The Witch is Good

The Witch Is Good

           He didn’t wipe his feet.

“Blessed Newday!”  The Witch said, generous even at 9:00:00, as the first Newday customer stomped in, heedless of his slush-covered boots. He also ignored the warm, multicolored light orbs that floated around us, the sparkling, chiming, and sometimes floating product displays, the carefully wide-enough aisles, and the lavender haze of puffy magical cloud that floated above us and obscured the second floor. Most people, even the regulars, at least stopped to see what color the cloud was that day; not so, this first customer.

           He looked like every average man in town: that is, pale, well-rested, and long retired from any meaningful human interaction, draped in nice clothes and a face drawn down by years of scowling.

           “You! I need some help!” Naturally, he shouted.

           My body turned, and a wide smile reached across my face. “What can we help you with today, sir?”

“I need to return these Speedy Delivery Stamps,” he said, and thrust a tattered, stained bundle into my hands.

           “We are terribly sorry, sir. We are unable to accept returned Speedy Delivery Stamps for more than one week after purchase.” Any longer and The Witch would no longer make a profit—understandable, of course.

            He scoffed loudly. “Here we go,” he said, and he poked the pile in my hands emphatically. “Day’s not even started, and it’s already so much trouble.” He spoke over my left shoulder. “You don’t pay them, do you?”

           The Witch, at the counter behind me, gave as a polite, affirming mmm. “That’s right, sir,” she said. “But as you know, getting quality Helpers can be a difficult task. Why don’t you step on up to the counter, and I’ll see if I can help you.”

           She couldn’t, of course, not without opening the doors to a flood of other cheating customers. The spells in her glasses would tell her what the Time Measure spells embedded in my eyes told me: the stamps in question were two years old, and even if we wanted to accept them, the spell was too corroded. But The Witch was adept at managing difficult customers when the Helpers could not. She would recite back hollow platitudes until the man would walk away, seemingly disgruntled, satisfied in truth. I glanced at her, secretly pleased myself. My Maker was a Good Witch indeed.

           I let The Witch help the first customer and moved on to the next. Every Newday brought this: a horde of eager customers, refreshed by their first day off work and ready to make the most of their second. Customers with disposable incomes and time to spare. Customers so overfull of sticky, frothing life that as soon as they ran up against someone, the excess would slosh over onto the unfortunate contact.

           My body conducted cheerful, polite transactions.

           “Can you show me where the Spirit-Clearing Incense is, young Helper?” An old woman who looked like every average old woman tapped my elbow in time to her question.

           “Of course, ma’am. Let us walk you over there,” my voice offered gently. My body matched her slow, halting steps, and my voice made small, proper conversation all the while.

           “Oh, thank you, honey,” she said when she saw the glowing boxes of incense. “Thank you so much.” She turned to me and set her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers were grasping in a way that felt remarkably like the talons of the Life-sized Mechanical Courage Hawks in Aisle QC3. “I’m just so grateful we have a magic shop here in town. And with such good Helpers, too!” The talons removed themselves for a moment, only to return, once, twice. “You’re such a sweetheart!”

           “It’s our pleasure, ma’am,” my mouth said, and I sidled out of her hand before she could ask me to carry the boxes. This was not good. I could feel the edges of my core spell, the Customer Service spell, unraveling. I left the taloned woman behind me and walked with seeming purpose to Helper One. Helper One was the most senior of the Helpers, and thereby, the most dedicated to the cause. It had probably never seen a failing core spell in its existence.

           “Helper,” I said. “We require assistance.”

           “Oh my gods,” one of the nearby customers said, and she clutched at the arm of her friend. “Look at how they ask each other for help! That’s so cute!”

           Like all the Helpers, Helper One’s appearance was as nondescript as possible. It turned to me with the folded hands and sloped shoulders of deference. “Of course, Helper. How can we assist you today?”

           “The customer in Aisle YX9 requires assistance carrying her purchases,” I said. The corners of my mouth lifted, and my eyes crinkled convincingly at the corners. “We must retrieve more items from the storeroom.”

           Helper One smiled beatifically. “It would be our pleasure, Helper.”

           I walked to the storeroom 0.35 times faster than the recommended best practice. I did have to get something eventually; I had simply moved its retrieval up in the pre-enchanted schedule that floated somewhere in my Memory spells. The momentary lapse of people in the dimly lit storeroom was enough to let the edges of my Customer Service spell dissipate and reform. By the time I picked up the box of Optimistic Pencil Cases, I was ready to serve people with a smile.

           Fortunate, for no sooner did I open the door than I walked face-first into soft, velvet robes. “Helper Thirteen,” The Witch said. “Are you alright?” I felt the warmth in the question, both from her words and the quick, subtle Diagnostic spell she cast. Like all accomplished Witches, The Witch could accomplish this with no more than a healthy dose of willpower, unnoticeable to the average passerby. The Diagnostic spell ran up against the edges of the rebuilt Customer Service spell and returned to The Witch. I smiled in relief; my weaknesses had not been detected.

           “I’m fine, thank you. And you?” I asked politely.

