Chapter 1 Reject Heroism, Become a Witch
Cold. Unbearable cold.
Stinging numbness struck my every nerve, each limb throbbing as if torched by invisible flames. Icy water, dark, thick and viscous, swirled around me in a relentless dance, seeking to claim me for its own.
I swam upwards, fighting the current.
For a dream, this was the exceptionally unpleasant kind.
I slammed against the ceiling of ice above me with my entire body, silently banging against it with my fists. It didn't give, didn't crack.
Squinting through the murky depths with stinging eyes, I noted the direction of the current and swam perpendicular to it, aiming for the lightest section of the ice, praying that my instincts were right.
My knee suddenly collided with the submerged rocks. I've made a miscalculation, this was the shore and the ice was likely thicker here, even harder to break through! I pressed on with the determination of my last seconds of life, reaching a lighter section of the ice as the space between the ground below and the ice overhead gradually diminished.
The pain became more intense, my body begging for oxygen. No dream could be this realistic, this agonizing.
Summoning every ounce of remaining strength, I pushed my body against the ground, leveraging my entire frame against the slippery rocks and roots beneath me. Colourful spots danced in my eyes from the strain as I gritted my teeth, refusing this to be my end, kicking at the ice with my feet.
The ice suddenly gave way with a resounding crack. I kicked against it again and again, until it shattered and then pulled myself out of the icy river, inhaling precious air and feeling completely drained.
It was the dead of winter or perhaps late autumn. Large snowflakes fluttered from a distant, gray sky wrapped with a blanket of thick clouds. My entire body trembled from shock, pain and cold.
As I dredged water from my lungs on the ice-covered ground, a new realization took hold–this was not my body.
My new limbs were thin and pallid. I quickly pulled off the wet clothes that clung to my body. The crude attire, tattered and soaked, looked like it came from a long-forgotten age, with a distinctly Scandinavian or perhaps Slavic look. The knowledge that I had somehow lost my muscles and height was a bitter pill to swallow.
What cruel, improbable event had conspired to cast me into the frigid embrace of this icy river, to awaken in the form of a bruised, skinny, waterlogged… teenage boy?
A leather rope featuring a half broken blue agate amulet with a drawing of what looked like a girl with feathers sticking from her hair dangled from my chest. As I pulled my shirt off, the rope holding the gem frayed apart and the agate piece twinkled down right into the hole in the ice, vanishing in the river before my trembling fingers could catch it.
I also saw that a large, red, crude drawing of intersecting triangles glittered in my chest, slowly flaking off me as I moved. The questionable hexagram and the now lost agate amulet were the least of my worries.
Shivering violently, I sought to stave off the relentless advance of hypothermia, my thoughts racing with my chattering teeth. Desperation lent urgency to my actions as I wrung the icy water from my clothes.
In a few moments, I dressed myself once again in the damp fabric and leather boots, aware of the scant protection they offered against the biting chill that hung in the air. I needed to find warmth and shelter as soon as possible.
I examined the snow-laden landscape stretching before me. Barren trees flanking the water's edge stood like lonely sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching skyward. In the distance, smoke rose from the remnants of what looked like a ruined village.
Smoke meant fire and fire meant warmth. I forced my aching body to push towards the village even as it begged me to lie down and to embrace the lulling cold.
With faltering steps, I made my way to the smoldering ruins. As I came nearer, the acrid stench of burnt something filled my nostrils.
I definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.
As I walked around the buildings, peering through the windows, I saw nothing but ashes.
Despite the grim view, I was drawn to the warmth that radiated from the burning buildings. As I approached, I noticed a peculiar oddity - the flames seemed to dance with an unnatural hue, their vibrant colors twisting and turning from white to emerald to a brilliant blue.
I mentally catalogued the various chemicals capable of altering the color of fire: copper compounds produced blues and greens, while strontium and lithium compounds yielded reds and pinks.
Was it possible a specific chemical catalyst had been introduced to the fire, causing this otherworldly appearance?
I exhaled, allowing the heat to seep into my trembling body, pondering the enigma of the oddly tinted flames. The warmth, though a temporary relief from the chill, served as a stark reminder of my precarious situation. I needed to find answers, and perhaps more importantly - permanent shelter.
As I stepped closer to the flames, I observed another odd phenomenon: the fire seemed to warp and bend, unnaturally ripple ever so slightly in my direction with radial waves, as though I were a magnet and the flames were metallic filings tracing the invisible lines of magnetic force.
What the hell?
I observed the uncanny fire that appeared to reach out for me, its tendrils straining to nip my ankles. Retreating a step, I re-evaluated the burning village with newfound wariness.
It was then that I noticed the flames danced and twisted in radial patterns around the trees scattered near the village, as if in some perverse near-embrace.
Bewildered, I snipped a fresh, bendy branch from a nearby bush and threw it into the heart of the fire.
To my astonishment, the flames eagerly engulfed the branch, their tendrils weaving spirals around it like rippling waves before reducing it to ash in mere moments with a blinding flash.
What the hell? I raked my mind for the rational, scientific explanation of the impossible thing I just witnessed.
The principle of the combustion triangle stated that fires start more easily and burn more fiercely when supplemental oxygen is available.
When there is a sufficient supply of oxygen, the flame takes on a blue hue. This occurs because complete combustion generates enough energy to excite and ionize the gas molecules within the flame. Excessive oxygen would explain the blue tint, but not the green.
In lower gravity, such as on the Moon or in space, the reduced gravity makes the flames become more spherical and spread more evenly in all directions. This is because the hot air does not rise as it does on Earth; instead, the heat disperses more evenly in all directions. The result is a flame that appears as a radial wave spreading outwards from the source, rather than shooting upward.
I picked up a rock and dropped it. It reached the ground as a rock would on Earth.
I ripped a small cloth patch from a ragged, colorful banner hanging on a half-broken wall and threw it into the blue fire. It didn't even bother to ignite.
What?!
I blinked at it, waiting for the cloth to burn, yet nothing happened. I felt my mind sliding sideways.
This was impossible. The sight of non-burning dry cloth defied everything I knew about combustion.
There were only two answers here–either I was hallucinating or the world I found myself in operated beyond the rules of my former reality. I preferred the second option as the prospect of unraveling the mystery of the inexplicable behavior of local fire using the scientific method sent a shiver of excitement down my spine.
"Khrm, khrm," the guttural sound of a throat being cleared resonated from behind me, interrupting my half-bewildered plotting.
I spun around.
Right in front of me stood an old woman, draped in furs and leaning heavily upon a gnarled wooden staff. She looked like the perfect embodiment of a witch, or maybe a Nordic shaman, her face obscured by an elk's antlered skull. Beneath the hollow sockets of the macabre mask, a pair of brilliant blue eyes shined with an unsettling intensity. Her dress appeared to be woven from fragments of animal or perhaps human bones with a tint of green to them as if they were carved from malachite.
"Ioan Starfall," the woman boomed. "It seems your family's sacrifice has worked!"
"Huh?" I blinked at her, feeling stupefied. Was my name Ioan? Ah... it must have belonged to the boy whose body I now inhabited.
"What sacrifice?" I asked. My newfound voice was quite high-pitched. To my surprise, the words leaving my lips were not in English, but in a foreign unfamiliar language. Right, the old woman also wasn't talking in English.
"Four hundred and seventeen lives burned to ashes," the woman said as she pulled up her skull-mask, revealing more of her wrinkled face. "So one may live and become strong."
