I saw her when the tube ran late.
Something which shouldn’t happen–in theory–given the unending stream of people in and out of Regent’s Park station. A hub of human activity of such constant fervency that a train failing to appear on time is a mistake that affects potentially thousands. Every effort is thus taken by the City of Westminster to keep things running smoothly, as failure is comparable to the loss of a critical organ within the living, breathing organism that is London.
But still, only so many variables can be accounted for at once. Ask any Brit off the street, and they’re liable to have a personal anecdote relating to a bit of construction underground keeping them from an appointment, or some such. This attitude that bends toward the lackadaisical makes itself most well known round midnight, when the traffic surrounding the station is at its lowest.
It’s about 5AM when I hustle up the stairs and immediately make a sharp right turn down Park Crescent. It’s a bit annoying that the closest station isn’t very close at all, requiring that I double back and cross several other hectic roads before I’m able to reach my true destination.
Park Crescent turns into Park Square West after narrowly avoiding death while crossing the A501 section of the Inner Ring Road. Later in the day, this area will become filthy with the usual bustle of tourists and people far too important for me to even dare making eye contact with, but for now the wide sidewalk is almost completely empty.
Park Square, the little sibling to Regent’s Park proper, sits barely separated and confined on all sides like a trapped amoeba. It would save an enormous amount of time on my walk if I was able to cross through the beautiful slice of nature that is Park Square Gardens, but unfortunately the entire place is privately owned. A neat little wrought-iron sign informs the average idiot that the gardens are for KEY HOLDERS ONLY, and that they should PLEASE CLOSE THE GATE, all courtesy of the Crown Estate Paving Commission.
But that’s fine. My true destination is on Park Square West anyway. As I jog down to the corner of Ulster Terrace, I take notice of the lighting. Cars flit by my left, while darkness pervades to my right.
In art study, this is called chiaroscuro. It follows the use of strong contrasts between light and shadow, and originated in the Renaissance. Though the term is used primarily for paintings and woodcuts, it also applies to the film industry as well. Which is what I’m here for.
Every year in October, Park Square West is transformed from a somewhat ordinary London road into a global center for the arts known as Frieze London. As part of my university’s film program, I’m here to film the goings on of the festival. Permission to film the festival professionally is apparently pretty difficult to come by, so it was lucky that my classmates and I were able to snag a spot. Now if only they’d cut me some slack on being late.
After putting up with their ribbing and double-checking that all of our equipment was properly covered, as rain was expected later, I found myself leaning on a wall, gazing off to my right at the verdant stripe of Regent’s Park proper. All the b-roll we’d wanted to get filmed of the festival’s setup process was all done by now, but people weren’t expected to start showing up for another few hours. After a brief heads-up to my classmates, I’m off.
Though half the size of Central Park over in the States, the size of Regent’s Park is still enough to be stunning. 410 acres of lush greenery extends further than the eye can see, the park itself being so massive as to be split between Westminster and Camden. I’m not usually one to spend too much time wandering around parks, but I figure it’s a decent chance for an extra hour of peace before the city really starts to wake up. Besides, a cameraman never shies away from a setting like this. Professors go gaga over “meaningful nature videos,” whatever that exactly means. Silently, I thank Sir Attenborough for the free cheat code to a good grade.
It’s still quiet out, though a few joggers pass me by on my way deeper into the park. Soon, the rain forecasted earlier begins to drizzle down between the high leaves of the oak trees lining the perimeter of this particular walkway. It’s not like I’m unused to the rain, but still, I turn around and begin picking my way back to the Frieze.
Finding my way back is more difficult than I would like. Between the utter size of the park and all of its winding pathways, I soon feel as though I’m getting lost. I’m not too worried yet, as I know my classmates can handle any of the festival’s beginning filming without me. But damn it, I’m not going to be late twice in one day.
I almost ran into her in my half-crazed run back toward what I assumed was the park’s entrance. A solitary figure, a girl about my height calmly strolling along gazing up at the trees. An umbrella shields her from the rain, so clearly I’m the only one in the park who didn’t plan accordingly.
She turns at the sound of my stomping footsteps, brilliant blue eyes gazing at some distant point behind me before she seems to finally notice my presence. The second my eyes meet hers, I feel every drop of my blood instantly freeze solid. My airways constrict, and I can feel my lungs inflating in protest. What the hell. Am I dying?
She’s beautiful.
Like something out of a movie poster. Were they filming something for Hollywood here in London? Crap, I’d better get out of the shot.
“Uh…sorry.” I mumble, casting about looking for the camera crew that was clearly filming this girl. A few drizzling seconds confirmed I had actually not managed to become an unintentional movie extra, which made the situation all the more baffling. Where was her boyfriend? Girlfriend? Devoted entourage?
