There are forces that govern the universe and guide everyone's life.
Some people call it fate.
Others call it predestination.
She calls it bad luck.
Ever since she was a baby, every single choice, every action, everything has led her to this precise moment. After two decades of life in which she had built a semblance of happiness, she finds herself back at square one.
Alone.
That's a classic.
Spring is in its prime. Crystal blue skies. Singing birds.
On the emerald grass, the soft, colorful petals of the first flowers contrast with the dark gravestones.
There, kneeling next to a recently placed stone, the girl cried.
No one came to the funeral, no one comforted her for her loss, and no one ever will. She's alone.
They didn't even try fake caring.
Her aunt was neither loved nor respected in the village, and neither was she as a result. One could say that everyone was afraid of her.
After all, who isn't afraid of witches?
Not that she really was; her aunt was anything but magical.
When people don't understand what's happening, especially in a small village like theirs, the easiest thing to do is to cry “Witch!” and stay away.
At least until they need help.
When their child gets hurt playing in the woods and the wound becomes infected.
When flames burn them from within and keep them awake at night.
When prayers are not enough.
Those are the moments during which that mistrust of witches ends and they turn to them for a miracle.
And that's when, with a herbal compress, an ointment, or an infusion, her aunt would do her utmost, never refusing them despite all the cruelty she had suffered.
She was not a witch. She called herself an herbalist.
And she taught her the profession, just as her mother did with her.
She was a woman with a big heart, one of those who didn't think twice about taking home a baby girl found in the woods, no matter what.
“Asha”
The priest looks down at her, his expression carefully composed in a smile that should be reassuring. Maybe compassionate.
The girl looks at him briefly before returning her eyes to the carefully carved letters on the stone:
ZELDA CHUDA
What goes around comes around
She smiles softly, almost hearing her aunt’s voice as she reads the phrase.
She’d find something good even in her own death, if she could.
“Asha” he insists with a firmer voice.
“What?”
“It's been an hour, we.. well, I, should go”
“Then go”, she replies without emotion.
She doesn't move. Nor look at him.
She has nothing left to feel.
The feet near her don't move.
The priest coughs, uneasy.
“You know, the payment…”
His voice fades in the air as their eyes finally meet.
“The payment?”. Her voice cracks, dry as ash. “Who asks about money right after a funeral?”
One step. That's all the priest manages to make before Asha throws at him a satchel. The coins in it almost fall out as it hits his chest.
“Take your stupid money, that's all you care about” she cries, falling again on the ground.
Her fingers dig in the freshly moved dirt as a violent shiver runs through her spine.
Here we are, more feelings. Marvelous.
A big hand pats her between the shoulderblades.
“Here, here, girl”
The priest’s fingers tremble just a little bit.
“She is in a better place, you know?”
She's shaken by a little laugh.
Taking her silence as a good sign, he continues with an almost reverent voice.
“You know, the ways of the Lord are unknown to us. Surely, this is all part of a greater plan”
Suddenly, something inside her shifts.
Something angry and dangerous.
Before she knows it, she’s throwing herself at his throat with a wild cry.
Her nails just scratch his skin before he pushes her back to the ground and runs off to hide in the church.
She looks at the traces of blood and dirt under her fingernails and allows herself a small smile. Her aunt would probably scold her for her behavior, but deep down she knows she would be proud of her. Maybe a little angry, but proud.
In any case, that's on him.
He shouldn't have told her this was part of “a greater plan”.
If that was a plan, it was a very stupid one.
She takes a deep breath, running her hands through her hair to compose herself.
The tears have dried on her face, leaving a trail of salt along her pale cheeks. Her chest is no longer shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
It is time to go home.
She gets up, brushes the dirt and grass from her knees, and takes one last look at the gravestone.
There is no date of birth on it, as Zelda had never revealed her age.
At the foot of the stone lies a bouquet of periwinkle, the same flower from which she has taken the affectionate nickname the woman called her.
She picked it that morning in their garden, the same garden they had tended together for twenty years.
Now the garden is all mine.
A last, single tear escapes from her eyelashes, but she brushes it away with her fingers in annoyance and lifts her chin. She hates crying. It makes her feel soft and she has to be strong.
Now her life is in her own hands.
**
She lives on the opposite side of the village.