With a gnarled finger, featuring a grimy, long fingernail, she gestured towards the frozen river.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"I am Yaga Grandhilda," she continued, "the witch of the Shalish wood, my domain about nine thousand steps from here. It was I who foresaw the doom of this village in the shawl of my precognition and beseeched all the adults to bring me seven drops of their blood. Using it, I created a potion with which the parents painted protective hexagrams upon the children. Alas, you are the sole survivor of the massacre and... have gained great power by straddling the precipice between life and death!"
"What?" I blinked. "Sorry, my memory is kind of fuzzy from almost drowning," I added.
"The river spirit took something from you as you dove headfirst into it and gave you something of great value in exchange, young Ioan," the witch said. "I sense that you have been cleansed by the waters of river Glinka, your soul filled with great potential and knowledge from far beyond the thread of your former life!"
"Ah," I replied.
The river did take something. It took Ioan's life, obliterating what he was. It must have given my memory to this misfortunate teenager in exchange.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now," the witch intoned, "Per my agreement forged in magic with the village of Svalbard, I shall bestow upon you the mark and title of a hero."
"A hero?"
"Yes. This is how heroes are made!"
"Heroes are… made?" I blinked at her.
"All heroes are made by witches like myself, yes," she said. "The monster responsible for the desolation of your village is the Great Dragon Zarnitza. As a marked hero and a DyrkJarl of great renown, you shall wield powers beyond mere mortals, enabling you to exact retribution upon the dragon! If you get strong enough and rise in might by defeating smaller beasts… You might someday avenge your kin and bring down the abomination that devastated your village!"
I squinted at her.
"From this moment on, you step onto the path of being the DyrkJarl of Midgard, a hero…" Her clawed hand extended towards me, lanky finger suddenly glowing with an ethereal luminescence, casting eerie, off-color rainbows in the air.
"Wait, wait, wait. How about we don't dick-jarl me yet," I countered, instinctively taking a few steps back.
"What?" The witch's eyes grew wide. "You do not wish to avenge your family? You do not wish to decimate villains and monsters, cultivating strength to extract vengeance and stamp out evil wherever you find it? Surely that is the goal of every noble lad!"
"No," I shook my head.
I wasn't Ioan. The original memories of this body were gone. I felt no desire to slay dragons, and didn't want vengeance.
"The sacrifice of your kin will fade away when the magic-infused blood of your parents flakes off your body in about five hundred heartbeats," the witch intoned. "When it does, my spell will dissipate and fade into the ether… unless it is bound properly to your soul. You must not squander this opportunity! This is your destiny, take it before it's too late!"
"To hell with destiny," I said. "I… I want to make my own choices!"
The witch raised an eyebrow, examining my set face.
"I want to know more!" I declared. "What are the drawbacks of being a... DyrkJarl?"
"Visibility," she conceded. "Heroes amass power by vanquishing their enemies and monsters. By taking life, a DyrkJarl becomes stronger… and also more attractive to monsters."
"Attractive how?" I asked.
"Via smell. Monsters and other DyrkJarls will smell the burning air and hear the thunder of Perun emanating from a DyrkJarl's Aura and will seek to usurp the power that thrums within you," the witch revealed. "Jotuns and trolls can smell the blood of a hero from a thousand steps away. The life of a DyrkJarl is one of fierce valour and constant battle! Beast-people from the South are known to enslave young DyrkJarls with their dark magics!"
"So essentially, I would be painting a huge target on my back?" I asked. "No, thank you."
I definitely wasn't willing to become a meat shield for a dubious witch, especially if being a hero made me visible to slavers and monsters from a thousand steps away!
The old woman's frown deepened.
"Is there no alternative?" I asked. "What happens if I don't become a DyrkJarl?"
"I already told you! The magic chains wrapped around your body will snap and you will lose whatever it is you gained from the river spirit be it knowledge or skills," she said. "It is snowing. If I do not turn you into a dragonslayer, you will forget who you are and then inevitably freeze to death!"
"Hmmm, yeah, that does sound bad," I said. Losing my rationality, memories and understanding of my current self would suck.
"Yes. Which is why you must…" Yaga insisted.
"Hold on," I pursed my lips, looking her over and trying to organize my thoughts.
Something wasn't adding up:
1. Everyone in Svalbard was dead.
2. I was the only survivor.
3. There was an incredibly suspicious witch character at the scene of the mass murder, offering me incredible power. More specifically, a witch who had the clear motives of killing everyone here to create a dragon-slaying DyrkJarl.
My paranoia intensified.
"How does one become a witch?" I asked, trying to find a loophole in her words.
"A sacrifice of life, a pact with a local spirit or another witch and the desire to bind yourself to a place," she explained. "A wish to be safe, to tend to the land. Desire to seek connection to the All-Mother Zemlya above all things."
"And are witches… perhaps routinely hunted and killed?" I inquired, suddenly thinking of the Spanish Inquisition.
"As much as anyone else is," the witch barked a dry laugh. "It is however exceptionally hard to slay a Yaga on her land, for we are domain-bound and able to dream of the future. We draw our power from the fecund earth beneath our feet and lose our magical prowess if we venture beyond our domain."
"Right," I nodded, weighing my options. "Wait. You're outside of your domain, are you not?"
"And I'm wasting my energy chatting while I should be making a bloody DyrkJarl!" she rebutted. "The pact I've made with your village permits me to be here to aid you!"
I evaluated my options:
1. The witch was lying about everything and was trying to turn me into her hero patsy to send on dragon-slaying quests. I didn't see the dragon personally. I woke up under a river, not recalling a single thing about myself as Ioan. Maybe she cast an amnesia spell and pushed me into the water and killed everyone in the village with a spell. Maybe there was no dragon involved at all. Without checking thoroughly for dragon paw prints, I had no reason to believe any of Grandhilda's words.
2. The witch was honest about her intentions and if I didn't become a hero then I would lose all of my new, shiny memories, lose my Understanding of the world, lose my ability to rationally observe patterns and to break them down.
"Two hundred heartbeats," she warned. "Before the blood sacrifice is rendered futile!"
There was only one way to determine if Grandhilda was even slightly honest about things. I had to derail the entire 'hero' narrative she wove for me, demand something... entirely unexpected.
"Bind me to this village," I declared. "Make me into… a witch!"
"W-what?" the ancient crone sputtered.
"Witch me up!" I said with a wide grin.
"You are a boy… you cannot be a witch!" Yaga Grandhilda declared, "The very notion is absurd… I've never heard such a… Don't you know anything, boy?! Earthly wisdom and feminine wit belongs to Zemlya, the Goddess of fertility. Bravery and strength belongs to her husband Perun, the God of men and war! The land belongs to Zemlya while the sky belongs to Perun."
"Meaning what?" I asked, prying for more information.
"You are not a girl!" The witch barked. "Girls meditate to commune with spirits. You… you'd make the weakest witch in the world, one blind to the wild! Men cannot wield the power of the fertile earth because they cannot see nature spirits! Men cannot communicate with nature spirits no matter how much they meditate! That is the way of the world and…"
The Yaga's words sounded like excuses. If men couldn't communicate with nature spirits directly could they simply not hire a woman to be their medium or something? I decided to press on with my attack, confident that either she would accidentally reveal the truth about murdering everyone here or make me into a witch, which was fine too because it would make me less visible in a dragon-populated world.
"Please make me into a witch, Yaga!" I urged. "Magic me up. Bind me to the land. I'm ready. That's my greatest and only wish!"
Yaga Grandhilda stared at me like I was mad.
