Chapter 28

“Happy Birthday!” Maisha exclaimed, bringing out the pumpkin maple cake that just finished baking in the oven. Maisha set the cake on the kitchen table and began slathering it in goat cheese frosting and drizzling a maple cinnamon glaze over top of it. The elder witch side-eyed the little witches. Usually by this point, Morg would be staring at the hot food with wide eyes and saliva nearly dripping out of her mouth, excitedly asking “Is it ready? Can we eat it yet? When can we eat it?”

But today, she didn’t even spare the cake a single glance. Instead she stared out the window with her head propped up on one hand, her green eyes looking dull and empty.

“It… It looks very good!” Xisa squeezed out in her best English, trying to infuse as much enthusiasm into her voice as she could. Morg didn’t seem to hear either of them, her expression slack and her eyes unfocused, as if her soul had gone somewhere very far away.

Maisha tousled Xisa’s hair affectionately and set a piece of the dessert on the table in front of her. It had already been several weeks since the death of Morg’s father, but the young witch’s grief had shown no signs of lessening. On the contrary, Morg seemed to grow more and more reserved by the day.

Maisha had hoped a celebration of some sort would be enough to bring out some of the cheer that usually sparkled in the young girl’s eyes, and the girls’ birthday seemed like the perfect occasion for it. But looking at her sullen demeanor even in the midst of her own birthday celebration… Maisha rubbed the space between her brows.

“Maybe we should have waited for the 29th instead,” Maisha muttered as she watched Morg.

“Why?” Songbai scoffed, shoveling a huge bite of cake into her mouth. “What does it matter if we celebrate a few days off from when she usually would- it’s just another day. And celebrating according to the Apsis Calendar is better anyways. More auspicious. Besides, we can always celebrate again on the 29th. No law forbidding two birthday celebrations.”

Maisha nodded noncommittally in agreement.

“Yes… I suppose that makes sense.”

A witch’s mana is strongly influenced by the moon and other celestial bodies, their power, therefore, can often fluctuate depending on the phase of the moon. Over the centuries, witches have found that certain rituals or ceremonies have the most success when the moon is in a particular phase. Similarly, certain types of spells are more or less powerful depending on the relative positions of the sun, earth, and moon. Because of this, most witches naturally tend to follow a lunisolar calendar- a calendar in which both the phase of the moon and the position of the Earth in its rotation around the sun are indicated by each date. This is in contrast to a solar calendar, such as the typically used Gregorian calendar of the west, which only tracks the Earth’s cycle around the sun, and whose months only very roughly correspond to the changing moon phases.

Morg and Xisa had been born on October 29, 1998 by the Gregorian calendar, so Morg would naturally tend to celebrate on October 29th. But by the Apsis Calendar that most witches used, their birthday was classified by the moon they were born under. For Morg and Xisa, that was the ninth full moon of the lunar year. And the ninth full moon this year happened to fall on October 9th by the Gregorian calendar- a full 20 days before Morg would usually have celebrated. Maisha typically wouldn’t have worried so much about such a silly thing, but the sight of the dejected little witch was making her heart uncomfortable- she couldn’t help but be overly sensitive in regards to her attempts to cheer the child up.

With a sigh, Maisha cut a slice of cake and brought it over to Morg where she sat by the window and placed it in front of her. But Morg simply ignored her. Maisha pursed her lips in worry and left, not sure what else to do or say. It wasn’t until Xisa approached her and spoke a few lines of choppy English to her that a little life was brought back to the young girl’s eyes.

Morg turned to Xisa and said something back in a mix of both English and Mandarin, and the two little witches were actually able to have a short conversation. But that sense of melancholia never left.

Maisha tapped a finger against the wooden table. She couldn’t help but feel that little Morg blamed her and Songbai for her father’s death, even though the young witch had never said anything along those lines.

But it may as well be true. I should have cast a better silencing spell on her father. Or I should have at least foreseen an event of this significance, Maisha thought, rubbing the space between her brows again. What kind of fortune teller am I when I can’t even-

The warm scent of pumpkin and sweet flavor of maple suddenly invaded Maisha’s senses as Songbai popped a spoonful of cake into Maisha’s mouth, causing the elder witch to reel back in surprise.

“Don’t overthink too much,” Songbai grumbled, as if reading her fellow witch’s mind. Maisha snatched the spoon out of Songbai’s hand.

Why are you grumbly, you’re the one being rude! She thought, slightly annoyed. But rather than letting her annoyance show, Maisha only grinned mischievously.

“Why, Songbai~” the elder witch intoned coquettishly, “It’s usually only couples feeding each other sweets like this- if anyone saw, they’d surely think you have a crush on me!”

