by Sarina Dorie
“Using the old powers of divination, eh?” Thistledown asked with a good-natured chuckle.
“They always start with small animals and children,” she said. “We witnessed her kill an animal. Isn’t this the festival where small children disappear? For all we know, she might be the witch behind those kidnappings.”
I was not the reason children went missing here or anywhere else. And the bird had been an accident. That didn’t mean anything.
Thistledown rolled his eyes. “Such impeccable logic.”
“How about common sense.” One of the other witches coughed. “The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
From everything they were saying, it sounded like my mother had done something horrible and made the Witchkin angry. And now they thought I was some kind of depraved and villainous person by relation. Sure, my mom hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about her past and magic, but that didn’t make her evil.
“Let’s rein in our judgments until after we speak with her, eh?” the cowboy wizard said, patting Miss Vamp on the shoulder.
The Witchkin marched toward the stage, the cowboy at the lead. Thistledown headed that way with them. I would have liked to get him alone and talk to him without the others. He’d seemed reasonable.
Thatch hung back as I glanced at the stage where my duffle bag was. I didn’t want to risk going back there. I patted the pocket in my bloomers where I had shoved my wallet. Still there. That was all I needed to board the bus and get home. Or I could hide out and hope to catch Thistledown. I could come back for my bag later.
I was about to take off along the fence in the opposite direction the Witchkin had went, but I paused when I heard Thatch speak again. I snuck back to the gap between the boards. A raven perched on one of the benches.
“Follow her,” Thatch said. “I’ll make certain Bumblebub doesn’t find her.”
Bumblebub? That had to be some kind of insult. I pressed my face closer to the fence, stubbing my toe against the wood as I shifted.
Thatch’s spine went rigid. Slowly, he turned toward the fence where I stood, his eyes narrowing. He knew I was there. I didn’t wait another moment. I broke into a run. I didn’t want him to find me.
I barely knew my way around the public side of the fair, let alone the walkways only open to volunteers, but that was what I had to work with at the moment. I ran along the path between two wooden fences, in the direction I thought the buses would be. The wooden fence line and trees hid the performer areas, the staff passages, and the camp grounds from the public. The path opened to an area of tents. I kept running until I found another passage that led out into the public area. If I was lucky, I’d be close to the entrance of the fair. Music from one of the stages thumped from nearby.
I ran into a man dressed as a steampunk robot wearing a security badge.
“Excuse me, sir.” I panted. “Am I going the right direction to get to the shuttle area?”
“No, you’re going the opposite direction. Turn around. Keep going until the tunnel forks. Go back along Wouten Way and pass the Morningwood Odditorium to the Sun Way. You’ll be able to see the entrance from there.”
A raven flew overhead. I hurried on.
I used the crowd as human shields near the Morningwood Odditorium, trying to hide from any witches the best I could. I got turned around in the area they called Xavanadu and ended up in Left Bank. I asked directions from a woman walking on stilts.
“Take the Moon Path,” she said. “Then go down the—”
A raven cawed above her. I bolted down the Moon Path and passed some porta potties. Human traffic got tricky near the entrance, and I wove my way through the crowd to get out. I ran the rest of the way, coughing from the plumes of dust kicked up by the stampede of feet around me.
People crowded the benches in the shuttle loading area. A bus pulled away. Ravens circled overhead. I had to leave before those witches decided to kill me for something my mother had done. Or something they thought I had done. There were plenty of times my mom drove me crazy, but she wasn’t evil. And neither was I.
I was going to have another long talk with my mom when I got home.
Bird wings flapped above me. One of them pooped on someone standing in front of me.
A new bus pulled up. I cut to the front of the crowd, first in line to board.
The bus driver opened the doors. I made it to the first step before she put up a meaty hand to stop me from coming in. “No, you don’t.” She marched down the steps. “Don’t act like you didn’t just cut in front of all these people. You get to the back of the line.”
“I’m sorry. It’s an emergency,” I said. “I need to get on the bus now.” I glanced out the window at the ravens.
