Dorothy Ringer was a kind woman, practically a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dull world. She also loved children. How could she not? You would need to if you wanted to run an orphanage, which she did, and she loved doing it. Children meant the world to her.

She was also normal.

So terribly yet wholesomely like everyone else. She often didn't think on it, but if she ever passed a character that wore anything other than old burgundy church clothes that smelt like moth balls and butterscotch or simple sundresses that looked like something a great-grandmother would've worn, well she would think them strange. Of course a person wouldn't often think of how normal they are if they were so naturally, so born to be, normal.

But that's exactly what Mrs. Ringer was, and nobody would change it for anything. With her big, warm smile, with her "How do you do?" perkiness, Mrs. Ringer was far from being worse off. If anything it was her charm, and how much she adored making people smile.

So it would come as a surprise to her that on a seemingly normal day, doing her normal things, living her normal life, that something very not normal should happen. Something that would make its way into her life, all because she was a kind woman. A completely average and ordinary woman.

She woke up on a Sunday in August. The Alabama sun shined down, not a cloud in sight. The worse kind of day for sad things to happen. Today she decided to wear a blue blazer with a nice yellow blouse underneath. After adding a petticoat, modest heels, and sun hat to her outfit, she was ready to go to church. Ten o'clock sharp. Stepping out of her meek, one story house, she closed her eyes and breathed in. She felt like walking today.

A butterfly resting on her mailbox fluttered up and began to fly near her. She laughed to herself and held her hand out. The butterfly landed on her hand and shook its wings. The pattern was peculiar, almost like it was a Rorschach drawing and like it was moving along the wings. The color was a lavender, but Mrs. Ringer could swear it turned violet and then to magenta before turning back into lavender. The butterfly lifted off her hand and flew away before she could think much of it. She shrugged and continued on her way.

As she walked down the street, meandering, she began to make a list for the day in her head. Immediately after church she had to go to the salon to have her hair and nails done. Next would be the groceries, yes. The orphanage had been running low on pudding, and Lord knows Sammy Wilson loves his pudding. She looked up at the sky, the sun glistening on her ebony skin, and she smiled.

She returned to look in front of her as she crossed the street, and could see a classy man - probably in his 30s. They nodded to each other. Then she got a closer look at him. Loose-fitting trench coat, a spruced up pin-stripe suit, shiny white shoes with a black wing-tip, a fedora hat slanted on his head. Why, he looked like he was ripped right out of Casablanca. Frank Sinatra would be impressed.

As he passed, her eyes followed him, giving him a once-over. Oh, she thought to herself, he's probably just wanting to look good for work today. Or maybe there's a decade-themed dress up? Why it's only a suit, and he looks rather dashing.

She saw him pass by another man, dressed almost identically to him. The two exclaimed to each other as they did. Though she was too far at this point to hear their conversation she could almost hear mention of a Tilly girl. She shrugged it off and continued on her day.

Church was wonderful, as it always was, she thought to herself. After the service was over, she walked across the street toward the strip mall and into the salon. Sitting down to wait her turn, she looked up at the old, small television hanging from the corner ceiling. It was a news channel, talking about a house explosion in the nearby town. She placed over her heart and sighed. "Aw."

"Oh Carol," a woman dressed in a plaid, shoulder-padded executive dress. She turned to the woman next to her in a floral-patterned sundress with puffy shoulder-pads. Carol looked up from her magazine and up to the T.V. her friend was pointing to. "That's what I was telling you about, that Lara Tilly who got blown up by her husband."

"Oh how sad," Carol replied.

"And that baby of hers, gone."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, it's tragic. A witch that amazing, blown to smithereens by a no-maj, a scourer of all things."

No-maj? Scourer? Witch? Oh these women were being silly. And they were dressed silly, like they were from the 1940s. She even noticed that the woman named Carol had a newspaper with moving pictures for a brief second. She shook her head.

Just then Mrs. Ringer's name was called, and she was able to leave their odd conversation, which was unfortunate. If she hadn't she would've heard the two women discussing a strange dark shadow in the nearby woods and a peculiar wailing within them. She also narrowly missed a flock of ravens and owls passing by the salon window.

She wouldn't, however, miss the few birds left still flying by as she left the salon and toward the grocery store. The ravens may not have raised a brow, but so many owls in Alabama? Even this seemed strange to her. As she grabbed a cart and made her way to the entrance, she passed a loud woman shouting about her own church. Mrs. Ringer glanced at one of her banners, being held by a young boy. It read: "The Southern Salem Society". Mrs. Ringer rolled her eyes and kept pushing her cart. Just a bunch of crazies.

