We make it to Masy and Wey’s house in slow progression, stopping often to look at plants and animals, everyone exited about being able to see them with these new eyes. I pull Ebony to the back with me, that odd red stain reminding me of the grass from our last outing.

            “Did you tell someone about the grass?” I ask quietly.

            “No! I forgot about that, sorry.” She responds loudly, and I almost jump, not wanting to worry the others with the interaction.

            Nodding, and having done the same, I create a note in my head to alert my mother to it once I return.

Wey and Masy’s cottage is relatively big, looking to have at least four rooms, and in contrast to their cottage, their garden is small, though it is packed full of plants. Inside, there are paintings of the siblings against beautiful, surreal landscapes. I pause and look at one where their younger counterparts are facing the landscape together, matching outfits, hand in hand. They are not the focus point, however, for what they are facing is a majestic cliff with a river at the bottom, and a shifting mountain range on the horizon. I lean in closer, and see that, in the swirling grays of the mountains, the form of a cliffside city seems to take place on a flat patch. The outline of the great arches and pillars of a grand building carved into the rocks as the hill once again continues its slope upwards, seeming almost to be holding up the mountains.

“This… is beautiful” I whisper. Everyone falls silent and looks at me. I point to the painting, then the embarrassment sets on again for saying such a silly thing and interrupting them with these meaningless words. No one else was even looking at the paintings before. Maybe they aren’t as spectacular as I think they are. I wrap my arms around myself and mumble ‘never mind.’

“Oh, yea. Our dad is quite the painter huh.” Says Wey. Masy moves towards the painting lovingly, the sincerity of her face catching me off guard for its contrast to her usually careless persona.

“Our father says that when he was a boy, he lived in the other world.” She says caringly.

The origine of witches.

“Buts its just a story he used to tell us when we were younger. ‘someday we will go back and fly on the backs of Dragons’ or some bullcrap like that.” Her voice snaps back her usual sarcastic tone.

I stare at her in awe. Her father is from Muror. In the tales all witchlings are told, It is the place where the first witches were born from the cross of human and dragonborn blood. Once humans were banished from that world, another was created and anyone with human blood went with them. According to the legend, some were able to bargain their way back for a time, and Masy’s grandparents must have been one of them.

It has been so long since most witches even met someone from there that we have forgotten if it is real or not, much less the names of many of the creatures that lived there, even of the dragonfolk. ‘Dragonborn’ is not what they call themselves, as far as the legends say, and different families have different names for them. Demons, dragonkin, even batfolk for their rumored resemblance to bats.

“Your father claims to come from the Muror?” says Iren, and everyone looks eagerly to the siblings. The majority of us were raised with this fairytale, and I, for one, never considered if it might be true.

Masy shrugs, and Wey shakes his head with a smirk, not one to believe such things I suppose.

“Anyways, lets get some frozen stuff!” Masy leads us to the kitchen and looks inside a box fully enclosed in runes, gleaming with some sort of plant oil that emits the faintest chill should I stand near it. She twists the lid until it clicks, and she quickly puts the lid on a counter, rubbing her hands on her dress.

Inside the box is covered to runes similar to the ones on the outside, and together they gently cradle a large bowl of frozen cream with just the slightest tinge of a grassy green.

Masy draws out the bowl and sets it on the counter, producing five spoons and sticking them at even points around the edge.

“Help yourself.”

It is soft as I stab my spoon in, and slightly more icy looking than I was expecting. At first, all I can taste is cold, then I taste a faint, sugary cucumber, the freshness a wonderfully odd relief after a life of our usual savory meals.

I look at the runes on the box, the taste of desaturated honey lingering in my mouth.

“What oil is on the box?” I ask as I take another spoonful of freshness.

“Um… I think there was some cottongrass, and maybe some arctic willow?” Wey thinks for a moment, “I know the base was canola.”

“Where did he get those?” We live near the equator, and those are all arctic plants! I go back to studying the runes. Me and…

My mother.

