"Bud, say your magic word," I said.

Bud had a number of magic words he said over the hills, at old logs, at certain rocks and trees. Also, when he passed certain persons, he always crossed his fingers so if any bad luck spells were wished on him they were no good.

I tried crossing my fingers. Bud's charm did not work for me. The longer we churned the more milk we had. No end to it. It ran like a river over the floor. Maw became exasperated and her hair spilled over her face.

"Try pouring in some cold water. Maybe it is too hot."

"Try pouring in some hot water. Maybe it is too cold."

We churned some more. We churned long periods and we churned short periods. We tried everything and nothing helped. For weeks and weeks the same thing happened. We were vexed to a standstill as each churning came to just that. A standstill.

In the hills, no one could eat without butter. Hot biscuits and butter started off the morning right.

Time after time, we gave up on the churning, and the hogs got an extra feeding for we carried the milk out for slop.

Over the weeks, Maw tried six churnings. It was the seventh churning.

"Seven is a magic number," Bud said.

We both chanted, intoned, begged as we said together,

"Come butter. Come."

The result was no different.

Talk flared up again. People began to refer to Nannie cow as Prices' Bewitched Cow. They remembered that Nannie had seen the devil go into the black stump. People began searching their memories. There were recalls and exchanges. Someone remembered someone's great grandmaw had a cow similarly afflicted over the hills in the back country when he was a child.

"Prices' cow is bewitched." They summed it up.

"The problem at hand is how to break the spell."

"We reckon you need a charm."

To supply that need, to the store one day, came Lyin' John Singleton. Even liars have been known to tell the truth at times. He was from way down in the river hills. Way, way down, where all kinds of spells are worked.

He explained it,

"Someone is mad at you, so they put a spell on your cow."

They told Lyin' John the beginning of it.

"Old Nannie cow saw something goshawful at the old black stump. She reared and snorted and pawed the ground."

"For certain Nannie cow is bewitched."

Lyin' John turned up the sole of his shoe and began whetting his knife and squinting one eye to encourage his thinking.

"The question is two-fold. Who put on the spell? And how to break the spell? No worse luck in the world than for your milk not to churn butter. You need bad to find a witch."

Here is where the first witch comes in. There will be two.

Some very early recollections concern a mysterious ancient woman called Old Beck. Maw used to hush my crying by whispering,

"Old Beck will get you."

Native women called Old Beck's name up the bunghole of the vinegar barrel and said to each other, their mouths wry, "Old Beck's name is sure to sour the vinegar."

Old Beck was a withered ninety years. She lived in a hut in a gloomy hollow, reputed as haunted, so visitors were few. Among the hill people Old Beck was both feared and respected. She was respected because she "doctored" as a midwife over the hills and hollows; she was feared because she was supposed to possess the powers of a witch.

"Someone is mad at me. I wonder who?" Maw talked on.

"I remember the day Old Beck passed by, as I was milking. I looked up and there was Old Beck looking over the gate."

"You have a fine cow," is what she said. She had passed on looking evil enough. Nannie cow had always acted violent toward her, and this time, looked after her in deep thought.

On another occasion, Maw remembered she was washing outside in the kettle.

"I looked up and Old Beck was looking over the fence."

"I like to borrow some clabbermilk. A little blue-john to make the cheese," is what she said.

Maw knew she did not mean borrow but meant give, out and out.

"I am short on clabbermilk. I am near out myself. It is near churning time when I'll have extra."

Old Beck had looked at Maw through the palings of the fence, mumbled, and hobbled on up the hollow, looking backward toward Maw over her shoulder. She looked like the tarantula in my book as she hunched along angrily, throwing her legs outward like the legs of a spider.

"I thought at the time she did not like it about borrowing the milk. Could she be the one? My milk hasn't churned from that day."

Maw went to work in her garden. She had a habit of burying her troubles in the garden. When she hung her hoe over the palings, I could tell Maw had made up her mind for some action.

So Maw arose early the next morning, that was going to be a pretty day, for a trek over the high fields and down the other side into the hollow where Old Angerine lived.

Now enters the second witch - Old Angerine, who liked Maw. If anyone would know what to do, she would. Old Angerine was in the high fields picking blackberries and coming in home with a bucket full, her split bonnet hanging by its strings, on her arm. The blackberries were black and beautiful as they lay heaped in the bucket. The sun glinted off the blackberries and when I looked into Old Angerine's eyes there was the same black glisten, all bright, luscious, and fruity. For this reason, whenever Old Angerine looked at me, I thought,

"Blackberry eyes."

Old Angerine, this ancient old woman with her weathered face, always carried a stick, which served various purposes. In addition to supporting her weight, she hit bulls, or old buck sheep, or vile snakes. Poisonous rattlesnakes did not phase her if she had her stick.

Now, on this particular day, she had her apron rolled up around her waist, for she had gathered herbs like snake root, sassafras, and lobelia, the healing remedies she knew so well. As the three of us walked downward on the trace, we came upon some golden seal growing. Old Angerine began gathering it into her apron.

