Matriarchal Mayhem - John Stormm (little red riding hood read aloud TXT) 📗

TALES OF THE WITCH CLAN
MATRIARCHAL MAYHEM


       The twins, Gareth and Callum, were three months old, and still on breast milk. For James, their father, this meant toting baby baggage filled with innumerable gadgets like bottles, breast pumps, binkies, disposable diapers, extra blankets, throwing knives and a semiautomatic Ruger Blackhawk.

     “Mel, there’s two knives and a gun in this diaper bag!” James called out.

“The knives are mine, dear,” Melanie responded from the bathroom. “The gun was given to me after band rehearsal, last night.”

“I thought I recognized the knives,” James said, while balancing the larger of the two on his finger. “Your father gave you this one, but who thought you needed a gun?”

“A nice man in the parking lot by the club,” Mel said. “He had decided he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. So I couldn’t just leave it laying around for some child to find, so I took it with me when I got my knives back. I wiped them off on his jacket, but I still have to wash them. Could you put them in the sink for me?” James was sure he was missing something of the story here. Mel was the sweetest and loveliest woman he’d ever known, but this family had a side to it that a lesser man would fear to fathom.

“How, exactly, did you meet this nice man?” James asked with just a little trepidation.

“We only brought in the one bag, for rehearsal,” Mel said. “Since you were holding the boys, I went out to the car to get the other. While I was getting the bag out of the back, the nice man came up and showed me his gun. It seemed he wanted some money for it, but silly me, I wasn’t carrying my purse. He got very upset about that. I was worried the gun might accidentally go off, so the knife in my sleeve, the cute, little, four inch, thin one, ended up in his wrist and he dropped his gun.”

“You stabbed him?” James asked, incredulously.

“Well, nothing so personal as that,” Mel replied, returning to the kitchen to get the baby wipes out of the groceries. “I just stepped back a step and flicked it at his wrist, to make the nerves in his hand go dead.”

“Let me guess,” James hypothesized, “You used the bigger knife to finish him off. But I don’t remember any bodies laying about near the car when we left.”

“No silly,” Mel tittered. “I flicked the other knife, into his left rotator cuff to paralyze his left arm when he tried to pick the gun up with his other hand. I didn’t hit any arteries, and he was sleeping so peacefully on the pavement when I left him. It seems that his chin, hit the toe of my boot pretty hard, but it all worked out fine. I got my knives back without any fuss at all, ” she said as she walked down the hall to the twins’ room. James staring after her with eyes wide.

“You didn’t think to call a cop or something?” he said.

“Sure I thought about it.” Mel quipped, “I didn’t need one, and he didn’t want one. I’d have to say, that with the work related injuries he had sustained last night, that he will probably have to train for another profession. You certainly won’t find a penal system that works so fast and effectively as that, not these days.”

“So what are we going to do with this illegal handgun?” James asked.

“Turn it in for fifty dollars, when the police hold their annual drive to get them off the street.” Mel snapped, “Then maybe I’ll have some money to give the next maniac that tries to rob me. Nobody will get hurt, right?” Once again, James wasn’t sure what he said wrong, but he’d pacify the love of his life by putting the Ruger away, high up on top of the kitchen cabinet and wash the knives good. It wouldn’t do to give some poor miscreant an infection with a dirty knife, he thought.

* * *

     Melanie dearly loved James, but he could be so exasperating at times. He was very patient and understanding about so many things that occurred normally in her clan, most of which would send most outsiders running for therapy. He was as brave as he was kind. It would be a nice thing for the boys to inherit from their father. She thought she had handled the matter of the gunman in a very gracious manner. Her father, perceiving lethal intent with the weapon, would have killed the man instantly. Mel liked to think that she was just a tad more humane than the old wizard. Not that Daddums wasn’t as sweet as he wanted to be, he just wasn’t wired for what people call ‘normal.’ Her and James had their fair share of arguments about what was normal and not normal. Mel taught James that he would never get anywhere with that argument in this family. Given James’ Mohawk heritage, and Mel’s Irish, Cherokee and Sidhe heritage, doubled with the fact she was the current matriarch of a hereditary witch clan, martial arts proficiency not withstanding, “normal” was something that happened to people on the other side of the universe.

Mel wasn’t a frail woman, by any standards. At six feet tall, to James’ five foot ten inch frame, both of them athletic, lacrosse for James, kung fu for Melanie, theirs was a match made in heaven… that is, if they allowed you to run around and hit people with sticks in paradise.

