Chapter I.2 #2
The witch’s face lit up, and she moved the basket closer to the eggs. Then she backed away, as though Greta were a feral animal she was trying to lure into a trap. “I have more raspberries for you since you seemed to like them so much.”
Greta’s stomach commanded her to move. She was already in the trap, it insisted, so she might as well eat.
Unable to resist this logic, she set the magical jar down in the spot the witch had cleared and reached for a raspberry. It was just as delicious as yesterday’s had been, but the witch pointed to the eggs, and Greta feared angering her, so she took a bite of those next.
The eggs were surprisingly as good as the raspberries, rich and sweet with butter. Although Greta was still barely keeping her fear at bay, her stomach had never been so happy. She gobbled down the eggs and wiped her hands on the wet cloth the witch gave her before reaching for more raspberries.
The witch did not scold her for helping herself. In fact, she moved the basket closer so Greta could reach more easily.
Sitting across from her, the witch took a berry for herself.
“Now, two out of the three of our initial problems are solved—you’re not running away, and you’re fed.
There’s still the issue of your bath to contend with, and how I’m going to fix that bird’s nest of hair on your head, but all in good time.
Let’s proceed. We should be properly introduced.
My name is Yali, although if you like, you may call me Nana. ”
The oddness of this information made Greta pause chewing her berry, and not just because the name was unusual.
Of course the witch had a name. Everyone had a name.
But to hear her say it, to learn it, felt like Greta had achieved something impossible.
A bit of magic herself. Just as importantly, did it signify anything that Yali had shared her name?
A witch who was merely going to steal her blood for magic or feed her to a monster might offer her food so she had plenty of blood to give, but the witch had no reason to give her name away.
“I’m Greta,” she said, but it sounded like a question. “Am I really going to live here?”
For the first time, the witch’s lips cracked into a smile, and the terror of the woods—Yali, Nana—didn’t seem so scary at all.
“Child, I think you will not only live here, you will thrive here,” Yali said.
She rested a gnarled finger against the jar filled with Greta’s emotions and tapped it.
“I know you are still sad and angry and scared, and you should be. But when those feelings become overwhelming, I want you to scream or cry or do whatever you need to let them out, and then add them to this jar. There is power in our emotions, and you have earned that power in a way lucky children never do. You don’t know how to use it yet, but one day you will, and one day your grief and rage may be useful to you. Do you understand?”
Greta started to nod, but that was a lie. And no matter how kindly Yali seemed at the moment, lying to a witch had to be a bad idea. “I don’t know how.”
“No, not yet. But that is what I’m going to teach you.”
“But I’m not a witch.”
“No?” Yali raised an eyebrow. “What did my house look like the first time you saw it?”
Greta had no trouble recalling the house of sweets. She thought she might dream of it for the rest of her life, and she recounted what she remembered, including how the house had changed into something else.
Yali nodded. “And what color were the chickens you saw?”
That came back to her just as easily. Blue and purple chickens were also difficult to forget.
Yali poured the contents of a pitcher into two clay cups and slid one toward Greta. After she took a sip from her own cup, Greta tried hers. It was only water, but it tasted sweet and clean, and it made her realize how thirsty she was. She gulped it all down while Yali spoke.
“My chickens are not ordinary chickens, but only one with magic in her blood could see them for what they truly look like on her own. And my home? Again, only those with magic will see it how it is. The first image you saw—that was how you wished to see it, a child’s fancy.
But your eyes couldn’t deny you the truth for long, and you broke the spell without even knowing what you did.
” Yali refilled Greta’s cup. “You have strong magic in you, and you will make a great witch if you choose to be one.”
Greta wasn’t quite sure what to think of this.
Being a witch was better than having a witch take her blood, but the witch was bad.
So everyone said. Yet, so far, Yali didn’t seem particularly awful or cruel.
Greta had heard stories of the witch stealing children away from their families, but in those stories, it was never so she could teach those children how to do magic.
And the witch had not stolen Greta. Her father had traded her away.
That memory curdled the raspberries in her belly and soured her blood, so Greta pushed it aside. The important matter was this: Greta really wanted to learn how to do magic, just as long as she didn’t have to take anyone’s blood for it.
“I can be a witch? Without hurting people?”
Yali said nothing for a moment as she folded her hands around her water cup, and Greta couldn’t tell whether she found the question funny or tiring. Yali was much harder to read than her father. But then, her father had always found her tiring, which made it easy.
“I won’t say a witch never hurts anyone,” Yali said at last, “but if she does, I can promise you that person did something to deserve it. Will that satisfy you?”
Greta chewed on her lip. There were definitely times when hurting people was necessary to protect yourself.
Hans had taught her that when the miller’s daughter had pushed Greta down and taken her hair ribbon.
Next time, Hans had told her, you get up and you push her back, and you retake what she stole.
There never had been a next time, but that had sounded fair. As did what Yali proposed.
“All right,” Greta said, and Yali did seem to think something about that was funny. “I want to be a witch.”
“I’m glad you’re taking the decision seriously.
This is why I agreed to the trade with your father.
Just as the carpenter and the blacksmith need an apprentice, so does a witch.
” Yali picked up the jar of emotions and stuck it back on the shelf, and Greta didn’t feel the need to stop her.
Her yearning to hold the jar had passed.
She had, at some point in the last several minutes, come to trust that it would still be there for her. Just as promised.
Greta started to reach for another raspberry, but for once, her stomach signaled her to stop.
She was pleasantly full. And like with the magical jar, she had no fear of the raspberries being gone away forever.
This was not home, where if she didn’t eat her share gratefully and quickly, it would be taken.
Her future had become more strange and uncertain than she’d ever have dreamed, but rather than finding that scary, she was hopeful.
Yali looked her over and nodded. “On to the bath next, I think. But first, you need a new name. Greta is a fine name for an ordinary girl, but you must leave that ordinary girl behind. From now on, you are an apprentice witch, and your name will be Miria.”