"Witches and wizards are gathering today!" Said the woman as Mrs. Ringer passed by. "Because one of their own has faced the judgement of her ways! This, the day of-" Mrs. Ringer walked inside the store and began her grocery shopping. Pudding and veggies, some more potato chips wouldn't hurt. And maybe she would make some shepherd's pie for dinner?

The lady was no longer standing out front when Mrs. Ringer finished her shopping and walked out of the store. She left the cart where she found it, picked up four plastic bags, and began making her way to the orphanage - Dorothy's House For The Young. It was a quaint, medium-sized brick building. It had a tower with a black roof and thunder-rodded spire. It had ten rooms and far too many children to fit in those rooms. Still, it was a home. A nice home, and many of the children thought it was as nice as any home should be.

It was five o'clock by the time she reached the orphanage, and she could hear the cheers and laughter of children that brought a smile to her face. As she approached the orphanage, she opened the small wooden gate attached to a white picket fence, and saw a butterfly sitting on one of the posts holding the gate open. She did a double take and briefly thought it looked like the same butterfly from this morning. She shook her head and chuckled. Of course not, that would be absurd. She closed the gate behind her and continued up to the house. The butterfly turned and kept its gaze on her as she walked, almost as though it was watching over her, guarding her.

Mrs. Ringer opened the front door and exclaimed her arrival, nodding and saying hello to her partner Ms. Brookes - a stone-faced, wrinkled, pasty and grey-hair woman who wore a long polka-dotted gown. Ms. Brookes grunted from her rocking chair as she knit. Children came racing down the stairs and loudly exclaiming their hello's to Mrs. Ringer, making Ms. Brookes mumble about the noise. Mrs. Ringer went into the kitchen, and began to prepare for dinner. As she did, something else was happening that day, something very un-normal. Something very strange, even for the witches and the wizards that had gossiped the day away, unbeknownst to the strange child to a strange mother who was spared the strangest of circumstances.


Deep in the woods, with what little light of the sunset was left, a man with a large black blanket bundled and strapped to his back ran. He had copper skin and long, straw-like black hair, and he wore a ripped black t-shirt with a faded jean jacket. He also wore a worn-and-torn red bandana over his mouth. He carried a rainbow covered bow with a thin, translucent string, and underneath the bundle of blankets was a sheath of arrows.

He kept up his pace, expecting to reach civilization before nightfall. Owls hooting gave way that he was running out of time. The skinwalker would be upon him soon enough. He slowed his pace long enough to bring out an arrow, and open a pouch attached to rope sling around his waist. He dabbed his index finger into it, and gently rubbed the sticky powder over the tip of the arrow.

As he neared the edge of the forest, he stopped. Silence. He looked off in the distance and could see the sun falling, the light of the day escaping the woods. He now could hear the chirping of locusts and he knew. A shapeless shadow moved between the trees, drawing nearer. He readied his bow and arrow, aiming forward. A massless darkness formed out of thin air, turning into a figure.

The figure moved forward, and soon the shadow covering its face revealed a man. A man that looked identical to the other - copper skin, long straw-like black hair. Only he wore long and flowing black robes.

He smiled coldly. "Hello, brother."

"You lost your right to call me that a long time ago, Nukpana."

"Oh please. You and I both know I've only ever done what's right for what the world has done to the both us."

"Snake."

"I could be a snake…" He chuckled. "Give it to me, brother."

"She," the man replied, "is a baby."

"A baby with an extraordinary destiny. I have seen it. The fate of the magical world, in the life of a child. Breathtaking."

The man kept the arrow pointed directly at his brother.

Nukpana chuckled. "You know there's nothing you can do to hurt me." He approached him now. "Or overpower me. So just give her to me."

He pulled the bow back. "You're right, I can't hurt you." He let the arrow go.

Nukpana dematerialized into grains and particles of blackness.

The arrow passed through, but trails of the gold dust from the tip of the arrow remained, stuck to the blackness. As he rematerialized, glowing gold veins shot through his face and robes. His face began to grow pale and he began to make choking sounds. Nukpana collapsed to the ground, clutching his abdomen.

His brother looked down at him, bringing his bow down. "I can stop you, though."

Nukpana sneered. "What did you do, brother?!"