Melanie’s particular interest, when not seam stressing, was music. Like her father, she could play almost any instrument after about an hour’s tinkering, and like her mother, she could sing the birds down from the trees. The rehearsal the other night was with a group she was a vocalist for, called The Wild Band. Her boys were familiar with this music from the womb, as Mel traveled with the band right on up to her last month of pregnancy. Occasionally, she would put together her own entourage and play at various festivals and gatherings, but with motherhood, some things would have to be on hold for a while, and that was about as normal as Mel would get.

This is not to suggest that this is a family of maniacs and lunatics. This is a family with very broad horizons and requires an adept to maintain a healthy balance. Mel was the product of thirteen centuries of adept, hereditary witches. Her father was also adept in the craft, but preferred the role of clan chieftain and left the matriarchy in place. He was the clan’s first adept male in as many centuries, but as it had always been a matriarchal succession, and his firstborn was as adept as she was beloved, he seemed happy to continue the tradition. All of his children were trained in martial arts, music, wood lore, herbs, spellcraft and the arcane wisdom of many disciplines. Her father was quick to use any and every opportunity to teach a principle by playing a game or making an example of something found on a nature hike. School was always in session with Dad.

Mel often felt sorry for friends who didn’t have the benefit of her particular kind of upbringing. People who looked into the arcane for knowledge and wisdom, without the benefit of childhood training, were referred to as “dabblers” in her family. Many who went poking around in occult matters, without some knowledge of what they were opening up, often became its victims. Daddums was often rescuing these victims as he happened upon them. Melanie’s next project was to get her father to teach a class on the foundations of Wiccan principles. She knew many women, who would have been natural witches, had they had the proper upbringing. It was a sad waste of wise womanhood, men too, but they were rare birds indeed. She had to do something about that. She’d have to find a way to corner her father when he came to look in on his grandsons.

Mel was just finishing the clean up of one of Callum’s infamous “power poops” when her dad walked in. It was amazing how he managed to never show up before or during one of these episodes. When the old wizard claimed he had a strong stomach, what he meant was, that he could toss it as far as the next guy.

“How’s Grandpa’s boys today?” he beamed.

“Clean, right down to their tiny little colons,” Mel retorted. “Would you do the honors of entertaining them while I clean up a bit?”

“Sure,” her father said, and placed a baby on each knee and began bouncing and singing to them some old favorites from the Fifties and Sixties. Mel disposed of the dirty diapers, and put away all the wipes and powder, and freshened up herself, and came back to relieve her father who was winding up with a funky rendition of “Mustang Sally.” Gareth was either grooving on the tune, or getting motion sickness, when Mel decided a little burp and then naptime would be in order for the twins.

“So, how’s Daddy’s big girl?” he asked, as she was putting the boys down in their cribs.

“I’m fine,” Mel replied. “But I’ve got some issues on my mind, that I doubt I can tackle on my own. I think I’m going to need your help.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I have a friend, from Mom’s store,” Mel began, “She’s a Puerto Rican witch, of a sort, named Gem.”

“You’re not fixing me up are you?” her father glowered.

“No, she’s definitely not your type, Daddums,” Mel laughed. “Her issues have issues. She’s into something called ‘Chango,’ and it seems that some life issues have gotten out of hand, and she needs some good advice from someone who can understand where she’s coming from and yet won’t take her for a ride.”

“That craft would be ‘Santeria,’” her father said thoughtfully. “Chango is a high order fae spirit. Is she a grounded witch?”

“That would have made things a lot easier,” Mel said. “But she’s only been at this for a few years, and a lot of old chickens have picked this time to come home to roost, so to speak. She’s a good woman and single mom, with a fine son and daughter. If she had our upbringing, I think she would have been a first rate witch as any you’ve known.”

“So, you’re not fixing me up,” her father recounted, “and you want me to raise an already grown witch, undo the ‘dabbler’ and make her functional. In short, you want a miracle.”

“Yep,” Mel grinned. “I’m sure you have one or two left to spare from today’s ration.”

“I do,” the old wizard replied. “But, I’m going to insist on a few things. First, I do not meet alone with this woman. You will always be present. Her respectability AND my own, must be preserved. Second, she’s not the only one on your mind, tell me about the others.” For the briefest moment, Mel had forgotten who she was talking to and was taken aback.

“Actually, I know a few women, all of whom, in another place and time, would have been trained as witches,” Mel complied. “They are talented individuals with little more than a ‘knack’ for things and little or no formalized training. They just don’t know about crawling before walking and then running and jumping, and of course, we can expect they’ll get hurt as they learn why one comes before the other.” Mel was speaking about certain metaphysical precepts that witch children are taught as they are growing up, to make the most of their individual talents.