Diary of Anna the Girl Witch 1: Foundling Witch

C
opyright
(C) 2016 by Max Candee

All rights reserved
www.MaxedoutKid.com

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, businesses, works of art, or locales is entirely coincidental.

D
ear Uncle Misha
,

How are you? My thirteenth birthday is coming up. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten about it. For some reason, I’m actually looking forward to my birthday this year. How are the bears this spring? Are the new cubs driving Mama Bear crazy? I wish I could see how big they are.

I
dropped
my pen and crumpled the paper. It was no use. The last letter I had sent to Uncle Misha sat unopened on my desk, just returned by the post office. The envelope was rumpled and torn. I held it to my nose; it smelled faintly of city streets, like smoke and people and gas fumes. Postmarks from a dozen towns had nearly blacked out the address I’d neatly scripted over three months ago. How I envied that little envelope! It had been all the way to the northern wilds of Russia and back. If it could speak, it would have quite a tale to tell.

I sighed. It was a wobbly sigh because my chest was tight with tears. I put the envelope in my desk drawer along with all the others. Over the past year, almost every letter I’d sent to Uncle Misha was returned unopened. Even the ones that hadn’t come back had yielded no replies from my mysterious uncle. I was very worried about him.

Uncle Misha was the closest thing I had to a family. He lived in Siberia (that’s the eastern part of Russia), where he trapped ermines and sables from which furriers would make coats and hats. I remembered that he had a black, bushy beard and eyebrows that wiggled like caterpillars; I also remembered his booming, coarse voice and his terse manner of speaking – although sometimes he sounded strangely lyrical. But not much else.

I was only six years old when Uncle Misha dropped me off at the Luyons Orphanage, which was right next door to my current school, Collège du Parc Cézanne.

Even though he lived kilometers from any town, Uncle Misha always sent me a present on my birthday. He never forgot. And his presents were extra special because they were things he made, like fur-lined mittens or a necklace fashioned from a leather thong and a stone with a hole in it that he had found. He gave me that necklace last year, and I wore it all the time. Uncle Misha said that stones with natural holes were very rare and they were eyes into the spirit world. He called that stone with a hole a dream stone, and I believed him. Only I wasn’t having any special dreams, at least not yet.

Uncle Misha was quite attuned to the spirit world. To live all alone in the wild with only animals and ghosts for company, he had to be. That was how he found me. He said that a spirit had told him to look in a bear den.

“Now you have to be a little daft to wake a sleeping bear,” he would say whenever I asked him to tell my story. We called it the Anna Sophia Story; until I was six and sent away, I made him tell it a hundred times.

“The spirit of a beautiful woman came to me in the night,” he told me.

“And what did the spirit look like?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“Well, spirits don’t always have shape or colors. But I could tell she was beautiful because a gentle, calm light was coming from her, and she had a scent like the wind blowing over snowy plains. And she spoke. Her voice was as sweet as a spring bubbling from the ground. She told me to go look in old Mama Bear’s den at the foot of Blind Wolf Bluff. So I did. And do you know what I found?”

I already knew, but I shook my head anyway, eager to hear it again.

“I found a tiny baby wrapped in furs, all nestled together with the other cubs, right under Mama Bear’s nose. She was only a few weeks old, that baby.”

And that’s how Uncle Misha had found me. A human baby asleep with the bears. Uncle Misha said I must have been a bear in another life because they had accepted me as one of their own. Maybe one day, I would be able to see into the spirit world through my dream stone. Maybe I would see the lady who had left me with the bears. Was she that beautiful spirit of calm light and pleasant smell? I really wanted to know where I had come from.

The only clue I have to her existence is a tiny necklace that was around my neck. It had a locket, and inside that locket was a note with my name and birthday and instructions to contact one Monsieur Fabrice Nolan of Geneva for my inheritance. Uncle Misha couldn’t travel with a small baby in the middle of the winter, so he kept me wrapped in furs until spring.

“But by then, I couldn’t bear to let you go,” he told me. “‘Next spring,’ I said, ‘when she’s a little bigger. Then I’ll take her to Geneva.’”

He said that to himself every spring for six years until he knew that he could wait no longer. I needed to go to school. In the wilds of Siberia, we had no modern books or computers because Uncle Misha lived a secluded life and disliked technology. He said it distracted people from the real world and made them forget who they were. And though Uncle Misha could teach me many things, he couldn’t teach me algebra, chemistry, and all those other subjects that kids learn in school. So he took me to Geneva.