"Here is some golden seal. Hold some in your mouth and chew on it. Never mind the bitter taste."

She thrust the golden seal at me and watched until I put it into my mouth. Then she thrust some at Maw.

"Good for sore throat. Good for croup, too. Take some home with you. Put it in your pocket."

We walked along and Old Angerine took her stick and began turning over rocks until she found what she was looking for. She picked up a small white egg. It was just a little smaller than a bantam egg or a bad luck hen egg. The egg looked like it had been rolled in salt. Old Angerine handed the egg to Maw, all the lights twinkling in her blackberry eyes.

"Here, put this in your pocket. Take it home to Bud. It is a snake egg. It will hatch a blacksnake."

Old Angerine's blackberry eyes glistened and she laughed to herself as we walked along. Down in the river hills you don't tell the business of your visit right at first. You talk over all the news to let the business rest until near the end of the visit.

Finally, in a quiet lapse, Old Angerine said, "How air ye all? Who is sick? Is anybody dead? Whose time has come?"

Whose time has come? This question referred to midwifery. Any witch worthy of the name could catch babies. Both Old Beck and Old Angerine were called upon by the hill people to assist at bornings. Maw got Angerine to be the midwife when I was born instead of Old Beck. There may have been more competition than I know about between the two.

So Old Angerine wondered if we had come for her to gather her necessaries into her satchel to go to the aid of some poor mother having birth pangs, agonizing with a new mouth that would have to be fed through the winters. Old Angerine mentally checked the contents of her satchel. She would need her scissors, rolls of old sheeting for bandages, rosebud salve, and various herbs.

It was strange how these new lives picked the worst weather and the late wee hours to make their grand entrance. It was stranger still to see Old Angerine come to life on these occasions. She would grab her satchel, cross footlogs in the dark after midnight, her feet in her high top shoes, dancing along. With her skirt hiked to midcalf she outdistanced anyone to the hilltops. As she topped the hill, those she outdistanced saw her, a dark silhouette against the night sky and she looked a real witch, not on a mission of mercy.

Maw took the bucket of berries and Old Angerine changed her stick to her other hand.

Maw said, "I am having the worst of luck."

"Bad luck always roostin' around. Yer kraut a spilin'? All yer hens took to crowin'?"

"My butter won't come. I believe my cow is bewitched."

"Now that could easy be. You want a remedy. I know several. I'll see can I remember the one I got from my granny when she had your trouble. It is the best one. You have insulted someone. The question, who? And for you to study it up."

"I'll try to think. I am desperate; everybody knows it. Now I couldn't even trade Old Nanny. Nobody would buy her."

Old Angerine pursed her lips, which looked brown like sticky hazel nut burrs. She looked sideways at Maw.

"Go home. Get some milk in the skillet and put it on the stove to boil. When it boils hard, stick it with a knife all over. A black cat may jump out."

With this last remark about a cat, Old Angerine cackled and looked at me and winked the blackberry lights in her eyes.

"Stick the milk several times and it will break the spell."

By this time, we had reached Old Angerine's cabin, and we sat on her porch to rest and cool off, for it was a long pull back up the hill where the trace was rocky and where, if you took one step, the briars pulled you back two.

A visitor was coming toward the porch carrying a baby wrapped in quilts. The way it was covered, the baby was sick. The mother was wanting a cure from Old Angerine but felt lucky to find Maw. Mothers were always bringing their babies for Maw to breathe into their mouths and cure them of this tisic. Maw never saw her father. He died July 17 and Maw was born November 7. So the hill people thought Maw had this power. Maw herself did not believe in this cure, but she breathed into babies' mouths anyway. When the babies got well, they said it was because Maw cured them.

This mother was thankful and went on. It would be high noon before we arrived home. We left with Old Angerine walking a piece with us.

"The charm will work," she said. "No more trouble. I seen a timber rattler up by the cliff there, so look where ye be steppin'. Take this stick. Watch about crossin' over rail fences."

Going down the trace was not so tiring. I flew ahead of Maw, arms outflying like a bird. I leaped and skipped to come to full stop at a yellow moccasin flower. I would tell Bud about the moccasin flower though I suspect Bud already knew. We were honor bound to tell each other if we located moccasin flowers or lady's slippers. Bud claimed he was king of the yellow moccasin flowers. He let me be king of the pink lady's slippers. Bud said more properly I should be queen. I objected hotly to this lower rank, being already low on the numbers. Bud counted his flowers over the high ridges and he found high numbers. Though the lady's slipper was exquisite, it was rare, and I felt cheated for I could never reach a high count. I well remember when my number was eleven and Bud's count was seventy-nine. His leap in the sun was spectacular. From a high rock, to the north, the south, the east, the west, he proclaimed his glory. The echoes were pure magic.

"King - moc-ca-sin - seventy-nine - nine."

On lonely afternoons Bud's long colt legs carried him to the high knobs and ridges. His climb was straight up like a deer, never meandering, and it was impossible for me to keep up with him.

