The sphere continues to spin holding me captive as I relive my past.

I am now eight years old and my powers are increasing. I have learned that not only can I lift and move objects around but also myself and I practice flying about the house but only when just my mother and I are there and the windows are shuttered. My mother helps me hone my skills but all is done quietly and in secret.

As time goes on, I learn how to bend light to see around corners and make visible objects that normally the human eye cannot see. It is then I begin to see them. At first I think that they are just little girls as I am but then I notice how graceful and slender they are. Then, I see them fly – with wings! Some are like butterfly wings, some like dragonfly wings and some like large moth wings.

Shortly after I begin seeing them, a trio of them appears in my house in a room where I too am allowed to fly. I watch them flying around and playing and singing and dancing and I clap my hands excitedly for joy.

I fly to them and cry, "See, I can fly too! Let me come play with you."

They catch sight of me as I float towards them and realising that I can truly see them they begin to panic.

"Witch!" they shriek. "Horrible, wicked witch!"

"I'm not a witch," I insist, "and I'm not wicked. I'm a good girl. My mother says so!"

I try to approach one with bluish hair and dragonfly wings pleading with her to be my friend and to come play with me. She, however, flies backwards, trying to avoid me, her face a mask of fear. In her panicked flight, she slams backwards into the wall and then she falls crumpling onto the floor like a rag doll.

"Horrible witch!" cry her companions as they fly to her side, pick her up and fly with her out the window. "Horrible, wicked witch!" they cry again as they disappear.

Heartbroken, I fall to the floor, bury my face in my hands and weep.

My mother is suddenly in the room and rushes to me when she sees me crying on the floor.

"What's happened, Isha? Did you fall?" she asks taking me into her arms.

"No," I sob throwing my arms around her neck and trying to wrap her long hair around me.

"Oh, what's the matter, Isha?" she asks tenderly.

"There were some little girls here, Mamma," I tell her, "but they would not play with me."

"What little girls?" she asks concerned.

I tell her of the trio of little girls that was in the house who could fly as I could but only with wings. I tell her of the girl with the bluish hair and the dragonfly wings who hurt herself trying to fly away from me and of the nasty things her companions called me as they all flew away.

"Those were Faeries, Isha," my mother tells me as she dries my tears with her apron and goes on to explain what Faeries are to me.

"But why were they so afraid of me, Mamma?" I ask, the tears welling in my eyes once more. "And why did they fly away and say those mean things about me? I'm not a horrible witch or wicked, am I?" I ask burying my face in her neck and sobbing.

"No, Isha, you are not horrible, wicked or evil… but you are a Witch. You are a Witch as am I and as was my mother and her mother back and back to the First Witches."

"But we help people and use our powers secretly to do good. We are not like those wicked Witches that the villagers talk about," I sob.

"Yes, Isha, we are good Witches and we do use our powers to help people. But, sadly, there are wicked Witches too who use their powers to do unspeakable harm and evil to Humans and Faeries and other living creatures." Then with the light of sadness in her eyes, my mother continues, "Their victims are right to remember them and be afraid but in doing so they have forgotten about those of us who are good and think of us all as being evil whether we are or not."

It was then that I learned the truth behind my bitter-sweet lot in life to be blessed with powers but cursed if I used them.

"You know something?" asks my mother smiling.

"What?" I ask, a smile coming to my lips despite the last few tears trickling down my cheeks.

"Not even I had Faeries come to me when I was a little girl. It is said that they appear only where there is powerful presence of goodness and especially the goodness of children to draw them. Now, it seems to me that there is only one good child in this house and she is the one I'm holding right here," she says hugging me tightly. "I think they are going to be back."

One of them, but not her companions, did come back and she became my companion over the years. She was the one with bluish hair and dragonfly wings who had hurt herself the first day. For the first little while, she did not come near our house but she would catch up with me when I was off to the market or the docks and would fly about me. Whenever I looked her way though, she would find a place to hide but still I could see her peering suspiciously at me around the corner of wherever she was. By and by, the four-stroke beat of her wings became so familiar to me that I did not even have to bend the light to know she was there.

I tell my mother that the Faerie with the bluish hair and dragonfly wings is back and that she is always flying about.

"I told you they'd be back," she laughs sharing my joy. But when I tell her that she hides every time I look her way my mother replies, "She is probably confused, Ishandra. She senses the goodness within you that forms a bond between you two but she still cannot cope with you being a Witch. Just be patient with her and be on your best behaviour and she'll come around. Little step by little step, Isha."

I follow my mother's advice and work hard at being good until one sweltering summer day I am sitting on a chair in front of an open window doing needlepoint when I hear the familiar thrum of dragonfly wings and there she is. She lights on the wide window ledge and sits with her legs bent under her but when I try to approach her, she flies quickly out of the window. This time, however, she does not fly away but remains hovering in front of the window well beyond arm's reach. Fearing that she could hurt herself again, I approach no further.

"You are a strange one," I tell her and go back to my chair and my needlework. As I do so, she flies back and retakes her position on the window ledge.

"What is you name? You must have a name," I ask her.

I watch her as her mouth seems to open and close and she makes gestures with her hands but I hear nothing so I try again.

"I am Ishandra but my friends just call me Isha," I tell her and then with my finger I point to myself and repeat, "Isha," several times. She likewise points to herself but even though her mouth moves, I hear nothing.

"No voice?" I ask her. "But I'm sure I heard you singing and laughing with your companions or did my ears deceive me?"

It was then and there I decided to call her Muta – the silent one. But whether she was mute or not there was no way that Muta was deaf because she heard my mother's approaching steps before I did and was out the window and gone before my mother's hand touched the doorknob.

The weeks of early summer pass and Muta makes regular visits to my home and to my window ledge. Sometimes we share fruit, raw vegetables, berries and cool fruit juices. It is still a strange relationship because I cannot get her to come into the room beyond the window ledge and she is still quick to drop anything and fly out the window when I approach too close to her. After a time, I find the boundary of her personal space and when I show respect for it, she begins to relax. Still, one thing I never saw during our entire relationship was her smile nor did I ever see or hear her laugh.