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It rains and a frog arrives at your front door and asks if he can come in. You let him in because frogs don't usually talk. Also, your grandmother taught you that hospitality is an ancient art, essential to civilization. So you ask the frog to come in, please, and he tells you that he's hungry. This gives you pause. Embarrassed, you explain that you might not have anything that he would like.
?What are you having??
?Some soup,? you explain. ?Just vegetable soup out of a can and saltine crackers. My mother used to give us that on rainy days. She was a terrible cook. But now I like it. It reminds me of that. Coming home from school all wet and muddy and cold, peeling out of damp clothes for a hot bath. Afterward sitting down at the table, warm and dry, with my mother and sister. She let us eat all of the crackers that we wanted, right out of the package, and asked us about our day.?
?Well, that sounds perfect. I'll have what you're having.?
So you bring the frog to the dining room where your bowl of soup is still steaming and the crackers are spilling out of the white wrapper onto the table. A tattered paperback book is opened face down to save your place and a page from the newspaper is spread out with the crossword half done.
?Pardon my mess.? you say, ?I wasn't expecting anybody. Please, make yourself comfortable,? you add, setting him on the table and reaching to gather your clutter.
The frog says, ?No, that's alright. You can leave it. If you were doing a crossword puzzle before, we can do it together. What's that you're reading??
You are blushing a little. Embarrassed by your mess and this intimate glimpse into your life, inadvertently shared with an unexpected guest. But you're also smiling. Because it is nice to have company and nice to have someone interested.
?It's The Once and Future King by T.H White. It's a novel about King Arthur.?
The frog is inspecting the spine of the book. ?Do you like it?? he asks.
?Oh. I do. I love it. I used to watch the Sword and The Stone with my sister when we were little. It was one of our favorite movies, that and Robinhood, with the foxes. Anyway, I see how that cartoon was inspired by the first part of this book, all of his adventures with animals. But it does get very dark and serious later. The writing is beautiful.? The frog is looking up at you intently with big yellow eyes.
?Let's see,? you say, ?if you wait here I can go see if I can find a bowl that would suit you?? You are thinking of the frog perching on the edge of a bowl, struggling not to slip in and be scalded, thinking of a tea saucer with a nice indentation in the center, of a miniature honey jar you got at a hotel buffet with a tiny black lid?
?Oh that's all right.? the frog says. ?Come sit down and feed me from your bowl. I don't mind sharing.?
You hesitate. This is a bit unorthodox and you worry about sharing your spoon with a stranger, not because he's a frog, of course, but because anybody might have germs. But then again, he is a frog so he probably can't give you the common cold. And didn't people used to put toads in pitchers of milk to keep it fresh? So what harm in sharing a soup spoon? You smile quickly and say, ?Well, alright, I don't mind if you don't. Would you like anything to drink? I might pour myself a little wine. We used to have grape juice with this when I was a kid.?
?Some wine sounds nice,? the frog answers, eyes glistening.
You pop off to the kitchen and return with a chipped blue mug filled halfway with wine for yourself and, (you are very pleased with yourself about this,) a thimble you found in your everything drawer by the kitchen sink, filled to the brim with wine for the frog. Beaming you place the drinks on the table and slide into your chair. The frog hops closer to your bowl. You test the soup first to make sure it isn't too hot before offering him his first spoonful. Gingerly, he sips soup from your spoon.
?Mm delicious!? he pronounces. Thus you dine; one spoon for you and one for the frog. You hold the thimble to his ?lips? so that he can partake of the wine and he smacks with satisfaction after taking a hardy gulp. When the bowl is empty, the frog thanks you, gazes into your eyes, blinks once and asks, ?Do you live here by yourself??
?Yes.? You answer, ?It's just me.? You can't hide the tremor in your voice. It's the wine.
?Do you ever get lonely?? the frog asks.
?Sometimes.? Your own voice sounds strange to you. The rain is starting to fall a bit harder, thumping on the windows around you and the wind howls savagely rattling the windows. ?What a storm,? you say, ?I can't possibly let you go back out there while it's like this. I can make you a little bed.? You're thinking of a shoebox and a towel wrapped in a nice pillowcase to make a mattress, and maybe a rolled-up sock for a pillow, one of your fuzzy socks?
?Oh that sounds like a lot of trouble,? the frog says. ?I would like to stay. I could just sleep on your pillow.?
You laugh out loud, your cheeks reddening. ?Of course! That makes the most sense. I can be so silly.?
?You aren't silly,? the frog tells you earnestly, ?You're very kind. Kindness isn't silly. It's a strength.?
Tears well up in your eyes. You wipe them on your sleeve. ?Sorry,? you sniff trying to smile again, ?Even a little wine is too much for me.? You start gathering the dishes. ?It's still early. Would you like to sit by the electric fireplace in the living room? I can make us some cocoa.?
Bathed in the warm flickering glow of the eclectic fireplace, the frog sits on your knee while you give him little spoonfuls of cocoa from the chipped blue mug. ?That's very good,? he says stamping his webbed feet, eyes widening.
