dangerous. And prior to her previous term on Earth, which began in the second half of the 18th Century (and was her first season spent in the “New World”), the Witch took special note of the ugly doings at Salem, from her vantage point in Hell. Fortunately, not a single victim of that persecution had actually been a witch–but it stood to reason that maybe the peasantry had evolved to the point of feeling emboldened enough to interfere with the projects of an unmarried young woman of means who did not age a day over the course of many decades in a community that featured an inordinate amount of missing persons and a copious population of viscous Black Cats, Condor-sized Owls and somewhat arrogant Rats. This potential complication caused the Witch to devise a scheme in which she was a rich widow who aged (via a simple general eye of the beholder spell) for the first sixty years then “died” and gave over to a young “heiress” namesake who bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Witch–not that any peasant with enough sense to still be taken seriously would be around to notice, not with an average lifespan of around forty-five, not with the inexplicable way that villagers who looked in the Witch’s direction a bit long suffered unfortunate accidents. She also toned down the size of her Owls but did nothing about the attitudes of the Black Cats and Rats.

Her previous earthly season ended in 1891–according to the tiresome peasant way of numbering even the years. Hell keeps up on current events much better than its opposite number. Whilst “below,” the Witch rued missing out on the tumultuous 20th Century, but looked forward to entering the Twenty-first and practicing her special brand of mayhem well into the Twenty-second. She got restless–for all Hell’s splendors, one can only beat Satan at cribbage so many times and still get a buzz from it.

Although the peasants had multiplied, advanced wildly ahead technologically and were overall better educated–they were still peasants who continued to grossly overestimate the moral quality of their souls; thus the majority was just as tribal, labeling, superstitious, venal and spiritually bankrupt as ever–perhaps more so. Good times lay ahead.

So upon returning to Earth and relocating to a new home in the American Midwest in 2021 (for it it’s required of Witches to travel to new regions every Earth season), the Witch awaited a scroll to appear in the bough of an evilmost elm tree that she had enchanted, which served as her connection to Hell. Satan herself chose the names Witches went by.

In keeping with tradition, the scroll appeared in the enchanted evilmost elm at three A.M. on the day of the first new moon after her return to Earth. The Witch stationed a Rat Squad at the tree to await the scroll’s arrival. Of all her beloved animal familiars, Rats were the most efficient. And also in keeping with tradition, though she had hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of Rats within reach of her magic, they were all divided into squads of thirteen. Rat Squads had the keenest attention span of all her familiars (humans included). Though she never punished any of her animals, the Witch knew that when she sent an unsupervised Black Cat out on a quick mission, the deed would get done but she wasn’t likely to see the fiend again for a week or so. No one does A to B better than a Rat Squad.

When Rat Squads perform a ceremonial march, twelve form a circle around a single Rat who serves as the “Star” in a Rattish pentagram. They take turns being the Star because only the Witch is considered the leader. Such a formation entered the open front door of the Witch’s house at precisely one minute past three on the morning of the first new moon. The Star toted the scroll freshly sent from Hell, it lay perfectly balanced on her sleek back.

The Witch noticed that the wound scroll was thicker than usual. In all other ways it was the same–made from parchment peeled off the hide of a damned soul, slightly scorched at the edges, rolled and tied with a black ribbon, the Master’s wax seal in place. But it looked too large to contain a brief salutation and one name. Something about it caused the Witch to recall the cribbage tournament attended by Demons, Sorcerers and the Queen. She had defeated the Master fifteen times in a row and was crowned champion. Despite her gracious acceptance of defeat, the Witch knew that the fink would pull some kind of payback, by and by. Indeed, something about the scroll reeked of petty revenge. But tradition required she open it. She did so thinking that maybe it was time to let go of some traditions.

“My babies,” she said, smiling, kneeling to take the scroll. “You shall be the first to hear our new name.”

She unrolled the parchment. It said:

Darling!

I already miss you! Yet since your departure my cribbage results have greatly improved.

I’ve given the matter of your name a great deal of thought.

I humbly present three choices. You must select one, for there won’t be a fourth…

The Witch laughed.

