There she sat. Sat in that old, slat-backed rocker, rocking to an inner rhythm and staring at untold horizons as the shimmering heat of an oppressive July afternoon began to dissipate with the suns kissing of the distant hills. But the old woman paid no heed; the rocker continued its metronomic dance on the porch floorboards. Her skin, wrinkled and browned to a deep mahogany from over ninety years of weathering by the sun made her look like a little brown monkey. She was nearly dwarfed by the large rocking chair in which she sat. Her old, plain blue calico dress had seen better days. The lace, which edged the full length apron, was her only finery, a gift from her son Isaac almost thirty years before. Even her grizzled hair was simply dressed by pulling it back into a no-nonsense bun.

From my vantage point at the end of the gravel drive, I had a good, safe view of the old witch. That's what all of the kids in the valley had been calling her for the last sixty or so years. The old witch; but never within ear shot of the old woman. Not if you valued your hide anyway.

For as long as I had known the old woman, you could find her sitting on her porch come evening time--rocking and humming old hymns. Although I couldn't hear her from this distance, I'd safely bet a ten spot that old woman was humming something spiritual. I have to admit I was nervous, nearly as nervous as I was the first time I met the old woman over twenty years ago.

Bobby McCaffey, my best buddy at the age of twelve, first introduced me to the old woman.

"Jimmy, you been down to the end of Indian road?" Bobby asked.

"Nah. What would I wanna go down there for? Its a mighty long walk."

"There's an old woman lives alone down that way. A witch woman."

"So, what of it?" I said brushing him off.

"Well, my mama says shes a white witch," Bobby explained, kicking at pebbles in the road as we walked. "Makes healing potions. Talks with animals. But, what I figure is, a witch is a witch. Lets sneak up there and see what she's up to. Maybe catch her ridin' her broom, or conjuring."

"I've heard of that woman. My mother says she's just a crazy old woman that's been living alone for too long. I don't want to mess with no crazy person," I finished.

"Hell, Jimmy! She won't even know we're there. We'll sneak up on her place after dark and take a peek in her window," he cajoled, patting me on the back. "If we're really lucky, we might just catch her up to something."

"Well . . . I dont know Bobby."

"What's the matter? You chicken?" Bobby taunted. "Jimmy is a chicken! Jimmy is a chicken!" Bobby chanted as he danced around me, flapping his arms and imitating a chicken.

"Cut it out!" I yelled at Bobby, punching him in the arm as he capered into range. "Okay. Well go! Well go tonight," I capitulated.

That was how I found myself out at the end of Indian road after nightfall, the sound of Cicadas teasing my ears and the smell of the earth at twilight permeating the air. Bobby and I stealthily crept around the back of the old clapboard house until we were able to crouch beneath a window which looked out over silent fields of corn. Slowly we raised our heads, waiting for a shout of discovery. My heart was hammering like a jack rabbit's, my insides felt like a live electric wire was turning up the juice. Any sound at all right then would have sent me bolting off into the fields that surrounded the old womans house.

As my eyes cleared the window sill, I found that I could see unhampered into what looked like a dining room, or at least what should have been a dining room. It didn't look like any dining room I had ever seen. The walls were covered with shelves, shelves filled with ancient looking books, jars and containers of all shapes, sizes and colors. The ceiling was criss-crossed by a grid of thin wooden slats from which hung a multitude of drying plant life.

The battered, old Formica topped table that occupied the center of the room was illuminated by one dim, bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. The table itself housed a large mortar and pestle, and was piled high with even more books. The witch was nowhere to be seen.

"Looks like she's not home," I said, turning away from the window. "Lets go back."

"Shh! Not so fast. There she is," Bobby said excitedly, as he ducked, pulling me down with him.

Indeed, she was there all right. We could hear her, even through the window, humming softly to herself, sounded like "The Old Rugged Cross" to me. The humming stopped and the old woman called out in a voice dry and leathery with advancing years.

"Hey! You there! What are you up to?" she called. "Come away from there!"

Jesus! I knew it! We were caught in the act. Bobby was off into the fields like a shot, and me . . . well, my heart which hammered so frantically not five minutes before had now stopped dead. A strange roaring sound was building in my ears, and the world began to fog over--I was dying of fright for sure.