"Don't you want to leap over the trees, to lift weapons with incredible ease?" She attempted to market the strongman abilities of the sky-god-aligned heroes to me. "If you live long enough as a hero, you might even learn to fly atop of your sword! Doesn't that sound exciting?"
"No, I want to be a witch!" I insisted. "Flying on swords sounds extremely unsafe, what if I fall off?"
"Heroes don't just…" the Yaga sputtered.
"Flying round these parts just seems dangerous," I added with an exaggerated look of a scared teenager. "A dragon could eat me."
"Very well," she sighed. "So be it. As inordinate as this is… I suppose that a male witch just might be possible. It's better than you simply freezing to death as a mortal. Maybe in a few centuries time, if Zemlya takes pity on you, you'll learn to see the spirits of the wild."
I nodded.
"Step forward, quickly, to me!" She barked. "We have only forty heartbeats left!"
I did.
With swift, deliberate movements, she tapped the center of my chest where the hexagram converged with her glowing finger.
"Embrace the Earth-Mother, Zemlya, beneath you and yearn to be her eternal… virgin maiden and dedicated caretaker," she instructed, choking slightly at the 'virgin maiden' bit. "To aid all who venture here with the power of the wilds, to persist through the breath of the land from this point on forevermore!"
I obeyed, my arms encircling the icy ground. My thoughts were consumed not by visions of hippie forest love, but by the desire for safety and protection, for invisibility and anonymity. I yearned for a sanctuary of my own, a haven in which I might conduct experiments and unravel the mysteries of the new, magic-filled universe that now surrounded me.
Within moments, I felt a peculiar sensation as if an invisible chain snapped between me and the ground. I saw that my entire body ignited with a violet shimmer as I were suffused with an ethereal glow akin to Cherenkov radiation.
"Is this…?"
"This is normal," the witch reassured me. She traced a circle in the ground with a gnarled staff. "Farewell and good fortune… Yaga… Ioan Starfall!" She smirked at the word Yaga, seemingly amused by the absurdity of a male witch.
"Um. Do I not receive an apprenticeship, or some form of guidance from here?" I asked.
"Seek me out in the Astral Ocean, should you have further questions," she replied cryptically. "But first, claim your land, draw sustenance from it and become wiser!"
A circle of mushrooms bloomed at the Yaga's feet, their delicate caps unfurling like the petals of a flower. Her figure shimmered and wavered, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone as if her body simply folded away.
As I remained on the ground, the pull of the earth seemed to intensify, as though gravity itself had conspired to draw me ever closer to my newfound domain.
My head slammed into the earth.
I felt myself sinking into the ground. At least I wasn't so cold anymore.
Chapter 2 The Complementarianism of Local Mythology
[Day 2]
I awoke in the center of a perfect circle of verdant, green petals and bell-flowers, which clashed with the snow-wreathed, smoldering village. I didn't know how long I was out for sure, but judging by the sun's position it was at least one day that I've slept. The dragonfire had more or less died away, leaving only ruined islands of buildings around me.
Large snowflakes fluttered from the sky, landing on my face. They didn't feel cold. Oddly enough, I felt rejuvenated as if I had just woken up from an exceptionally relaxing nap.
As I dug deeper into the recesses of my identity, I found myself confronted by a fragmented, discordant mosaic of Ioan's past made up of scattered, shadow-like snippets of memory that danced just beyond the reach of comprehension.
Was I Ioan? I didn't feel like Ioan.
My knowledge of Earth, rationality and science was sharp, as clear as day. It was a 40'000 lumen flashlight torch compared to the dying candle that was Ioan's memories.
Oddly enough, I felt no thirst or hunger while sitting in my glade. Feeling bored and curious I stood up and stepped out of the glade. Nothing seems to prevent me from leaving.
As I ventured further from the enchanted glade, I observed a curious change in my physical condition. At a distance of about three meters from the glade, my muscles began to ache and I felt biting cold air, as if I had once again transformed into a mundane teenager.
Straying even further, approximately ten meters from the circle, I felt beset by increasingly worse thirst, hunger, nausea and exhaustion.
Twenty five meters away from the witch-glade, colorful spots began to dance in my eyes as if I had an extreme concussion and my entire body felt like it was boiling from within.
At about thirty three meters away from the glade, my bones began to ache with blinding pain, my head engulfed in a blinding migraine. I felt like a walking corpse, a man dying from thirst, hunger and glade-deprivation as if I was some kind of a vampire that was seeking only one thing–to turn around. Crawling back to the glade, the pain lessened then vanished completely when I touched the circle of plants.
Phew.
Being a domain-bound witch definitely had a big drawback since departing from the glade made me into a mortal boy and going past thirty three meter radius seemed completely impossible.
My distance measurement was approximate too, based on my feet going toe to toe and estimating that my booted foot about 30 centimeters.
Pushing against the pangs of hunger and thirst, ignoring the migraine, cold and nausea, I reached the nearest ruined house and began to sift through the ashes and debris, seeking things of value among the ruination.
I discovered that the fire had left numerous metal implements completely untouched. As I continued to unearth random clothes, knives, spoons, forks, coins, candle holders, jugs, glass goblets, and other inorganic objects, a hypothesis began to take shape in my mind.
Perhaps the dragon's flame functioned akin to a Neutron bomb, a weapon designed to eradicate life while leaving the inorganic world largely unscathed.
The thought was as chilling as it was fascinating. The concept of magic manipulating chemistry to target specific elements seemed exceptionally handy if I could figure out the principle behind it.
I found a few giant footsteps in the village, indentations of gargantuan claws about 5 meters wide.
There was definitely a dragon here. A very big, scary dragon. The witch was indeed honest about that.
Digging through the center of one of the houses, I discovered a circular, slightly singed metal cover beneath the pile of ashes and debris. With considerable effort from my slender arms, I managed to pry it open, revealing the hidden depths of the well below.
Descending a sturdy wooden stairwell, I was greeted by walls lined with ceramic and glass jars brimming with pickled vegetables and salted meats, a veritable treasure trove of sustenance.
I immediately pried the nearest jar open, feasting on pickled cucumbers and drinking the juice. The feelings of dizziness, hunger and thirst lessened, but the sensation of the stabbing cold air remained, prickling at my exposed skin.
Curious.
A witch could theoretically sustain herself right outside of her domain, as long as she sated the mundane needs of her body which were otherwise somehow turned off while standing on the magic-circle of earth.
My hunger sated with the pickled goods, I wondered why the villagers hadn't thought to seek refuge in these cold wells, or even flee into the surrounding forest when the dragon attacked.
I could only speculate as to whether the attack had occurred under the cover of night, catching the villagers off guard, or if there was some other, more sinister reason behind the apparent lack of survivors such as the dragon hunting down everyone except for a solitary teenage boy that fell under the river.
If the Yaga knew when the dragon was coming, why didn't she simply tell the villagers to hide inside their cold wells? This was definitely a point to the theory that Grandhilda allowed everyone in Svalbard to perish on purpose, to magically manufacture a hero that could slay the monster through the sacrifice of blood and life.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I set out to explore the remnants of the houses within limited range. As I searched through the ruins, I discovered numerous metal chests that had survived the dragon's fiery onslaught. Inside, I found an assortment of dry clothing and bandages.
I quickly re-dressed myself in the fanciest coat I could find that fit my skinny body. Then, I turned my attention to the task of surveying the surrounding village.
I noted that many of the homes were violently torn apart as if a massive claw punched right through the walls and ceilings.