“I have a choice between three, babies,” she said. “The first I shall reject is ‘Cher Hitler’; next out will be the charming ‘Vicki Bin Laden’–with all the i’s dotted with little hearts–See?” she showed the scroll to the Rats–”how quaint.“

The Rat Squad laughed at a degree in keeping with their Mistress’s mood, yet not to a point which dared to insult the Master.

“Hi ho!” The Witch said, reading more, “the Master has locked the last choice with a spell which commands me to give it to my loyal Rat Squad to read aloud,” she said, handing the scroll to the Star.

All thirteen Rats studied the scroll and after several exchanged, nervous glances, the Star spoke up in English. “It’s a song, your royal darkness…”

“A song?”

“Yes, milady, a reworking of a popular song from sixty years ago.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

The Rats began to perform the tune. Six maintained a beat by smacking their tails on the floor, and six others vocally backed up the Star who sang:

“Bambi!

Bambi mo-mam-bee

Bo-na-na fanna fo-fam-bee

Fee-fi mo mam-bee

Bambi!”

“Bambi?” The Witch said. “Bambi? Oh that unholy hussy. What a little baby! I knew she couldn’t handle losing–”

“There’s more,” the Star said, lifting the scroll toward the Witch. “It instantly appeared at the end of the song, but isn’t written in Rattish.”

“This ought to be rich,” she muttered. The Witch named Bambi read the addition, and for the first time ever her Rats saw a perplexed expression on her face. She read it several times and even flipped it over to see if there was more on the back.

“Babies?” she said, at last, “Did you pass anyone–or thing in the courtyard? Says here I’ll soon be hearing the beat of little wings.”

Although highly efficient, Rats are mission oriented. They only tend to the tasks the Witch sends them on and do not make mention of any oddities they might see. There could have been an elephant herd out in the courtyard, but if it wasn’t a part of or interfered with the mission, the Rats would ignore it. They would assume it was Witch business that did not concern them.

“Yes, Mistress Bambi,” the Star said, fully aware of the dark gleam that the name put in the Witch’s eyes, but also confident that the name was endorsed by the Master herself.

“O-un?” She spoke the Rattish word which meant “more than one”–for all their reliability and cleverness, Rats cannot count higher than one, but know when there isn’t just one.

Being a high tech matter, the Rats consulted one another and arrived at a consensus:“Yes, o-un.”

This is when I, the writer of this tale, and four new Fictional Characters (FC’s) of my creation appeared at the open door.

“Knock, knock,” I said. “We bring good news for Bambi!”

The Witch and I go way back. But that’s so many moved pegs on the cribbage board ago.

“You,” she said. “What’s the meaning of this?” She held the scroll aloft, the Rat Squad stood at attention. The witch glanced down at them, not without affection. “Why didn’t you guys say she was out there?”

“At ease, little friends,” I said. “Because I wasn’t until after they passed.”

“And who are they?” The Witch asked, motioning to the four FC’s who were hovering in the air, just behind me. “And why should I soon be hearing the beat of little wings?”

“These are the billigits,” I said, nodding to a row of four identical, winged, orange skinned, androgynous individuals of about two feet in length. Each one wore a blue polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants and hemp slippers that were always falling off. In fact, three of the eight slippers were already piled under them on the ground.

“Let me guess,” The Witch said, “these guys are looking for minion work.”

“Bingo, Bambi,” I replied. “Say hello to Mothball, Weasel, Pinto and Flounder.”

“What if I tell you I have enough minions?”

“What if I tell you that Bambi could be rearranged to read Hezopatha?”

“I’d say welcome to the team, Mothball, Weasel, Pinto and Flounder.”

“Done, Hezopatha,” I said.

And with that, I left Hezopatha, the Rat Squad and the newly employed billigits to their adventures and returned to a Hell of mostly my own creation.

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Three

(the billigits go through many changes– spellings, population, vocations; sometimes they are orange, others they are blue–call it mindless evolution–LA)

Meet the billigits

Word has it that the first billygit was the result of a passionate affair between a runaway Disney Princess and a Flying Monkey on leave from the Wizard of Oz. The Princess was tired of being a thirty-two-year old woman forced to play a “tween” and the Flying Monkey was bored due to the liquidation of his Witch. It was a “what happens in the Emerald City stays in the Emerald City” sort of fling. Or so I heard. I really can’t say much more due to copyright issues, but I won’t refute it, either. Whatever their origin, the now plentiful billygits (who did not stay in Oz, and insist on a lowercase b to start their name) are. Yet unlike most things that are, billygits multiply when some PDQ Pilsner is poured over their heads; this action instantly produces a twin billygit.

