The Witch in the Back Alley

Clinics and hospitals were for the rich who lived in Arnis Heart, the unsubtly named capital of the whole realm. Just the rich – even proclamations of nobility would not save you; that is, if you had the strength to brag while nursing a broken bone.

And when doctors scooped up and patronized by rich clans, and hospital beds were at capacity, the more humble citizens, who lived closer to the edges of the growing capital – whose stone homes were slowly being phased out for modern stucco, and thatched roofs were thrown away for tiles – visited an alley that led off a grungy street, the sort that still occasionally stank of animal and sweat on bad days, and which lines of laundry perpetually criss-crossed the sky between homes, always drying and never quite clean.

The alley was marked with graffiti of a candle stick, or perhaps a match: a rod that showed a flame flickering at one end. At the sight of it, the ill turned and squeezed between the old stone walls and walked through the darkness.

For the uninitiated, there would be a surprising lack of stench, as if the walls and floor was thoroughly scoured clean. Then they would emerge into the light, and enter a small courtyard that was covered by a tarp that stretched between the corners of the four buildings hemming in the space that existed by pure accident.

The last of the patients were filing out, leaving one man at a bench, being fussed over by a woman who looked for all the world as if she was in an office, as she sat by a desk, a row of cupboards, and tables of beakers, vials, and glasses, some filled with half-complete concoctions, or partially grounded leaves and bones.

“Alright, open that mouth.”

The man, who had a broad worker’s build, meekly opened his maw. The woman brushed the pink bangs of her hair back to clear them from her face again, smoothed out her old dress, and peered past the gums and the teeth for a moment.

“Mouth's a bit too red for my reckoning,” The medical woman muttered, before scribbling something in her notepad. “I’m wondering, what with the indigestion: eating too much of anything recently?”

The worker had the decency to blush slightly under the interrogation, and hid his desire to twiddle his fingers by having them mimic the buttoning of his shirt. “Well, the fishmonger at Abelby Street has been offering fried fish at a steal…”

The woman rolled her eyes, and began jotting down a set of ingredients, more for her own checklist than anything else.

“I think the issue is obvious. Too much salt, too much fried food. Probably not enough vegetables. It's why your mouth is sensitive now and your guts are screaming. Are you trying to hide from Helena’s soups at home?”

“Cerise…” The worker whined, before he was promptly defeated by the younger woman’s tutting.

“Don’t ‘Cerise’ me, Richard,” The back-alley healer huffed. “Your wife’s cooking is fine, you’re just being childish about flavours.”

Looking over her patient, red-faced and suffering on the inside, she momentarily considered using all of her abilities to cure her recurring client – fix things proper and good, and end the ailment right away.

But she didn’t. Richard, for as familiar a face as he was, was not suffering so badly that his life would expire before her curatives did. So she left her seat and fussed over the other half of her work, picking reagents from the chaos of the tables, the things she knew worked with one another, and how they’d help her patient.

Dried berries were turned to a fine dust, and a pure white twig was torn to pieces. Other bits and pieces eventually coalesced into a powder she wrapped in paper and held out to her patient, pinched between two finger tips.

“Put this in your next drink, and that’ll settle things down. If I have to solve this again, I’m bumping up the cost so you’ll learn your lesson. Cut back on the treats.”

“Okay…” The old workman sighed in defeat, before looking around at the lack of clients. Cerise calling it quits so early in the day meant one thing. “Are you… heading out? Tonight?”

“Have to make some extra money,” Cerise answered, as she made for an old rack that held her various changes of clothes, and reached for the battered old hat. “Since the mistress is somewhere, I need to keep this place running somehow. Goodness knows if the gossip makes it to the main street the guards are going to come bust this place up.”

“No one is willing to accept the old ways, huh…”

“That’s why they’re the old ways,” Cerise said, with a wane grin, even as she dropped the outmoded pointed hat on her head. “Don’t worry about it. Even if Arnis moves on, I’ll be here, looking out for you all.”

“Well, if you’re going out, at least don’t come back with a swollen jaw.”

The pink-haired girl squeezed through the entrance of her practice first, leaving Richard with just a laugh in the wind. Outside, the witch-like woman returned to the outside world, and for a few minutes, Cerise was welcome, her old hat — and the dress that was fraying at the hem to reveal more and more of her boots each year — marking her out for greatness at the bottom rung of the city.

“Take care, miss witch!” A woman from an upstairs window cheered and waved.

“Give me a holler if that back of yours acts up again,” Cerise shouted in return.

“Miss witch! Miss witch!” A gaggle of children laughed running by. “Gonna win tonight?”

