Why a child should take on such spiritual witch hunting was strange. It did cause my immature being to suffer self-induced barbs of emotional pain – but I could not help myself.
I notched up more than a few spiritual murders on my termite mound on the vlei: The stuck-up librarian at the mine club, who refused me entry into most of sections of the library, including the travel section – she said it was for adults only. The mine dentist, who was specially trained to be nasty and hurtful to those children he didn’t like. I was sure he didn’t like me because once I left Cheapy, my pet chicken, in a box in his waiting room while I was having a check-up. Cheapy got out, took fright, made an awful squawking noise and pooped on the carpet of the waiting room.
These murders were probably childishly irresponsible, and mood-driven; but in the case of the Glaswegian Minotaur, it was Soul-driven witch hunting. The night robber would have agreed, and maybe even the sweet missionary lady would have turned a blind eye.
Photo Credit: Maureen Griffin