Well, it’d be doubly strange to apologize and then continue to stare at her like a gormless idiot. Sheepishly, I begin to shuffle away. Internally, I curse myself stupid. If she really wasn’t an actress, then she should be. I’d gladly be her manager for dirt cheap. Hell, I’d be happy with just her phone number.
“Wait.”
I snap to attention. It feels like cool water that spills out of her mouth, washing over me in a refreshing, steady stream compared to the tat-tat-tat of the rain. I have no choice but to remain where I am. Partially because she’s currently gripping my face with her delicate hands, umbrella tucked under her arm.
I try not to get my inferior breath on her, but this situation is quickly getting out of hand. Just then, another early morning visitor to the park intrudes on this bizarre scene. A young woman, tanned and wielding a hooded pram, jogs past directly behind me. The girl’s eyes seem to unfocus, thin eyebrows knitting into a scowl as her attention is drawn to the young mother already disappearing further into the mist.
“It’s no good…they still all look the same.”
…It should go without saying that I look nothing like a young mother, tanned or otherwise. Could it be that she has weak eyes? Actually, what’s all this “they” business, as if I’m not standing right here?
No, actually I’ve seen this before. Well, on TV, but it still counts. Face blindness. Also known as prosopagnosia. Apparently, it’s such a specific condition that it doesn’t impact the function of the brain much at all. Just a single hole in an otherwise normal person’s perception. The guy on the BBC show couldn’t even recognize himself in a mirror. It sounds terrifying.
Ah, crap. She’s making a really concerned face. Well, what am I supposed to do? I can’t exactly help someone’s condition I know nothing about. I’m no doctor, just a cameraman. Still, as a man, I feel like I should say something.
“Hey, hey. It’s fine. Uh, people say I’ve got a really forgettable face all the time, so…”
“Quiet.”
I gulp, once again compelled by some primordial force tickling my bone marrow to comply. The girl’s face is downcast, looking off to the side into the distance. For some reason, I get the feeling that she’s not actually talking to me, but that the words coming out of her mouth are still for my benefit.
“It’s no good. When there’s one of you lot, it’s easy to focus. But as soon as another rolls along, it becomes so…bloody difficult to keep focus.” An irritated sigh escapes her lips. “But that’s what I get for expecting too much from insects.”
Whoa whoa whoa. Insects? Did I hear her right? Is this the kind of person she actually is? If so, I’ve seriously misjudged this girl. Not only that, but I’ve seen enough TV to know that scary women like this are likely to pull a knife on you for no reason.
Instinctively, I throw both of my hands into the air. A step back breaks the girl’s grip on my chin, casting me back into the morning rain. There’s nobody around now, and the nearest call box is out at the entrance to the park. Something about not wanting to dilute the scenery. Typical.
I’m about to give her a piece of my mind when her laughter interrupts me. Surprisingly deep, the cream cuff of her jacket held in front of her mouth like some kind of posh stereotype.
“A joke, just a joke! Though admittedly it might not have been very funny.”
There was no apology and no sense from her tone that she intended one. Even still, I warily lower my arms. Was I the one mistaken? Upper crust humor might as well come from a different planet, clearly.
“Call it a toll for passing by my front yard.”
Wait. What?
Regent’s Park, along with Park Square West, contain a handful of properties worth several million pounds. Mostly, they’re inhabited by celebrities, business tycoons, and even a few foreign politicians. Hell, the only time I paid attention was when David Beckham moved in a few years back.
Clearly enjoying my discomfort, the girl throws a thumb over her shoulder. Following the direction indicated, I realize we’ve been standing in front of a neat white fence. Several hundred meters in the distance, nestled among oak trees and half-covered in moss, is the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen in my life.
I’m awestruck, of course, but things are also starting to piece themselves together in my head. She must be the daughter of…well, somebody. Celebrities, as a general rule, can be pretty strange. Thinking of it like that, I can accept her behavior a bit more readily.
A rather humble sign perched on the fence reads “Roxbrough.” It was my understanding turnover in these kinds of residences was pretty frequent, but the sign and the building itself gave the appearance that this particular family had been here for quite some time.
“You’re…a Roxbrough?” I tried desperately to keep the fact I had no idea who these people were out of my voice. “What’s your name?”
She frowned once more, hand on her chin.
“Witch A was before the time of modern humans. Witch B was a bit more recent, but still far older than your entire bloodline. Witch C was immediately before me…”
“Therefore, you can call me ‘Dee.’”
Witch. Uh huh. Sure. Whatever you say, crazy-but-beautiful-lady. This must be another one of her incredibly out of touch jokes, but I have absolutely no idea how to tell her it’s completely nonsensical to an ordinary person like me.
“Dee. Miss Dee Roxbrough, I should say. It’s surely been a pleasure (I think) but I really should be going…” The sun may be terminally hidden by cloud cover here in London, but it’s pretty easy to tell that early-morning is transitioning quickly to mid-morning. I need to get back to my classmates at the Frieze.
“Sure. Return to your colony, little ant.”
