LJ Idol Season 7: Week 24; Bats in the Belfry
There was a knock at the door, which surprised the old woman since she wasn’t expecting anyone. That was nothing new, she was never expecting anyone to come knocking upon her door these days. She glanced through the peephole and saw a face that she did not recognize. Two dark, but very sad eyes were on the other side of the peephole. The sadness is what made her give in and open the door just a crack.
A sliver of sunshine raced across the dark wood floor as if it was trying to banish the darkness from within, though it did little good in a house as dark as hers. Several cats made their way to the open door, but the old woman gently nudged them back inside with her foot.
“Yes?” She wasn’t exactly sure what to say to the woman with the sad looking eyes who stared back at her like she expected her to bite off her head or something.
“Nyoman?” The woman said carefully, as if she was trying too hard to pronounce the name just right.
“Yes? That’s me...” This time, curiosity spiked her voice instead of annoyance. How did this person know her name? She kept her name hidden like most people do their shame, even going as far as not posting it on her mailbox. Most people simply knew her as “Mary”, a name she adopted to try to blend in with the rest of society when she did venture outside of her home. It made things simpler, helped people to forget about the stories they heard about the old “witch” that used to live in these parts.
"I....I heard you could help us..." The woman was nervous, it showed clearly in those eyes of hers. She wasclearly scared to find herself knocking upon the old woman’s door that day, but she did it anyway for one reason or another, and Nyoman was curious what had brought her here.
"Help you?" she snorted. "How on Earth can I help you?"
"I can't believe it's come to this, I must be crazy...or desperate...or both...". The woman was stammering away but still never answering the question at hand.
“I don’t have all day, child...Could you get to the point already? And stop stuttering like a drunken fool, I don’t have time for this...” She was just about to close the door and leave the girl out there to stutter to herself all day, but she was cut off.
"It's my son...he's only two years old..."
Nyoman’s ears perked up at the mention of a child “Go on.”
"He's very, very ill...He won't eat anything, he can't even keep liquids down. He's so thin and frail." Tears flowed from her eyes, racing down her cheeks. " I have nowhere else to go... The doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with him."
Before Nyoman had a chance to think it through, she glanced at the car parked out front her door. There was a man off to one side holding a boy...a tiny, frail excuse for a child who looked near death. The old woman opened the door wider.
“Please, bring him inside and let me have a look at him...”
“Oh my word...He is a very sick child indeed...What’s his name?” Nyoman ddn’t have to be a doctor to see that the boy was very weak, he didn’t even fuss like a typical child of his age as she examined him.
“Jonathan. Jonathan Peterson....” The mother answered, never taking her eyes off the boy. “Please tell me you know what to do?”
“MmmHmmm “ Nyoman quickly made her rounds through the kitchen, gathering different herbs and combining them into a bowl. She hummed to herself as she went to work, mixing and matching bottles of this with bottles of that, none of which made any sense to the parents as they watched her work her magic.
“If I may ask, how did you hear about me? I haven’t been practicing for many years.” Nyoman was curious, since she kept her practices a secret in this day and age, people didn’t take too kindly to those who meddle with herbs and roots mixed with a religion that they don’t understand.
“My grandmother...she was hesitant to speak of you, but said you often helped cure her kids of their ailments with the use of your....potions and tonics.” She spoke the last words as if she couldn’t believe what she was saying or doing in that moment.
“Ahh I see, my dear...” Nyoman found the mothers reaction rather humorous considering what she dealt in was more homeopathic medicine and less about witches brews. However, that was to be expected from a society that didn’t take the time to learn about what she actually did do.
Nyoman hadn’t helped people in years. Her once thriving practice was no longer public. She no longer performed her healing on anyone, afraid of the consequences if anyone knew what she was capable of. Most people just assumed she was an eccentric at best, a crazy old lady at worst and left her well enough alone these days. The threats against her had stopped just short of a decade ago after the gossip died down as she ceased her practices, changed her name and hid herself away inside her house.
Nyoman picked up a bottle of red liquid and put a little on her finger to smell. She smiled in satisfaction and poured half the bottle in her mixture.
“What is that?” The mother asked, her obvious uneasiness showing in her voice.
“Oh just a little bat’s blood for good measure...”
“Bats....blood...?” Mrs. Peterson shot a glance toward her husband and looked ready to run out the door at that moment.
“Calm down...it’s just a little herbalist humor to lighten the mood” Nyoman said with a chuckle. “It’s a combination of crushed herbs and oils...” She continued chuckling to herself as she continued on with her work.