The bus driver looked me up and down. She crossed her arms. “You get to the back of the line or I’m calling security on my radio.”
“I need to get on this bus.” I thought of a lie as fast as I could. “I’m sick.”
“I ain’t letting no one on this bus who’s gonna puke from heatstroke. You get to the med station.” She waved me off.
I trudged off the bus and moved out of the way. My shoulders were heavy with the weight of defeat. If only I knew how to enchant people with a kale smoothie and honey-coated words like my mom did.
“Can you believe that bitch?” someone said who passed me.
“Yeah, she tried to cut in front of all of us.”
They were talking about me. I’d just made a bus full of people hate me and witches wanted to kill me. I’d killed a poor bird. I hadn’t even gotten any of my tip money for my performance. What a shitty day.
A breeze fluttered behind me.
“Lost?” asked a scratchy voice.
I turned.
The woman’s hair was long and black, ending in a ragged edge of downy black. Her shaggy skirt and bikini were made of feathers. She looked like any other person in a crazy costume at the festival. Even the fact that her irises were as black as her pupils didn’t stand out in this crowd.
I looked around, praying she was talking to someone else.
She titled her head at me in a bird-like way. “Did you think you were going somewhere?”
“Um… .” I had a sinking suspicion this bird-like woman had seen my magic performance and maybe even had tried to poop on my head earlier.
“You’ll be coming with us.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile.
I backed into someone. The woman behind me wore a black dress made of feathers. Or it looked like a dress. Underneath a pair of bird legs scratched at the hay on the ground. Another woman with shorter, spiky hair joined her sisters. Her Elizabethan collar was made from black plumage, enhancing her naked breasts. Again, not exactly out of place at an alternative music festival.
Still, the bird women gave me the creeps. They towered over me, examining me with their cold black eyes. I had a feeling my abra-cadaver act earlier hadn’t sat well with them.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Emissaries of the Raven Court.” The first woman smiled, her teeth sharp points. “Come along.” She hooked her arm around mine, drawing me closer.
Her touch reminded me of icicles. It almost felt nice in the heat. Or it would have if the cold hadn’t sunk under my skin and turned to fire in my nerves. I yanked my arm back.
“No, I don’t have to go anywhere. Not until after sunset.” I didn’t know if this was true, but the cowboy wizard had said they would claim me after sunset and that was still hours away.
The bird women gave each other amused glances.
“I thought this one didn’t know the rules,” one said. “It’s so much more fun when we can make them up as we go along.”
“No matter.” The nearest one grazed talon-tipped fingers over my bare arm. “Come with us willingly and we’ll keep you safe from those nasty Witchkin.” Her voice was as melodic as birdsong. The world around me wavered and melted away. “That’s a girl. Come with us
and we’ll play nice.”
I wanted to close my eyes and lose myself in the siren song of her voice. My will to resist slipped away. I would have gone with them if it hadn’t been for the middle-aged man in a Game of Thrones costume who elbowed me in the ribs as he lifted his cell phone.
“Awesome costume!” he said. His Daenerys Targaryen dress would have looked more authentic if he’d shaved his chest and belly. He held up his cell and snapped a selfie of himself with the topless woman.
The spell was broken. I blinked. I almost had let them abduct me.
The harpy hissed at the man and pushed him away. Their eyes were all on him. I shoved the closest bird woman into the one standing next to her and ran the other direction.
I plunged back into the fair through the main entrance, flashed my performer bracelet to the gate attendant, and kept going. Ravens perched on the trees that lined the path, their heads turning as I passed. How in the heck was I going to get rid of them? Maybe I could ask for help from security.
I dismissed that thought. What was I going to say? Some creepy wizard and his flock of raven shifters wanted to kill me? They’d probably think I was high, like half the people here.
