The Witch and The Raven

The mornings started as they always had for the young witch in her cottage. The Opal Stars signaled that the day had come to her small pocket of the world, the little piece of it she and her grandmother had spent years growing into something that belonged entirely to them. Their soft, yellowing light twinkled through the open window above her massive bed, spilling across rumpled blankets and the wooden floorboards beyond. Vidalia stirred beneath the covers. For a few moments, she remained perfectly still. She listened. The cottage creaked softly around her, as it always did in the early morning. Somewhere beyond the walls, the river murmured over its stones, its familiar song carried through the open window. Birds called from the trees. Leaves whispered against one another in the breeze. Home. Vidalia breathed it in. The scent of damp earth drifted through the window alongside the faint sweetness of the lavender growing beneath it. She finally opened her eyes. Her room was much as it had been when she was a child, though the years had slowly made it hers. Old books filled the shelves against the walls, some bound in leather and others held together by little more than magic and stubbornness. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. A collection of polished stones rested along the windowsill, each one gathered from somewhere along the river. Her grandmother had once called the room cluttered. Vidalia preferred lived in. She pushed herself upright. Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders in a thick, unruly wave, heavy enough that she could feel its weight against her back. It had always been like that thick, long, and impossible to keep entirely under control. She gathered it over one shoulder and began working her fingers through the tangles. "Good morning," she murmured. The house gave a soft creak in response. "I wasn't talking to you." Another creak. Vidalia narrowed her eyes. "You know exactly who I was talking to." Outside, something chirped. She smiled despite herself. The cottage had never truly been quiet. It had simply learned how to speak softly. Vidalia dressed slowly, as she preferred to do most things in the morning. There was no reason to hurry. Nothing here required her to. That was one of the few luxuries of living at the very end of the Witchroad. No bells. No schedules. No people knocking at her door demanding something. Only the river. The forest. The garden. And the occasional creature that believed itself entitled to whatever happened to be growing in it. By the time Vidalia made her way downstairs, the kitchen was already beginning to warm from the banked coals in the hearth. This was her favorite room. It was small and worn and full of things that had belonged to people who were no longer there. Copper pots hung from wooden hooks above the stove. Bundles of rosemary, thyme, lavender, and sage dangled from the rafters. Glass jars lined the shelves, filled with dried petals, mushrooms, seeds, roots, crystals, and things that would have been difficult to explain to anyone unfamiliar with witchcraft. Vidalia knew where everything belonged. And she preferred that everything remain there. The kettle went on the left. The wooden spoon belonged beside the cutting board. The black iron pan stayed on the third hook. The honey went in the cupboard. Not on the shelf. Not beside the tea. In the cupboard. She had rules. Very reasonable rules. At least, Vidalia thought so. She stepped outside with a basket tucked against her hip. The morning air was cool against her skin. Her sanctuary stretched before her. The cottage stood surrounded by wild green, its stone walls almost entirely hidden beneath climbing ivy and flowering vines. Moss softened the steps leading to the front door. Tiny white flowers had begun blooming between the stones of the path, and a row of lanterns hung from crooked wooden posts, their flames still glowing faintly despite the rising sun. Beyond the cottage was her garden. It had started with her grandmother. A few herbs. Some vegetables. A handful of flowers. Then it had grown. And grown. And grown. Now it seemed to have a mind of its own. Rosemary grew beside foxglove. Lavender tangled with mint. Mushrooms appeared beneath old logs overnight. Wildflowers spilled over the garden walls and climbed the trellises. Nothing was planted perfectly. Vidalia didn't believe nature cared much for perfect. At the far edge of the garden, the Witchroad flowed quietly past. The ancient river was more than water. It was a road. A connection. For centuries, witches had followed its winding course between hidden sanctuaries and covens, moving between the physical world and the world that existed just beyond it: the Second World. Vidalia had never traveled far along it. Her home sat at the very end. Beyond the cottage, the river disappeared over the Everfall, vanishing into silver mist where the physical world touched the other. It was the end of the Witchroad. And, as far as Vidalia was concerned, there was nowhere she needed to go beyond it. She knelt beside the garden and began gathering herbs for breakfast. She liked her mornings this way. Quiet. Predictable. Hers. She reached for a sprig of rosemary. Something moved in the grass. Vidalia froze. Two golden eyes stared at her from beneath the leaves. She sighed. "Absolutely not." The eyes blinked. A small creature stepped into view. A fox. Except it wasn't quite a fox. Its fur shimmered faintly in the morning light, shifting between russet and gold. Two long tails curled behind it, each tipped with a faint silver glow. The spirit fox tilted its head. Vidalia stared back. "No." The fox's ears perked. "I know that look." The creature took one careful step toward the garden. "Don't." Another step. "Those are my crystal fruits." The fox bolted. "VIDALIA'S GARDEN," she shouted, scrambling to her feet. The fox snatched a glowing crystal from the lowest branch of the tree and darted across the lawn. Vidalia stood with her hands on her hips. The fox stopped halfway across the meadow. It looked back at her. The crystal fruit dangled from its mouth. "You are a menace." The fox's tail flicked. Vidalia tried very hard not to smile. "Bring that back." The fox ran. Vidalia laughed. And for a moment, as the Opal Stars faded into the morning sky and the river sang beyond her garden, there was nothing in the world that could reach her. That was by her grandmother's design. Vidalia had been born in the material realm, among humans, though she had been far too young to remember much of the world beyond the trees surrounding her home. By the time she