"Sleep dust. Very simple, but it can be very effective with strong enough powder. Not enough to kill you or even to keep you, of all people, asleep for long. But enough to give me a head start."

Nukpana felt his eyes growing heavy, his muscles feeling strained. He looked up. "You can't protect her forever. One day, she will go where you cannot follow."

"Hopefully when that day comes, neither can you."

Nukpana shouted and groaned, and almost instantaneously he vanished. A shapeless shadow receded far into the forest. The sound of crickets and owls returning as they once did. The man released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He nodded slightly, and then returned to what he had come here to do.


The lights were still on in the windows of Dorothy's House For The Young. This bode well for the man, as he came nearer, watching the street cautiously. The lights being on meant that there were still people awake, and people being awake was necessary to receive something. As the man approached the small picket fence, he saw a butterfly perched on a post holding the gate.

He lowered the bandana from his mouth and looked at the butterfly. "I see we both made it here in time."

The butterfly lifted up and before his very eyes, fluttered its wings to beckon dozens of colorfully vibrant butterflies. As the butterflies came together they made the shape of a woman with a dark shawl over a silky white blouse and lavender petticoat, a violet head scarf wrapped around her head and hiding a peak of her bright orange hair. The butterflies began to subside, and the woman's image became crisp, and clearer, until the woman was all that was there.

She gave an exasperated sigh. "You have no idea what it's like being an insect for over ten hours." She took off her headscarf and began folding it. Her short, yet untamed orange hair bounced over his cream skin.

"I'm sure it must've take an emotional toll on you."

She looked at him sternly. "That wasn't called for."

He rolled his eyes. "Apologies, ma'am."

""Ma'am"? Now you're just being rude." She opened the gate and the two walked through, coming up to the porch. "Now, I've watched over the proprietor of this shanty establishment all day, and I have to say you couldn't have picked a place worse. Completely… dull, and boring, the most no-maj of all the no-majs I've ever seen-"

"You haven't met any no-majs," he said, sharply.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Still, really, why this place? She belongs with her kind! It's not like she doesn't have any family left!"

"The only family she has left either want her dead or are the exact family she'll be expected to go to. She needs the protection of the no-majs in this place."

She looked at him. "In rural Alabama?"

"Yes," he turned to her. "He won't look for her where he won't expect us to leave her."

She crossed her arms and sighed.

"I know this is a hard time, but you know I'm right. This is the only place he won't look for her." He walked up to the front door, and let each strap holding the bundle of blankets together fall from his shoulders. He swung the bundle into his arms and looked down at the baby within it. "Besides, she's better off living away from magic, the attention." He looked up to the woman. "And it's not like you'll never see her again."

The baby cooed and briefly flutter her eyes open.

He looked back down and smiled. "Hello little one. Having nice dreams?" He shifted his position. "I should hope so."

The woman walked up to him, holding out an envelope. "Here." She stepped back as he took it, bringing her hands up to stop herself from crying.

He crouched onto the ground and placed the baby on the doormat, and the envelope on the bundle. "Good luck, little one, and think of nice things. Don't let the nightmares dim your light."


The doorbell rang as Mrs. Ringer finished cleaning the kitchen. Who could that be at this hour? The orphanage wasn't open? She walked to the front door and opened it. Nobody? She heard a stirring and looked down to see a bundle of blankets and inside…

"Oh! Good heavens! Georgina!" She bent down and picked the baby up. An envelope was placed on top of it, and Mrs. Ringer took it with a free hand as she scooped the baby into her arms.

Ms. Brookes came down the stairs and looked over to her. "What is it, Dorothy?"

"Come."

Ms. Brookes came up to her and gasped. "Is that a baby? Did somebody leave a baby on our porch?"

"Yes, here." Mrs. Ringer held out the envelope of Ms. Brookes.

Ms. Brookes opened the envelope and pulled out a crudely folded letter.

Mrs. Ringer swayed from side to side, and noticed something else was tucked inside the blankets. She moved the folds around to find an Indian dreamcatcher. She ponder over it, looking at it with her face scrunched up.

"Listen to this," said Ms. Brookes, looking thoroughly at the letter. "'Her name is Hana. Unfortunately I can't take care of her, but I have faith that you can. Love her, protect her, and above all else, teach her to have faith.'" She looked up to Mrs. Ringer. "There's no last name."

"Oh that doesn't matter, we'll give her the name we give all the kids in her situation."

"So 'Dow', then?"

"Yes. Hana Dow."