That means crossing it to get home. During the day. A sunny day, no less.
Perfect.
Trying to keep a low profile, Asha covers her hair and face with the hood and walks the streets at a sustained rhythm. The streets are busy as every other sunny day of the year: children running and playing, salesmen trying to appeal to customers, and women carrying heavy clothes to wash.
As she passes by the bakery, she stops at a loud gasp, followed by loud whispers.
“That's nuts!”
“How could we possibly let this thing go?”
“I mean, we have been more than patient, but now..”
She peeks from behind the corner and notices a little group of women, all gathered around a small lady.
Mrs. Moyle.
She looked like one of those old oaks by the river - twisted, stubborn, and impossible to knock over.
“I swear it on my late husband's grave!” she says, laying a wrinkly hand on her chest. “She was furious!”
Another loud gasp, followed by other whispers and sighs.
The old lady seems pleased, the attention almost straightening her back.
“He was just trying his best, you know. Those kinds of people aren't really part of our community after all” she continues. All the heads around her nod vigorously. Not one of them falls on the ground, sadly.
“And you know, I’m not the one who tries to listen to others talking, but I had to bring flowers to my poor husband so I couldn't manage to avoid it”
Sure, no other moment to do that.
“And so? What did you see, Dolores?” asks the blacksmith’s wife, hungry as usual for gossip.
“Oh Ronha, you cannot imagine it!” cries Mrs Moyle, “She launched herself at him, poor soul!”
This time the women wince.
“Oh poor Ralph” says one of them.
“He's so pure and considerate of others, how dare she?”
“I always said she was a menace”
“Yeah, nothing good can come from one of her kind”
Their voices rise so much, other people on the street start gathering around them.
Asha, sick of all that gossip and slander, turns her back on them. She was thinking about which route to take in order to avoid the busybodies, when she heard one last comment coming from the widow.
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“I swear! It was fire! The flame of hell!”
The girl looks over her shoulder, trying to understand what she’s ranting about. She'd seen no fire, maybe they are changing topics for once?
“Her eyes went red as the flames of hell! And her face, you should have seen that! I swear I've never seen such a face! And from her mouth, oh mighty Lord, smoke was coming out of her mouth!”
They all started doing the cross sign, kissing their knuckles and praying.
“The devil”
“I knew it, I’ve always known it!”
“Bad signs, from years..”
Breathing fire.
That would be useful.
She chuckles, a little bit better after hearing that nonsense.
And thinking about all the things she could do if she breathed fire, she begins to walk home.
She manages to do a couple of steps, her head shaking in disbelief under her hood.
Suddenly something small but really fast, crashes on her legs.
“Ouch, I'm s-s-sorry”
A little girl, with curly hair gold as the sun, is rubbing her eyes. She can't be more than 5 and she's been crying.
“You ok?” she asks her.
The child shakes her head, tries to speak and starts to cry again.
Asha looks around to see if someone is giving them attention, but nobody does. The men are busy working, the women are busy gossiping.
She lowers on the ground, her eyes at the same level as the child's.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
The girl shakes her head again and, between a sob and another, explains to Asha why she is crying. Turns out a little boy took her ribbon and threw it in the river.
“It was new, you know!” she cries again, “Daddy took it from the village on the other side of the woods for me!”
People can be cruel and stupid at any age, she knows it well.
“You know what.. Can you tell me your name?”
“Name's Joyce”
“Nice to meet you, Joyce. I'm Asha” she smiles at the child and dries a tear from her cheek. “I might have something for you. But you should stop crying. If you cry, those boys will know they can hurt you. And you shouldn't let them know that.”
She looks puzzled.
“Why?” she asks, the blue eyes glistening with some residue of tears.
“Because,” Asha replies, reaching for a pocket inside her cloak, “if they don't know what hurts you, they have no power on you”
She takes a ribbon out of her pocket and hands it to the little girl.
It is a dark blue ribbon, with little silver threads that remind her of summer stars.
“It's not your daddy’s gift, but if you want it, it's yours”
Joyce takes it in her little hands and a big smile warms up her face.
“It's beautiful!” she says in awe.
“Come on, go home and remember what I told you!”
She nods vigorously.
“Never let them know what hurts”
“Good girl” she says, raising and patting Joyce on the head.
