Chapter Seventeen
In the gray hour before sunrise, Astrid stood at the base of a gigantic tree, her recently doffed skis leaning against a root as wide as she was tall. The trunk’s circumference put her little river-rock cottage to shame, the span of its twisted branches vining their way above the surrounding canopy, at least one hundred meters wide.
At one point in its history, the tree competed with others for sunlight. Now it as good as stood alone. The nearest trees stood just beyond its long reach.
It was an ancient tree, at least a thousand years old, but probably more, since Perchta never spoke of residing anywhere in der Schwarzwald outside its hollowed-out spaces.
Astrid laid a mittened hand to its gnarled bark—bark that bore not just the scars of time but of acid rain. And yet it was strong. It had always been strong.
She’d grown up here, sheltered beneath its branches.
A gentle vibration thrummed beneath her palm, and were it not for her mittens, it would have tickled. “Hello to you, too,” she whispered, fondly patting the bark.
A round, arched door covered in frosted green lichen opened to her right, and Mutter Perchta emerged, arms outstretched in welcome. “Tochter!” she cried, too cheerfully for the early hour. Or for Mutter in general. Perchta didn’t do perky, much less at the break of dawn, but the unusual excitement was infectious, and yesterday’s break-in did nothing to dim it.
Smiling, Astrid fell into her arms and hugged tight.
Situational necessity aside, it was a big day—the first of the final steps in her journey to becoming a hag. A cause for celebration.
“Come inside, my dear,” Perchta said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Let’s get started.”
Roots formed pillars and natural beams inside. It was a cozy space overstuffed with sturdy hand-carved furniture, most notably a wide span of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and Perchta’s hefty worktable where she crafted all manner of spells and potions.
On the far wall hung a traditional cuckoo clock, the most modern contraption Perchta possessed, and beneath it a rocking chair made of living vines, which with gentle nudging, unfurled and pushed off from the ground, as if on stilts, allowing Perchta to reach even her highest shelves.
A small iron cauldron hung in the hearth, the brew inside steaming from a steady simmer.
Crouching, Perchta stoked the fire, keeping it at the perfect height. Not too low, not too high. Smoke vented out through an iron pipe, spelled with mundane, household magic that kept it from harming the tree and didn’t require concentration to control. It was no small thing for the tree to host Perchta and her hearth fires without distress. Or to drop its dead and dying limbs neatly at its base so that she had plenty of wood for fuel.
In return, Perchta drove away loggers and the invasive parasitic insects that would burrow into its trunk if left unchecked, and she nursed it back to health many, many times over from the ravages of pollution. It was a symbiotic relationship built on acts of service and trust. How Mutter showed love best.
With creaking knees, Perchta stood, brushing soot off her palms.
It was a lot of physical work to maintain a natural fire, but the ancient Hexe insisted upon abstaining from modern appliances, preferring the “simple” life she’d always known. Clockwork she found charming and whimsical, but the Industrial Revolution, its emergence two-to-three hundred years ago, and all that followed, was a blip in Mutter’s lifespan and she barely paid any attention to it.
Tenderly cupping her cheek, Perchta’s wolfish, yellow eyes grew misty. “Are you ready?”
“More than.” Astrid swallowed, not from fear, but from the emotion welling in her chest and tears pricking her eyes.
Perchta ladled a spoonful of brew into a tin cup. “Only take a little at a time, that’s important. Let your body adjust to the changes. Too much, too fast will kill you, so you will need to come every day for a new dose.”
Astrid nodded.
“The first dose is unpleasant,” Perchta continued with a warning, handing her the potion. “But it should get easier the more you take it. Best to shoot it all back at once, and if you want to purge, don’t. Trust me, if you can’t keep it down, you’ll have to start over, and you don’t want to start over.”
“Tastes that bad?” Astrid joked dryly, lifting the tin cup to her nose. The cloudy turquoise liquid within didn’t smell alarming. Just bitter herbs and...she sniffed again. Something sickly sweet.
“It’s more of a texture thing.” Perchta squeezed lemon into a steaming earthenware mug of hot water, followed by shavings of gingerroot. “But I had a weak stomach. Might not be so bad for you.”
Though the liquid had just been spooned from a simmering pot, it sat cold and heavy on her tongue, thick as honey but without the sweet flavor. Without any flavor. She almost spat it out from shock but forced it down her throat with a shuddering swallow. The brew’s icy, cloying fingers dragged down her throat, making her gag, before sinking heavily in the pit of her stomach.
A biting cold fanned out into her limbs, leaving numb and stiffened joints in their wake. “Schei?e.” She doubled over, clutching her belly. It wasn’t nausea that churned her insides but cramping. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Perchta thrust the steaming mug of lemon ginger water into her hands. “Drink, this helps.”
The mug frosted over where winter goddess’s fingers had touched, the gesture sparking childhood nostalgia. When she was a little girl and not yet patient enough to let her soup or tea cool, Perchta’s magic kept her from scalding her tongue. And when she was abed with fever, a palm on her forehead soothed and brought her temperature down.
Those clawed, gnarled hands had only ever brought her comfort and healing.