Your basic billygit is a winged, androgynous, ankle-high, bright orange individual who wears a blue polo shirt, khaki slacks and hemp slippers that invariably fall off during flight–and in no way should be confused with a Pixie or a Fairie. Although they are identical physically, each billygit has a sense of individuality, and they all believe they are the original billygit that all other billygits are based on. Like most illogical beliefs supported by historical records, it is the driving force behind the billygit culture.

You can tell when a flock of billygits has passed because the landscape below will be littered with their little hemp slippers. Sooner or later, a slipperless billygit will retrieve a pair from the ground because, being identical, they all wear the same size. The billygits are similar to a Greek chorus in my little fantasy realm. They wander from story to story and pass unasked for observations.

After proofing the previous two paragraphs, my Imaginary Friend, and second in command of our realm, Renfield, opined that what I wrote causes more confusion than clarity. To be transparent, she actually said:

“What the fuck is this? Didn’t you used to have the ‘billygates’? Little winged people that your paranoid behind was convinced were the Microsoft Secret Police, and they were watching you?”

“Copyright issues ended that, Rennie. Lawyer stuff.”

“Sure, whatever you say–but don’t try to con me into helping with the backstory–you gotta dig that hole in the desert yourself.”

Anyway, as the ruling Penname and CEO of this realm in make believe, I govern two-hundred-twenty-eight Fictional Characters (FC’s). As my creator gave me Free Will, I’ve done the same for them. And due to a contract I signed, without first reading, with the Union of Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters, before I can create a new FC, I have to offer the role to an already extant FC. This leads to stuff like Daisy the Pygmy Goatess (an original, elemental FC, developed before the contract) playing various human and animal and “whathaveyou” roles in my stories. Daisy has great range and can play anything from an ameba to the Diana Ross of Supreme Beings. If my little opuses were visual, there would be trouble. Fortunately, readers see what their own minds clap together from the provided information. It would be awfully tough to convince someone who watches a Siamese Cat, Pygmy Goat and Cartoon Pigeon walk into a bar and get them to believe that they are actually seeing a Witch, a Black Lab who identifies as a Wolf and a sulfurous Demonic Minion enter a bar. It strains credulity and raises penetrating questions that I’d rather not answer. So, blessed be the words.

Still, according to the Union, I need to make sure that all my established FC’s are cast in a role at least once per year. Thus the real reason behind the billygits. I guess I would rather have you believe they are the spawn of aging Disney princesses and Baum’s Flying Monkeys, but for those annoying seekers of truth, there you have it.

Unfortunately, some of my FC’s are one note performers who refuse to play anyone or -thing other than a generic pain in the ass, in keeping with their own personalities. Since billygits are essentially one note, generic pains in the ass, it is a match made in make believe. And since it was quickly approaching the close of our year, I still had four FC’s who’d been lounging around the dock pilings, taverns, gambling and opium dens that contain the hallmark activities of unchecked Free Will. I had the three biggest “stars” in my realm, Renfield, Daisy, and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon, round up the idlers and bring them to my office.

As it goes with all things that are Union business, I am required to pass the narrative of the meeting to an FC who is both a Shop Steward and capable of using a Chromebook. Though a hooved creature, it has been long known that Fictional Pygmy Goats are known as–as I’ve stated in previous works–”Preter-Nature’s Stenographer.” And although she does it daintily, Daisy has yet to meet an adverbly adverb that she doesn’t approvingly approve of, and is a master of coining new adverbs that are dismayingly dismaying, bizarrely bizarre and redundantly redundant. Daisy is the reason why I invented the Adverb Mass Indicator (A.M.I.); which used to be located on the wall behind her little desk in my office. The A.M.I. used to beep when Daisy got all prosily and purpley. The handy device cut down on the adverbs, but to make up for it, Daisy discovered the simile like a middle-school boy convinced that generously applied amounts of Axe will make him a big hit with the ladies*. She lays them on pretty heavy–and always in couplets; and she knows that I have yet to invent the S.M.I.–but plans for it are on my desk, waiting for there to be enough gin in me to go at them like a reality show Frankestein cobbling together yet another pop culture freak.