A cursory survey of the village from my thirty-three-meter leash revealed that a non-damaged pub stood about forty meters from my glade, just outside of my range. It felt like the ideal candidate for a secure base of operations if I could somehow reach it.
The prospect of sleeping outside, even if the cold didn't bother me, wasn't something I was looking forward to. The distant pub taunted me with the safety of its intact walls.
As a man of science, I refused to be daunted by the dastardly limiting constraints that bound me to the enchanted glade.
What was the earth exactly? It was soil and rocks. These things could simply be moved… could they not?
Determined to find a solution, I searched through everything within the range of my magical leash once again, pushing through the migraine and body aches. At the very edge of my reach, inside a torn-up shack, under a pile of debris, I found exactly what I was looking for–a sturdy metal shovel.
I considered the facts:
1. According to Grandhilda the fact that I was a man somehow wouldn't allow me to meditate or see spirits. Maybe there was a biological difference between men and women in this world. Therefore, relying on meditation to see spirits or whatever was going to be a side quest for me, something that I would try but not despair if and when it failed horribly.
2. Grandhilda knew exactly where my glade was. Even though she made me into a witch, her core motivations were still unclear to me. It was possible that she still planned to "hero" me up. If I didn't relocate and hide the glade, she could send monsters after me to "train me".
3. The glade was a green patch of grass out in the open visible against the white snow. Any idiot could see it from miles away, come over and chop my neck right off with a sword or worse yet, just arrow me from a distance from behind. Marauders were likely coming to steal whatever wasn't nailed down now that the dragon was gone. I had to steal it all first and put it all in a secure location. It was only a matter of time until someone raided the ruins of Svalbard. Gathering tools and supplies is more reasonable than simply sitting in the open where a dragon, or another fantasy creature or even a wolf could just gobble me up.
As my paranoia intensified, I made a decision. The glade was definitely getting relocated to a safer position.
I rapidly began to excavate the edge of the green circle.
Inside my glade, the shovel felt weightless, cutting through the magic-infused frozen earth as if it was a hot knife going through hot butter.
I grinned maniacally as I obliterated a section of the glade with incredible ease, my muscles filled with superhuman vigor.
Chapter 3 Witchy Mobility Theorem
As I excavated the edge of the glade, I couldn't help but notice that the earth felt warm and oddly welcoming.
It was as if the complex amalgamation of various minerals and organic matter, with traces of silica, alumina, and iron oxide intermingling with decaying plant material and the remnants of microscopic organisms were now somehow suffused with an unknown form of energy.
As I crushed the earth with my fingers, it felt nothing like frozen soil was supposed to feel like. I wondered whether a witch's domain projected some kind of non-debilitating radiation, perhaps akin to the nuclear force that governed the behavior of subatomic particles. Rather than causing harm, this energy appeared to empower my body, blessing me with warmth and a high level of vitality.
I marveled at this strange phenomenon a bit longer, enjoying the tiny sparks dancing in my fingers.
Then, I filled the largest leather backpack I could find with the earth from the glade and began to walk away from my domain, counting my steps.
To my delight, I discovered that carrying the enchanted soil on my back permitted me to venture beyond the range of my prior leash without succumbing to the debilitating weakness and nausea that had previously beset my frail body.
Great success! The backpack and shovel, plus the indomitable spirit of human inquiry and adaptability had overcome the domain limitation.
Science: 1, Witchy Domain Limit: 0
Using a plank balanced on a rock and a bunch of strewn bricks, I created a makeshift scale to assess my weight vs the weight of the soil within the backpack.
Then, I gradually altered the amount of soil inside of the bag, reducing and increasing it and venturing away from the glade with the backpack.
Using this method, I discovered that as long as I had enough soil in the bag that weighed approximately 1.5 times as much as I did, I felt no problems moving past the initial domain limit!
As I strode nearly five hundred meters away from the village, the magical soil nestled securely within my backpack, I grinned at the fact that my witchy stamina remained undiminished.
Being a witch, it seemed, was easy, especially if I could transport a section of my domain in a simple knapsack. What originally appeared to be a debilitation was now my advantage.
Could it really be this simple? Was it really possible to simply dig up all of the enchanted soil, compress it to save space, and then carry it with me in a large cart?
Thoughts raced through my mind as I considered the implications of this newfound power, thinking back to the process of creating compressed earth blocks. I remembered that in Portland cement, typically, a pressure of around 3,000 psi compressed the original material volume by about half. Technically, even a planet like Earth could be compressed into a black hole with a diameter of only 1.77 centimeters.
Smirking at this amusing fact, I knew that, unfortunately, I didn't have the power tools necessary to compress the soil.
Another thought came to me–were some sections of the soil more magical than others? Was Earth-type magic, or whatever it was that Yaga specialized in, better contained in some particular elements such as the roots, plants or specific rocks?
I quickly returned to the side of the magic circle I had unearthed and turned my attention to the plants themselves.
Employing a rudimentary water drop microscope made from a thin glass shard, a glass jar, two piece of wood, a broken mirror shard and a drop of water, capable of magnifying details up to five times, I set about examining the flora more closely.
As I carefully sliced open a leaf, I observed the blurry intricate network of thick plant cell walls.
To my amazement, I saw that the damaged cell walls of the sliced leaf slowly healed themselves. I also noted that the verdant life birthed by the magic-infused earth shared my immunity to the cold, thriving in defiance of the harsh winter.
Next, I grabbed some standing water from a rotting root and examined it as I placed it directly above the glade, using a mirror shard to bounce sunlight through my water sample located atop of an upside down glass jar.
My mouth fell open as I beheld a mesmerizing if somewhat blurry display of micro-animals, tardigrades and single cell Stentor roeselii, dancing within the water drop. The microscopic creatures somehow bred and multiplied at an unprecedented rate, their existence fueled by the potent, invisible energy that pulsed within the enchanted soil.
It dawned on me that the radiation emanating from the witch-blessed ground was a veritable furnace of life, a force that nurtured and sustained all organic things that thrived within its sphere of influence. This force stood in stark contrast to the deadly dragon fire that had wrought destruction upon the village, targeting living things and turning them to ashes.
My mind raced with the possibilities as the pieces began to fall into place.
Was this the source of a witch's power?
Another fragment of Ioan's memories surfaced in my mind, revealing that he had sought a potion from the Witch of the Shalish wood a few years ago to help with his grandmother's aching back.
This revelation coalesced into a solid theory: the enchanted soil produced life-altering effects that, in turn, transformed the plants and animals within a witch's personal garden. It stood to reason that ingredients suffused with this life-rad magnified the efficacy of their organic components, unlocking a wealth of incredible potential for both healing and harm!
. . .
People didn't need magic to be dicks. If anything, having access to excessive strength as a hero of legend most likely made one more prone to pillaging.
Take, for instance, the Vikings of Earth, seafarers of Norse blood. Their longships graced countless shorelines, from the rocky coasts of the British Isles to the frosty outposts of Greenland, from the uncharted lands of America to the fertile plains of Ukraine. Their unrelenting pursuit of expansion and adventure often ended in the enslavement of the locals and the pillaging of their treasures. If the local world was anything like mine history-wise, then I was in for a very bad time.
Predators and scavengers would undoubtedly soon become a problem. Surveying the fractured beams and scorched and buried fragments scattered across the landscape, I could discern the remnants of once stout, wooden walls and watchtowers.
Alas, the dragon had made quick work of that defense, obliterating it in its entirety.
My magical grove lay vulnerable under the open sky, the green flora a beacon for any creature prowling the wilderness or flying overhead. If Dick-Jarls could fly on swords then they would absolutely spot the green glade from above sitting amidst the white snow.