I came around to a world filled with blackness, the pungent smell of dewy earth, and a chorus of singing frogs. A weight on my chest kept me pressed to the cold ground, the heat of the day long gone. Disoriented, I struggled to sit up. A piercing high pitched growl, inches from my face, drove away any thoughts I might have of getting up and fleeing.

"Jasper! Come away from there!" the old witch's voice called out. "You nasty old thing, leave that child alone."

The light returned as the old woman bent over to pick up the growling feline from my chest, revealing a square of light spilling from the dining room window. The window I had been crouching beneath who knows how long ago.

The witch pulled me up from the ground to stand beside her. Even at the age of twelve I stood almost a head taller than she did, but despite her diminutive stature, I was too frightened to try running away from her. Although I had scoffed at Bobby's notion of this woman being a witch, I was not ready to take the chance of making a hasty judgment. Witch or crazy, the outcome was the same; I was glued to the spot with fear.

"Child, are you all right ? Is anythin hurtin' ? " she inquired.

Although her words were kindly, I still stepped back reflexively when her hands, gnarled with age, reached out to steady me.

"No. . .no maam. I mean. . . yes, Im O.K." I stammered, rubbing the back of my head where a small knot had started to form.

"Hmmmm. . . what are you fussing at there, boy? Let Mother Esther have a look at you," she muttered under her breath, as her hands deftly probed beneath my hair. Despite the crippled appearance of her hands, her touch was light and skillful.

"Ow !" I exclaimed as her probing elicited a sharp pain from the offending knot on my cranium. "What'd ya have to go and do that for?" I said sullenly, pulling away from her ministrations.

"Touchy aren't you?" she laughed. "Come on," she said, as she took me by the arm. "Let's get inside where I can call your folks."

"Oh, no you don't !" I exclaimed, attempting to dig my heels into the soft earth. "Don't call my Ma," I protested as she pulled me along, and finally, "Please maam." I was in for it, for sure, when my Mom found out what I had been up to.

But, plead as I might, it was to no avail. I doubt that a freight train could have stopped our forward momentum. Despite my protestations, both verbal and physical, I found myself entering the lair of the witch.

The warmth of the witch's house rushed to greet me as we stepped through the rear door to her home. I was enveloped by warmth and the smell of spices, a mingling of both sweet and tangy aromas. To my left was the dining room, the one that Bobby and I had been looking in on, and her kitchen. Straight ahead, through an archway, lay the living room. Hardly any of the unassuming white walls could be seen beneath all the shelves of knickknacks and pictures that adorned every inch of wall space. A lifetime of memories and living hung upon those walls.

As she propelled me ever forward to the front living space I caught fleeting glimpses of the objects which defined this woman's life. A photograph, yellowed with age, of a small woman in plain work-a-day clothing bent to her garden, another of that same woman circled by children, a beautiful porcelain angel perched delicately on the edge of a shelf, ribbons in various hues proudly proclaiming past glories in local county fairs. Where were the trappings of a witch? The pentagrams, the cauldrons, the charms, none of these things were evident in my short trip to the front of the house. I could practically hear Bobby whispering in my ear "Well, what'd ya expect? Witches are a crafty bunch. She's probably got 'em hid in another room."

"Plant yerself child. Give me the number at your ma's house." she commanded as she shoved me gently onto her sofa. "Won't be but a minute boy. Jasper keep an eye on things, you useless bit of fur," the witch finished as she turned to go back towards her kitchen.

I sat on the worn horsehair sofa, feeling the itchy prickles chaffing at my butt, as I hugged my knees. Jasper, the portly orange tabby that greeted my awakening, now sat beside me; his intent gaze never leaving me, his crooked tail, bent as if to form the letter J, twitching as if he were enjoying the hunt. Have you ever tried to stare down a cat? Can't be done. His emerald eyes seemed to be mocking me; as if to say, "Go ahead, just try to get up!" Just what I needed, a cat with an attitude.

From the other room I could hear the clanking and rattling of china, mixed with the soft tones of the witch's voice. What in God's name could she be up to now?

My curiosity was soon appeased when mother Esther returned to the front room bearing two china cups and saucers and sat her old haunches in the over stuffed chair to my left.