Anyway, here’s Miss Daisy Cloverleaf (aka, “The GOAT”):

(*Renfield has peeked over my shoulder and informed me that this is at least the fifth time I’ve compared a heavy application of a noxiously noxious sort of thing to a kid smothered in Axe. True, I’ve used it before. But speaking for all who have had to take the bus to work or school or anywhere, I promise to stop making the comparison as soon as spray “colognes” are kept in locked cabinets and require the same level of scrutiny for purchase as liquor, cigarettes and guns.)

Again, Miss Daisy.

There were eight of us in the office. Packed like sardines, already on each other’s nerves like a group of eight nervly nerves getting on-ers. Aside from Miss Leila, Miss Renfield, Pie-Eyed Peety, and I, Daisy, by day a humbly humble stenographer, but on evenings and weekends The GOAT–who with her trustily trusty sidekick PDQ Peety, rescue public domain FC’s from fates like Groundhog Day, with our wits, more like Batgoat than Supergoat—Drat! There goes the cursedly cursed A.M.I.

“Um, Daisy,” Leila said, from behind her desk. “I can see everything you write on this screen…please stay on topic–remember the budget.”

Drat. That confoundedly confounding three-thousand word limit. Drat drat and triple drat. Three thousand drats…drats like a pox; drats like locusts…

“Day-zee…”

Drat.

Anyway, also on hoof were sleekly sleek Gordon Cormorant; Lordly Lord Fishstyx the Motivational Coela-CAN; an incomprehensibly lazily lazy Trade Rat named Andy (who had missed two productions due to a month long peyote bender), and an obnoxiously obnoxious Literary Turkey named Krook.

I said a pox upon you A.M.I.!!!

“Day-zee…”

Drat.

“Good news, gang,” Leila said, chewing gum and smoking a cigarette at the same time. “I’ve got roles for the four of you to play. In fact, Miss Daisy over there is sealing the deal as we speak. I’m certain that forcing me to send a search party out to find you guys is just a little misunderstanding.”

Lord Fishstyx took exception to the idea. “I don’t think it is right that you push us into roles that we have yet to examine.”

The others “here here’d.” It was obvious that Fishstyx had an agenda.

“What would it take to make you guys participate with enthusiasm,” Leila said, rooting around her desk drawer for the Scotch that I happen to know Miss Renfield had confiscated earlier.

“Our names above the byline,” Lord Fishstyx said, “or we might not remember our cues.”

“Charming. You don’t even know what the roles are,” Leila said. She had located a pint of Four Freedoms vodka and took a drink, which caused her face to pickly pickle like a baby sucking a lime, like, um, like whatever Jesus, Mary and Joseph said was blowing in the wind…

“Day-zee.”

Drat.

“Tell you what, there’s always Plan B,” Leila said. Then she typed the following in her Chromebook, which was synchronized with mine. I NEED TEAM GOAT TO EXECUTE PLAN B!

My reply: ONLY IF I CAN DISENGAGINLY DISENGAGE THE A.M.I, LIKE PULLING THE PLUG ON A RICH UNCLE BEFORE HE CAN CHANGE THE WILL. LIKE…UM…

Leila: ALL RIGHT. FINE. WHATEVER.

Me: I RELEASINGLY RELEASE THE NARRATIVE TO YOU.

I took over because Daisy is a Goatess of action. Although she is what is called a “TeaCup” Pygmy Goat–about the size of a beefy housecat, Daisy is able to tap an enormous quantity of rage energy. The A.M.I. was encased in a small red plastic square, attached to the wall just behind Daisy’s desk in the corner, and, as always it had beeped adverb over mass warnings during Daisy’s contribution to this effort.

Upon gaining permission, Daisy closed her Chromebook, placed her front hooves on her desk and reared up, well, her rear hooves and obliterated the A.M.I. with one solid double-hoof kick. Just as she did that Peety squawked “Hasta La Vista, Baby” and credited the Arnold, for although Peety mainly speaks through the slobcom medium he’s also a fan of the Arnold. The A.M.I. made a final bleat as the bits of plastic rained down on the room. After Daisy muttered something that sounded like “Enjoy the weather in “A.M.I. Hell,” she voice activated a bluetooth speaker which played Team GOAT’s “theme”–which sounds like a cross between the Superman and Star Wars themes.