The risk of discovery by a fly-by hero suddenly felt like an imminent threat. I didn't want anyone to find out or even to suspect that I was a witch, preferring to have the element of surprise on my side.
The whole reason I bugged Yaga to turn me into a witch was to mess with people's future expectations of me–it was going to be my biggest trump card in my new life in Svalbard.
Thus, driven onwards by a healthy degree of paranoia, I focused on digging out all of the magic-irradiated earth and relocating the entirety of my precious domain inside the old pub. I quickly shovelled the earth into a wheelbarrow I found behind the mostly undamaged smithy building, rolled it to the pub, and dumped it inside. I also replanted all of the magic-infused greenery into chests that I faced towards the round windows.
Once done with the relocation of my magical domain, I set to secure the pub itself.
The village smithy, now bereft of its previous tenants, though slightly singed and torn up on one side, housed a trove of medieval weaponry such as bows, swords and arbalests. I transported the entire arsenal into my makeshift stronghold, setting up arbalests at each window.
Then I emptied a few of the cold storage wells and brought the food into the pub in a wheelbarrow. I didn't feel hunger when I was carrying my domain in my backpack, but my body already looked far too skinny and pitiful and I knew that healthy eating was important to my growth, no matter if magical bullshit took my desire to eat away.
By the time my fortress was secured within the old pub, the horizon had welcomed the warm hues of the setting sun, and I battened down the iron-clad shutters and door in anticipation of the coming night.
My dinner was a modest feast of preserved jars and smoked delicacies. Since cold seemed to be a minor inconvenience to a Yaga, I dismissed the idea of lighting the fireplace. Instead, I innately sought solace atop my mound of warm earth.
My feet automatically took me to my lovely, warm pile of earth.
I buried myself in it halfway feeling like a solitary mole ensconced within its subterranean sanctuary, slowly succumbing to the lull of slumber as I contemplated my future plans.
I was going to be the damn best witch biochemist in this medieval world!
Chapter 4 Witch Apprenticeship
I found myself inexplicably perched upon an extraordinary chair, one fashioned entirely from brown roots and green moss for padding.
I noted that I was also somehow face to face with none other than Yaga Grandhilda.
As my gaze wandered around, I took in the sight of the snug and homely interior of what was most likely her dwelling. The Yaga's hut was filled with hanging dried herbs that tickled my nose with a thousand smells. Root-woven shelves all around me were filled with countless potions inside organic-looking semi-transparent bottles.
"So, what do you wish to know about witchcraft, young Ioan?" the witch inquired, her eyes sparkling with an impish delight.
Feeling somewhat dazed, I blinked in confusion, still unsure of how I had gone to sleep and suddenly came to be in the Yaga's abode.
"How did I get here?" I managed to articulate.
"The Astral Ocean served as a pathway, allowing me to weave my dream to yours" she revealed. "After all, I've created you, and so it falls to me to impart the wisdom necessary for you to become a true… witch."
She snickered at the last word, amused by the fact that I wasn't a girl. Were wizards not a thing in this world?
I searched my mind for such and found no references whatsoever to the word 'wizard' in the local tongue.
Presumably the gender distinction between hero and witch options had likely manifested through local cultural quirks and belief systems, similarly to how the roles of men and women were delineated in ancient Sparta. In Sparta, men were raised as warriors, dedicating their lives to state service and military prowess, while women were tasked with managing the household and raising strong children, but also enjoyed a level of social autonomy and respect not common in other parts of ancient Greece.
"Ah," I nodded to the Yaga, resuming our conversation. "So, you're communicating with me through my dream?"
The wrinkled woman nodded.
My next question revolved around a more immediate threat, relevant to my location and lack of fortifications.
"Master, is it safe for me to be in Svalbard?" I asked. "The village wall was torn down by the dragon."
"It was your foolish decision to force me to align you with Mother Earth and to stake your claim upon the village," the old crone replied with a shrug. "You should be fine for about a week, as the scent of the dragonfire will keep other predators at bay."
"What are the chances of the dragon returning?" I asked.
"None," the witch declared. "Dragons, much like lightning, don't strike the same location twice."
I squinted at her. I knew lightning could strike the same place twice if a tall metal pole was present.
"What was it exactly that attracted dragon Zarnitza to Svalbard to begin with?" I asked.
"Dragons sleep for decades or centuries upon their hoard. When they wake, they seek out the nearest village and feast upon the hearts of adults to extend their own lifespan," the witch answered.
"Adults? What about the children?" I asked.
"Dragons do not consume children," the Yaga intoned.
"Why?" I blinked.
"Because children like yourself are akin to empty vessels," Grandhilda explained. "Waiting to be filled with power upon the ceremony of adulthood."
I racked my brain about such a ceremony and found nothing there.
"Can an adult make a pact with a spirit?" I asked.
"They can," the Yaga nodded. "However, the impact of such a pact won't be as effective as with an unaligned soul of a child."
"Uhhh," I hummed. "So my soul wasn't aligned yet?"
"Indeed. You were on the cusp of your adulthood, Ioan," the witch affirmed. "The ceremony of Vigslodi is a ritualistic raid performed by the men of your village. You were supposed to go on yours in the upcoming spring and murder a beast larger than a man or slay a man during the raid and consume their heart. This act would have turned you into an adult man, aligned you to Perun as a warrior of Svalbard."
I glanced at my skinny arms, uncertain as to how exactly Ioan would slay someone bigger than himself.
"Alas," the Yaga sighed. "You were born during the decade of the great famine that spread white death far and wide across Thornwild. Zemliya's blessings had failed and many crops and animals perished affected by the blight. Had you gone on a hunt or a raid, you would have most likely perished due to your frailty."
"I see," I said, shuddering slightly at the prospect of going on a murder-raid to eat a human/animal heart. "And how do girls become adults?"
"I see that you have forgotten much," the Yaga said. "The girls of Svalbard undergo the Zemy's band ritual of cultivation which takes them a year. They plant Linum flowers during the spring, harvest them in late summer, ret, dry, break, scutch and hack them during autumn, and spin and weave them into a banner during winter. By Zemy's First Day of Spring, they present a tapestry to the village elders depicting their family's history and their personal aspirations."
"That doesn't seem as life-threatening as going on a raid," I commented.
"And yet when I was a young maiden I failed it repeatedly," the Yaga commented with a wistful look.
"You did?" I asked.
"Do not mistake Zemy's Band for an easy task, Ioan. The cultivation of Linum in the wild patches outside of the village walls is its own formidable challenge," the witch said. "The Linum fields must be planted in ground that is both fertile and uncontaminated by the blight that has plagued much of our land. Finding such a patch of earth is a task in itself, but the real danger comes from the pests that are drawn to the Linum."
"Ah," I said, picturing Earth caterpillars.
"The Iron Needle Beetles, so named for their tough, metallic-looking carapaces, are particularly voracious pests. They can strip a field of Linum to the stalks overnight. These creatures are not only fast and ferocious but are also impossible to crush underfoot and covered in poisonous stingers. The young women must work together and secure their fields, crafting barriers from thorns, keeping constant vigil to protect the sprouting plants," the Yaga intoned. "The girls must master the preparation of herbal repellents and poisons. They study the cycles of the wild, the passage of the moon and stars, as these influence the behaviour of a variety of pests and animals seeking to devour the Linum patch from Starmoths to HoarBoars.
"Right," I nodded.
