Hara and the Witch

Chapter 4: This is a Village, Not a Town

'Plim?'

'Hara.' Plim landed atop the foxglove Hara was tending, her delicate feet scrabbling for purchase on one of the small greenish bell shaped flowers, the bloom hardly even swaying under her tiny body.

'Was it really bad?' Hara felt herself flush lilac purple, but she knew Plim wouldn't hold a little flush against her. She thought of waking in Marigold's darkened home and again her heart dropped, the remnants of her fear lingering even now; her tired eyes had been unable to differentiate Marigold's home to that dark place in the forest and her scream had been released before she knew it, before Plim had flown to her side and Marigold had pulled back a curtain, letting golden light fill the room and banishing those fears at once.

She had torn three stitches in her fear and staying put while Marigold redid them was almost as difficult as waking had been. As soon as Marigold had cut the thread Hara was out, Plim flitting immediately after her, and the garden had relieved her anxiety, the wily grass and blackberry all she could - would - focus on for the time being.

Marigold had briefly appeared, gazing at the small pile of weeds Hara had already amassed before she picked up her broom and returned inside, presumably, Hara thought ruefully, to clean all her blood from it.

'The stick was pretty bad,' Plim mused, attacking a piece of grass that refused to budge. 'You weren't.'

'I thought I'd be fine,' Hara admitted, and again a feeling of shame flooded her.

'Hara.' Plim trundled over and pecked her on the palm. 'You were fine. You had a stick lodged an inch into your gut. I'm glad you fainted, I nearly did as well.' Plim pecked Hara a second time, but still she resisted showing her face. She didn't know where this feeling of embarrassment, of hot shame deep in her stomach came from, but it felt as if it would consume her, filling her every limb and settling in like heavy, unbudging remorse.

'Are you sure you're alright? I was worried I hurt you back there,' Hara said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

'You did a good job,' Plim reassured her, fluttering up to rest on her knee. 'I got a flying start.' The bird tittered at her own joke and Hara smiled ruefully. 'But I'm sorry about your ear... it's a rite of passage, though, isn't it? Scars in the line of duty?'

'I don't know about that, Plim, but I'm sure it won't scar.'

Plim looked sideways at Hara and coughed. 'It's going to scar pretty badly, H. I tore right through when you pulled me off. Honestly I didn't know my beak was that strong. Or sharp.' She clacked it a few times before catching sight of Hara's expression. 'I'm sure, once the stitches are out, it won't look so bad.'

'Stitches?' Hara stood up, Plim hopping onto her fingertip, and took a look at her reflection in one of the cottage windows. The sun was bright and for a few seconds it was difficult to catch the light at just the right angle, but then, for the first time in days, in weeks, really, Hara caught sight of her reflection.

The colour of her eyes was a familiar coppery orange, stern and unblinking, and her hair, although slightly matted and a little bloody, was still twisted in its green braids about her head, although they were coming free in many spots.

The familiarity ended there as blood, grazes and bruising wiped away the rest of her features. Her nose, which Marigold had confirmed was broken, was plastered and swollen, her eyes bruised and bloody smears trailing... everywhere. She had a slash across one cheek, a pair of stitches under one eye and a bruise spreading across her jaw. Her ear was difficult to make out under a long line of stitches, but noticing the thick patch of blood on her shoulder she realised the drip she had felt before had, in fact, been her own blood.

Her outfit was seemingly ruined, which was a shame because it was quite nice. Originally it had been a creamy, fluted shirt with laces around the wrists and waist, perfect for hanging innumerable forest finds from, paired with a pair of mossy green trousers, worn to perfection and covered - covered - in pockets.

Now there was just blood. Some dirt. Quite a lot of grass stains. And lots of tears, rips, holes, pulls, shredded material and missing fabric. Even her boots hadn't been spared, the dark green toes splattered in yet more blood, although it had faded to a rusty, disgusting brown.

She stepped back, stretching her hands out before her, and examined the small scratches over them, distracting herself from the image of herself, so unfamiliar, before giving Plim a quick kiss.

She wiped a speck of blood from the bird's feathers and said, 'I suppose I look like a real old timer now, at least. No one'll doubt my talents in the questing field with a face like this.'

'I wouldn't let them,' Plim promised, staying on Hara's hand as she cried, shedding tears that washed away some of her blood but none of her memories.

~

When Hara was three, just days before her mother left, she was set upon by crows. The memories were foggy, fleeting images of feathers and sharp claws, beaks attacking the bread in her hands and, when that was gone, the skin of her arms, her face. She remembered the smell, though, dusty feathers, warm and cool at the same time. She remembered the way they blocked out all the light in the world and made her feel as if she would never see it again.

Her mother told Charvay that she hadn't even cried, had just stood there completely silent, but Hara didn't remember her silence. She had felt her voice ripping out of her with every second, her screams frantic and uncontrollable, but it seemed the crows had stolen them too.

Hara's mother did not say goodbye when she left, but Hara knew she was going. Like with the crows, she didn't remember the day, exactly, but her memory of how it felt was still strong. Her mother had been laughing, had filled their small home with so much laughter it resonated even days after she was gone.

Hara knew, without being told, that she would't see her mother again for a very long time. She couldn't explain what had happened or where she had gone, yet as she watched her aunt run around looking for answers she had wondered why she was so worried. Surely, she imagined, this was life. People left when their hearts called them away.

When she was six Hara decided she, too, would leave, venture beyond the world she knew.

'I've had all the adventures this town has to offer,' she told her aunt, glaring at the small world around her.

'This is a village, not a town.' Charvey had knelt before the petulant looking child. She knew Hara didn't like her plans going awry, but Charvay didn't like it when Hara was petulant so she felt they were even. 'And a village needs an adventurous green-haired child to keep it running smoothly, so you'd best stay.'

'I've had all the adventures this town has to offer,' she told her aunt some eleven years later, looking with confusion at the small world around her, smaller now that another person had left her behind.

'This is a village, Hara,' Charvay had said, holding her niece tight, 'not a town. And it will always be a home, so...'

She didn't think she would ever see her again, but still Hara said she would try to come back before too long. She was seventeen and her eyes filled with tears in that moment, but they weren't because she was leaving.

She hadn't been back since.