?It's just Swiss Miss. It was my sister's favorite, with the tiny marshmallows in it.?
The frog tries to eat one of the tiny marshmallows off of the spoon.
?The rain always makes me think of her? You continue, ? When we were little we used to go out into the driveway and turn the umbrella upside down and sit in it, pretending it would carry us like a boat. We saw that in a cartoon. We broke a lot of umbrellas and made our mother furious. She tried to tell us that it would not work, that we couldn't float away on an umbrella. But we never stopped trying, so mother never had an umbrella when she needed one.?
The frog is watching you intently now, neglecting his coco. You realize that your cheeks are streaked with tears. You set the spoon and the mug down on the coffee table. Some Cocoa sloshes over the brim.
?The roads are very slick, you know, after the first rain.? You explain, ?The oil on the roads gets loosed up by the water and even though it isn't a lot of rain, it's very dangerous. They both died.? Your voice shakes and comes out much higher than usual, ?It was just a little bit of rain.?
You can't stop yourself. The more you wish it to stop, the less control you seem to have, and the more you cry. You wrap your arms around yourself and lean forward so that your face is quite close to the frog, your eyes squinched shut, face wet with tears, nose running, spittle escaping from around your clenched teeth as you sob. The frog starts croaking, bleating sorrowfully with you as you cry, the rain drums down on the rooftop with voracity.
You are thinking of canned soup, of your sister asking for the cocoa with the lady on it, your mother beautiful and angry about umbrellas, of laughing with your sister in the back of the car singing, ?It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring.?
And of waking up in a hospital bed, of your grandmother's eyes full of tears, her clutching your hand desperately Of the funeral you couldn't attend, of flowers and hospital food, of taking the bus home from school alone the first time, of your sister's empty room with her favorite plush animal alone on her bed; a stuffed frog.
The rain slows down and so do you. You stop sobbing. Your tears stop and your cheeks feel sticky. The frog croaks intermittently. The rain trickles in irregular thumps. You sniff and sit up, wiping your face on your sleeves.
?I'm sorry,? you say. Your voice is gritty.
The frog croaks once more, straightens up, and tells you, ?It's alright. You'll be alright. I'll stay as long as you like.?
The Black Hat Society
Emily stared out the window. In the dark of her apartment behind her, a phone alarm burst to life, her favorite pop song sounding oddly melancholy on one of the grayest days of the year.
It was 9 o'clock. Not that she needed reminding?she had already been standing here for an hour. Her mug of tea sat ice-cold in her hand as she gazed out at the London street, the streetlamp shining a blurry golden as if through an oil painting.
Charles had said 9, right? Had he been sure? She knew nothing about weather, and she was too anxious at this point to go and check one of those blasted apps. Emily shivered and wrapped her shawl tighter around her. Little Mix sang as loudly as ever in the background?but for all Emily could tell, the world was as silent as that first line of the Bible she read in Sunday school. Hushed. Waiting.
Drip. Drip.
?Meow.?
?It's okay, Baxter.? Emily reached out her leg to greet the cat's warm body. She felt him curl around her ankle in both appreciation and worry for her. ?I'll be back soon. Just stay inside like we practiced.?
Outside, the rain was starting to pour Her phone alarm had inexplicably gone silent in the background. Had her phone died? It was possible?these things tended to happen. It would begin any minute now.
Emily took a deep breath and stuck the tip of her nose into the cold air. A single drop of rain sliced down her face, sending a shudder through her body.
As always, she wondered momentarily if no one was going to come. If the past few months had been simply her imagination; the result of a bored and traumatized mind trying to create some relief in her life.
The thought brought her both relief and a twinge of fear. Whatever the last few months had been, she didn't think she could successfully go back to her old self.
Then, next to the park bench, a figure appeared. A woman, her head bent downward as if in prayer, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her form from the rain. She had her hands clasped at her waist, and Emily could make out a pair of crisp white gloves in the glow of the streetlamp.
Emily let out a sigh in spite of herself. From there, although she could not see them, she could feel the presence of more women appearing across the city, the balance of power shifting as palpably as the temperature outside.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Emily dashed down the stairs of her apartment building and out into the downpour. The rain greeted her like a lover, icy drops shocking her pale English skin and making her feel, for the first time in weeks, completely alive.
?Who are you?? called Emily, her voice clear and confident. She barely recognized herself in the rain. It was thrilling.
The woman looked up, and a pair of green eyes sliced through her. ?You're rather forward.?
Emily waited for a taxi to pass, then dashed across the street.
?I have to be. There isn't much time.?
She stopped close enough to the woman to see a smile stretch across her thin lips.
?There never is.? She reached out a white-gloved hand. ?Come with me.?
?You're a new recruit, aren't you?? the strange woman asked Emily as they marched through the near-deserted London streets. They passed a small pub, and though a group of girls loitered outside, laughing and putting on their coats, no one took any notice of the tall, slender woman in the black hat and purple bustle. In fact, they looked right through both of them, Emily included, as if they weren't there.
?I had my Summoning seven months ago.? Emily quickened her pace to keep up with the woman. There was something disarming about her, but behind her stern exterior, Emily felt that she could trust her. ?I haven't learned much since then. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to help, when the time comes.?