As with the potion, Astrid chugged the warm contents without hesitation.
The cramping ceased, but the body aches did not.
“Lay down, Tochter. Let it do its work.” Perchta guided her by the elbow and into bed, pulling a heavy quilt over her and tucking her in.
Being watched over, being cared for, taking a moment to breathe...one could never be too old for a little mothering, not even at a thousand years. And she wanted Mutter there by her side when she reached her first millennium.
Though Astrid shivered, glacial pins and needles jabbing her from the inside out, seizing up achy muscles, the effects of the brew weren’t that much worse than the common Grippe. As far as being under the weather went, she preferred this to migraines and a full-blown stomach virus.
Perchta disappeared into her library for a time. When she returned, she held an old tome, dusting off the worn leather cover with her sleeve. “Some reading while you rest.”
“What is it?”
“My first grimoire.” Perchta smiled, stroking its spine fondly. “Not the original, of course. Had to copy that over several times. Age still eats away leather and paper even when spelled with longevity.” She sucked her teeth at that, scrunching her face. It was a face Johanna made when complaining about dreaded, tedious chores like filing taxes or reorganizing the garage.
Surely there had to be better preservation magic by now. Something strong enough to keep Hexen from having to copy over their entire libraries by hand. Even humans, with their phones and their computers, had ample means to make their words last forever...
With a flippant wave of her hand, Perchta continued, “Anyway, it details everything I experienced, everything I learned as I became full Winter Hexe. There’s this new human saying, I believe, about not reinventing the wheel.”
Astrid pulled up the blanket to hide a smirk. What was new for Mutter was often still well before her own time, including this morsel of human wisdom.
Catching her mirth, Perchta gave her a pointed look, tone growing stern. “Let it guide you, but don’t feel beholden to it. Everyone is different in how they take to and practice their magic. Oskar will be back with Dahlia’s first grimoire momentarily, so you can see the differences for yourself.”
“Yes, Mutter. I understand.”
“The aches shouldn’t last long. By noon, as good as gone. Now, I have some chores to attend to, but if you need anything, just yell.”
Left to rest, Astrid studied the grimoire and all the lessons Perchta learned from trial and error. How she found and solicited an equally illustrious lover, der D?mon Krampus, and used his life force—given willingly—to power the final transition ritual, as well as a detailed account of the growing pains that went along with the ensuing body changes.
Old teeth loosened and fell out, replaced by a mouth full of sharps. Nails became claws. Ears lengthened into points. Ram’s horns like her lover’s sprouted and curled from the crown of her head. Hazel brown eyes became amber. An immunity to cold settled in the flesh, and the magic within manifested a hundredfold.
The script was a little cramped in places, but neat, written in unnaturally straight lines and often accompanied by diagrams and sketches to illustrate various step-by-step spell work processes. Sections copied over from the original concluded in a reflection—wisdom Perchta gained with time and hindsight over the years and added later. It was a treasure trove of information.
These pages also contained the recipe cards to serious ice magic. Summoning blizzards, conjuring ice by pulling on the moisture in the air, forging structures and weapons and bindings. Freezing the water in a living creature’s body...
Everything Astrid had known and done before this point—freezing small bodies of water, scrying through ice, tracking—they were just parlor tricks by comparison.
As she flipped through the pages, reading and rereading, Perchta returned, brushing snow off her cloak. After some fussing around in the kitchen, she brought her a willow bark draught for the body aches and a plate of Kartoffelpuffer topped with homemade applesauce. The potato pancakes were Astrid’s favorite—and served with slices of Bratwurst on the side for bolstering strength.
She was so absorbed in the task she didn’t register that Oskar had also returned until he bounded onto the bed, a flash of orange fur, Dahlia’s grimoire strapped to his back.
She thanked the fox with a scratch behind the ears and some of her Bratwurst, which he enthusiastically ate out of her palm. Then, licking his chops, he curled up beside her while she continued to read.
By the time she read through both grimoires in full twice over, it was almost noon, and the chills and body aches had subsided almost completely.
“The first day is the worst,” Perchta said, holding out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and twine. “But the body acclimates quickly and will reserve enough strength for you to begin practicing tomorrow.”
“What’s this?” Astrid took the gift.
“Open it.”
Inside was a leather-bound tome stuffed with thick, liquid-resistant pages, all empty and waiting to be filled. This would contain her words, her journey, her knowledge painstakingly culminated over time. And one day, it would be her history. What reminded her of days and times and people long gone. Johanna. Suri. It hurt so much knowing she couldn’t keep them forever. That there would come a day when they wouldn’t be there, waiting for her at the base of the mountain.
She thumbed through the blank pages, growing more and more teary-eyed with every turn. So much possibility lay ahead. So much to discover, learn, and master. So much to remember.
All she worked for, all she ever wanted, it began right here. With this book.
Would she ink Gudarīks’s name here? Would he become a constant in these pages, across the centuries, in a way her dear, sweet friends couldn’t?
“Your first grimoire,” Mutter announced proudly, beaming even.
Astrid shot up from bed, ignoring any lingering aches in her limbs, and crushed Perchta in a hug.