GOAT, of course, stands for the Greatest Of All Time. Daisy made mention of her superhero alter ego and Peety as her sidekick, earlier. Although everybody knows who the GOAT and PDQ Peety really are, we are supposed to close our eyes upon hearing the theme and cannot open them until we hear a loud hoof stomp on the floor.

Upon opening my eyes there was The GOAT, wearing a flowing yellow cape and wrap around sunglasses. Daisy–I mean The GOAT–always appears in a different outfit; sometimes she wears “onesie” tights, like those supported by the 70’s glam bands until they got too fat for them, sometimes it’s just a cape. This was one of the cape sometimes.

“Hooray! Team GOAT has come to save the day!” Renfield called from the back of the room, her voice heavy with the Scotch she’d filched from my desk.

Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon’s “transformation” to PDQ Peety takes less work. Since Peety is a two-dimensional Cartoon Pigeon, he rearranges some of the lines in his “drawing” into a Lone Ranger/Kato type of mask.

The GOAT and PDQ Peety turned to face the four idler FC’s seated in front of my desk.

“Greeting, billygits,” said The GOAT.

“What the hell is a billygit?” Lord Fishstyx, still the mouthpiece for the outfit, asked.

“It’s the role I have for your lazy asses,” I said. “I need eight billygits for an upcoming story and you guys have been elected.”

“Eight?” Lord Fishstyx, the only one of the four who could count beyond three, said. “It looks like you are shy four billygits!”

“Not anymore, sedentary landfish–” said the GOAT.

And with that PDQ Peety shook up the bottomless can of PDQ Pisner he carries no matter who he is, and sprayed the four FC’s. All four instantly found themselves seated beside an orange, winged billygit wearing a blue polo shirt, khaki pants and hemp slippers. The left slipper on the one seated beside Krook had already fallen off.

Peety then went from each of the original four and passed out “pledge pins.”

“‘Your Delta Tau Chi name is Weasel…Your Delta Tau Chi name is Mothball…Pinto…Dorfman,” Peety said, pausing in front of Lord Fishstyx, “I’ve given this a great deal of thought. From now on your Delta Tau Chi name is Flounder.’–Bluto, Animal House.”

I raised my hand to silence the four freshly renamed FC’s, who had begun to complain loudly. “I’ve got a deal for you guys. You either play a billygit and mentor your clone–or maybe I could get by with the four new orange guys only and let you all head on back to your massage parlors and public houses. To select the latter I will need each of you to make your mark on a release that prohibits you from bitching to the Union about me.”

“That’s blackmail!” said Fishstyx.

“”Mention extortion again and I’ll have your legs broken’–Mayor Carmine,” Said PDQ Peety.

Krook the Literary Turkey and Gordon Cormorant both quickly made their marks and left without looking back. Andy the Trade Rat had passed out earlier, so Renfield had his wife Flo come get him–and since he was indeed incomprehensibly Lazy Trade Rat we allowed Flo to make his mark for him. That left Fishstyx, who was still in a snit.

“You know, I could make it five billygits,” I said. He finally saw that his position was hopeless, made his mark and went away.

I didn’t see Team GOAT leave, for they are invisible, like the wind–or so they claim. I did see Renfield sneak out, but she would have told me that I gotta dig another hole in the desert by myself if I asked her to stay.

The four freshly born billygits, new FC’s created by devious means, guys we now call Weasel, Mothball, Pinto and Flounder, all gazed at me with hopeful, optimistic eyes.

“Boys,” I said. “I’m endowing you with Free Will.”

That, of course, took the hope and optimism out of their eyes.

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Two

(Note: This one made it painfully obvious that our Witch needed a same, and pronto-LA)

Evilmost Elm

-1-

Upon arriving at her new home in Wisconsin, one of the first things the Witch (even before choosing her “real” name) needed to do was select a tree for enchantment. In past incarnations she had enchanted everything from a scrawny scrub pine barely clinging to life on a steppe to a majestic redwood in northern California. Unlike other duties discharged by her vast array of familiars, tree enchantment was a task she had to perform in person. In a way it was like picking a Christmas tree, yet instead of murdering the damn thing and dragging it home, the Witch would endow the chosen tree with eternal life. The irony was not lost on her.

