Unmaking Of A Witch(II)

The day dragged into afternoon, the pale winter sun hanging low in the sky. Inside the witch's hut, El Ritch sat hunched over his work, scratching lines onto a sheet of paper with a quill. He had been tasked with summarizing what he had learned that morning—basic principles of herbs, symbols, and simple incantations. He was diligent in his work, following the witch's instructions precisely, yet his mind was clouded, weighed down by the memory of the starving bear and its cubs. A sour taste seemed to rise in his throat, one born not of food but of something deeper, something unnamed. If hope is a treacherous thing, and salvation a falsehood, then how do men endure? he wondered. What keeps them from despair?

The witch returned from her chores, her presence quiet but commanding. She sat at the table and reached for his work, scanning his writing with a practiced eye. "Tongue giving in to rot, after not helping the bear?" she asked without preamble.

"Yes," El Ritch admitted, his voice soft but unwavering.

Her gaze flicked to him, sharp and knowing. "You hid it well enough," she said, setting the papers aside. "At least, you thought you did." She smirked enjoying the moment.

El Ritch's cheeks flushed, embarrassed at being seen through so easily. The witch chuckled, her amusement cutting through the stillness of the room. "You're easy to read, boy," she said, waving off his discomfort. "But I understand why you feel it. You were adopted, weren't you? You must believe in the goodness of men—that's what they teach in orphanages, after all."

El Ritch frowned. He could not remember the orphanage, nor the teachings she spoke of. His past was a void, his emotions uncharted and alien to him. He looked to her for answers, for meaning.

The witch leaned back, her expression unreadable. "God is real, I at least believe the Almighty above us," she said, her voice even, as if discussing the weather. "But what do you think we are to the Almighty?"

El Ritch said nothing. What could he say to a question so vast, so daunting?

She stood and gestured for him to follow. "Come," she commanded, stepping out into the biting air. He trailed after her, their footsteps crunching through the frost until they reached the edge of the garden. There, in a corner obscured by tall grass and brambles, stood an anthill.

The witch crouched low, gesturing to the tiny, tireless creatures. Ants moved in perfect order, carrying burdens far larger than themselves, their paths crossing without chaos. To them, El Ritch and the witch might as well have been mountains.

"Do you hear them speak?" she asked.

El Ritch shook his head.

"I do," she said, pointing to one ant struggling beneath a crumb. "This one begs me for sugar. It cries out, 'O Great One, grant me sweetness.' And that one," she gestured toward another ant atop the hill, "asks for charm, to woo its mate."

El Ritch stared at her, his expression a mix of confusion and skepticism.

The witch muttered something to herself, then cackled. "Ah, but you can't hear them, can you?"

He shook his head again, unsure if she was mocking him or making a point.

"This," she said, standing, her voice low and somber, "is cosmic indifference. These ants don't know we're here, even as we loom over them. If I swept my hand across their hill, destroying it, they would not understand why. To them, I might as well be a god. And yet, what are their cries to me? I cannot hear them, nor do I care to try."

She turned her gaze to him, her eyes hard as flint. "So it is with God. He exists, yes, but He is the Almighty above, so far removed from us that our cries, our prayers, are as faint to Him as these ants' are to us. There is no salvation, no hope, because He cannot hear. We are but dust beneath His hand."

It was about the fragile, fleeting nature of man's hopes, forever reaching for something that could never reach back.

El Ritch's voice was soft, almost lost in the chill of the afternoon air, yet the witch's sharp ears caught his murmured question. "Was God ever close to us?"

She paused, her gaze lingering on the ants as if weighing her answer. "Yes," she said at last. "When man's era had not yet begun, when Beasts and Monsters roamed the land in fear of Gods who still walked among mortals. They gave their divine blessings freely then, to shield the weak and to humble the strong. But that is a tale for another time."

El Ritch tilted his head, his curiosity sparked, but the witch rose abruptly and dusted off her hands. "We must go," she announced.

"Go where?" El Ritch asked, a note of trepidation in his voice. He dreaded another lesson in the cold, unforgiving wild.

The witch's lips quirked into a sly grin. "Have you forgotten? We're in the Forest of the Hornet, the domain of the Horned Men of the North. I'd best present you to them now, lest you grow older and sneak out one day to get lost in their woods."

"I'd never sneak out!" El Ritch protested, puffing his chest in defense.

The witch raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by his declaration. "Mm, we'll see."

Their journey from the hut was long, nearly two and a half hours through snow-laden paths and frozen trees. As they walked, El Ritch couldn't help but remark, "This feels shorter than when we were looking for the hut."

The witch glanced back at him, a faint, cryptic smile on her lips. "That's because the way my hut 'lives' is not bound by the same laws as the world around it. When you're ready to understand, I'll explain."

The boy didn't press further, sensing that her answers would only leave him with more questions.

The forest thinned as they approached the outskirts of the Hornet's domain. The towering pines gave way to an open expanse where the snow piled high along the sides of a well-trodden path. Before them loomed a great wall, its dark timbers lashed together and reinforced with spikes burned black and hardened by flame.

Two men stood watch by the gates, their spears resting lazily in their hands until they spotted the pair. They jolted upright, the haze of their boredom swept away in an instant.

"Witch!" one of them barked, his voice sharp and wary. "What business do you bring to the Hornet?"

The witch regarded them with a cool, almost disdainful gaze, her tone devoid of any deference. "I've come to speak with your chief, as I have before. Will you open the gates, or must I wait here until your feet remember their purpose?"

The men exchanged glances, unsure whether to bristle at her tone or simply obey. In the end, pragmatism won out. "By all means," one said, stepping aside as they heaved the wooden gates open.

The witch held El Ritch's hand firmly as they passed through, her grip unyielding but not unkind.

The village inside was no grand sight to behold. Modest huts, fortified for the winter, were arranged in neat clusters, their thatched roofs dusted with snow. A narrow market street stretched down the center of the village, lined with simple stalls offering smoked meats, coarse wool, and winter vegetables.

El Ritch noticed the layout of the village as they walked. Four main roads split the settlement into quarters, each branching out toward a different direction. At the center stood the chief's home, a small structure elevated on wooden stilts, its underside used to store provisions safe from scavengers.

Unlike the gates, the chief's house had no guard, no imposing figure to ward off intruders. It was plain, unassuming, yet its very simplicity seemed to demand respect.