|| Lenia. two ||

|| Lenia. two ||

A witch.

Stupid bastard peasant child. If he was not too fast she would slap him silly, strangle that cylinder of a neck. But he was gone. Back to the town, to flood the streets with screamings of a wicked woman, who had tried to magick him, eat him raw, hair to toenails. No one would believe him.

Possibly.

Hurriedly, she turned around. She was sure the boy had gone. But in her panic. . .

Which. . . Which way?

She had lost the bloody way. Oh, anger was such an explosive thing.

She screamed until she felt her throat bleeding out.

And hastily stopped, after realising that it was not going to help her at all – she would only concrete those whisperings behind those flimsy shields they called hands. Beggar. Filth. Evil. Witch. Witch witch witch. Once, at a city she cared not to remember the name of, she had sent an entire sector berserk with various hand gestures. None stopped to think that she was communicating, asking for food, but believed her striking up a curse. And if any had known her intentions, public opinion would never stop harrowing such a person with common decency afterwards. But that had not been her concern, her concern for since, present and ever, was food.

The red in her face petered out and she gathered herself enough to feel the sun. To her left – good. Some prat who still stank of his mother’s milk was not going to stop her earning food tonight. Let them come at her in hordes, as she predicted! She would die with a full mouth.

It was better than she expected – her ears were not suffering from a crazed din of shouts, at least. Murmurings in the corners, whooshes of cloaks to point at her, but all were rather mild. Feathers could have winged her feet, but she knew: the boy’s imagination had smeared dots of fear in every eye. Those dots could smudge them blind and begin glowing red if they saw even a hint of evidence. Discreet, careful motions ensured her hood was down, and she checked every step of hers was not a suspicious shuffle.

If anything, witch hunting started at night.

She clenched her fists to focus. She had almost lost count of her steps. Hundred and sixty three. . . Sixty four. Then, to the right. She no longer felt the sun. Yes, that felt right. A snaky groove right above her head. Fingers dug around the brick and she found purchase. Her greatest treasure.

Her flute.

A witch. Honestly – children. She was a musician. Albeit a poor, wandering one.

If she said so herself, it was not a bad way of making food.

She would be on a busy street, if not smothered by a little evening shadow. Licking fire into dull hearts, perhaps it was pompous to even suggest so, yet music had become such a rarity that even fearful parents forgot to tuck their children in the crook of their arms upon hearing her melody. Tossed or dropped, coins would find their way into her flute case.

She merely hoped the prominent coat-of-arms on it would remain unrecognised.

Her clothes garnered enough pity to deter any jokers who thought it funny to finger her fruits. That did not stop some miscreants, but if she had enough money for one bite of bread, she left them to their devices. She remembered a moment she was awash with acid; it was a different town, not too long ago, a rich town. At every corner were shrieks of laughter. She had dug into her scarce purse, and thrown all the coins into the air. The gawks of affront immeasurably satisfied her, even now. All those cries of “never seen such a ridiculous thing in” their lives tickled giggles out of her.

Setting up shop took a little more fuss than usual. It was tiring, veering away at children gurgling at each other, caught up in the feverish belief that the entire town was their playground. They, like that stupid boy before, could expose her and that was all it would take. Stones, sticks and broken bones.

She started playing.

Footsteps hesitating, snatches of jingling as fingers fished out copper. Audible sighing and cheeks creasing into a smile. It was never enough, this feeling. Surely she was a witch, now.

If only music had been an edible thing. She would bloat herself fat like a cow, thicken her neck into rolls.

- Yes, that’s her.

At first, she ignored the voices. A timely cough hacked her lungs, however, and as she paused before taking the flute to her lips again, her ears jerked at uniform, heavy thumpings of men walking towards her.

- Hefty reward for such a filthy lookin’ witch, ay?
- No worries about the details, mate. We’d be doin’ the ruddy town a good thing, ridding it of that.

It was always men. She did not understand that part – was it men, with their capacity to deliver violence irrationally, who always had to bring reckoning to a witch? Would no woman have the grit to drag her by the hair, break her fingers, toes and ribs, and fetter her to the stake?

Or perhaps, to them reason was not an abeyance and could dictate that she was not, in fact, a bloody witch.

She stood.

She was not going to look up to these bastard peasants.