A chill goes down my spine again.

I am confident that I can re-create this on my own. The runes are all ones that I have seen before, most of them I have also used before to chill potions that need to go from heated to cooled quickly. The oil, however, might be a challenge. There are always multiple ways to create potions, different plants, but they must have the same properties. The properties, it seems, is that they grow some place extremely cold, namely not anywhere near here.

I try to think.

The oil might not be as important …

The potion is there to seal the runes, bring them to their full working power, and to direct it to have a desired effect. If I forgo the potion, it might not be as cold or for as long, but I can use rapeseed oil, which my mother stored up on when a family friend came to visit on their way back from the pole to collect such thigs. The rapeseed will direct the effect and string them together sufficiently!

I nod to myself and look up. While I was musing, the cream was put away and everyone is in the process of washing their spoons, as if they weren’t absolutely astounded by this magic and where it came from.

I follow their lead and wash my spoon quietly with the rest of them as they talk about other things. I hear of if they like a certain bread from the market, a recipe about a new strawberry bread one of their parents made. No one is interested in the box.

The rest of the day goes by fairly fast. There are some amusing conversations that, I admit, do make me laugh, however, my mind is occupied by the box no matter how much I try to push it away and focus on the things everyone else is focusing on.

I arrive home at the last lights of dusk. The cottage smells primarily of a savory meat pastry and as I enter the kitchen, I am almost thankful for the uncomfortable feeling that has accompanied my mother these past days.

A memory suddenly comes over me.

“Mother,” I say, “a few days ago, after I had helped with the festival, me and some company went to a patch of forest between the Noks and Hardies W-” should I allow my mother to know that I was teaching magic to others without their parent’s knowledge?

“Ebony and I were practicing connecting to the grass there,” I decide against it, should their parents be bothered, “and it said that it hurt. Do you think you or someone else could make sure that it is alright?”

An indistinguishable expression befalls her face, and for a moment I don’t believe she will answer.

“I…” she says with tight lips, “will look into it.”

She shakes the stupor off. “Come, eat.”

I sit down and sink my teeth into the familiar meat-filled bread and soup, the savory flavors that I am accustomed to. After my mother and I had our fill, I grab my bowl to wash it when she stops me.

“How was your day, dear?” she says in a soft voice, and, for some reason, it sounds to me forced.

“It was good.” I say hesitantly, and pause, not sure if she would continue her attempt to regain her bond with her daughter.

“What did you do today?”

“We walked around the aspen grove for a while, then talked at Masy and Wey’s house.” Again, she reminds me. “The aspens sounded lonely, you should check that out as well, if you could…” she keeps her composure this time.

“Of course,” She whips out.

Silence stretches between us for moments, then I decide.

“Masy has a freezing box, and we had each some cucumber iced cream.” I say.

Her eyebrows raise and she smirks. “Yes, Harka Namay’s cousin from the north recently visited. They probably brought things with them to help.” She eyes me suspiciously, “I am assuming you want to make one now?”

I nod viciously, fighting down my feelings of dismay.

“Did you see how it worked?”

Again, I nod.

“Then lets try.”

I explain to her everything I noticed on the box; the oils, the runes, and I realize, dismayed, that I had forgotten to look at the type of wood. Mother puts a hand on my shoulder and reassures that she doubts it matters all-to-much. A beat of warmth swings into me as we bond over the mechanics of the magic box, breaking through the icy unfamiliarity that these past few days have brought onto me. We work together as we have so many times throughout my childhood while I learned new spells, and late into the night, she hesitantly turns away from the half-carved piece of wood under the moonlight and says: “We should go to bed.”

I slump, already knowing that if I leave now, I will only go back to feeling that foreignness towards her.

“Its not that late…”

“Evikana, its past midnight. We are going to bet.” She brings the incomplete box inside and I reluctantly follow.

“Sleep well, mea filia.”

“Good night, mum.”

