"Witch!"

The catcalls stormed through the window, bounced against the dead oak tree in the schoolyard, and hit her again.

'That mole on her cheek... she hides her feet under those shoes... black magic...' Annie kept her eyes on the brown dust, her forearms crossed, shamed, sickened, a tear hung off the wart.

'She killed... she burnt...' Annie stopped at the last word, turned to the window.

A scream followed —a savage shriek—the rubble shook, the window slammed shut, the dead oak tree rustled.

The dust settled, the rustle stopped and silence filled the shamed air. Annie saw Mum in the blur, ran to the gate, hugged, felt mum's hand through the damp hair.

"I don't want school. They hate..." she stopped, spotted it hiding behind the oak. "Mamma, let's go."

"But, Annie..."

"Its's watching. Following. Go... go...!" She tugged mum, weeping with an unsteady regularity.

"Annie, stop!" Mum stopped, her eyes black as ash, matching her skin. "We must face our fears."

"I don't want to. It'll catch us again. We must..."

"It can't, my child. No one can harm you. You're special, Ann."

"I don't want to be special." Annie ran, alone, paused to breathe, ran again, crossed the street, across the town, into the forest, through the night and climbed her tree.

"They hate me... I'll kill them all." She felt the rough bark, the dry leaves.

A dry branch exhaled, cracked, broke, fell fifty feet into a dry, grassless patch.

Annie hung her school bag to her branch, removed her shoes, jumped. Her feet barely touched; an aerial root coiled, arrested her fall. Annie knelt, placed her palms over the grassless patch, shut her eyes, and muttered. And she screamed—again and again. The cadence grew, the words raptured, birds fluttered away, and the forest shivered and hushed her chitters.

"You called me, Annie?"

"Why did you leave me, Mum?"

"I didn't."

"You said the fire can't burn us."

"Not us, honey. You."

Anne felt mum's face—red cracks on black skin—like a bark—dead, rough, black—fumes fresh with ash.

"I'm sorry, mum. I'm sorry."

"Let me go, Annie." Mum looked across, towards the anthill.

Annie stepped back, fell to her knees, wept, black beads sliding off her white face, wetting the grassless patch.

"You're special, Ann." Mum left with death.

A shriek followed, traveled, echoed, reverberated through the streets, through little hearts sleeping in their mother's arms.

"Witch!" they sprang awake. Sleepless. Scared.