The girl runs away, then stops in the middle of the street and waves at her.
“Thank you, Asha!” she screams with a big smile.
She waves back.
The women around the widow stop talking and turn in Asha's direction.
On their faces, a look of horror.
“Joyce!” calls Ronha Wyn, “Joyce, come here! Now!”
“Yes mommy”
As the child approaches the group of women, Asha turns and starts walking fast.
She is not far enough when Joyce reaches her mother, so she can hear what they are saying.
“Throw that thing away! Don't touch it!”
“But mommy..” the girl cries again.
“I said don’t touch it! Leave it on the ground. We don’t want anything to do with that girl”
That’s predictable. Almost clichè.
“But she’s nice”
Asha's foot stops midair, then her pace steadies again.
“Don't be ridiculous, come on, go home. I don't want you to talk anymore with that witch”
Yes, breathing fire would be useful.
**
One thing about Zelda was that she didn't like living near the village. Too many nosy people, she used to say.
That's the reason why Asha needs to walk through the first part of the woods to get home.
The noise from the city square fades away as she ventures through the streets and reaches the first trees.
She likes the woods.
The birds singing, the breeze shaking the branches, the playful dances of sunlight on the ground. It all helps her regain calm and focus, even when she loses control.
Her mind’s still full of whispers and voices calling her names, but they are quieter and quieter as she proceeds along the trail.
It's only a ten-minute walk, but she is a lot calmer when she sees the light of the clearing that she calls home.
The house is little, with ivy along its stone walls and a hay roof.
The garden’s never been orderly.
Some plants climbed over others, some almost trying to kill their neighbour.
Zelda called it their “chaotic society of roots”.
Everything is fighting for its place in the world. Everything is alive.
As the slightly peeling red door opens, the familiar smell of lavender and mint welcomes her.
She closes her eyes, hugged in the memories.
“I'm home!” she says.
Stupid.
There's no one to greet. Not anymore.
A loud noise draws her to the kitchen, where a gray cat is sitting on the table, staring at her resentfully, as the glass now shattered on the floor was her fault.
“Bubi!”
No answer, it just blinks slowly.
It once was a stray cat that her aunt more or less adopted years earlier. Asha never went along with it, but ever since Zelda died, it seems as the cat agreed to live with her alone and changes attitude toward her.
With a resigned sigh, she picks up the broom and cleans up the pieces of glass, being careful not to cut herself.
As she puts the broom back in the corner, the cat jumps down from the table.
It rubs against her legs, filling the silence with the soft vibration of his purr.
“You miss her too, don't you?” she whispers as she scratches him behind the ear with one hand.
The cat's large yellow eyes stare into hers for so long that she feels as if it’s listening to her. Understanding her, too.
She takes it in her arms and sits on the chair by the small window.
It's been a long day, of a long week.
It's going to be a long month, too.
The silence grows thick as the sun starts to set.
The cat freezes as it watches the empty air and hisses softly.
Then it yawns and lays to rest.
Its snores fill the room shortly after.
Asha looks up at the sky, starting to fill with stars.
She sights, putting her head on the window.
“I don’t know if I can do it without you, auntie.” She murmurs. “I don't know how to convince them that this is my place, too”
A single, sneaky tear falls on her chest.
There's only silence.
**
The days after the funeral pass in a blur of chores and silence.
Zelda accumulated junk and knick-knacks for years without ever tidying them up.
Now it's Asha's burden to distinguish useful items from those that can be thrown away. With her dusty clothes, her hair wrapped in an old shawl, and an old broom in her hand, she certainly embodied the stereotype of a witch.
Not that she cares about that.
The small leather bag full of bleached and worn bones for fortune-telling goes into the pile of to-get-rid-of things.
The containers full of dried herbs and flowers go on the freshly dusted kitchen shelves.
The crystals and other rock-looking items go on the little table by the window.
She gathered up the rugs and dirty clothes and added them to the laundry basket by the front door. The precarious pile of fabric seems to beckon her from the dark corner.
“Alright”
With a resigned sigh she frees her strawberry blonde hair from the shawl, adds it to the already endless pile, and picks up the basket.
She’s closing the door behind as a thought crosses her mind.
She goes back in and takes the book she left on the table the night before, tucking it under her arm.