was old enough to understand what it meant to be a witch, the human kingdoms had already grown tired of trying to reason with her people. The witches had something the humans desperately wanted: magic. At first, the kingdoms had asked them to teach it. They wanted to know how witches harnessed even the smallest pieces of spiritual power, how they spoke with things that had no voice, coaxed life from barren soil, and saw things hidden from ordinary eyes. But magic was not something a person could simply learn because they wanted it. It was woven into the witches themselves, as natural to them as breathing. The humans could not accept that. They could not understand why people born with such power would refuse to use it in their wars. They could not understand why the witches would not choose a side, lend their magic to an army, or teach them how to turn something sacred into a weapon. When persuasion failed, the kingdoms began to demand. When demands failed, they began to imprison. And when imprisonment failed, they began to kill. It had never mattered what kind of witch someone was. Healers, diviners, kitchen witches, seancers, green witches, elemental practitioners, and those who worked with shadows or the dead were all hunted alike. The witches had been a people before they had been a collection of traditions, and the kingdoms had decided that all of them were a threat. Those who lived near the Witchroad had managed to escape through the river and into the Second World. Others disappeared into forests, mountains, abandoned villages, and places where even other witches could no longer find them. Many never had the chance to run. Vidalia had been hidden before she was old enough to understand that she was in danger. Her grandmother had made certain of that. The cottage became her world, and over the years Vidalia learned every corner of it as intimately as she knew herself. The forest became her classroom, the garden her responsibility, and the river the one thing that connected her to the witches who lived beyond her secluded sanctuary. Still, she knew something had been changing beyond the boundaries of her little pocket of the world. She couldn't have said exactly how she knew. Perhaps it was the river, whose waters seemed to carry more than they once had. Perhaps it was the way the birds sometimes went silent when something unfamiliar moved through the forest. Or perhaps it was the bodies. They had begun appearing more frequently. Men washed down the river, some wounded and barely breathing, others already dead after drowning or bleeding out somewhere upstream. Their bodies traveled for miles before finally catching against the stones at the end of the Witchroad. Most never made it as far as her door. Vidalia buried the ones she could. She healed the ones who were still breathing. She asked very few questions, because the answers were rarely complicated. They were soldiers, usually. Men fleeing battles they had lost, men escaping battles they had won, and occasionally men who seemed to have no idea where they were at all. Regardless of how they arrived, they always appeared to be searching for the same thing. Safety. And somehow, the river kept carrying them to the one place their kingdoms had never managed to find. Vidalia had begun to wonder how much longer that would remain true. A rustle came from the garden. She turned toward the sound and immediately spotted two golden eyes peering at her through the foxglove. "Oh, no." The spirit fox stepped into view. Its russet fur shimmered beneath the morning light, shifting between copper and gold as its two long tails swept lazily behind it. A faint silver glow clung to their tips, marking it as something far older and stranger than an ordinary fox. Vidalia narrowed her eyes. The fox stared back. "I know that look." Its ears perked. "Don't you dare, not again." The creature turned toward the crystal-fruit tree. "Those are not for you." The fox bolted. "Hey!" It darted beneath the lowest branch, snapped one of the translucent crystals from its stem, and raced across the lawn with the prize clenched proudly between its teeth. Vidalia planted her hands on her hips. "You little thief." The fox stopped halfway across the meadow and glanced over its shoulder. Vidalia tried not to smile. She failed. "Bring it back." The fox's tails flicked mischievously before it disappeared into the tall grass. "You are lucky you're cute." A familiar voice came from behind her. "She's not the one I'd be worried about." Vidalia turned to find an old woman standing at the edge of the garden path with a woven basket hanging from one arm. Her dress was dusted with flour, her gray hair was twisted into a loose knot, and the warm scent of cinnamon, butter, and baked apples followed her into the garden. Vidalia smiled. "You came early." "I was told there were crystal fruits." "There are." The woman lifted her basket. "I brought you something." Vidalia's smile became suspicious. "What did you do?" "Nothing." "You only bring baked goods when you want something." "That is because baked goods are an excellent form of diplomacy." Vidalia laughed and walked toward her. The woman was a kitchen witch, one of the few witches who still traveled the Witchroad regularly. She had been visiting Vidalia's sanctuary for years, usually arriving with something freshly baked and leaving with whatever the garden happened to be producing in abundance. They had never formally discussed their arrangement. It simply developed over time. Fresh herbs for pies. Crystal fruits for pastries. Bundles of dried plants in exchange for bread, cakes, or the occasional bag of carefully blended tea. Vidalia had always considered it a fair trade. The kitchen witch pulled back the cloth covering her basket. A small apple pie sat beneath it, still warm. Vidalia stared at it. "Apple?" "With cinnamon." Vidalia immediately turned toward the crystal-fruit tree. "You may take four." The woman laughed. "Five." "Three." "Five." "Four." "Done." Vidalia shook her head and began gathering the crystals into the basket. Behind them, the spirit fox emerged from the grass. It still had the stolen crystal fruit in its mouth. The kitchen witch noticed it and sighed. "Does it always steal from you?" "Only the expensive things." "Ah." "I found two of the three it stole last month." The woman glanced at the fox. "Then I suppose it owes me one." Vidalia looked at the creature. The fox looked at her. Then it dropped the crystal. Vidalia smiled. "Good choice." She took the fruit from the grass and placed it into the basket. Some things she had learned were worth trading for. Especially pie.