At first, I lived in the Luyons orphanage and went to the public school in town. They had a special program for foreigners like me to learn French. I liked the language and was able to learn it fast. Last year, I entered the Collège du Parc Cézanne. Monsieur Nolan, it turned out, was a solicitor. My parents, whoever they were, had left my inheritance in his care. He wouldn’t tell me exactly what my inheritance was, but I had enough money to go to that private school.

That first summer in Geneva, Uncle Misha took me shopping for new clothes. The shops seemed like a marvel of colors, sounds, and smells to me. I’d never worn anything but homespun fabrics and furs before. Uncle Misha bought me an entire wardrobe: shoes, hats, pants, and jackets. Next, we went to the bookstore, where he bought me all the textbooks I’d need for school plus my first coloring book and crayons. He was careful to keep every receipt so that Monsieur Nolan wouldn’t think he was stealing money from my account.

I was only six, so I didn’t understand why Monsieur Nolan would be so impressed by Uncle Misha’s honesty. Wasn’t everyone honest?

I would soon learn that they weren’t.

D
ear Diary
,

I am very worried about Uncle Misha. He hasn’t written to me in nearly a year. I used to send him a letter once a month, but almost all his letters have been returned to me unopened. Besides hearing about the newest bear cubs and how deep the snow is this year in Siberia, I miss writing to him. I have thoughts that fly all over like bats scattering at sunset. These thoughts get ordered when I write them down. Writing is cathartic. That means it provides relief through artistic expression. Monsieur Prideux, my English professor, gives us a new word every week, and we are supposed to use it in conversation. This week’s word is
cathartic
, and it made me realize how much I miss writing.

I still hope that Uncle Misha will contact me again. I want him to know all about my life, every detail. So I’m going to keep this journal for him. One day, I’ll be able to put it right in his hands, and after we laugh and hug, he’ll be able to read all about what I’ve been doing since we last spoke.

Right now, I’m stressing over my birthday party. I turn thirteen tomorrow. It’s such an odd number, thirteen. Some say it’s unlucky, but I don’t agree. For the first time in years, I’m actually looking forward to my birthday. Thirteen is going to be a big year for me. I can feel it in my bones.

It’s not that I am turning into a teenager or just looking forward to the birthday party as any girl would. It’s an… anticipation. Anticipation of something life-altering. It feels strangely mature (don’t laugh). And yes, it even makes me excited about my birthday party – for once!

This strange feeling has made me notice things, too. Things I have never noticed before. For example, I can see the moon, any time of the day or night. I know that the moon circles the earth, so I shouldn’t be able to see it all the time. And yet, anytime I look at the sky, there it is, sparkling brilliantly at night and fainter during the day.

Strange, right?

Maybe it’s an optical illusion? I haven’t asked anyone about my moon visions. Here at the Collège, I don’t know anyone well enough to tell them such an important secret. And the kids from the orphanage can be tough at times. I don’t want to give them a chance to tease me.

I can’t wait to see what the moon looks like on my birthday. But first, I have to get through the birthday party. That means facing Jean-Sébastien and his nasty bag of tricks…

I
awoke early
on the morning of my thirteenth birthday. Everyone was still asleep when I tiptoed up the stairs and slipped out the balcony door of my dormitory’s highest floor. The flagstones of the balcony were cold on my bare feet. The sky was that bruised color right before dawn. I wanted to watch the sun come up on my four thousand seven hundred and forty-eighth day on this earth. Wow. Saying it like that made me feel old. But inside, I was buzzing with energy.

The sun peeked over the mountains. I peered at it through my dream stone, wondering if the power of the sunrise would finally activate the magic in the stone. As the sun rose a bit higher, I squinted through the hole in the stone, lining up the light perfectly. Nothing happened. The sun just glared at me like a big accusing eye.

“Why aren’t you still in bed asleep like the other children?” it seemed to ask.

“Because I’m not a child anymore. I’m thirteen today!” I wanted to crow from the balcony, but that would have awakened grouchy old Sister Constance, our housemother. Not a good idea. So, I watched the sunrise in silence, thinking,
This is my year!