Songbai’s face immediately flushed a bright red and she sprung out of her chair, looking very much like she wanted to fight. After opening and closing her mouth a few times, the elder witch finally turned on her heel and quickly strode out the door, causing Morg, Xisa, and a very sleepy Baigu to curiously turn their heads. When they all turned to look questioningly at Maisha, the elder witch could only offer a wide-eyed shrug.

Did… did I tease her too hard? She’s not actually mad about that, is she?

Maisha clasped her hands together and pressed her fingers against her lips in thought.

It was only a joke! How could she be so thin skinned?!

…

She couldn’t… She doesn’t actually have a crush on me, right?

Maisha quietly revisited a handful of their interactions together, thinking deeply. After several minutes of quiet contemplation, the elder witch stood and followed Songbai outside.

*

Songbai resisted the urge to bang her head against the tree she was leaning against- if she had just kept her cool, everything would have been fine. But no! She had to freak out! Suspiciously!

With a sigh, Songbai went back to the task at hand- building herself an actual bed. She had already rebuilt most of Maisha’s cottage, but not everything could be done at once- she worried that someone else had been behind those clergymen coming to Cyewen, and so was hesitant to use up too much of her mana at one time in case their little family was met with any more trouble.

But by now Songbai had managed to recreate the girls’ room and the kitchen practically the exact way they used to be. The main difference in the house was the layout of the living room. The fireplace was in a new spot, and the secret door to Maisha’s room was hidden by only a tapestry. Songbai had also added a small room for herself to stay in, though hadn’t quite gotten around to furnishing it.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They had even rebuilt the house on the same spot as before, largely due to the fact that Maisha’s room had escaped the fire more or less unscathed. This way, one of the rooms was already built and the foundation for the house was already set.

Overall, their little home had more or less returned back to normal in terms of both furniture and necessities. Even things like clothes for the girls and wares for the kitchen had already been replaced. The main losses came in those things that were difficult to find again- Xisa’s book, The Art of Shadow Manipulation, for instance.

“Songbai!”

Songbai tensed up at the sound of Maisha’s voice behind her, nearly dropping the log in her hands on her foot. The elder witch secretly cast a little spell to keep the blood from rushing to her face before turning around. Maisha’s black and curling afro swept chaotically down her shoulders like a billowing plume of smoke, her dark eyes shining like embers in the sunlight. Her cheeks seemed a little rosier than usual, adding a warmth to her usually chilly expression. Maisha smiled softly, almost bashfully, her expression devoid of any of its typical cynicism.

Songbai’s heart was beating so chaotically that she thought whatever spell she might cast to calm it would have to stop her heart altogether to be successful. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. With a sly grin, Maisha opened her mouth.

“Songbai, do-”

“Why is it that only your room was unscathed in the fire?!” Songbai blurted out in a panic, only saying the first thing that popped into her mind. A complicated look flashed across Maisha’s face before her expression settled into that icy mask Songbai had long since grown accustomed to.

Songbai cursed herself internally.

“It had a protection spell on it,” Maisha explained with a lazy smile. “What else?”

Songbai scrutinized her expression. Clearly she was hiding something. Again. But was it really her place to pry?

Songbai’s expression softened.

“I’m… sorry for asking,” she said with a sigh, averting her eyes to avoid Maisha’s gaze. “Was there… something you wanted to tell me?”

Maisha’s expression faltered, but Songbai had already turned to the side and didn’t catch the subtle change.

“No,” Maisha lied. “I had just wondered where you went. The girls were asking.”

And with that, Maisha turned on her heel and strode back to the house. Songbai leaned her forehead against a nearby tree and groaned.

Stupid stupid stupid!!! Why am I like this!

With a sigh, Songbai straightened her spine and watched with a look of dejection as Maisha walked away.

*

Morg couldn’t sleep. Or to be more precise, she didn’t want to sleep. When she closed her eyes, visions of that night sprung to her mind. The white hot fire scalding her skin. The church men around her not listening to a word she said. Her father…

Morg quietly sat up and carefully put on her jacket and boots. After checking to make sure she hadn’t woken anyone up, she stealthily slunk out the window in her and Xisa’s room.

Her journey into the dark woods took a little longer than it would have in the past- she still wasn’t quite used to the ways in which the fire had changed the terrain.

After a while of walking, Morg finally came upon the place she had been searching for; the old abandoned cottage in the woods. The place where she had… killed her own father. They had long since cleaned up his remains. Songbai had even mended his broken body with such care and meticulousness that Morg had, for a split second, thought he had come back to life. But of course that had not been the case. Songbai had already explained it all. There was nothing to be done.