The woman's green eyes landed on hers. ?I see. You're New.?
Emily stiffened. ?As far as I know. I'm an orphan. I never knew my mother was one until?. after.?
The witch's eyes softened. ?And her family? You aren't in contact with any of them??
Emily shrugged. ?My parents were kind of loners. When they died when I was sixteen, I moved in with some friends. I kind of left my childhood behind as if it had never happened.? She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. ?My mother, too.?
The woman reached out her gloved hand and squeezed Emily's. ?Well, you're going to do her proud today. I'm Lucinda, by the way.?
A thrill shot through Emily's veins. She wanted so badly to ask what century she was from ? Victorian era, from the looks of it ? but she had learned her lesson with Matilde. Not all witches took kindly to being reminded of their age.
They came to a large, circular park in the center of the city. Skeletal trees leaned like sentries around a great lawn, where benches lined the surrounding path. The rain that blurred the glow of the streetlamps seem to hover, paused in time, over the grass, leaving the air shimmering with a strange stillness.
In the center of the lawn stood a circle of women, hands clasped. Emily's heart raced as she and Lucinda grew closer Over the last seven months, she had only gotten the chance to know Anaia, her teacher, who she had met one rainy morning in June while waiting for the bus to work. After that first day, each time the forecast predicted rain, she waited. Sometimes no one showed. She had no idea why, or where they went. She supposed she might find out tonight.
The rain stopped around them with a strange ?shlooooop? sound, like a giant slurping a smoothie, as they entered the circle. Some of the witches unbowed their heads to cast a glance at Emily. Though her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it, she counted at least twenty women. All of them, no matter their era or country of origin, wore some kind of black hat: a playful nod, by the looks of it, to the narrow box history placed them in.
?We don't have much time,? someone called out in a sharp voice; an Asian woman wearing an ornate outfit, woven with gold. Emily sensed some kind of distortion in the air around her. Somehow, in the air, she could almost see the soundwaves traveling toward her.
?Translation spell,? Lucinda whispered to her. ?Everyone here has one on them.?
?The rain could stop any minute,? the witch continued. A wave of anxiety shot like electricity through the circle. ?Anaia, do you want to kick us off??
With relief, Emily noted the familiar emerald robes and cascading black curls. Anaia cast a wink at her as she stepped into the center of the circle.
?We have a newcomer here tonight,? Anaia boomed, her voice incongruous in her slim body. Emily's heart jumped. ?Emily Walbrick, of Hampshire. She is a young witch from the modern day. Everybody, please take good care of her today.?
Surprised whispers spread throughout the circle, and unfamiliar faces smiled at Emily.
?A new witch?? someone in shocking royal purple murmured. ?This might not be the best time, Anaia??
?Oh, hush. She's my protegee, not yours. I know what she's ready for.?
Emily caught Anaia's eye and cast her a weak smile in thanks. Although, really, she wasn't sure how thankful she should be.
The rain continued to pour around them, even as they stood within the hush of their strange, protective bubble. Above, a full moon?complete coincidence, Emily reminded herself; real witches had no connection to the moon except perhaps for their time of the month?gleamed like a silver medallion in a black velvet sky. Anaia reached into the pocket of her robe and produced a wand, tipped with a translucent orb that shone in the light of the moon.
?It will take all our collective power to rescue our sister from the clutches of fear,? Anaia continued. She lifted both hands in the air, wand held high. ?It begins. Sisters, summon your power.?
A pulsing blue light began to issue from the tip of Anaia's wand. All around her, the witches bowed their heads, their faces falling into shadow beneath a circle of black hats.
Emily bent her head and focused every fiber of her being on the courage within her: the part of her that loved the rain and the city lights in the darkness; the part of her that wasn't stuck in the past; the part of her that wasn't afraid to live. In return, she felt a small flicker. A faint wisp of blue light emanated from her hands, spiraling outward to join the great blue ball forming among them.
A huge grin spread across Emily's face.
For the last seven months, Anaia had been telling her that on the first of December, they were to go back in time to rescue one of their own: a witch. This was one of the principal tasks of the Black Hat Society: freeing as many of their sisters as they possibly could from the various forms of burnings and lynchings that had persisted throughout the centuries. That is, in addition to their main task of summoning more young witches to their power. The world was getting brighter and brighter by the day?but as witches like Anaia and Lucinda knew all too well, this earth could never have enough women who were awake.
Emily thought back to Sunday school. Charles had never bought any of it. She had. She wasn't completely sure why. Maybe, during all the loneliness and secrecy of her childhood, there was something kind of comforting about a set of rules to follow. Now, at 27 years old, she was busting them all to pieces: becoming something brand new at an age where many people stopped believing change was possible.
Her mother would have been proud, she realized.
Outside their now pulsing blue ball of light, the rain was beginning to slow. Any moment now, the most ancient spell of all would end, and the secret society history never knew would be visible to the outside world.
?Now!? cried Anaia, putting away her wand.
The witches rejoined hands and stepped together through the Time Portal.
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