«Just in time… But it still shrinks inside: the cradle of humanity, after all.»
Behind the transparent glasses, against the background of a huge scarlet ball, a stony blob, once known as Earth, swirled into the gut of the «Purrer».
Witches don’t belong here
To think how it worked out!
Here she is again in Ilfania in her old age. And again, she huddles in the little hut on the Marshlands, just like in her youth, when no one knew the novice witch yet.
Then they found out, of course. Of course, they did.
And now… they’ve forgotten. She should to remind, but her strength is not the same, and the desire, to be honest, almost no more.
Is that too much to ask?
Just not to live in the damp, where old bones break so much. Just a little memory, a little respect.
No, no one needs an ancient sorceress either there or here.
Barbeza sighed, grunted, stepped over the high threshold, climbed out onto the porch, and sat down in the shabby, creaky rocking chair, exposing her wrinkled face to the spring sun.
Below, on a large boulder on a path winding through the woods, a grass snake was basking in the warm rays, its black, resinous scales gleaming.
Heh… here she is, like a snake, crawling out of its den-lodge, to fry her bones. As if her own heat is no longer enough, as if the body is gradually taken over by a cold grave mist.
Oh, no! She’s not going to die like that, in the middle of nowhere and oblivion. She must, she must leave something behind… Only, what?
Lost in her thoughts, the witch, soaking in the sun, soon fell asleep. The lullaby of the wind rustling the young leaves and the chirping of the countless birds that inhabited the thickets near the marsh lulled her into a deeper and deeper reverie of her past.
***
A hundred and fifty years ago, Ilfania was a veritable haven for magic.
Who hasn’t met in its forest thickets, high mountains, and cool lakes? And there is no need to talk about the Marshlands.
Mermaids and woodsmen, goblins and dwarves, trolls, faeries and even dragons.
And there was no shortage of mages and witches. Well, not so many that their art ceased to amaze, but many. And their skills were valued: they could heal a cow, help a woman in labor, or help a king in battle. Oh, well, yes, they could also send rot on the neighbor’s field or boils on the old miller’s ass. Yes, it happened. But for the cause! Yes, yes!
To say that all the wizards were like cheese in butter, no. But they lived decently: they didn’t have to worry about food and shelter. And when a monster came out of the woods, they had to get some gold: what better way to smoke a stinking grisna out of a barn than with witches’ candles? Who else but a magician could drive away a dragon?
Everyone bowed to them when they met, invited them for tea and coffee, invited them to weddings, and to funerals to weep, to light a fire for spirits. Beautiful!
They were called to serve from neighboring lands too: the local wizards were always in short supply, and they also often went to Ilfania, to the roots, for training.
She herself was born there. Lucky. She had been under Gartanda’s wing, and she’d been in cromlech – magic circle – all her childhood. And how she learned to make potions was astonishing. For love, for battle, for health, and for sickness. Sweet as honey or the cries of lovers, and bitter as wormwood or heartbreak.
With her potions and brews she traveled halfway around the world. She had seen such wonders. She saw the wild seas with flying ships-like-birds on them (she never sailed herself, though – she was terribly nauseated, until she turned green and warts popped out), and rocks, high and smooth, like heavenly fortresses, rivers and deserts, hills and valleys…
…swirling in a dreamlike circle, the states and cities, forbidden lands passed by… thousands of faces… and the sky, always the sky. Formidable and dark, with bluish-purple clouds bringing downpour; blue, bright like periwinkles, with flocks of lamb-like clouds; almost white, sultry, dazzling, like death itself… the sky…
It was the potions that ruined her. Or rather, not the potions, but the dragons.
She found common ground… ha! With those creatures! No, some really worked: barrels of her brew were bought off from scaly monsters in Ilfania, and Pranezh, and in Sukhumet. Ugh! She had to shake in roads with all these travels.
Then they called her to Gizel. She stayed there for a long time… she could have stayed there forever, but she was too brainless. She wanted power. Old fool! She’s been around a long time; she’s seen it all.
And then there was this dragon…
Ugh… a stone-skinned lizard… it will be damned… it was bad lucky thing to get in touch, to get herself hopes up…
It was not her fault, though. It was him, Dorrenoi. What a geezer! How could he have known?
How could it not occur to her that the royal advisor knew all the ins and outs of the swamp creatures? They had worked side by side for so long.
Eh! Krumland’s promises clouded her head. If it were money – Gaffaro paid good money, too. After all, he promised the entire Zhemyr Grove, the bastard, along with the stone ringland, yes, yes. She was so glad that the idiot didn’t know what he was promising. She should have wondered if he knew what he was getting into at all, but she was blinded by greed.
With the main ring of the entire kingdom of Gisel, she would have gathered her conclave: among the ancients of that time, she was still considered a young girl. And she was a young girl compared to the walking relics that led the Ilfania coven and Hutumet, she was. It would take a long time to wait, and then there had to be a choice… there were always plenty of applicants.
And here was an unoccupied prime circle for nothing, and in a place like this…
Ah! Such a chance she missed!
And she did everything she was supposed to do. She made potions for the Krumland rabble, and spells, and handed out a whole bag of rune stones (she’d been poring over them for months, by the way). And still, it didn’t work.
And it could not come out… if you look at it now… Too hot and reckless was the Duke, so he burned, figuratively speaking.
And Gaffaro had done well. Gisel is still in full bloom, and soon his grandson will be on the throne.
Only the old witch can’t go there. They called her a traitor. A traitor! Thank gods, not tarred and feathered, not executed, but simply kicked out. It would have been nice for her to be in the south: no winter, no dampness, and a house not like these shambles here.
…a single tear rolled down the wrinkled cheek of the slumbering old woman…
For a while she was able to settle down in Pranezh, near Kakhnitz, in the district of Martz. She collected herbs and cured the sick. She lived with a farmer who gave her a nice, bright room with windows overlooking the brook and the birches. She ate sweet: fresh milk, fresh butter, bread only from the oven. She went to take care of his cattle, in case of illness or a calf going wrong during calving. She taught his little daughter witchcraft wisdoms: not seriously – the little girl had no abilities, but to distinguish herbs and roots, not to take poisonous berries, and to understand when to wait for rain, yes.
In general, lived a good life, without honors and power, but well-fed and quiet.
The only trouble was, there was a rumor that there were evil spirits in all the