The witch
Asha stood in the frame of her front door. She’d opened the door inwards, finding it barely on its hinges. It had once again been defiled in the night. The words ‘WITCH’ were painted on the grainy wood. Last time the brats from the village did this, it had taken her days to scrub it out of the crevices; small flecks of white still remained deeply ingrained.
Must I really do this again!? She thought while pinching the bridge of her nose, she contained her frustration and anger; she couldn’t head into town looking pissed off. It’d only fuel the fire burning under their asses. The last thing she needed was to be turned away... again. Dawn had already reared its head; she was running late as it was.
She lived on the edge of town in the wilds. Her run-down hut of a house was all that was given to her. An old farmer’s shed attached to a small piece of land, over the years, she’d made it livable and comfortable. And yet they still tormented her this far out. It was a good hour’s walk into town, a trip she rarely took until she needed supplies. She tried to avoid it mostly, only trecking in once a month if she could help it.
Her livelihood strapped to her back, like a makeshift backpack, she grumbled about fixing the door later and headed out. She cleared the passage through the trees once a year; it appeared to be coming up to that time again, given the state of the overgrown trail she followed. She knew the way, but having a clear path made for quicker, more efficient travel.
An hour later, she found her feet meeting the cobbled stone path of the small village. Dread crept in.
Here we go again. Fake smile, let’s do this!
Lifting her head, she took a deep breath through her nose. She pressed on, forcing her feet to move beneath her, when her whole body was telling her to turn around and go home. Her destination; market street. First, she needed to drop off her orders, then pick up some rice and wheat.
The houses and stores began to line the edges of the path. The brown and red bricks aswell as the rendered exteriors in various colours, would appear inviting to anyone else. Her head down, she walked with a speedy pace to the tailor’s shop. This early in the morning, most of the villagers weren’t yet in the market; only the stall owners would be awake and setting up for the day. The glass display windows of the high-end store greeted her with fresh gowns on the mannequins; she couldn’t help but stop and admire the details. Her details. Seeing them in the front of the shop always made her feel a little bit better. However, she was never allowed to enter the front of the store, so she ducked around the back street and knocked on the back entrance.
The door was reefed open, a hand reaching out to grab hold of her clothing as she was yanked inside. The practice no longer startled her; it had become normal. The store owner was a balding, short man with chubby cheeks and a strained face as he looked out the door, making sure no one had seen him pull her inside.
“Did you bring them?” He slammed the door behind them as he eyed her as though they were dealing contraband.
She nodded. Shuffling the pack from her back, she unfolded the protective layers to reveal the gowns within. Beautifully crafted works attune to those in the window.
“You never do make one the same.” His eyes lit up.
He hurriedly collected the gowns and shoved past her, pushing her into a rack of hangers. She let out a small sound of shock as she had to regain her posture.
“Mr Weddlewood, my payment?” She followed after him.
“Only three?”
“I couldn’t afford more fabric from the merchants.”
He spun around with a frown. “I pay you plenty for the gowns!”
“I have to buy my food for the month and the fabrics. I am trying to gather seeds to grow my own produce, but...”
He let out a sigh. “I know, I know.” Shaking his head, he added. “The folks around here don’t see your worth.”
“I’m simply glad at least one person does.”
Handing her a pouch of coins, he patted her pale hand. Her grip tightened on the small bag.
Step one, done.
“If they only knew.” He muttered, turning away.
“Thankyou Mr Weddlewood, I’ll be back next month.”
The pouch seemed heavier than last time, but she wasn’t about to question it. Her gowns were quite highly sought after, and not only in this town. He made a pretty penny off of her, and she had a way to survive. They had an understanding and a partnership. If not for this means of income, she would have left long ago.
Saying her goodbyes, she headed back out, and on the main street, the village was now starting to wake up. The street stalls were nearly set up for the day, and the quiet morning was no more as light mumbled voices filled the air.
As she walked down the street, the whispers started.
There she is.
Look at her.
That white hair and red eyes, it’s unnatural.
So pale, she’s the spawn of the devil.
I could never walk around in the daylight like that.
Witch.
Witch.
WITCH!
Clamping her eyes shut, she shook her head. Ignore it, you must. No matter what she told herself, the words still hurt. Daggers to her very being, she couldn’t help how she was born. She tried to keep her mind off of it, but when a rock collided with her head, she couldn’t. Stumbling to the ground, her hand raised to her temple as a line of blood seeped down her face from behind her long bangs.
Laughter erupted around her.
Pitiful!
What a joke!
She should just leave already!