They had buried him on the west side of the island, on a cliffside overlooking the island’s shores. Morg had visited the grave several times already, but this was her first time back at this cottage since that night. The memories surrounding the place were too much. In the span of a few hours, this abandoned cottage and little clearing that had once been a solace for her had become a place of painful memories.

The little witch searched around until she found what she was looking for and rushed over.

“Oh…” she breathed at the sight of the scorched and battered scarecrow lying in pieces in the brushy golden grass. With a frown, Morg lifted the scarecrow and brought him back to the little field in front of the abandoned cottage. His head and body were riddled with holes, burned into the fabric by the fire and causing most of his straw and hay stuffing to fall out. The stitching for his button eyes and sewn up mouth, too, looked loose and unraveled. The stick his deflated body was mounted on had also snapped in half, making him look rather defeated.

“Oh Scarecrow Beaux… I’m really sorry,” Morg apologized sullenly as she began stuffing loose grass and pine needles back into his cotton clothes and burlap head.

The night when the church men had tried to force her into the ‘holy fire,’ he had blocked them from her. At the time, she had been too distraught and confused to fully process the fact that he had moved on his own. But after calming down days later, upon thinking back through the events, she had recalled this strange instance with great alarm. But that initial alarm quickly cooled to an odd mixture of appreciation and curiosity. She had already brought one humanoid to life- her reflection. Of course it followed that the same thing could happen with another.

But this creature didn’t seem to have the same malicious intentions that her reflection did- in fact it had actually stood up for her! Even though it had only moved for a split second, Morg suspected that without Beaux’s help, she would already be burnt to a crisp.

She had already grown a little attached to this guy back when she still thought it was a simple object. But now that it had helped her escape from a desperate situation, of course her fondness for him could only grow.

“You know, I decided to call you ‘Beaux’ because I thought you were the prettiest scarecrow I had ever seen. I know it sounds silly, but most of them look so wonky and… kind of creepy. But I think the person who made you took great care in stitching you up for their garden. And now…”

Morg let out a frustrated huff when she realized that the grass and pine needles she had been pain-stakingly stuffing back into his clothes had all been spilling out a large gash in his back. He was truly in a sorry state!!!

“…Tomorrow I’ll come back with a needle and thread. I’m sorry it took me so long to come at all. I just…” Morg glanced up at the area where she had found herself in a nightmare only a few months earlier, images of white fire burning through the forest filling her vision. She looked away.

“How is it that I can bring you and my reflection to life, but my father is a hopeless cause?!” Morg suddenly cried bitterly, causing the bugs chirping around them to momentarily hush. “Beaux, do you think they’re hiding something from me? Or are there things about this magic that I just don’t understand?”

The scarecrow stared blankly up at her with his lifeless button eyes.

“Actually I… I know none of this is their fault. He was the one who came here with those… those people. They set the house on fire. They tried to set me on fire… My own father tried to set me on fire. Did I not explain things well enough to him? Should I have pushed to visit my parents more? Why would he do that?!” Morg asked, wiping at the tears beginning to blur her vision.

“But still I can’t help but feel angry at them. Shouldn’t they have done more to prevent this in the first place!? If they had just…! Then maybe I…”

Afraid she would start all-out sobbing if she continued this line of conversation, Morg trailed off with a sniffle and changed the subject.

“I didn’t tell anyone about you, so you don’t have to worry about people trying to take your life away,” the young witch said in a quiet tone. “I… am not sure what Maisha and Songbai would do if they knew you were alive. When they learned about my reflection, they acted as if she were something wrong. Something not meant to exist. Songbai even promised me she would look into finding ways to take away my reflection’s consciousness and turn it back to normal.”

Morg grabbed another handful of pine needles and stuffed them into Beaux’s head.

“I don’t really like my reflection- she’s gross and she scares me. But… does she really deserve to die? It’s not as if she’s ever hurt anyone or done anything bad.”

Morg pretended that the scarecrow’s silence was a sign of its agreement.

“Exactly. We think alike,” the little witch smiled, answering the imaginary response.

“Actually, Xisa told them once that my harp playing caused you to move, but I think they’ve forgotten. At least, they seem to be much more focused on other things. Or maybe they thought you would naturally deteriorate without me coming to visit you, so thought you were nothing to worry about.”

Morg stared down at the lifeless button eyes and chewed on her lower lip.

“But maybe you died in that fire anyways…” she muttered, searching the broken scarecrow for any sign of life. “And I’m just talking to myself right now like a crazy person…”

The young witch stared at the beat up scarecrow in silence for a long time before opening her mouth again.

“Scarecrow Beaux…” Morg swallowed nervously. “Are you… still alive?”