It’s a beautiful spring day.
The kind that makes you want to lie outside and laze around.
Asha lifts her face to the warmth of the sun and breaths in the pure air deeply, eyes closed, letting the scent of rosemary fill her nose.
She soon reaches the cool shade of the trees, walking calmly along the trail and into the thick vegetation.
It's a five-minute road, but the burden of clothes slows her down, making her panting.
“Surelly” she pants, “I'm out of shape”
Finally, she reaches the small clearing that runs alongside the river at a wide, calm spot. She places the basket on the bank and, gathering her skirt with one hand, kneels down beside the smooth rocks.
She never liked washing clothes, but maybe that's for the best.
It made her quick and efficient.
In no time at all, the low branches of the trees are decorated with skirts, rags, and colorful garments. The basket is empty.
Tired but satisfied with her work, Asha picks up the book she had left on the grass and heads back into the woods.
Not far from the river lay her favorite place—the only place that still makes her feel.. right.
The clearing is round and unnaturally neat, as if something pressed the grass flat in a perfect circle. At its center the's the walnut tree: gnarled, ancient, too large to belong to the rest of the woods.
A gash runs down its trunk, almost to the ground.
Child-sized.
Black as sin.
The village calls it a portal. A gateway between the human world and the Other.
A mouth that spits out spirits and demons wearing human skin, sent to poison villages from the inside.
According to the story, that’s what she is.
Asha never cared for the legend—except for the part where it almost killed her.
Zelda told her the tale the same way she told most things: with a scoff and a shrug.
A hunter came back one night, pale and shaking, swearing he heard crying from the cursed clearing. He marched in with his rifle and his courage, and returned claiming he’d seen the devil himself.
Zelda’s verdict had been simple. Stupid superstition.
And while the village argued in the church—meetings, prayers, whispered plans—Zelda walked into the woods alone.
She came back with a baby in her arms.
A few months old. Barely breathing. So exhausted that she didn't have the strength to scream.
Zelda had always wanted a child. So she kept her.
The village had been “divided,” as they liked to say. But in the end, no one dared to challenge the woman they called a witch.
Asha lets out a slow breath and sits at the base of the trunk, pressing her back to the rough bark.
Here, at least, the world is quiet.
She looks for the sign on the page she left the night before.
The hero is about to go to war, leading the army against the usurper.
She really loves this kind of story: the unlikely hero that gains power and wins against all odds. If only life was this simple.
It’s the sunset that brings her again to reality.
Only because the words on the page are no longer visible.
Asha slaps the book shut and uses the tree to help herself rise.
As her hand touches the wood, she feels lightheaded.
Her stomach dipps.
“I didn't eat today, did I?” she murmurs.
Once she regains her balance, she returns by the river.
The clothes have been under the sun all day, so are perfectly dry.
She folds them as fast as she can, trying to get home before the night falls.
Needless to say, it’s already dark when she opens the door.
The cat's large yellow eyes stare at her from a corner as a loud meow fills the air.
“I know, I know” Asha replies.
She puts down the basket and gives the cat a pat on its wet nose.
“Give me a moment and I'll feed you”
Another meow, louder.
“Yes, yes, come on”
She reaches for the matches on the side table and starts lighting the candles scattered on every free surface in the house.
Zelda had them in every type, shape, and size, placed on shelves, tables, and some even balanced on the corners of furniture.
“Candlelight helps us see the world more clearly” she used to say, “not like those oil lamps, that smell terrible!”
Then she'd go on talking about purifying one's aura.
Asha never really believed it, but over the years the candles became a well-established habit. She even finds herself buying new ones at the village fair, paying more attention to their appearance than to their usefulness.
Now every room has a mixture of scents. Some might find it unpleasant, but to her it feels like home.
Rosemary, lavender, bergamot, mint, and rose mingle in the air.
She feeds the cat with some leftovers of the night before and grabs a piece of bread for herself. She’s not hungry, but that lightheaded feeling from before might be a sign of low energy.
Finally, she curled up in bed.
The book in her hands, the cat behind her knees.
In a matter of minutes, she falls asleep by candlelight, the book opened on a battle scene.
That night, Asha dreams about violet lightning.
And a blue ribbon burning on the ground.