The woman didn’t look so sure, but her husband was trying to stifle a laugh at his wife’s naivety. Though Nyoman noticed that he also looked a little squeamish at the mention of the bat’s blood at first, he wasn’t going to admit to falling for the joke himself.
“Lay the child down here.” She motioned toward a table surrounded by sweet smelling oils.
“It’s okay, sweetie...Mommy will be right here...” She whispered in his ear as she wiped a tendril of hair from his face. She stepped away from her son as she wiped a tear from her eyes and put on a brave face.
Nyoman then started her ritual that consisted of dabbling the oils on his head and stomach while chanting something in a language that the family could not understand. Her ritual required him to drink several concoctions, and to the Peterson’s surprise, he actually kept it all down without an issue.
After several moments of silently observing the child and feeling around his stomach, she smiled gently at the boy.
“All will be well soon, my child” Nyoman turned to the parents and shared a smile with them as well to signify that her healing ritual was complete.
“What were you chanting?” The father’s voice wavered a bit.
“It was only a prayer for your son. The real magic is in the herbal medicine, which is simply something to soothe his stomach and stimulate his appetite.”
The parents still looked unsure but they took her herbal concoctions to drizzle into his food for several days since they were already out of hope. Modern medicine had failed them many times before, what other choice did they have but to try this? They left the old woman’s house with their “magical” mixture in tow, not knowing what to expect in the coming days.
A week later, there was a knock on her door. This time, the face was a familiar one.
“Mrs. Peterson,” Nyoman greeted her with a warm smile. “How is Jonathan?”
She was anxious to hear of the boy’s condition. Though she knew her mixture of herbs was the correct one, she also knew that different bodies reacted differently. Without so much as a word, Mrs. Peterson threw her arms around Nyoman and hugged her fiercely. Nyoman smiled and hugged her back. A few moments later, Mrs. Peterson released her and stepped back, a sheepish smile on her face.
“Thank you,” she said. “I may not understand it, but I don’t need to. I just wanted to say… thank you. Thank you for saving my son.”
Nyoman blushed beneath the weight of the woman’s praise. Mrs. Peterson removed some money from her purse and offered it to her. Nyoman refused to take it.
”I was happy to help, child,” she said. “I do not charge for helping those in need. It’s what I do.”
“I insist,” the woman said, setting the money down on a side table near the door. “And I hope you don’t mind but I told a few of my friends all about you and your healing powers. Some of them want to see you about some of their own problems.”
Nyoman smiled and thanked the woman, but inwardly cringed, knowing the sort of backlash that would likely come about if word about her and her practices spread. Mrs. Peterson meant well, Nyoman knew, but did not understand the situation and the dangers it presented for her.
People have never really been fond of those things of which they don’t understand.
The backlash was not long in coming.
“There shall not be found among you anyone ....that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer.”
The man’s body pressed close to hers, pinning her against the wall, his breath coming in hot bursts like a slap in the face. The smell of whisky was evident on his breath, hatred and rage looming in his eyes.
“Deuteronomy 18: 10-11, witch,” he said with a sneer, emphasizing that last word as if it was the gravest insult known to man.
“I am different,” she said, desperate to be away from him. “But by no means am I evil nor am I a witch.”
She knew from the way he looked at her, the rage still present in his eyes, that she would not be able to talk sense into this man. Her heart was beating hard within her breast and she tried to squeeze past him but he only pressed into her harder.
”Please,” she said.
“You are absolutely crazy if you think that playing God, pretending that you can heal the sick with your herbs and some words muttered in the Devil’s tongue will be tolerated,” he spat. “Dabbling in the dark arts and consorting with Satan like you do carries consequences, witch.”
“Please,” she begged. “I’m no witch. I’m merely an herbalist and a midwife, I swear to you...”
The man lashed out, his hand connecting with the side of her face. Her cheek burned from the impact. He slapped her again and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She started to speak, which earned her another slap and another and another.
“I will not listen to the Devil speak through your mouth any longer,” his voice was low, smoldering. “Revelations, 21:8, But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable…”
He wrapped his hands around her throat, the zeal in his eyes burning brighter than ever.
“… as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars…”
Strong hands began to squeeze harder and harder, air becoming more difficult to come by and her energy to fight flagging.
“…their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”
Darkness crept in at the corner of her vision and slowly descended over her like the blanket of night.