If she were really a witch, wouldn’t they fear her? Wouldn’t she be able to defend herself? They were all clueless or just arrogant. Anger boiled beneath her skin. Why, why me?
Slightly dazed, she attempted to stand, but someone pushed past her. Unsteady on her feet, she collapsed to the floor again scaping her hands and knees on the stones of the path. The sting of the cobbles had her limbs shaking in pain.
There was no point in getting angry; she pushed it down, forced herself to be calm. She’d learnt that the hard way. It had only made things worse. The merchants had refused to let her buy anything fresh. Her only choice was to buy the rotting produce from their bins. That had been a hard winter, but she had used the rotting goods to procure seeds to start her own garden, so it wasn’t for nothing.
Not saying a word, she collected herself and continued down the street. Finally, in front of the stall she needed, she waited to be acknowledged. She wasn’t allowed to touch the produce for fear of her apparently cursing it.
“What do you want!” Snapped the merchant as he snarled at her from behind the wooden wagon.
She pointed to several of the items, mainly a bag of rice and wheat, as well as a few different fruits that were in season. Once the goods were packed up, the merchant tossed the paper bag with the fruit at her as well as the bags of grain. She caught paper and wheat, but the rice collided with the floor and split open, spilling everywhere.
“Useless! Sixteen coins and get out of here!”
Sixteen! It had only been twelve last time. There was no point in bartering; she always lost and ended up paying more. Had Mr Weddlewood foreseen this?
She handed over the coins over the counter, then knelt to scoop up the spilt rice back into its bag. The other items she could wrap in her now-empty makeshift backpack while she carried the rice’s damaged bag in her arms.
“Hurry up!”
She was going as fast as she could, her hand raw and red. Scoping dirt into the burlap sack as she went.
“I said, HURRY UP!”
She felt a boot on her back. It pressed her down lower to the ground. Her knees and legs strained as she was forced into a forward fold over the rice.
“Is this how you treat your customers?”
A new voice, one she’d not heard in town before.
“My lord! Very sorry, we did not expect you so soon.”
The foot was removed, giving her some relief.
“This vermin will be out of the way shortly.”
She was kicked in the back, causing her to fall to the ground in a disgraceful mess. Her hand clenched around her rice sack so it wouldn’t spill again, protecting it with her life.
“What are you doing!?”
Warm, gentle hands found her shoulders. She was helped to her feet, but she dare not look up, her eyes locked on the cobles at her feet.
“My lord, there’s no need to worry; she is merely a reject. Her own mother didn’t want her, she is an abomination-”
“Just because she’s different, just because she looks different, you treat her like this?”
She scooped up her pack with one arm, the other still wrapped around the rice and ran. The last thing she needed was to become involved in some stranger’s argument, all over her. It would only warrant more abuse later when he left town.
There was no point walking back the way she came; the villagers were likely waiting for her with more stones. She headed for the edge of the built-up area and disappeared into the trees. She could have sworn she’d heard someone calling after her, but she ignored it. All that mattered was getting home.
Once within the safety of the trees, she was able to slow her march to a steady-paced walk and relax some. Her head throbbed as the pain pulsed through her skull. She had salves at home; she only needed to make it back. As long as the kids weren’t on the path like last time. But a day in her life was never that easy.
As expected, as she emerged from the thick and onto the path that looped around and led home, she heard a giggle. The ill-mannered swarm were here already.
Shed tried running before and ended up encountering traps they had set for her. Now she was cautious and tentative with her footwork. Then she saw it. The little brats had lined the path with stinging nettle. Likely stealing leather protection from their parents to handle the plant. Her light linen clothing and sandals were no match for the minuscule nettles that would adhere to her clothing and skin. What she was wearing would have to be burned, there was no getting the tiny needles out, too small to see with the human eye and if they embedded in the skin they pure agony. A stringing that never ceased and drove you mad with pain.
She should never have warned the villagers about the plant and its dangers. Then again, if she hadn’t, they would have twisted it and blamed her if anyone encountered the plant in the forest. Ironic really, the warning she gave those who came to her for her salves and healing was now being used against her.
She turned around. There was no way she was walking across that. She knew the Forrest better than most; she’d make it work.
She heard the light murmur of angry children as their plan failed. The rustling of foliage was her only warning as more stones were hauled at her. The kids didn’t throw as hard as the adults, but each way she tried to turn a new snot-nosed minor appeared. She dared not approach them; the village would start a witch hunt if the kids told anyone she even been in arm’s reach.
There was no other way; her eyes lingered on the vibrant green leaves that lined the path, and her heart fell.