It didn’t take much running before I was hot and thirsty and my legs ached. No matter how many trees or wooden shelters I hid under, the birds spotted me and cawed to others. The heat beat down on me. I ducked into a tie-dye apparel booth and rested behind racks of clothes. As soon as the proprietor wasn’t looking, I dodged into the back of the booth where I had access to the private path again. The low trees next to the gate sheltered me as I considered what to do. I just had to find someplace where I could hide and think. I’d heard there were a couple saunas and sanctuaries for people who volunteered at the fair. Maybe if I changed clothes or tucked my hot pink hair into a hat, I could disguise myself. But I didn’t have any spare clothes, and I doubted the twenty dollars in my pocket was going to get me a Macklemore makeover at any of these high-end hippie booths.
I spotted a woman in a bikini bottom, some body paint, and nothing else. I wasn’t ready to resort to that look.
Wings fluttered overhead. I shrank back. It was just a pigeon. Thank goodness. A sign posted farther down pointed to a gated area that said: bath house and showers. Plenty of volunteers in costumes walked along the private path, but none with pointed hats or flowing robes. I didn’t see any more birds. I ducked out and slipped behind a large man in a plant costume as he walked toward the other side of the path. I dodged under the canopy of shrubby trees and found a wooden hut about the size of my mom’s living room. Music came from the structure. On the door was a sign that read: Keep door closed.
Perfect!
The moment I hustled inside, a sweltering wave of steam embraced me. The fair was already hot, but it had to be million degrees in there. Through the swirls of vapor, I made out the shapes of people.
A man sat playing a ukulele in a bow tie and nothing else. A bunch of naked people lounged around him in the steam room. If I couldn’t handle a sex-ed class, I doubted I would last thirty seconds in this room without magic exploding out of me.
“Welcome, friend,” a middle-aged woman said. It was hard not to stare at the number of body piercings decorating her body.
“Sorry, I was, um, looking for the showers,” I said and backed out.
A raven cawed the moment I exited. Curse those birds! This was as bad as an Alfred Hitchcock film.
I should have stayed and joined the nudist sauna, but it was too late now that I had been spotted. I raced down the path, stumbling over the roots of trees. Was it my imagination or did the trees here look different? Black shadows stretched out from the trunks, though I was sure it wasn’t anywhere near sunset. No one walked on the path. The rock music from the nearest stage was distant and muffled like listening through water. Something small flitted in and out of the trees. It was too small and bright to be a raven. Maybe it was a hummingbird. Pink and yellow forms zipped through the boughs.
They looked like fairies.
The path departed from the fence line and led into the forest. The aroma of cinnamon and ginger wafted toward me. Something earthy and red peeked out between the trees up ahead. I rounded a bend and came to a cottage enclosed in a fence made of pale wood.
It wasn’t much bigger than a portable shed someone could purchase and assemble from the hardware store, but it had been decorated to look like a gingerbread house. My stomach churned. The woman who had offered my sister cookies at the fair all those years ago had lived in a cottage made of gingerbread. Could this be the same witch’s hut?
My mom had said the woman was bad, that she had wanted to snatch Missy away. But what if she’d been wrong? The woman had tried to help Missy. She’d tried to warn her.
I paused at the little gate, fearing this was a trap.
“Hello,” I called.
Somewhere in the distance a bird cawed. I whirled, searching the trees, but I saw no sign of ravens. I didn’t want them to find me. I pushed on the wooden gate. It creaked open. I flinched back when I realized the gate was made from bones. It had to be cow bone or plaster or something. And that skull on the post that I had failed to notice before, it surely was just a tacky Halloween decoration. But it looked real.
There were no ravens here at least. I knocked on the door.
“Come in, dearie,” a creaky voice said with the hint a Russian accent. “Baba has been expecting you.”
The hut was cool and dim, despite the fire in the hearth. Lace curtains blocked some of the light from the windows. It smelled like spiced apple cider and cookies. The aroma was familiar and welcoming, like when my mother made wassail in the winter. I paused in the doorway as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. It looked a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. Impossibly big, in fact. The room was like my old studio apartment in college, with a kitchen area and a table on one side and a bookcase and bed on the other, only this was roomier than my old studio. Shelves of spices lined one wall.
