The Witch Doctor

Ah, the human spirit—within each individual soul rests untold potential that is so often left untapped. My duty is to explore and utilize that potential using an ancient black magic—they call me the Witch Doctor. A soul is a powerful thing, you see; throughout the course of one human life, the soul grows, adapts, and expands; its energies can be channeled to create tremendous works of art, achieve monumental physical strength, and collaborate with others to accomplish marvelous things, and it’s that energy that powers my magic. With a human soul, I can grant one wish—only one wish—the soul would be expended to make the wish come true.

My most recent client, Clyde Smith, was the son of a carpenter who couldn’t quite make his way; he approached my shop during a moment of destitution—he needed money for a medical procedure. So, I said, in that coarse, raspy voice I could never quite part from, “Mr. Smith, I’ll bargain with you—one soul will grant one wish—an equivalent exchange, if you will—and once the deal is made, it cannot be reversed. Choose your victim carefully.”

Oh, how I remember the way his face welled with a mixture of uncertainty and surprise, then, almost predictably, with contained consideration, those eyebrows furling forward and those dilated pupils telling me that he fast approached a name. As always, I was curious—who would he kill? Who among his brethren did he see most fit to die for a price? It would be a man, of course—in all my years of service, I’ve only disposed of a handful of women, always at the behest of a husband who’d discovered his partner’s affairs, and Mr. Smith, with all due kindness, did not seem the married type.

“My brother,” Mr. Smith said in a remorseful, underwhelmed tone. “The man’s never done a thing in his life,” he confessed. “All these years, my father and I labored on houses, gardens, woodsheds, windows, dressers… Michael never once raised a finger to help, the lazy twat; he sat out, drank our wine, smoked our crop, and slept his life away—at thirty, now, I doubt he’ll ever change.”

“And you’re sure of this?” A routine question—I must warn my clients that this is, again, irreversible, and that potential energy, once burned away, will exist only as a granted wish.

“I’m sure.”

“Very well, then. Bring him to me—it matters not whether he knows why he is here—my magic will work swiftly.” I offered him a courtesy glass of ale which he declined before leaving the room.

As far as liability is concerned, I am merely a facilitator—a tool—the magic does not belong to me; it was passed down by generations of shaman who were wise to keep their identities unknown; how I came into this power myself is another story, and one I’m wont to tell, would the right client come forward—for most, I am a stranger, no more, no less.

The next day, Clyde and Michael Smith arrived at my doorstep. I welcomed them both inside with the same cordial compassion that I offer each of my clients. “How are you this evening?” I ask, hoping to settle any festering anxiety.

“Just fine,” Clyde responded.

“So what’s all this, then,” the other blurted out. “Ain’t see no party here—looks like a fuckin’ dump.”

“Just shut up,” Clyde said.

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Ignoring the commentary on my abode’s aesthetic, I turned to Clyde. “Mr. Smith, I will ask you only once—choose your next words very carefully. What is your wish?”

A long pause—there always is. I began to conjure my spell, my right arm pointed at Michael Smith. Clyde thought for a moment. The brother stayed silent. Finally, Clyde’s lips parted.

“A mountain of gold,” he said. “I wish for a mountain of gold.”

“A mountain of gold,” I repeated. “You would trade your brother’s life for a mountain of gold.”

“What?” Michael asked with quickened breath, starting to piece together his circumstances, his eyes widened with terror. “The fuck are you talkin’ about? Clyde, what is this?!”

“Hush, dear stranger,” I said, croaking through my tired throat. “It will all be over soon.”

“The fuck it will! Why can’t I have a wish?!” Michael shouted suddenly.

“… Oh?” I smiled with amusement—this was a first.

“Y-yeah—if he gets to trade me for a wish, I’ll trade his ass for mine!”

“What’d you just say?! You can’t do that—the witch doctor’s mine!” Clyde said.

“Oh, on the contrary!” I replied. “I have no owner—my magic belongs to all. If you would speak your wish, a soul will be offered in exchange.”

“What?!” Clyde yelled.

“I wish for my brother’s soul to become my soul!” Michael screamed.

“Aha! Hahahahaha! There’s a divine creation!” By now, I was amused beyond all respite. My hands rose to the air and channeled the shaman’s ancient magic—two souls for two wishes—one, then the other—the soul of Michael Smith expunged from its body like liquid air, twirling and swimming through open space as would a fish in water, following my right hand, and the soul of Clyde Smith doing the same with my left. As each soul left its respective body, they bickered and squealed.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” Clyde shrieked.

“AIN’T DONE NOTHIN’! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!”

I continued to laugh at their quarrel—I could not contain myself. Their spirits rose with each of my hands as I guided them further into the air.

“Great Gods of Whispers,” I chanted, “hear my plea—I offer each of these divine energies—for the first, a mountain of gold, and for the second, a new soul to replace the first—”

“NO!” Clyde wailed.

“—What’s done is done, Mr. Smith! One soul for one wish, that is the rule!”

“NO!!—” The soul continued to cry out as it was sept away into a blinding light and transfused. The golden mountain took shape outside my hut as Michael’s spirit was swept away into a blinding flash. Then, as Clyde’s spirit disappeared, Michael’s re-emerged, slowly but surely, returning to its host. Moments later, Michael was conscious.

The silence that followed was neither remorseful nor sympathetic—what’s done is done. I opened my mouth to converse with the newly reborn Michael Smith, but he was the first to speak.

“So my brother’s gone,” he said, looking outside the window at the mountain of gold, letting the reality of what transpired sink into his eyes, which closed halfway with thought.

“Oh no,” I replied. “He exists within you—you are him now, and he is you”

“Can’t talk to him. Already tried. He ain’t in here—least not in a way I can reach him.”

“Would you like to?” I said, smiling.

“Using another soul?” He asked. I nodded. “Must be how you stay in business. Screw everyone else’s life up and keep granting more fucked up wishes.”

I chuckled. “My services are free—so long as people have desires, I will work. One soul, one wish.”

“Can you resurrect?” Smith inquired.

“I have, but there are limits—one for one, as always.” I sought to comment at this point. “Your brother spoke ill of your work ethic, but said nothing of your intellect—you thought of a way to save your life in those few precious seconds you had—I’m impressed.”

“Never wanted to do no work,” Michael said. “Anyway, I’ll get back to you on another soul—maybe get my brother back.”

“Even though he killed you?”

“Even though he killed me—still my brother.”

“Very well. I’ll be here. One soul, one wish.”