The Young Witch

Most fairy tales known to man feature witches. 

They always paint my kind in a darker shade, the villain of the story, the root of all misfortunes, the cause of earth's damnation.

They forgot one thing: black is not the only color in existence. 

There's good and bad in every species. It's what keeps the wheel of life hanging in the balance.  

My tale started when I came of age. 

Like typical fairy tale stories, when the heroines came of age, I was supposed to use my feminine charm to seduce strong men to earn their protection so that I could live happily ever after. Except that my life is anything but a fairy tale. If there's any consolation, at least I'm the hero in my story and not the evil witch depicted in most books.

*****

My full power was unlocked on my sixteenth birthday, or so I was told. 

Mom took me to the makeshift library in the coven, where she spent her nights when she was not traveling. She guided me to one of the single-seater couches and sat on the opposite side facing me. In her hand was a thick brown book with a laminated cover. The front cover was adorned by a few sprigs of lavender stuck on what looked like a miniature version of a tropical fruit covered by rough, leathery peel and sharp leaves. A crisscrossed purple ribbon bound it together. 

She looked at me affectionately and said, "This is my birthday present for you, my princess. It's a grimoire, your grimoire," emphasizing the word "your." She handed me the book, and I removed the ribbon to see what it looked like inside. It was empty, and the pages were made of thick, handcrafted materials. 

I thanked her, and I could see the pride and something else in her eyes, like fear or worry. I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts; I must have been overthinking. 

"From today, you can cast your own spells, create potions, or recreate older ones, only stronger. You can perform rituals, and document everything magical. Use this grimoire, your very own," Mom said lovingly, just like a prayer. "Promise me you will be careful, Agatha. You can use my grimoire too," she waved her hand, and a thick, faded, and slightly tattered book with a few scratches and yellowish pages appeared, suspended in the air. She took it and handed it to me. 

"No, mom. I can't take it. You need them more than I do." I tried to push her grimoire back to her, but she refused. I don't like the idea of her handing me her valuable possessions. It's like.....  

"Listen to me, Agatha." She suddenly became serious, breaking my train of thought. "You have to take this grimoire, but you must keep it hidden. Protect it with your life. Do you understand?" she instructed me in a voice slightly above a whisper. Her hands trembled as she placed them on top of mine. She looked tense and rushed. Something was not right. 

"Read it in secret and master all the spells for your protection," she said. "Witches and warlocks will hunt you from today. Your age is ripe." Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she muttered those words I didn't even understand. She caressed my cheek and kissed my forehead; her warm lips stayed there for a few seconds.

Before I could ask about my age being ripe, she continued. 

"You are a white witch, Agatha. The most powerful one there is. You are the descendant of the most powerful she-demon ever lived. Many supernatural creatures will try to harvest your power or force you to produce an heir for them." 

I was dumbfounded. All these years, Mom has been talking about the prophecy, how the white witch will unite all the supernatural species, and how an eight-hundred-year-old warlock who locked himself with a seer inside a pentagram pendant only to awaken when the white witch came of age... It's all about me. She has been preparing me all along.

"You are my princess, Agatha, If I ...."