Revealing my Name

That was quite a ride. I’ve ridden along plenty of times, every time, for ages, but yesterday was different. It was… yeah, it was different.

I’m Jinx. That’s the name you know me by, but T.S. Eliot got it right. Three names. One that all of you know, in my case, Jinx, one that is known to my community, a name we generally don’t tell you, but we can, and we do if we will, and I will. And the third, known only to me.

The name I share with those who are like me, the name different than any of their names… I’ll get to that. First, let me tell you about last night. It was the ride unlike any other.

We always go out on Halloween night, climbing up to just the underside of the clouds if there are clouds, or else, off to the left of the moon if it’s full, or cradled in the crescent if it’s not, and if we are noticed, it’s only as one notices a speck on the evening breeze. I ride on the bristles, and as I ride, my mistress and self rise in circles, once, twice, and once more makes up three, rising until we are simply carried, held in the shadow, in the breeze.

I’ve been gazing down the whole time, but now it’s she and I in concert, scanning from horizon to horizon, watching the night streets and alleys for potentials. Is there a child roaming in costume alone? Is there a young person, estranged from those around her? Is there someone angry enough to tear away from the safety of the well worn paths? These are the ones we look for. Often a child, but we have been known to find an occasional young person, or even parent who’s attention has swayed, just for a moment. In any of those moments we see the potential. That person alone, isolated in their thoughts from all that surrounds them. That person, the potential whom we seek.

It will happen in a moment, the parent whose mind is mesmerized, the teenager silently screaming against the night, the child sitting on the curb to dig through her bag of candy, his bag of candy, to dig through their bag of candy, unaware of anything other than finding that one piece that would taste just right and just right now. That as the teenager bolts from an imagined or too real assault, driven by ego, off to find her true self, but away from her so-called friends, as the mother drives her mind into the screen in her hand, forgetting that she drives her own self slowly down the road in a vehicle far heavier than she actually comprehends. And in the convergence of the one, the teenager in a rage; of the two, the teenager in a rage and the child on the corner, knees to chin as she roots through her treasure; and the one more that makes up three, the mother who in that critical moment sees only the glowing rectangle of an email about the latest video with the newest recipe for the different way to prepare a side dish for the soon to be or never to happen upcoming Thanksgiving, and not seeing the road in front of her; it is in the convergence of the three that we see everything we need. The potential.

It was seven years ago when we saw another potential. It was one alone, out in a yard, approaching a door to knock, to ring the bell, to hold up a pillowcase and speak to the stranger with a mighty, “Trick or Treat!” That night we called up the sky, and from the one cloud overhead, sent a lightning bolt that split the old, desiccated tree in the yard; the tree that fell on the child, the potential.

It was five years ago that we saw the teenage boy, out on his own, separated from his gang, with a fistful of firecrackers, flicking the lighter when we conjured up a stone, a stumble, and the flame caught the fuse closer than was planned. As he regained his step, the unnoticed burn exploded and tore through skin and sinew. One more potential.

It was three years ago. We caused havoc again as we found our one, our potential.

It was two years ago, outside of the church where the party was to be.

It was last night. A child whose feet dangled into the street, a teen seeing red as she crossed the road, the mother who was only physically driving the car, it was then that we saw it. The potential.

I haven’t told you my second name. My mistress learned it last night as we drew our work to its close, two minds as one, to reach, to harness the potential. She learned it last night because last night was a ride unlike any other.

Seven years ago, as the lightning struck, as the tree split, as the child fell, we knew she would be brought, broken and safe, to a hospital. We knew that as the tree split, her fate had also split from itself. She never reached the door, she never knocked or said “Trick or Treat” to the lady waiting inside, and the dog at it’s owner’s heels never smelled it, that one odor that would have driven it to attack an innocent. We knew the potential, and in that crashing moment, we brought her seventy more years of life.

Five years ago, the explosion that tore through his hand did not happen on the dried wood of the porch, with the not yet removed autumn leaves and bedraggled summer flowers in their pot. The family inside their home carried on, and last night, they handed out candy again, safe as houses. We saw the potential.

There is always a price to be paid. This is how sorcery works. It’s how we tend to the potential. The potentials. It’s how we craft the change.

We are of one mind, my mistress and I. As her thoughts are mine, so are mine hers. And we knew all we had to do. As the car moved, as the teenager crossed the street, as the child found her piece of candy, we slipped down, tilted just enough, and I launched from the bristles, through branches, and onto the face of the teenager. She screamed, throwing me away from herself. And I, as we knew would happen, careened into the windshield, startling the driver who pulled up short as she saw the approaching corner. The little princess, intent and unknowing, pulled the prize from her bag. The teenager, bloodied and raw, no breath left in her lungs, took a step forward and opened her throat to unleash an unspoken “No!!!”

There is always a cost. I lay mangled on the side of the road. My mind, the mind of my mistress. And as I let out a sigh, she knew the name that I share with my kind. I am PotenRiderSims. She knows me. She knew me. Her familiar.

This was a night unlike any other. This was a ride unlike any other. This was a cost unlike any other.

I returned late this morning. Mistress felt me before I arrived, and she wheeled in the doorway to gather me to myself. “Hello PotenRiderSims,” she smiled. “Welcome home, Jinx.”

And that is our life. We find and move among the potentials. Who knows what will happen next? Last night I learned the meaning of life as it slipped away, as my mistress found my name, as a scared child dropped a piece of candy running home to her family, as a teenager with a newly scarred face returned to her friends, as a mom put down her phone to see where her car clipped a tree. And today, I have returned to rejoin my mistress, ready again to ride the tail of a broom, to balance, to seek and to craft, and ready again to give all I can. And I can, you know. Eight more times.