"Drink up child," she encouraged. "And, what am I to call you boy?" she inquired.

"Jimmy, maam," I replied, staring curiously into a chipped china cup decorated with overblown pink roses. The aroma of chocolate wafted upwards, tempting me. I was no fool though, the witch's nonsense could just as easily be disguised by the allure of chocolate. As if reading my mind, the old woman chuckled.

"Drink up young Jim. Tis nothin' to harm you in that cup. Only pleasure awaits your lips."

Hesitantly at first I sipped at the brew. My mouth was flooded with the steaming, rich flavor of chocolate and cinnamon. The best I had ever tasted. Peeking over the rim of the cup, I could not hold back the smile that played at my lips.

"Whatcha think was in there boy? Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails?" she laughed as she saw my shocked and guilty look. "You think you are the first boy that mother Esther has found skulking around under her windows? Lawd no! I know what people think about me. Yes indeed I do."

"But...but if you do? Then why do you let them go on thinking it?" I stammered, amazed at my forwardness.

"It suits me to let it be so, child," she sighed. "I am left alone here, to do as I see fit; and, that suits me just fine."

"But, don't you get lonesome out here? All by yourself I mean?"

"Lawd no. I have my friend," she said nodding her grizzled head at the imperious feline that continued to stand guard at my side. "And, I have my memories," She finished, inclining her head towards the mementos which adorned the walls. "All I ask for is peace, and to be left here to live out my days until I meet my maker. A body can't ask for more than that. That'd be your Ma," She finished, rising from her chair. I had not heard anyone approaching.

Well, like I said, that was nearly twenty years ago. And believe you me, I caught hell from my Ma that night. God rest her lovely soul. But, I never did meet up with the witch woman again. I dont know, must've been embarrassment that kept me from going out there again; or, perhaps a desire to respect her privacy. Perhaps, it was a combination of both. But, I never saw her again, that is until this day.

"205, radio," the scratchy voice over the patrol car radio intruded.

"Go ahead radio."

"Status."

"Code 4...out." My reply that all was well reminded me that I was here to take care of business, to perform a "welfare check" as it was known in my line of business. The county dispatch had received calls from the mail handler that all did not look well out at mother Esther's; the mail was still in the box after 3 days, the yard littered with newspapers.

I was here to see that the old girl was still alive and well. If she were unable to care for herself, my job would be to take her in for evaluation for placement in a nursing home. This wasn't sitting well with me; I remembered all too well that she wished to be left undisturbed.

I walked the drive to mother Esther's front porch with the sun beating down on my head, the crunch of the gravel loud beneath my boots. The weight of my service revolver against my right hip a familiar and old companion. I had been rehearsing my little speech to mother internally while my steps clicked off the space from my cruiser to the porch.

As my feet took the first steps up onto the wooden porch of her home, I finally looked up to see the witch sitting there in her chair, her head fallen over onto her left shoulder, her hands quiet upon her lap. The dance of the rocker had come to a close, the chair now still. Mother was quiet in her slumber.

In ten steps I was at her side, unsure of whether or not to disturb her. I knew I'd catch hell from my sergeant if I didnt finish up the call.

"Mother Esther," I called out to her softly, shaking her right arm gently. "I've come to call on you maam." The feel of her arm, flaccid within my grasp began to alarm me. Shaking her by the shoulders now, more insistently, I finally noticed the slackness of her features, the pale hues beneath the darkness of her coconut brown skin. Her chest still, no longer animated with breath. True to her word, the witch refused to leave her home, except to go to her maker.

"Peace be with you mother," I prayed as I returned her still hands to her old lap and prepared to return to the radio to call in my findings.

From beneath the rocker an orange striped, velvet paw reached out to swipe at my boots. In the space of a heartbeat the orange tabby shot out from beneath the rocker and settled its bulk in mother Esther's lap, growling and spitting at me all the while. Surely this couldn't be Jasper after all these years, I thought. It must be one of his offsprings.

"Thats O.K. puss," I crooned to the cat. "She is safe in your keeping." I finished, looking into the tabby's emerald eyes. As if in response to my words, the cat curled up in the witch's lap wrapping its tail around its body a crooked tail with an oddly shaped bend in the tip, like the letter J.