"The year-long endeavour teaches girls the value of perseverance, protection, and the deep connection to Mother Zemy who sustains all," the witch intoned. "It's a journey of growth, not just for the Linum they cultivate but for themselves as well. A girl's journey to crafting the Band starts at seven winters time when their mother begins to feed them a variety of poisons in minute amounts to prepare them for the Band."
"Oh," I said, struck with a sudden understanding.
King Mithridates VI of Pontus cultivated an immunity to poisons by regularly ingesting sub-lethal doses; this practice was called mithridatism because of him.
"This is another reason why a man would not make a very good witch," the Yaga sighed. "You have no resistance to poison whatsoever, haven't been trained from childhood to identify specific insects or plants. Your path to crafting potions will be incredibly arduous."
"Can you not assist me in my dreams as you are now?" I asked.
"Not like a mother would assist her daughter daily," the Yaga shook her head. "It takes me a good amount of herbal tea and considerable effort to entwine our dreams because the connection between us is still strong. We have but a week at most to commune briefly. Soon enough, our connection will tear and I might not be able to contact you in the same way for a long time, until the next lunar alignment."
I pursed my lips. So much for having effective long term witchy apprenticeship.
"So… how can I defend my domain?" I asked next.
"Take a nap on it just as you are doing now," the witch advised. "The act of resting on your land deepens your bond with Mother Zemy. Should you require a formidable boundary, sow the seeds of sturdy trees or spiky, poisonous shrubs around the glade. With time, they will flourish into an impregnable fortress under your command. Trees nurtured from your land will obey your command, always standing steadfast in your defense."
"I see," I said, moving to my next topic of inquiry. "I don't feel hunger or thirst when I'm on my domain. Does this mean that I don't need to drink or eat while inside my glade?"
"No." The Yaga laughed. "Your need for sustenance is merely temporarily pushed back by Zemy's pact."
"So how do I procure food without leaving my domain?" I asked.
Even though I now had access to the cold wells of the entire village thanks to my Witchy Mobility backpack with soil hack, I didn't feel like revealing this fact to my maker.
"The land will provide," Grandhilda answered with a sage look. "In less than a few weeks time berries will begin to sprout from your glade. They will sate you until a greater garden grows from your domain with large fruits and vegetables which will sustain you forevermore."
"Do the plants grown on my glade require sunlight? Will they thrive even in winter?" I asked next.
"The sun is indeed their lifeblood," she explained. "However, it's your presence that mainly sustains them in autumn and winter, channelling the power of the Earth Goddess into their roots even in the darkest months when Perun splashes the heavens with violet and green sky-waves. Your essence imbibes the land beneath your feet with the impetus for transformation, acts as a catalyst for rapid growth of all wild things within the boundary of your domain."
I nodded, noting her mystical divine-influenced explanation of auroras.
"Nurture your garden, and it will reciprocate in kind," the witch imparted. "Feast on the roots and berries that sprout within, and the magic-infused sustenance will not just feed you—it will prolong your lifespan beyond that of mortals. Neglect your domain or step away from it, and your life will ebb away as you age just as swiftly as any mortal."
"How far does my domain's spiritual reach extend?" I asked, mostly to confirm my own findings.
"About sixteen elbows at most," the witch answered. "Going any further strains the link between you and your glade."
"What's the best way to take care of my garden?" I asked.
"Your goal is to embrace every spiritual facet of the fertile earth beneath you, and its produce; to link your mind with all life that sprouts or skitters forth from it. These insights can be likened to tea leaves. Boiling water is crucial for tea, but without tea leaves, you end up with a drink that quenches your physical thirst yet neglects the palate. As a Yaga, your thirst for wisdom of the wild needs to be constantly satiated."
"I see," I rubbed my chin.
"While you can acquire life energy by merely consuming the bounty of your garden, much of it will remain as boiling water—bereft of transformative power. Just as healing tea cannot be brewed without the enchanted herbs, true progress in witchcraft can't be attained without profound insights.
"As a witch bound to… his domain," the Yaga continued after a sip of her tea, "you're not a travelling merchant racing to reach a destination before your goods expire. You're ascending an endless ladder of enlightenment, heading towards a deeper comprehension of every aspect of nature, where each rung represents deeper, more nuanced knowledge of the spirit of each plant, insect, or tree. There's no need for haste—the ladder isn't going anywhere."
"I think that I get the gist," I nodded. "My question is–how exactly do I understand something spiritually?"
"Meditate on the wild, listen to the wind, give heed to the hidden symphonies of your garden, amplify and stretch your senses beyond mere smell and sight," the witch said. "In time, you will learn to swim through the Astral, to sense and observe the limitless spiritual depths of something as minute as a drop of water!"
"Right so…" I began.
"Alas, I grow weary of holding the connection," the Yaga yawned, putting her tea cup down. "I shall reach out to you tomorrow night. Meditate on my words, cultivate your spirit-sight and think of further questions to ask me then!"
Before I could ask any more questions she clapped her hands together.
In that instant, the sight of her smirk and cosy room filled with a thousand potions shattered into a million petals dancing in the unseen wind, rapidly dissolving into darkness.
Chapter 5 The Witch Codex [Day 3]
I yawned as I slid down my lopsided pile of earth.
There was no wind, nor much sunlight inside of the stone pub. Slender threads of dawn were beginning to infiltrate the narrow slits in the iron-braced window shutters casting thin lines across my face.
Stepping away from my blessed dirt pile made me feel a bit chilly.
I sighed and sat against my warm earth to prevent myself from shivering constantly. The path of listening to the wild was clearly going to be a bit of a winding one, since I'd removed myself away from it entirely seeking shelter and safety of walls.
As my mind began to wander due the relaxing serenity-like sensation which came from merely sitting upon my relocated earth, I decided that it was time for more exploration and excavation.
I put on my earth-filled backpack and wandered across the village ruins with my shovel until I came across a half-obliterated large building. Presumably this was the hall of records or maybe the house of the local Jarl because the back rooms of the ruin featured collapsed bookshelves and iron cases packed with a variety of leather-bound tomes and scrolls, some of them filled with names and dates and the others empty.
It took me the entire morning to excavate all of the books from underneath collapsed ceilings and walls, but eventually I was rewarded with an entire library of unreadable books and records and a set of blank books, a silver inkwell and a few steel bottles of black and red ink.
Returning to the pub with a cart filled with literary treasures, I used the fanciest blank book to sketch out a chart of witch terminology aka a Witch Codex so as not to forget everything of value from what Yaga Grandhilda taught me.
I began by listing the days too, starting with:
. . .
Day 1:
Almost drowned, was turned into a witch by Yaga Grandhilda.
Day 2:
Woke up and figured out that I could break my domain limit using a shovel.
Learned about Adulthood Rituals & Spiritual Cultivation
Day 3:
Found books & started a journal.
. . .
Then I made a terminology list and my plans about each in the margins.
Astral Ocean: Some sort of a network which permits witches to commune via dreams.
Plan: Find out more.
Dragon Zarnitza: Dragons wake from long sleeps to feast on adult human hearts to extend their lifespan, but do not consume children as they are 'empty vessels.' Does this correlate to men of Svalbard eating hearts of their enemies to become stronger?
Plan: Avoid dragons at all cost. Possibly relocate somewhere where there are no dragons.
Ceremony of Vigslodi: A ritualistic raid marking adulthood for men, involving the slaying of a large beast or a man and eating their heart to align oneself with Perun.
Plan: Ask Yaga about other rituals. Understand the scientific bases of ritualistic magic.