Okay. Now I’m starting to get a little mad.
“Excuse me, milady, but my name is Thomas. I know you never asked, but it’s customary among you pampered lot to at least pretend like the rest of us aren’t scum.”
“Oh. Milady. I quite like that.”
This girl…
Rather than become irritated in return, she looks sad? But that’s quickly wiped away, returning to the same distantly serene expression I found on her.
“I really thought I might have found my favorite human.”
She’s turned her back to me, wistfully gazing back at her enormous home. Once again, it’s more like she’s speaking out loud and I happen to be nearby, rather than being actually addressed.
“I was curious, you see. Curious to see how you lived. Humans share the same curiosity for ants, don’t they? A thousand, million individuals, all milling about their little anthills. I wanted to see what life was like in the land of the insects.”
“I thought that, maybe, I would be able to discover an ant that would make a particular impression on me. One I could call my favorite. But unfortunately, it’s impossible.”
“Even were I to focus with all my might on a single ant among thousands, it’s so incredibly difficult to keep track. Therefore, I reasoned that separation from the colony was necessary for proper elucidation. That’s when I happened upon you.”
“But even then, ants aren’t altogether dissimilar from one another. Mostly, their first reaction is to look for others of their kind. Ants are ultimately afraid. Every action is taken to reduce potential threats to the colony, and thus the individual is insulated.”
“And that’s why your entire species is incredibly, unavoidably, boring.”
…
I don’t know what to say.
I don’t think there’s anything I can say.
“Well? Run along. Return to your post, little drone. I’ll forget about you the same way memories of me will fade from your mind as well. That’s just how it is.”
No, I don’t think there’s anything on Earth that could make me forget this conversation.
“Does it have to be? I mean, what happens if you were to find your…favorite human?”
She actually looks thoughtful. Maybe I’m getting through? I still have no idea what kind of mental illness she has, but playing to her delusions might be the smartest move, at least for now.
“Hmm. A human I could truly tell apart from the crowd? If a human could really occupy my mind in such a way…”
She steps forward suddenly, pressing her body into mine. My mind blanks as it fills with her scent, her gentle voice whispering in my ear:
“I would crush it under my heel unequivocally.”
I can’t breathe.
“Witches must hate your kind. That is reality.”
A witch. She’s really a witch, like out of a fairytale? My skepticism melts by the second. The dull ache in the back of my skull is something I’m able to place; it’s the primordial, reptilian part of my brain screaming at me that what I’m standing in front of right now is something unnatural. Anathema to my identity as a human being.
“...Why?” My voice is little more than a gurgle.
She laughs at me again.
“Why? Why do we hate–”
“Why do witches…exist?”
…
For a moment, I think I’m going to die. Instead, she leans her head on my shoulder. We stay like that for about a minute, appearing to the world at large like a pair of mismatched lovers. Only I know how hard my heart is beating.
“Thomas, was it?”
Moving like granite, I nod to the affirmative.
“I meant what I said, you know. For my own safety, I’ll eradicate any human who makes enough of an impression on me. However…if a human can bear the full burden of my hatred, then my soul will remain intact.”
I accept all of this. I still have no idea what any of it means, but for some reason receiving this kind of information all makes sense now.
She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, a hand digging around in her jacket. Gripping my own hand in her thin fingers, she turns it so the palm faces upward, and drops something in my hand. I shiver, automatically assuming it’s something like a bone or some other macabre item.
Glancing down, I can’t believe it’s something so ordinary. An acorn? I must have stepped on a hundred just walking through the park today. I turn it around in my fingers slowly, looking for something noticeably strange. But no, it’s a completely ordinary acorn, as far as my senses will tell me.
“Keep that with you. Acorns are kernels of growth incarnate, symbolizing good fortune. If we were to meet again, you’d be nothing but another dull insect to my eyes. That will help me recognize you.”
I open my mouth in protest, but nothing comes out. I hadn’t agreed to be the subject of this inhuman creature’s hatred. Why the hell would I ever want something like that?
Ultimately, what angered me the most was the fact everything she said was correct. My own reactions proved her theory within minutes of meeting me, for God’s sake. So maybe it’s my pride as a human being that caused me to pocket that acorn.
Whatever my personal feelings, Dee looks content with my decision. She parts from me completely with a rather formal pat on my shoulder.
“Right. Off with you then. This time I mean it.”
I nod dumbly, still staring at the acorn in my curled fist. I see movement in my peripheral vision, and when I look up, the girl known as Dee Roxbrough is gone.
The rest of that day was memorable in its own way, of course. The filming session of the London Frieze went spectacularly, everything went off without a hitch. I think it’s likely my group will receive solid marks on the film. My classmates are even recommending I market it around as an independent film entry. I could even win a contest with it, maybe.
But it’s no use. Even years later, I can only remember that day as the time I met a genuine Witch.
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Originally Posted by Random
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