~ WHO CHILD ~ I been seeing it done for years. First thing, ever purple morn, the Willerswitch Witch comes to that same steep knob atop Hulep Choats Peak. She aint much hair left. What hairs they is is white. Her skin be grey. No greyer than other hags and theys sure to be other hags, I expect. But this hag is — now don’t you worry it — but she’s the Willerswitch Witch to that girly up the tree. High, she is. Up that tree. My baby never leaves that limb to ask for no Christian name, mind you. She ain’t one to ask. No, she keeps secret. Her eyes be my eyes. Below, the old grey thing lifts her skirts and she spin eleven, twelve, thirteen times, eyes closed and whispering. The Witch ask where do time tell, where is the well went, where be the wind sent, how went tizzypoke? The Witch, she blows a French harp — her mouth organ whines whilst jigging and clogging her pointy toes in the air. Whipping up dizzy arias and canticles with her willerswitch, she blows loud and swats down her crazylegged canticles for all souls below to hear. From that tree on Hulep Choats Peak, a wee girl can see hollers piled upon hollers, snapdragon hillsides tumbling into valleys, twining into murky slews. Sometimes, a twanging guitar string ricochets up from below, answering back at that French harp. Soon the Witch takes to circling the tree spire, first to the clockwise, then counter to the clock. The willerswitch will lead, my little girly will listen. A thousandn ten hunertn two babies I done pulled from they mams. Put my mark on most ever chile I borned. Ever clan has its daemon babe, ye know, a boogified daemon babe. Ask me, I tells em so. Ask me. I hate the impudent chile. I knows him right off. I gives that babe its mark. Everbody got one. I can pick a collicky babe, a trickster, a fool — yay, a fool, or I can pick me a king foretold from the birthin slime. So I kisses em with my pucker. Or I kisses em with my willer switch. Onliest ones I ever put back into they mams is them what this world aint ripe fer yet. Thats why Im plumb ashamed this mornin, humbled I be. Thats why I ask of thee. Do you recollect first babysteps, babysteps? First one, then two step, then three? So here you is — still a chile. So whose chile is you? Who chile, who chile, who chile is you? Now, my girly aint never been kissed. She aint good for that. But shes the right fit, she can hold her shine, and she can cipher plenty good. I reckon she wonders, who chile is you? Dont worry it. Dont you worry it none. It was many a morn before my girly got wise to that old woman. But she got foxy afore long. Why, that Willerswitch Witch had never left a mark on that girly on high. No tarbaby mark or fortunes kiss, not even a willer to cry. Borned cold and quiet, she was, to a blindeyed mother cold in the grave. You ask how could that be? You ask how went tizzypoke? We will just have to see, you see. Make no mistake about one thing. That baby belong to me. That baby belong to me. That baby belong to me. . . . . . . . . (Who Child is the opening chapter of the book Wicked Temper Untold.) © Randy Thornhorn Painting: Jewel Tree, 1975 Eyvind Earle (1916-2000) eyvindearle/Details.aspx?id=415&type=serigraph
Posted on: Fri, 16 May 2014 14:28:08 +0000
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