The Witch in the Room

“Do you need water or food?” The door opened onto the captive witch.

She struggled to respond after so long without speaking, it was like the words spread a cobweb in her throat. She shook her head instead. Food and water could have been mud and pond water to her—fie! The tall man with one arm closed the door without saying a thing and she was left alone again.

Or not really alone. Grandmother was always there with her.

The huntsman, thou must have seen he did bear a freshly-forged blade.

Shinutcha nodded before stopping herself, remembering that Grandmother couldn’t actually see her. “Yes.” She croaked out but she wasn’t sure if Grandmother heard it. Her voice had been so weak since Huisak died, so quiet she didn’t hear her at all sometimes. And other times, Grandmother abandoned Shinutcha for days. She had to hope she didn't hate her for her silence.

Where dost they find such blades? Or do they forge them deep in secrecy? I did spy both he and a woman in the mire, yet they did flee from my darlings, and I could not discern what they had found.

Shinutcha nodded again, even though it was no use. If Grandmother wanted to know, she would have to find out for her herself. That’s what a good granddaughter would do.

***

“You didn't tell me there was another one of you.” Arata crouched in front of the witch—Shinutcha—as she woke up. The previous night, Arata was too tired to do anything but go to sleep, now he had until midday to dedicate to getting the witch to talk. She didn’t respond, eyes scrunched closed. This would be a long and unfruitful interrogation for both of them if that was her attitude. Her attitude? Her disposition.

“Shinutcha.” She responded to that, looking up wide-eyed at the mention of her name. “That's what it called you. Now Shinutcha—" His voice was firm, paternal. "—Why is it searching for you? I just want to understand so we can get you back together.” The lie couldn’t be more obvious, Arata never had much of a skill at outlandish deception.

Shinutcha stiffened in her chair, her voice trying to stop itself from warbling in a losing battle. For a moment Arata thought the lie had worked on her, until he heard what she said. “He is—he is mine own brother. I had gone astray and now he seeketh me out. And then he shall kill you.” It sounded more like a reassurance to herself than an actual threat to him.

First her grandmother, then her brother, Arata thought gravely that he might have been right about an entire witch family hiding in the city. In addition to that, the thought that the longer he kept her here, the more chance the other witch had to hunt him down gave him a crawling sensation of being watched. Her brother must have organised to meet Shinutcha at the house because the only other option was that he had some way of sensing her. Something told him it would be impossible to get a clear answer out of her on that front.

“And who does the scalpings?”

Now Shinutcha wanted to be quiet again, balling up her face and holding a stare on Crowsbane at his belt. Arata rubbed a hand over his eyes. If he tried to use force then he'd just get the same tantrum as the other night, there had to be another option.

“Entire days of just sitting here must be boring,” He began, slipping from the room to rearrange the pile of Chiyo’s belongings outside. He found what he was looking for, a wall-hung painting she used to love of the view towards the mountains from the rice paddies, and brought it in. “You want to see where you came from?” He found the patch of the wall where it originally hung and was glad grey sunlight soaked through the shutters to show the artwork.

Shinutcha sat upwards and Arata was finally able to see her clearly for the first time since he captured her. He forced his face to stay cold. She gazed at the painting with eyes Arata couldn't say no to but he held it tight. For now.

“Answer the question and I will hang up the painting, who carries out the scalpings?”

“I—I know not what that means.” She replied, uncertainty and confusion stilting her voice.

Arata tried again. “Who cuts off the top of people's heads?”

“No!” Shinutcha shouted loud enough Arata became worried someone would hear outside. “That is thine habit.” The last word was given with a venom that surprised him.

“Thine habit? What do you mean?”

"No babe of Grandmother's kin would commit such an act. 'Tis but the deed of thee."

Her small voice carried so much force she had to believe whatever she was saying. But what she was saying must have in code or worse, in nonsense. He reconsidered his promise, to turn on her to get a plain answer but cut that thought down. He knew that he couldn’t in any situation. He had to do what was right. It didn’t feel like she was lying, her conviction felt genuine, and he had to honour that. Otherwise he would never be able to get her to tell him anything again.

Arata tried not to think about the first time he put up the painting as he tied the string around the back. How Chiyo begged him to buy it for it and threw a tantrum when her mother tried to explain it was much too big. He didn’t realise at the time how much he wished to return to those days of tears and laughs, to see the joy in her eyes when he first hung it up for his daughter. Anything was better than this grey emptiness. He turned around and saw that same glee on Shinutcha’s face, her coal black eyes admiring every curve and wave of the brush. He had to step away.

“I will be back this evening, maybe you can have something else in the room after that if you tell me more.” He shut the door behind him and went to get dressed.

That is thine habit. A grim thought trickled into his mind. If none of the witches had the weapons to scalp someone so cleanly, maybe what Shinutcha said was true. Maybe whoever did the scalping wasn’t a witch but a colluder instead. Arata stopped what he was doing, pacing through the idea. That would explain why they didn’t see any sign of scalping on the hunter, the colluder wasn’t there.

In that case, what was the connection? What determined when the witch sympathiser appeared and when they didn’t? Why scalp them at all?

He hoisted on his jacket and set his dark-glasses on his nose. Those questions would be answered soon—that was only the first interrogation he had today.