Days pass and between chores and late into the night, my mum and I work on the freezing box together, and soon it is finished.

The runes glow a faint blue as we gently brush the oil on, sealing the runes, though it eventually fades. I take a small bowl of water and place it delicately in the box, then I seal it and step away.

In a day, we shall see if it worked.

My mother slings an arm around me and I cant help but faintly feel the spirit of tar drooping off her and onto me, not to mention my pre-existing aversion to touch. But I stand it.

This is my mum.

Look what we just did together mum.

After a moment, right as I was prepared to pull away, my mother unslings herself and goes to jar the left-over oil and clean the dishes. I retreat to my room, curling up against the corner of my bed that is to the wall, open A Hedgerows Guide To The Sun, and finally turn to the page after plant regeneration.

While you have the ability to choose what magic you major in, it is often also chosen by blood, for some have stronger ties to fire than to water, or to flora than fauna. The book is an ages old book meant for sylvanians such as myself, those that link best with the plants. It is coded like many witch books as to where it looks to be a botanist guide, but once the opening incantations are spoken, the pages drift to show potions and spells that are as essential to the growth of a sylvania as water is to a plant.

Ebony and I have advanced well past half of the book and our next spell is…

I sigh. Maybe someday we can have another excursion, or can simply include the new group in our studies.

But…

Who knows when such a day might come.

I stare out my small window indecisively.

Glancing back down at my book, I finally crawl out of bed and pack my satchel.

This side of the forest is so lonely with no one there. As I draw out the book, I glance around, an odd expectance having settled over me ever since I entered the grove. It is not quite the willow, but my mother said I could go if I only just passed the village borders, so I have to make do.

I still don’t know what the rune does.

As I rub my wrist, I hear footsteps fall behind me.

“Evika?” Ebony says tentatively from behind me.

I attempt to pretend that I was dusting something off of me, but her worried looks does not go away.

“What’s wrong with your wrist?” she says, unconsciously rubbing her own.

“Nothing… I just… thought there was a bug on me” I laugh nervously. I don’t even know why I am hiding this from her, maybe she would know what the run is. However, I realize that I cant quite recall the exact forms and curves of the run, only the general shape. Damn my memory!

I take a breath, the outburst unexpected, and ask Ebony: “Do tell, what brings you out here?”

She passes me an odd look but plays along. “I was picking mint for my father. What about you?”

“I was…” I hesitate, “just taking a stroll.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to go outside the borders anymore?” she glances to my wrist, and it seems as if she could sense something was amiss. Suddenly her face lights up, and she rushes out: “Did you tell someone about the plants? Sprites, I keep forgetting about that!”

“Yes, she said someone would check on it” and despite what my gut is telling me, there is no reason to think that my mother would lie about that, for what could possibly be gained from a patch of dead grass?

I look at Ebony’s trusting face and guilt rushes over me at what I am about to do despite me knowing I should not feel so, but I have to tell someone about this, it is too odd.

“Ebony, I have something to ask you…”

“Yea?” she perks up.

“Um…” I stutter, and bend down to use a stick to draw my best rendition of the rune, explaining to her how I acquired it and the tar-ish state it was in.

A simple oh  is all she could utter.

“Do you, recognize what it might be?” I ask hopefully.

“Evika, you know that you are better at rune identification than me”

I give a disappointed nod, and try to brush it off. “Never mind, it’s most likely nothing” I say with what I hope is a smile plastered on my face.

Silence stretches around us for moments and I shift foot to foot, not entirely sure how to proceed.

Finally, Ebony cautiously says, “You know, I thought my parents have been acting weird as well, and maybe some other towns people too.”

My head whips around to face her, eyes wide. I had almost not expected her to believe me, much less contribute!

“They all seem so…” her hands rake gestures in the air as she tries to find the right words, “distant? Like, they are there, and they do all of their usually things, but sometimes they just… feel… off? I am not explaining it right.” She sighs, but I am nodding my head aggressively,