King of the yellow moccasin flowers! In all our deprivations, I was king of the pink lady's slippers. Conservation was a word not yet in our vocabulary, but we were expert in our love and care. We did not break the flowers to carry them home. We talked and looked and counted, and heeled in the earth the precious seeds. Over the yellow moccasin flowers and over the pink lady's slippers, two kings stretched their arms.

The yellow of the moccasin flower brought my thoughts to butter. How was I to return to evil, to bad luck, to knots tied by the witches in the cows' tails? Bud had pointed to the witch knots. I looked back and saw Maw coming on down the trace carrying in her hand a charm to break a spell.

Next morning, Maw got her crocks emptied into the cedar churn, with brass bands and the dasher all cut out into fancy circles and pretty designs. I really admired the dasher but I did not like to churn. Neither did Bud. We wished Old Marth was not afraid of the cow and would come back. Churning was such hard work. Your arms ache; your back begins to hurt; your legs give out; your feelings hit a low; you begin to watch the clock. Finally you call for help, someone - anyone - to take over, for just a few minutes.

"It is no use, Maw. It isn't coming. The butter won't come." Bud was for giving up. There was that foam running all over, just the same.

I watched Maw get an old black iron skillet. The breakfast fire needed poking up, and a stick added. Into the skillet on top of the stove, Maw dipped some milk and we watched it heat up, steam a bit, and finally come to a rolling boil.

"What are you going to stick it with?"

Maw got the butcher knife and an old iron fork with two long prongs. Each time Maw stuck the milk with the knife or fork, the rolling boil went down. It got quiet like.

"That ought to do it."

Maw had stuck and cut vigorously. Like bloody murder. If a black cat was in there, he was stuck to death. I wanted badly to see him jump out, and I was disappointed. I raised on my toes to peep into the skillet where I expected to see the cat swimming around.

"Now we will see."

Maw's lips were firm. I was put on the churn again. How I longed for Old Marth to come back. No one was as expert as Old Marth on a churning. She knew how many long hard licks and how many short gathering licks it took. She could not count, but she knew just exactly how many licks it took to bring a ring of yellow gold around the dasher.

That morning my arms were breaking off and Bud was not cooperating. The next minute I would be crying. I doubted anything good was working. The time was so long.

I saw it. I saw it, but I did not believe it.

"Maw. I see butter. Come see if it is." Maw looked.

"The butter is coming. See the yellow specks. That is the butter. Now gather it."

Somehow I wasn't too tired. Maw's tired face straightened. I churned harder. I patted and churned and churned and patted. The dasher got heavy. It sure enough was real butter. I stuck a finger down into the yellow flakes ringed around the dasher. Yellow, just as old Nannie cow was yellow. Maw's face had an air of relief and happiness.

"The spell is broken. Old Angerine broke the spell. Our milk churns butter again."

I was the cause of Maw's face clouding up again when I asked, "Who done it? Who put the spell on old Nannie cow? Who was mad at you, Maw?"

Maw seemed to think hard as she worked the butter squeezing out the water. She salted it to taste and patted it into the butter mold. I loved the butter printer because it had a thistle flower cut into the wood which came out on the top of the butter so pretty when Maw pushed the butter out of the mold.

"What will we do now, Maw?"

"Nothing to do. All is over."

Maw wasn't going to say a name. She was pondering how to keep me from talking so much. Maw never said Old Beck's name after that. Down in the hills you never speak the name of the one who put the spell on, or your good luck charm will be broken.

"Forget it," said Maw.

But I didn't. Who? Who was the witch who put the spell? How was I to know if no one would call a name? Old Marth came back to churn and wash. While no one was looking, I entered fully my questioning period. Nannie Cow, Old Beck, Old Angerine, stored in the back of my mind, could be drawn out at any time.

Maw would give me curious looks, then look over at Old Marth. Then back at me, saying nothing.

Old Marth said, "Old Beck was the devil."

Maw nodded but called no name while Old Marth chewed on the stem of her clay pipe. Then they both tried to change the subject to distract me. They talked about some lights Paw saw in the cedars and then how I could go to meeting next time to watch the women faint and throw their babies.

"Why did the women throw their babies?"

"What if no one caught the baby?"

"How can you get that happy?"

"What is the spirit?"

"Is everybody a witch?"

"How can I get to be a witch?"

Questions were endless. There was much talk. It made a good tale to tell up and down the hollows. How somebody put a spell on Prices' cow and how Old Angerine broke the spell. Maw kept telling me not to say anybody's name and break our good luck.

Who? Who was the witch who put the spell? Everybody knew. Everybody talked. I knew for sure and I do to this day.

It is good to know witches - them who can put on spells and them who can break spells. Witches, I know two - Old Angerine who liked Maw, and Old Beck who did not like anybody. I sure enough saw it all happen. Old Nannie cow's milk that would not churn being stabbed with a fork to break the spell. I am proud to this day that I saw it with my own eyes, and that is why I am laying my hand on a stack of Bibles, and without crossing my fingers.

©Copyright, Lou Crabtree