An elderly woman shifted around an empty birdcage that hung from the ceiling. The wisps of hair spilling from under her kerchief reminded me of mercury. Her purple shawl was patterned with a geometric design that clashed with her red vest and the blue and gold designs on her skirt and yellow blouse. She squinted at me from eyes set in a weathered map of wrinkles. Hairs sprouted from the wart on her long-hooked nose, and her skinny chin pitched out of her jaw like a child’s drawing of a witch.
I swallowed.
I had a bad feeling I wasn’t at Oregon Country Fair anymore.
“I offer you seat?” She waved a gnarled, arthritic hand at the table. “A cup of tea. Da? You look little out of sort.”
Steam rose from a teapot. Two beautiful China cups decorated with flowers sat on mismatched saucers across from each other.
“I don’t mean to impose. I just was looking for… .” I glanced at the door.
“Knowledge?” she asked.
“I was going to say a place to hide.” But she was right. I did want knowledge. I wanted to know how to control my powers. I wanted a teacher. Whether that would be her, I didn’t know.
She grunted and waved a hand at the door. “From Raven Court, yes? Those harpies kidnap pretty girl like you with magic in veins and turn her into sex slave. I see it all the time. Tragedy, da? Unless you are into that.” She chattered away, setting out plates and busying herself. “Or it is Witchkin you escape from?” She turned away and retrieved a long paddle from next to the hearth. She slid it into the slot in the stone wall above the fire.
I was certain this had to be the witch my sister had met. This would have been the perfect opportunity to escape out the door. But I hesitated, wanting to trust her. I needed to trust someone. She had used the words “Witchkin” and “Raven Court,” the same phrases I’d heard the witches use earlier. She understood the world of magic.
“You know about them? The Witchkin and raven harpies?” I asked.
“
Da da da. Old Baba knows many things you seek,” she said, nodding. She clucked her tongue. “Ah, ti cho suka! This one is burnt.”
She poured the contents of the wooden spatula onto a plate on the table between us. Two gingerbread men and two women posed in gestures that resembled running. Interestingly, all of them were iced and the frosting hadn’t melted in the oven. She took a seat across from me and waved a hand at the opposite chair.
I remembered the word “baba” meant grandmother or old woman in a story my mom had read to me as a child. Baba Yaga was supposed to be a wise old woman who traveled around in a house that walked on chicken legs. She gave knowledge to the worthy—and ate small children. Or something like that. It had been a long time since I’d read Russian fairytales.
“Are you Baba Yaga?” I asked.
“No. She is cousin, twice removed. I am Baba Natasha. You call me Baba or Baba Nata.”
If she wasn’t Baba Yaga, it made sense why her house didn’t have chicken legs. I sat down. “Can you tell me what’s going on? I thought this must be a case of mistaken identity, but… .”
She poured tea into my cup. “Is that so? You are like everyone else?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by everyone. Other Witchkin or like Morties? Even now, knowing I was a witch, it wasn’t just that I was a “normal” witch like the others. My powers were somehow different. If my mom had been telling the truth, that wasn’t something I wanted to share with just anyone.
I tried to answer her question without giving too much away. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never felt like I was normal. Growing up, I never fit in.” That was true enough. During my teenage years, Missy used to tell me I was a freak for liking fairies and unicorns and wanting to be a student at Hogwarts. I hadn’t ever felt like anyone understood me until I’d met Derrick.
I swallowed. “I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong in this world, like there was something more out there, but I didn’t know what there could be. Then strange things started happening. A man has been following me around. Now people want to kill me.”
She snorted at that and bit the head off the burnt gingerbread man. She offered the plate to me. I took one to be polite. She poured tea into her own cup and drank. I supposed that meant she hadn’t poisoned the tea. But I knew from my mom’s kitchen witchery more could be done to food than poison.