“It’ll be a knock out!” The identified outdated practitioner boasted to the tiny disappearing backs.

As soon as the street opened out into the broader avenue, Cerise disappeared into the throng of Arnis Heart. It was amazing what a change of monarchs managed in a single generation. The Breath of the World had been a part of everyone’s life since time immemorial, and true to its name, it was something that belonged to the planet, moving in tides and currents, always cajoled and scavenged from places where the power pooled or imbued itself in the soil, the trees, and the living itself.

What was the discovery that changed all that? Well, Cerise’s mistress never bothered explaining the details, instead dispensing her grievances. Once upon a time, the old ways were what worked, but within a lifetime, people learned to pull away the Breath on their own, and use it as they pleased.

Modern machines, modern tools, modern methods that expanded everyone’s abilities now that Breath was infinitely vacuumed from the air.

Well, Cerise wasn’t so bitter about that, all things considered. She only needed to take a look at the polished lampposts that lined the streets, illuminating everything with such power that everyone was free to walk through the night. Weaving her way past the self-propelled carts with artificially Breath-imbued wheels that spun on their own, she made it to a waiting line of passengers who began to pour into Arnis Heart’s public wagons to be taken across the sprawling, ever expanding city.

The future was for other people. Her place had always been in the dark corners, the tepid pools under the stairs, the cobwebbed attics. The “proper” city, with its cutting edge, never suited her.

After all, she was the one who jumped off at Wet Market Street, to the sidelong glances of consternation and pity the other riders sent at her back. They had already decided what was due for a tattered woman who willingly walked the path down towards the wharf, full of warehouses, butcheries, and cheap grocer stalls that the polite folks would fear to ever look at.

The air was thick with the smell of salt and fish, and Cerise was bothered by none of it. At every building corner, men burlier and less friendly than Richard turned to spy the witch. Taking in her hair colour, her hat, and her ever battered clothes, they recognized that there was no prey to be had, and quickly turned their gaze away, worrying what trouble would start if the woman decided eye contact was promising trouble ahead.

Cerise stopped in front of one particular warehouse, adorned with the hanging bust of a white ox that had been stained gray and brown in a few short years. It was the largest of all in the area, and had the most loiterers. These ones had the least response to the pink haired girl’s presence, fully inured after countless visits. Their duties of keeping an eye on the empty walking lanes and ensuring they stayed that way tonight was far more important than hearing Cerise slam her fist against the door repeatedly.

The door’s eye slots opened, and saw the woman on the other side, hands shoved into the pockets of her clothes and a head cocked slightly with wonder.

“I’m wanted tonight.”

The door creaked open, and the warehouse patiently waited for her to enter its maw, in no less of a hurry to eat its next meal.

Down side staircases and winding passages that owners of such storage spaces would deny illegally carving out, Cerise merged with another sort of crowd, which packed the outer edges of a cavernous expanse.

Drinks were being traded, as were promises sworn in paper and stacks of bills. Anticipation was ripe, as one extravagant show had ended, and another was about to begin.

On an elevated platform, a sumptuously dressed man sweated in the heat of the crowd, but continued to crow through an imbued tuning fork, and as his voice slid through the tines, it echoed loudly for everyone to hear.

“I hope everyone’s ready for the next bout! We’ve got some favorites ready! This will be a battle of the past against the future!”

Everyone knew what that meant, and the crowd practically vibrated in anticipation.

“Our first champion hails from Arnis’s own royal forces! A soldier seeking fresh glories and victories beyond what was afforded to him, tonight, Avery Delsin invokes his steel to cleave his way to victory!”

Rising from steps cut into the rock, a blond man rose from the darkness to alight onto the flat bottom of the underground chamber, below the audience who was free to watch the proceedings. One fist was raised, to the adulation of the crowds, eager to see their man fight and delight.

“Returning to our hallowed halls is his opponent! A ghost of our kingdom’s past! A master of long-lost arts that twist the fabric of nature! She’s conquered all in her way with her own raw fury! Behold the last witch of Arnis! Cerise Candlethuuuumb!”

It was a silly last name, but it was hers.

The same was true of the screams and excitement of those above her as the woman stepped onto the arena as well. Her sleeves were rolled back just enough so she could finish tightening the cloth wraps masking everything between the knuckles of her hands to her elbows.

Avery was a newcomer, it seemed like, and she could see his face scrunch in bewilderment and ignorance.

“Taking me barehanded? Are you a fool?”

Tracing a finger against the outside of her pockets, Cerise was reassured that they were filled, prepped, and prepared as always.

So the advantage was hers, then.

“Come and find out, hm?” The witch taunted, and beckoned with a finger.