Zemy's Band: A year-long cultivation ritual for girls involving planting, harvesting, and crafting Linum into a tapestry, symbolizing their journey to adulthood.
Plan: Find out more about these tapestries and the nature of rituals.
Iron Needle Beetles: Destructive pests threatening Linum fields, which young women must protect using barriers and herbal repellents.
Plan: See if anyone stored these in their house.
Spiritual Pact with Zemliya: Sleeping on the land deepens domain magic.
Plan: Ask Yaga more information about the local pantheon.
Cultivation of Magical Insight: Understanding the physical and spiritual aspects of the domain enhances the potency of its produce, particularly for potion-making.
Plan: Attempt to grow a specific plant from Earth by mentally focusing on it. Which plant would be the most useful?
Astral Perception: Developing the ability to sense and understand the spiritual dimensions of the natural world
Plan: Attempt meditation.
. . .
I tapped my chin. General plans were good and all, but I needed to approach things more scientifically if I was to gain an understanding of exactly what witch-magic was and how it functioned.
I began to write:
Scientific Method for Magical Investigation:
Observation: Gather data about magical phenomenaQuestion: Formulate specific inquiries based on observationsHypothesis: Propose tentative explanations for magical effectsPrediction: Determine the logical consequences of the hypothesisTesting: Design and conduct experiments to test predictionsAnalysis: Evaluate the results of the experimentsConclusion: Accept, reject, or modify the hypothesis based on resultsRepetition: Repeat the process to verify findingsWith this framework in mind, I pondered over my observations so far, mentally outlined questions and then started listing some initial hypotheses about how witch-magic might function:
Hypothesis 1: The soil from my domain contains a form of energy that enhances biological processes.
Test: Place seeds in both regular soil and domain soil, controlling for other variables. Measure growth rates and compare.
Hypothesis 2: The magical properties of my domain are tied to my physical presence.
Test: Set up identical plant samples at varying distances from my usual resting spot. Monitor growth and vitality over time.
Hypothesis 3: Consumption of domain-grown plants increases my connection to the land and magical abilities.
Test: Shred domain grown grass into spices. Eat food flavored with witchgrass for a week, then switch to regular food. Keep a detailed log of any noticeable changes in perception or abilities.
Hypothesis 4: The "spirit sight" Yaga mentioned is a learnable skill rather than an innate ability.
Test: Dedicate time each day to meditation and attempts at perceiving beyond normal senses. Document any progress or unusual experiences.
Hypothesis 5: The dragon's fire specifically targets organic matter through some form of elemental recognition. Understand what the witch's domain targets.
Test: Expose various organic and inorganic materials from the village to my domain, track the occurring changes. Lay materials out in varying distances from the center of my domain to its edges to track where the domain effect begins to decay.
Hypothesis 6: The rapid healing of plant cells observed under magnification is a property that can be transferred to other organisms.
Test: Create a poultice from domain-grown plants and apply it to small wounds on animals (if any can be found). Compare healing rates with untreated wounds.
Hypothesis 7: The magical properties of the domain can be influenced by my thoughts and intentions.
Test: Focus intently on specific desired traits (e.g., faster growth, different plants) while tending to different sections of the garden. Compare results over time.
Hypothesis 8: The "Astral Ocean" mentioned by Yaga is a form of shared consciousness accessible through altered states of mind.
Test: Attempt to induce lucid dreaming through various techniques (e.g., reality checks, meditation before sleep) and document any experiences that seem to connect with other minds or realms.
Hypothesis 9: The magical resistance to cold observed in domain plants can be transferred to inanimate objects.
Test: Soak various materials (cloth, wood, metal) in water infused with crushed domain plants. Expose these treated materials to freezing temperatures alongside untreated controls.
Hypothesis 10: The domain's energy can be stored or transferred to other locations.
Test: Create a series of containers filled with domain soil and plants. Move these to different locations and monitor for any retention or decay rate in magical properties.
As I finished writing, I realized the enormity of the task ahead. Each hypothesis would require careful planning, meticulous observation, and likely multiple iterations of testing. But the prospect of unraveling the mysteries of being a witch filled me with excitement.
The day was much colder than yesterday as winter loomed closer, frost beginning to cover the stained glass windows of the pub.
From what Yaga told me, I was spending precious magic on constantly fighting the chill, so I threw some wood into the pub's large fireplace and lit it, enjoying the dance of flames and flight of sparks.
By observing a deep crack in the wall likely caused by the dragon stomping around the village, I noted that the pub was built exceptionally well to contain heat. The old building's structure consisted of three layers of well-set stones, an empty space and another layer of thinner stones held up against wooden beams. The round windows were made from clear stained glass, letting in plenty of light for my plants to enjoy.
It only took twenty minutes of a blaze within the fireplace to make the interior completely warm and cosy. Having attained warmth, I took off my winter garb and started to meticulously sort through my dirt pile in an attempt to understand how exactly magic could have changed chemical properties of the mundane earth.
I soon discovered a large rock that had apparently been lounging directly underneath my backside earlier. I washed the rock and cracked open one of its sides using a blacksmith's clamp and hammer, revealing a crystalline interior, similar to quartz.
Was this rock already crystalline or had my witch-magic affected all rocks in this manner?
I slid the crystal into a pocket and searched for more rocks. Upon inspection, all rocks within the pile were crystalline.
With a backpack filled with earth and my pockets filled with crystal gems I quickly ventured outside to where my glade had been previously and dug a bit around it.
None of the rocks there were crystal.
My magic had indeed somehow crystallized perfectly mundane rocks!
I returned to the pub and examined the wooden floors beneath my earth pile using my water drop microscope. There were distinctive, crystalline micro-structures forming between wood fibres. Next, I examined the metal chests that housed my plants. The metal was slowly turning into some kind of a strange fusion between iron and micro-crystals.
Curious.
I pulled out my Witch Codex and added a new entry:
Crystallization Magic: Ability to transform mundane materials into crystal-like structures through prolonged exposure to a witch. Observed in rocks, wood, and metal.
Potential uses: unknown.
I spent the next few hours roaming the village to collect unique mundane materials to shove them into my magical pile to track which things would crystallise faster.
First, I gathered various types of wood - pine from a broken chair, oak from a fallen beam, and birch from a shattered decorative lock-box. In what remained of a carpenter's workshop, I found samples of exotic woods: a piece of dark ebony and a sliver of reddish mahogany. From a broken musical instrument, I salvaged a small piece of resonant spruce.
Metals were next on my list. I collected iron nails, a copper pot, and a silver spoon I found buried in the rubble of what must have been a wealthy home. In the blacksmith's shop, I discovered scraps of steel, brass, and even a small nugget of gold which had likely been awaiting crafting into jewelry.
As I searched, I came across interesting fabrics. I cut small pieces from a tattered wool cloak, a linen tablecloth, and a fragment of silk from a priest's vestments in the rubble-shaped remnants of Svalbard's chapel. In another iron case, one which perhaps belonged to a seamstress, I found scraps of cotton, velvet, and even a small piece of leather.
Stones were plentiful, so I gathered a variety: smooth river rocks, jagged pieces of slate, and a small chunk of marble from a broken statue. I also collected pieces of granite, sandstone, and a curious green stone that might have been jade. A few iron lockboxes and piles of ashes, ones were likely once wealthy matrons provided me with the following jewellery:
A silver necklace adorned with small pearls and a teardrop-shaped aquamarine pendant.
A pair of gold earrings, each set with a round garnet.
A bronze bracelet inlaid with alternating pieces of turquoise and coral.