Enchanted trees gave the Witch a connection between Hell and the Earth itself, and they intensified her spells. Since she had to travel to a new land every time she returned from her latest season in Hell, a new tree had to be enchanted upon her arrival. She took heart that none of her former enchanted trees were sad to see her go. To the contrary, nothing conveys malevolent grace or gleeful, malign intent better than a retired enchanted tree. And if a branch happens to break off and kill a peasant now and then, well, accidents happen.

There were many suitable candidates for enchantment on the large estate that one of the Witch’s familiars had purchased with a tiny portion of her vast wealth, while she was preparing for her return from Hell. Hemlocks, hollies, oaks and maples; even a sinister crabapple tree, twisted and deformed, a veritable leper of a tree, which seemed to actively pursue the job. But it was what the Witch did not own that she coveted. And at 3 AM on her first day in Wisconsin, she saw a young Evilmost Elm standing on the other side of the fence.

Her human familiars, those shadowy persons who worked behind the scenes and did the housework and drove the cars and saw to the humdrum of her business affairs, were also of no use when it came to buying an enchanted tree. This too had to be done personally. And although the Witch had black cats who stole baby breath for kicks, and rats, by the thousands, who could dig and fill a grave faster than any machine, thus easily capable of plucking and replanting a tree without attracting unwanted attention, the Witch was an honest Witch.

-2-

The peasant’s name was Marcie and was the only person at home. The Witch knew that the instant the rather plump blond of maybe thirty opened the door the next morning.

“Hello, neighbor,” the Witch said.

“Um, hello–”

“May I come in?”

“Well, it’s not a good time right now–” said Marcie, unease in eyes, which pleased the Witch.

“Excellent,” the Witch said, stepping inside. “Good thing I don’t need to be asked in, like a vampire.”

“Who are you?”

“Why, Marcie, didn’t I mention that I’m your new neighbor.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Maybe you should come back when my husband is home.”

“No need. I’ll get down to business. I’d like to buy the elm in your backyard.”

“Really, I think you should go.”

Then the Witch, not the most patient of Witches, spoke a spell into Marcie’s brain.

“I’ll go when I’m fucking good and ready to go, useless twat. Unless you want to hang upside down from a hook, bled like a shoat, you will sell me that tree.”

“Five hundred?” the Witch said, smiling, showing the money.

Marcie agreed that five hundred would be just fine.

-3-

At three the next morning, the Witch summoned every rat in ten counties and spoke impeccable midwest rattish to the masses. Within seconds the magically assisted horde uprooted the Evilmost Elm, tossed it over the fence, and transplanted it into the Witch’s soil. The Witch never tired of watching how well the tiny fiends worked together.

“Wonderful, my babies–wonderful, wonderful.”

The Witch gave the Evilmost Elm her profane blessing.

Then it was time to try it out, think of it as a test, to judge its connection to Hell.

The Witch gazed at Marcie’s house. “Such a pity about the husband. Going mad like that…Seems it’s always the quiet ones.”

A light came on in the house.

The rats applauded.

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits

Introduction

As with Peety and Daisy, I never know when an FC will distinguish her/his/itself and take off in my mind. Originally a nameless Witch, then Hezopatha (after a brief stint as “Bambi”) and finally taken to calling herself HeXopatha, Saragun Springs’ resident Wiccan has morphed from a one off character and has established herself firmly in the realm, which is short of antagonists because I find old fashioned storytelling, at times, just that–old fashioned.

The billigits began as the “billygates” (the Microsoft Secret Police), changed to billygits and appear to have settled as the billigits (bill-luh-gits). They are four eighteen inch tall, androgynous, orange, winged individuals who wear blue polo shirts, khaki slack and hemp slippers that usually fall off in flight. Sometimes they are blue skinned, but usually they are orange. billigits eschew the use of capital letters and they have become a heavy presence in the realm.

I’d explain further, but it’s easier to invite you back tomorrow for the opening of Book Four.

Leila