Colluding With A Witch

He made sure not to bring a light within thirty feet of the witch. In the two decades since the Great Fire, this measurement had seared itself into the witch hunters’ minds: stay outside of thirty feet unless you wanted to be used as tinder. As a consequence, the room stayed dark, the only illumination, the wick-tips of her hair.

That's what the hats are for, he thought as he shut the door behind him, his daughter's old belongings piled without ceremony in the corridor. The room looked wrong without them, only a simple chair in the centre, placed at an abnormal angle towards the door. There was a strange comfort in seeing a young girl kneeling on it again, the only difference were her bound ankles.

She hadn't struggled when he tied her hands so thickly it reminded him of Koseki in bandages in Hinoe's practice. She let him bind her to the chair. And now as he reentered she sat there in a seething quiet that Arata knew masked fear. This felt like a bad dream, a thought he'd had hundreds of times before now twisted like poor quality iron in fire. A part of him wanted to rip the ropes away, another part felt compelled to tie and retie them over and over until they were perfect. Neither were an option, he needed answers now. Walking closer, the profile of her face dimly lit by witch fire sent a shiver to his core.

What kind of witchcraft trick made her look so similar to Chiyo? The other scenario was one he didn't want to think about. He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, he didn't want to risk a random selection of emotions coming out instead. "What are you doing this for?"

The witch flinched at his voice, the movement made him want to rush to console her. This was a dangerous situation, he could feel the claws of enchantment—he had to presume that's what it was—cutting deeper every time he had to look back at her. The best case scenario was to get her to answer his questions and then she would meet the same end as all other witches. Collaboration was out of the question. He wished he had his katana just to reaffirm she was still the enemy.

There was no response. The room was quiet. It occurred to him then that he couldn't hear her breathing and didn't want to draw close enough to confirm. He never considered it but witches might not breath. Ask someone in Giseizawa what witches were and answers would vary from magic barbarians in the woods to spirits of the marsh. The figure before him was too physical to be a spirit, something in between the two extremes might have been closer to the truth. 

The questions bubbled up like heartburn but Arata could only focus on one. He stepped forward, craning over her. "I will not ask again. None of your kind knows you are here, no one is coming to save you. Answer now: what are you doing this for?"

She focussed her attention on the floorboards and Arata worried a flame still flickered downstairs. But this close, he saw her drawn mouth and eyes blinking like moths around the flame. She was terrified. When they captured colluders with witches, none of them had been this young, this was out of his expertise. Arata pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he kept up appearances.

"Fine, I'm left with no choice." Arata said and retrieved the thumb screw from his pocket. The captured girl followed his movements until she stared up at him, her face twisted by fear. Sodden ash gathered in the corner of her eyes and despite everything—grey skin, exposed bone, burning hair—he could only see Chiyo. There was no way he could put the screw around one of her fingers but he promised himself he could not put it back. His jaw set, muscles tensed from indecision, the only thing that snapped him out of it was the witch beginning to cry.

She had tried to quell it for too long and now inky tears ran freely, staining her cheeks black. As she coughed out shallow wails, Arata dropped the screw to fumble with the gag. In the dense outcrop of buildings still made from wood and paper that was Giseizawa, sound travelled like the mist. Much more crying and people would start to talk. And when people talked, they presumed the worst. He pulled both ends of the fabric around her shoulders but couldn't bring himself to tie them together. Each discordant note, every hiccup for breath, it was her.

"I'm sorry," Arata found himself saying before he could stop himself, "Ssshhh, I'm sorry."

She wouldn't stop crying, and Arata promised himself if it continued for a minute more than he would have to tie the gag, but it became more abrupt. Through the tears, she was trying to breath and with that breath, she was trying to form words.

"We... We art..." She tried in a lockjawed voice. "...Here to set free our Grandmother."

The witch's language was archaic, like something Arata would read in historic scrolls. It wasn't the language his daughter used. Arata took a step back as with witch coughed, her outburst subsiding. Her Grandmother. An image of his mother flashed into his mind and he tried to push it away. This wasn't her. Either it was another attempt to mislead him or she knew nothing. The thought of both possibilities washed fatigue over him, so much work for nought. He rolled his teeth over each other and turned away.

"If you make anymore noise, other witch hunters will come in and kill you." He tried to keep all indication of shame from his voice as he said it and shut the door behind him. If only he could capture a witch, then they could defeat them. His words repeated around him like frogsongs, meaningless noise from unintelligent animals. He sank to the floor, his back to the door, guarding against her escape and contemplating his own. At some point, though he fought hard to put it off, he fell asleep.

***

Arata woke with a start. Outside, the clouds began to mottle a lighter shade of grey as dawn approached. He slipped the door open a crack and saw the witch sleeping, her braid hanging over her slack face, then closed it again. Witch hunters worked mostly at night so he had the rest of the morning to spend figuring out how to get information without a tantrum every time. At least he thought, until he saw the shadow of a figure outside his door. The idea another witch had found his home evaporated all sleep from his system until the more logical explanation came to mind. That was the one that made his blood run cold.

Arata opened the door to see his father in full scaled armour regalia, corded with the Shibagaki blue and green, only trading a helmet for witch hunter dark-glasses. His father was one of the only people in Giseizawa Arata didn't need to look down at and before he could stop him, the older man pushed through.

Reiji examined his son's living room with the sweep of an owl. Arata felt his hairs bristle as his eyes lingered on the wall beyond which his captive lay sleeping as his father, previous head of the witch hunters, examined his house. Wiping a hand across the table, Reiji turned back to his son.

 "If I knew you were going to the daimyo looking like that I wouldn't have bothered putting all this on."

Arata struggled to conceal his sigh of relief. "No it's just... I couldn't sleep."

His father shrugged. "Well don't let me rush you." The armour wasn't formal dress but since the Great Fire the daimyo cared more about a show of force than tradition. He couldn't brew tea no matter how much his father expected it and pulled a seat out for him as far from the Chiyo's room, or rather, the witch, as possible. The preparation was a blur. He washed his face in the rainwater basin outside and combed his hair back into a ponytail. Looking into his rippled reflection, he knew the unshaved beard across his cheeks would reflect badly but didn't have the time to shave. He came back to the front door adjusting the collar of his mourning kimono and hoping no one would ask him to draw his katana.

"About time." Reiji rose from his seat and Arata reopened the door just as a creak reverberated from the room beside. A shiver ran down his spine and he steeled his expression, keeping the door ajar. Reiji tilted his dark-glasses down but didn't question it.

Arata immediately gauged his father's perspective. The less he knew about his son bringing a prostitute home on the anniversary of his daughter-in-law's funeral, the better. It wasn't the most flattering assumption but Arata had to concede at least it kept him alive.