In the World of the White Witch

It is a new year, and I find myself traveling on a snowy night. I’m alone tonight. I miss my friends, but sometimes you have to find your own way. So tonight, fueled by the hopes and dreams for this new year, I find myself walking alone through the snowy forest. I am in no hurry. These woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

Maybe this will be my year. What more do I need than I already have?

And yet I’m still restless, so tonight I walk this path.

I come upon a curious fork in the dark woods. It’s cold and dark. My boots are wet from trudging through the snow. I know it’s almost time to head back, but at least I have time to go just a little further. So for a long moment, I look down the two paths that split in different directions, and I am at a loss for where to go.

To my left, the trail meanders into an ever-thickening forest with stern, gloomy trees like sentinels. Something about this path makes me shudder, even though I feel its allure.

I cast my gaze down the other path winding away to my right, where it also disappears into the dark and deep woods. This path is about the same, though, to my fancy, a bit less traveled. So, I decide to take it and almost do.

Almost...

But then I hear a jingling. Looking back to the left, I listen to the tinny sound emanating from the dark, sentinel trees I had noticed earlier. As I watch, a horse-drawn sleigh appears, lit by flickering torches, driven by a beautiful, commanding woman in white. Did I say beautiful? More than that. The dark trees frame her glorious sled, which lights the dark world around her with rosy fire. Above all, she stands, with imperious command, whip in hand. Tall and lean, she dazzles, her white arms raised, her long hair blowing in the wild wind. She is no Santa Claus jolly on his own merry sleigh, but a powerful and untamed. Fierce as creation, she stands tall, her white arms flash-ing as she snaps the whip, her dark eyes commanding, her red lips parted. She looks directly at me.

You've probably heard of her as the White Witch. And while it's true that she wears white, and her hair is so blond it could be white, I am sure she is no witch. Once you’ve looked at her, you can’t look away. You would never want to. But unlike Medusa, it’s her beauty that pulls you in. Until now, I never understood beauty. It’s something ferocious and powerful and wonderful. It’s something that pulls you in so powerfully, you know it immediately because you have never felt stirred like this before.

Let's set the record straight. I know what others have said about her, but I would never call her a witch. Perhaps she isn't perfect. Who is? Maybe she comes from a world of different expecta-tions.

I just ask you to consider how stories get out of hand. Stories grow, and as rumors sow terrible seeds, the truth gets left behind. The truth is that for all her beauty and power and utter con-fidence, I fear she is sad. These traits have kept her lonely and locked her heart in a stone vault.

But I sense who she is. I don’t know how this can be. I don’t deserve it, but I can feel her reaching out. “You are the one,” I imagine her whisper. “I have been waiting for you.”

Did I mention she has Turkish Delight? She offers it to me on a silver plate. The sugar crystals sprinkled on it sparkle and shimmer. My tongue waters, and believe me, there is nothing sweeter in the world.

And now she speaks. Her voice is low, but sweet as Turkish Delight. “Come to me.” She presses her blood red lips into a smile. “Come to me.”

Is she asking me or commanding me? I could say no if I wanted—if I were a fool. Those who believe the rumors about her might try to persuade me to turn around and run as fast as possi-ble.

But she holds out her hand for me to join her. Her fingers are long and the nails red to match her lips. I try to look away. In my mind, I hear my friends calling, “Beware, Beware.”

Please, understand. My old life offers me safety and comfort, but courage involves taking chances, taking new paths, and stepping into the sled with my lovely, lonely, and misunderstood queen.

I know most people would give their lives for this chance. If they could relive the paths of their life and switch places with me, they wouldn’t hesitate.

So it’s simple. This is my path.

Wish me well. You don't want me to spend my life asking what if. You want the best for me. I believe that of you.

And of her, too. It feels so good to say that. This path will make all the difference.

So here goes. I take a big breath and put my foot on the first step. The horses suddenly neigh and stamp their feet. I take one more step. A chill wind slashes through the trees, and the torches flicker and dim, and now she is a giant shadow above me. Her hand grasps mine. Oh, it's so cold, so crushing, I want to cry out, but my eyes see only her shadowy face with only the sharp, white teeth showing.

She is not a witch. As I have said, she is not perfect.

She needs the warmth of love.

So now I am in the sled, safely held by her, clutched by her inhuman strength. I want to say, “I am here for you. I will serve you always.”

I want to hear her voice saying, “I know. It’s okay.”

Instead, I hear the crack of a whip.

The sled surges away.