After a few minutes, the sun faded from its brilliant morning red to a softer pastel yellow. I turned the dream stone to the west and found the moon, just as I knew I would. It was a skinny crescent that seemed to hang in the sky from a hook. I peered at it through my dream stone – and for an instant, I thought I could see the outline of the full moon.
Strange.
Then I blinked, and the sight was gone.

I sighed. Turning thirteen hadn’t activated the magic in my dream stone as I’d hoped. But I was sure that something miraculous would happen to me this year.

C
lasses that morning
were unbearably long. Because of a teacher’s vacation, we had only a half day. But even that bit of school was too much since I knew that my friends had planned a party for the afternoon. At lunchtime, we were finally free!

I passed Gaëlle on the way back to my room. We’d been best friends at the orphanage until last year when I moved into the Collège dorm and Gaëlle was adopted by Monsieur and Madame Montmorency, or André and Marie as they insisted the children call them. Gaëlle was only a day student at the Collège now, and we no longer got to share a room and stay up all night talking.

“Don’t be late for the party,” I called to her.

“I won’t,” said Gaëlle. “By the way, André and Marie are bringing a special treat.”

I didn’t know how I felt about that, but Gaëlle smiled, showing the deep dimple on her right cheek. I wouldn’t say anything bad about her adoptive parents, though, especially since I really had no reason not to like them.

“Great,” I said, mustering cheer that I didn’t feel. “I’ll see you at the beach then!”

I ran upstairs to change into my bathing suit and beach wrap. That’s one of the best things about having your birthday in June: beach parties.

Downstairs, some of the other girls from my dorm waited with Sister Constance. The old housemother had exchanged her usual black dress and white apron for something more festive: a brown dress and grey apron. Lauraleigh stood beside her, holding a huge picnic basket.

Lauraleigh was our hall monitor. She was eighteen and would graduate that same year. I thought that she was terribly beautiful. She was everything I wasn’t: tall, slim, with long, blond hair that fell in lovely straight lines. My hair was orange and curly. Lauraleigh had creamy skin. I had freckles. When she walked, she looked as graceful as a willow tree blowing in the wind. I was lucky if I didn’t trip over my own feet. I would have hated her for being so perfect if she hadn’t been so nice.

“There’s the birthday girl,” Lauraleigh said, giving me a gentle hug. “It’s your special day, and we’ve planned a great party!”

“Now don’t go giving her airs,” Sister Constance sniffed. “No need filling her head with nonsense. A birthday is just another day like all the others.”

“Yes, Sister Constance,” Lauraleigh said, and then she winked at me. We wouldn’t let the grumpy old housemother ruin my day. We filed out of the Collège like soldiers on the march. We knew enough to walk in two straight lines. If we stumbled out of line, Sister Constance would remind us with a sharp poke from her cane.

Sometimes, I thought Sister Constance didn’t really need her cane to walk. I thought she just kept it around to poke unruly girls.

We made it down the short, cobbled walkway to the beach without any pokes from the cane. A red convertible sports car was parked near the walkway. I groaned.

“André and Marie are already here,” I said.

Lauraleigh made a face. She didn’t like the Montmorencys either. Of course, she was much too polite to ever say it.

“Just be gracious and polite,” she admonished.

I nodded. I could be gracious when I had to be.

The beach was the pride of our Collège – a private, walled-off sandy beach on Lake Geneva, closed to the general public. The Luyons Orphanage next door had permission to use the beach, too. I’d spent many of my best afternoons building sandcastles there. There was a calm, narrow lake with mountains behind it. On a good day, such as today, you could see Mont-Blanc far in the distance on the French side of the lake. It was a glorious view, with the tall Jet d’Eau fountain sending tons of water into the blue sky far on our right. All the sand was specially brought from somewhere; originally, the beach had been rocky, covered with small, round pebbles where the water began. It just showed how much our Collège cared about small but pleasant details like that. That was one of the many reasons why I loved living there.

I looked around, finding no sign of the Montmorencys, but that was definitely their car. I decided not to worry about them for now.

