YAGA | ✓

TWENTY

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AS SHE WALKED, Yaga realised that Salovo had become a ghost town, with semi-real citizens and even less real stories. It seemed, with every step, that the accusations became wilder, each recounting of the past events even more nonsensical than the other. In the spring warmth, the snow had disappeared leaving nothing but a layer of moisture on the grass, glassy with dewdrops. Had it been a town by any other name, the weather would've made it remarkable, beautiful even. But because it was this cursed village, she had to make the flowers grow herself.

Clasped in her bony hand, the broom had become an extension of her body, as spiky and pointed as the rest of her had become. The past few months had aged her, stealing the curves from her body and turning them into jutting angles. Even her face, the thing that had saved her life, had withered away. In the vacant windows of the shopfronts, her own reflection glared back, so unfamiliar that she turned around to try and catch a glimpse of the other woman in the square with her.

Hair longer than it had ever been before, dirty and straggly, nails long and crooked. A thick layer of grime settled beneath them as she balled up her fist, nails digging into her palm. And her face - so horrible and disfigured that she couldn't bear to look at it. She forced her gaze to the ground, humming under her breath to distract herself, to stop herself from looking.

But even so, it was fruitless - and Yaga knew it.

It was almost like being a child again, seeing a withering old woman as fighting the urge to stare. See the scars marked in her skin, the stories they told. Sometimes, she would be kind, others she'd be as rough on the inside as on the outside. There were women like Baba Jana, filled to the brim with the strangeness that age brought. When Yaga had been younger, she'd almost wanted to be the next Baba Jana, until that wish had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

Before, she hadn't wanted to be feared.

Now, she welcomed it with open arms. She would nurture it, she decided, like a tree. Plant its roots in the ground, watch it grow. Unless, of course, her power made it into a mighty one immediately, spreading the wings of fear like a dark stain on the landscape. She would be the one to paint the forests red- maybe it would even match her hair. Yaga held back a laugh and walked into the empty shop.

Face your fears, a voice in her head told her. Its silkiness almost reminded her for Johari, for the briefest of moments.

Blinking, she almost jumped as the bell above the door rang, before remembering - the village was practically empty. After the news of Baba Jana's death, along with Dimitri's, those that could afford it had fled. That had left the poor and broken, with their minds open to be polluted. It had also left those with their roots clenched so heavily beneath the earth of Salovo that they couldn't be wrenched out.

Her mother had never come back.

She wouldn't dare, not after all that had happened. She was too ashamed of her daughter to have the courage to show her face. In fact, she would've been lucky if she was still alive. All laws seemed to slip out of the window when it came to witches, and her mother was no different. Yaga found herself wondering what tshe would think of her now. Nothing good, of course - but she wondered whether she would show her any pity.

No, she decided. Anya would curse her and themselves for not raising a child well enough, and turn her away. Clicking her tongue, Yaga scoffed at herself for even thinking of such an idea.

The shop was empty. Dust had settled on the empty shelves, the wax from the candle having melted so much that it had dripped down the counter. Behind that counter, though covered in a heavy layer of grime, was a mirror. She forced herself to look at it, one last time, with her chin held high and shoulders squared. And when she did, the sight was monstrous. The cuts had gone deep, she'd realised that, but the scars, marred and angry red, twisted all over her body. Her broken nose was still caked with dried blood, and her hair was greasy and uneven.

Looking at herself, she wanted to cry.

But she didn't.

Instead, she cursed all the gods who never listened, the men who had been too scared to see, the village itself for opening its gates to sin in the first place.

She cursed the forest as she stormed out of the shop and into its lingering embrace, the broom still clutched in her hand. Walking was a chore, with feet shuffling as leaves scraped against her face and thorns pressed into her skin.

At last, the Blackwater rippled into view, and she sat by its bank. The water was so cold that it made her fingers numb, but she sat on the sodden grass for what felt like an eternity, breathing heavily. Those breaths slowly turned to laughs, until she was cackling with all the force in her body, rattling her bones and the thin skin stretched over them. Flinging her head back, she laughed on, the water roaring around her.

•••

There was no light in the forest, the heavy foliage engulfing Yaga as she moved, thumping the broom against the ground. It was almost like a chant, steady, droning on in what remained of her mind. She sat down, exhausted.

Her hands rested on the trunk of a tree, and she laid her head on the bark, inhaling the cool air.

Her palms were slick with blood as she went to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the crimson liquid smeared over her cheek. She inhaled and slowly turned around. It was not human blood - no, it was some sort of animal's. A chicken. It wasn't long dead. but still not a pleasant sight. Every centimetre of it was covered in blood, splinters of wood sticking out from between its feathers. It had died in some terrible way, she knew.

With a grin tugging at her lips, she lifted the corpse, the only noise in the forest her own racing heart.

"Walk with me."

Her voice was not in a language that she knew, but nevertheless, she understood it perfectly.

"Take these feet and carry me to my home."

Everything went dark, and it felt as if the tree had come crashing down on her. But when she opened her eyes, reality hazy in her vision, the trees had not crashed down, rather parted. And in the midst of it, a tiny cottage. Black smoke poured from its chimney, rugged cobbles from which a thatched roof crossed over, covered in dark moss. The windows were filthy, looking as if they had never been cleaned, and steep steps that could break someone's neck descended from a battered round door. Something in her wanted to go inside, but not before she saw what was beneath the steps.

The cottage was held up by chicken's feet.

Two of them, wrinkled and huge, claws digging into the dirt to keep the house steady.

Now, Yaga raced up the steps, her skinny legs taking two stairs at once. The broom was clasped in her hand.

Tonight, she would soar.

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