When I was around 12 or 13 years old, I would explore the neighborhoods around my home, either on foot or by bike. There was shortcut road I liked to use to visit one of my friends that was heavily forested on one side. I always saw it as just undeveloped land left alone in a small neighborhood.
Except for one house, almost hidden behind a veil of trees. This was a very simple wooden house, although it conformed to Southern desires and had a giant front porch.
This was where the Witch lived.
My friends from the neighborhood never looked at the house or acknowledged its existence. To them, it was part of the scenery. For my teenage brain, it was something to explore.
The property was absolutely covered in vine growth, with small patches of the wooden structure jutting out to remind you that yes, it was a building. The “yard”, such as it was, was a patch of dark soil with tree stumps cut down for sitting.
Being the youth whose manners were beaten into him by nuns in a 1990’s Catholic school, I knocked on the door of what I was assuming to be an abandoned house. An old lady answered the door.
She was old, much older than I could really guess at. But she was active, bustling around her house, which for all the exterior appearance, was remarkably clean. She offered me a cup of tea and asked what I was doing there. I told her the truth, that I was exploring and wanted to know what the place was about.
She explained that she was a witch and a historian. She pointed out the shelves and shelves and shelves of books she kept, all of them to do with the history and legends of the world. She brought one down that detailed the fables of Ireland, introducing me to the Tuath Dé (or Tuatha Dé Danaan, depending on where you read it) and Tír na nÓg. She told me about the ancient wars wrapped in those legends. She also said I should investigate those legends and see what they would tell me about myself.
After what was probably a couple hours, she told me to go on home, thanking me for the visit. I had tried to visit her a couple more times later on, but she never answered her door. A year later, the house was gone. Now, 20 years later, the lot stands vacant.
I always think of that old Witch when I drive down that street. I wonder if she enjoyed the day she could teach a young man the stories of (unbeknownst to him at the time) his ancestry. I hope she did. She had a strong influence on how I approach writing with legendary material.
Swift's Corner 