Sister Daphne, the headmistress of the orphanage, was already there, setting up a canopy with the help of the younger children. Daphne and Constance weren’t nuns but actual blood sisters. Sister Daphne once told me that they had been nearly identical in their youth and no one had been able to tell them apart, so they had been called Sisters Briault to avoid confusion. I could hardly believe that was true. Now, as they neared sixty, you would never have guessed they were related. Where Sister Daphne had a round, cheery face and cheeks as rosy as apple blossoms, Sister Constance looked more like one of those wizened dolls carved out of shriveled apples.

“There you are, darling!” Sister Daphne’s arms circled me. She gave the best hugs. She always smelled like cinnamon pie and dumplings. “The children made you cards in class today. I’m sure you’ll thank each one of them, personally.”

“Of course.” I smiled.

Little Beatrice was already jumping up and down to give me her card. Beatrice, who was only nine, used to follow me everywhere at the orphanage. She nearly drove me crazy, always wanting my attention. Now I rather missed my little shadow just as I missed my midnight gossiping with Gaëlle.

“What a lovely card,” I said, taking it from the little girl. “Is that a rainbow?” I knew it was; Beatrice drew rainbows in all of her pictures.

“Yes, it’s the rainbow I’m going to follow to find my new mama and papa!” Beatrice jumped up and hugged me. Her blond curls tickled my nose. “And when I find them, I’m going to make them adopt you too, Anna Sophia.”

“Why, thank you, Beatrice. But I don’t need a new mama and papa. I’m thirteen now.”

Two boys joined the group. The smaller one, Luca, was bouncing a soccer ball.

“Jean-Sébastien says that thirteen is the age when a girl becomes a woman,” Luca said, grinning. Beside him, Jean-Sébastien blushed a bit before scowling.

“Well, I don’t think Jean-Sébastien would know a real woman if she came and bit him on the nose,” I said. Then I turned my back on the boys and went to help set out the picnic lunch. No point in giving those two more attention than they deserved.

“The hoodlums are here, I see,” Lauraleigh said. She passed me napkins and plates, and I set them on the picnic table.

“Yes, I don’t know why Luca and Jean-Sébastien get invited to every birthday party. No one likes them, especially not me.”

“I expect that Sister Daphne doesn’t want anyone to feel left out,” she said. “Wouldn’t you feel sad if you weren’t allowed to go to a birthday party when everyone else was going?”

“Not if it was Jean-Sébastien’s party,” I grumbled, but I knew Lauraleigh was right. We orphans had grown up together. We were a family in a way. Excluding Luca and Jean-Sébastien from my party would be like excluding my brothers – my exasperating and annoying brothers.

“I just hope he left the frogs at home today,” I said. “Do you remember what he did at Gaëlle’s party last year?”

“Oh, yes.” Lauraleigh laughed. “No one is ever going to forget that one.”

Poor Gaëlle. Jean-Sébastien had ruined her party with one of his stupid practical jokes. He’d helped Sister Daphne bring out the cake. We should have suspected something right then; Jean-Sébastien never offered to help with anything. When Gaëlle cut into her cake, a dozen frogs hopped out! What a mess. Gaëlle screamed and knocked over the table, trying to get away from the slimy critters. The cake went flying and landed on the head of another girl. The birthday party was ruined.

That’s what Jean-Sébastien does. He ruins things.

I was determined not to let him ruin my special day. I was going to keep my eye on him.

Someone cried behind me, and I whirled around just in time to see Jean-Sébastien and Luca run through a sandcastle, kicking the fragile towers to dust. Beatrice wailed, but the boys – or hoodlums, as Lauraleigh liked to call them – were already off on some other mischief.

“Don’t worry, Beatrice,” I said, wiping her eyes with a napkin. “I’ll help you build a new sandcastle after lunch. And one day, when we figure out what our superpowers are, we’ll make those boys regret every mean trick they ever played on us.”

Beatrice grinned. “I want my superpower to be super-strength, so I can punch mean old Jean-Sébastien right in the nose!” She wrinkled her tiny button nose to show me.

“I want my superpower to be flying,” I said. Wishing for superpowers was a game that Beatrice and I had played for years. “I want to fly like a bird and see all the people below as small as ants.”

“I want my superpower to be super-eating!” she said. “I could eat the whole picnic, I’m so hungry.”

I tickled her tummy. She squealed but didn’t try to get away.

“Well, I have a special mission for a superhero like you. You’re on guard duty. Make sure those boys don’t sneak frogs into my cake.”

Beatrice saluted me and ran off to guard the cake.