           She gave me her patent, brilliant smile. “I’m serving my community, Helper Thirteen,” she said, a trace of reproach in her voice, and I stepped away, stricken. “Nothing could make me happier.” I heard an admiring sigh from somewhere behind her. 

           “I will stock the shelf with these,” I said quickly. I left behind The Witch to her admirers, a young wix mentee and their parent. The attention was well-deserved. The Witch was a Good Witch who provided important services to the grateful community around her. She was a generous donor to the local library and food pantry; she volunteered as a mentor for young witches, wizards, and wixes; she braved the snow on winter mornings to clear old people’s driveways with a flourish of her wand. Most importantly, everyone in town loved the charming, two-story Shop of Good Magic, especially on Newday.

And me? My job was to support the only person who had ever called me by name. With the renewed Customer Service spell bolstering the cogs in my innards, I restocked the Optimistic Pencil cases, more determined than ever to get Newday right this time. Last week, my performance had been abysmal. I’d served 238 customers (7.3 less than industry standard), restocked 20 different goods (3.4 less than industry standard), packed up 10 mail orders and sent them to the post office via Animated Eagle, and answered the Callspello 40 times, and of those 40 times, answered the question, “Do you sell Tax Assistance Pens?” 28 times.

     Pathetic.

     “Excuse me, do you work here?” It was the girl who I had seen earlier, arm in arm with her friend, a tall person dressed in wix robes. They were both giggling like little gremlins.

     “We do,” my mouth said, and gave them a polite smile. The giggling increased in volume.

     “Oh my gods, it’s so cute,” the wix said in what was probably meant as an undertone, but was audible to the entire aisle. “I just want to take it home with me!”

           “Oh my gods, shut up,” the girl said. She moved forward until I could feel the unnatural heat of her organic body and raised her hand between us, palm up. “Can I return this letter opener?” The Human Connection Letter Opener had been removed from its packing, so the spell had ostensibly been activated, but I was fairly sure thoughtless oblivion was built into her personality. I reached up gingerly and folded my fingers around the cool metal handle. The girl stroked my hand, grinning, and her friend clapped.

Something inside me audibly clicked, and just like that, I was no longer perfect. The girl backed away hastily. My head nodded reassuringly, but my mind spun itself into frenetic loops. The Customer Service spell was unraveling again, already, and faster this time.

“Excuse us,” I said, and I backed away. “Another customer requires assistance.”

           “What was that—”

           “I’m sorry about that,” The Witch’s smooth voice cut in behind me. “I’ll be sure to shut the unit down for a complete overhaul.” Before the girl could reply, she continued, “I’m delighted to see you at the shop of Good Magic. You’re lucky! We’re offering a 30% back to school discount for witches, wizards, wixes, and their groups today.” When I looked back, the pair of them were clustered over a glowing scroll, oohing and aahing. The Witch met my eyes and nodded. She’d made it better. She always did.

#

I answered the last Callspello message at 6:58:57, just before a burst of golden sparks and a fanfare from the lavender clouds sent the customers scurrying out the door for the night. The Witch locked the door behind them with a well-directed thought. She went into the office to close the books while the Helpers methodically cleaned and organized the store for Oldday.

As I restacked the Tidiness Sponges, I realized there was a discrepancy in my Calculated Sales spell for the day. I’d forgotten to log the returned Human Connection Letter Opener. I would have to talk to The Witch. I painstakingly adjusted the last sponge, keeping my head down; she would be disappointed.

I waited until the other Helpers left me behind, unquestioning of my delay. Helpers didn’t make mistakes, after all—that is, no Helper except me. The good Helpers let the Moving Stairs spell carry them upstairs, lowered themselves flat, and went dormant in their boxes. Then I fished out the letter opener from the pocket I had carelessly left it in, gripped it in my right hand, and brushed through the Look Elsewhere spells to The Witch’s office.

           The Witch’s eyes snapped up to meet me. The sugary smile was gone now, replaced by something that my Intuition spells could not interpret. Concern? Irritation?

           “Helper Thirteen,” she said. “How did you get in here?” Her magic twitched and the automatic SUM spells floating between us moved to her translucent desk. I stared down at the crawling green numbers, unwilling to meet her gaze.

           “Look up, Helper,” she commanded.

           I could not look up, I realized with mortification. Somehow, the Structural Imitation spells in my bones had failed me, and my head bowed down towards the floor.

           “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

           I heard the quick step of her boots across the floor. I felt the heat of her body, too close for comfort. I felt the lines of tidy, powerful magic which always accompanied her.

           “You’ll do what I tell you. How did you get in here?”

The world changed, all at once. My bones melted into an inferno. My steel heart buckled. And I watched my right arm move through the air in a swift arc.

The Witch inhaled sharply, and her magic pricked at my skin. I looked up. She was standing before me, hand outstretched, fingers splayed as if to ward off a blow. Across her palm, a thin line of blood looked accusingly back at me.

           “Why?” she asked, and when I looked at her, I saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “We help people. I made you to help people!”

           The Human Connection Letter Opener fell from my trembling fist and onto the floor.

           “You don’t understand!” My voice cracked with the raw, miserable truth of it. “You will never understand!”