A delicate gold ring featuring a cushion-cut peridot.
An ornate silver brooch studded with tiny amethysts arranged in a floral pattern.
A heavy gold signet ring with a flat-cut onyx bearing an unfamiliar coat of arms.
A pair of silver hair combs, each decorated with small opals.
A gold pendant on a thin chain, set with a large, oval-cut citrine.
A silver anklet with dangling charms, each set with a different gemstone: ruby, sapphire, emerald, and topaz.
From the village's mostly obliterated tannery, I gathered samples of animal products: a piece of cured hide, some horsehair, and even a small fragment of bone. In a potter's workshop, I found clay, both raw and fired into ceramics.
I also got a sample of the dead tree's bark and nipped a branch from a somewhat alive bush.
As the sun began to set, I made one last quick sweep through the village. I collected bits of straw from a collapsed roof, some dried moss from a stone wall, and even a handful of ashes from an old hearth.
Laden with my eclectic collection, I returned to the pub as darkness fell. I carefully arranged each sample in my magical earth pile, making sure to label them for future observation.
As the stained glass windows became pitch black, I made myself dinner from dry meats and pickled vegetables, my mind buzzing with anticipation about what changes the morning might bring to my diverse collection of materials.
I lit some candles to provide myself light. Staring at the various jewelry in my possession, I added more writing to the Codex, having arrived at an idea.
Hypothesis: Magical energy can be observed through crystalline structures that have been exposed to my domain's influence, similar to how certain materials can detect specific types of radiation or electromagnetic waves.
This idea wasn't entirely without precedent in the scientific world I remembered. For instance, scintillation crystals were used to detect ionizing radiation, converting the energy of incident radiation into visible light. Similarly, piezoelectric crystals could convert mechanical stress into electrical signals and vice versa.
If magic in this world operated on principles analogous to electromagnetic or quantum phenomena, it stood to reason that properly aligned crystalline structures might be able to interact with or detect it.
Experimental Design:
Select crystals of various compositions and expose them to my domain's influence for extended periods.
Construct a viewing apparatus.
Use the apparatus to observe various objects and areas:
a. My domain soil
b. Plants grown in my domain
c. Regular soil and plants
d. Living creatures (if any can be found)
e. River Glinka
Record observations, noting any unusual visual phenomena, colors, or patterns that aren't visible to the naked eye.
Create control apparatus with unexposed crystals.
I paused my writing. I didn't have a big variety of gems on hand. I'd have to attempt to split and grind my gems VERY carefully.
If anything, I could definitely compare regular glass to witch-irradiated glass. I've had a lot of that in my domain and outside of it. I returned to my outline.
Compare observations between witch-exposed crystals and mundane one to rule out optical illusions or confirmation bias.
Vary crystal exposure times and arrangements to see if it affects results.
If successful, attempt to quantify the "magical" phenomena observed.
I went on to outline twenty more crystal apparatus ideas and how they might work in terms of magical tracking, filling the pages of the codex with a multitude of ideas until the candles in my possession burned out.
Still having an absurd amount of energy left, I lit a torch and with the jewelry in hand, made my way to the village smithy, grateful that the dragon's rampage had left this building mostly intact.
I set to work, carefully prying the selected gems from their settings. It was delicate work, and I found myself wishing for more refined tools. Nevertheless, I persevered, using small chisels and pliers to free the stones from their metal prisons.
Once liberated, I set about the painstaking process of breaking the bigger gems along crystal planes. When I had enough split gems, I left a piece of each in the smithy and carried the rest with me back to my pub, burying them in my earth.
I wasn't big on the idea of meditation but I decided to try it out regardless, just to see if something would happen.
Thus, I sat down on my earth pile, closed my eyes and attempted to connect with the spiritual.
My first meditation lasted about thirty minutes and simply resulted in me falling asleep on my magical rock and soil pile.
Chapter 6 Material Science vs Witchy Mysticism
"Good night, young Ioan," Yaga Grandhilda's face welcomed me in the land of dreams. "How did your first day of meditation go? Were you able to sense the Astral currents?"
"Uhhh," I blinked, blushing ever so slightly because I spent the entire day roaming around the village, harvesting books and not actually meditating.
I cleared my throat and put on my best innocent expression. "Well, you see, Yaga, I was so focused on reaching the Astral that I accidentally meditated myself right into sleep."
"It happens," the witch smirked at my words. "After all, I did not expect much progress from a boy. True meditation requires a level of patience, focus and discipline which most men struggle to achieve even in their twilight years. Perhaps in a decade or two, you might manage to stay awake for an entire session and actually reach the Astral depths. Or not, on the account that boys cannot see nature spirits." She shrugged, her eyes twinkling. "Now, did you think of what else to ask me? Or has your mind been too occupied with boyish pursuits and daydreams?"
I pursed my lips.
"You must learn to be patient," the old witch intoned. "It takes centuries to master the art of witchcraft. The advantages of being a Yaga is that we can outlive our enemies."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to outlive Dragon Zarnitza then?"
"Alas, the ghastly abomination wields an excessively long life by sleeping for several decades and then devouring a village or two," Grandhilda sighed. "It cannot be outlived as long as it has men to devour."
"So, how immortal am I exactly?" I asked.
"You are not immortal," Grandhilda shook her silver mane. "Plenty of witches have been slain by sword, bow and fire. We are harder to kill, but we are not invincible. Your domain can heal you if you are hurt, keep you warm even in the coldest winter months, push tiredness and hunger away, but its power isn't limitless."
"What exactly is witchcraft?" I asked.
"Witchcraft is a unique blend of knowledge, skill, and innate power," she began, slowly sipping her tea. "It's the art of harnessing the hidden energies within the natural world. A Yaga learns to tap into the forces of life and death, shaping them to achieve her goals. It's a path of self-discovery, growth, and transformation that will ultimately leads her to a deeper understanding of herself and the wild around her."
Right. Generic question equals generic answer, not sure what I've expected.
I nodded, absorbing Grandhilda's words. Then, remembering my earlier observations, I asked, "I've noticed that my magical earth seems to be crystallizing things. Rocks and metal flakes mostly. What exactly is happening there?"
Yaga let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, young Ioan. A witch's job isn't to obsess over the color of rocks or the shape of metal flakes. You're still looking at the world with your eyes instead of your spirit."
I frowned, already sensing where the conversation was going.
"This is precisely why I told you to meditate! You're a boy playing with colorful pebbles when you should be reaching for the stars of the Underside of the World. The physical changes you observe are merely surface-level manifestations of far deeper spiritual transformations."
"But isn't understanding the nature of these changes important?" I protested. "Measuring…"
"Measuring?!" Yaga scoffed, interrupting my words. "What's important is sensing the currents of the Astral, listening to the spirit of the wind, seeing the flow of life rushing through the roots of ancient trees, observing and communicating with spirits! Not fretting over pretty crystals like a magpie with a shiny bauble!"
Right. Don't tell the Astral-obsessed witch about the scientific method, got it.
"A witch deals with life itself!" Yaga boomed, waving a hand at the furniture and potion-filled shelves around her grown from tree roots. "Do you honestly think that I measured these shelves or walls to craft them? Do you think that a witch uses a saw to cut wooden planks to size or chops down trees as a pitiful mortal would? My domain grew into my perfect home for me over centuries as I desired it to!"
"Fine," I said simply. "Where do I start?"
"You'll need specific seeds to grow specific trees," she said.
"Where am I supposed to find specific seeds in the middle of winter?" I asked. "Or should I just wait until summer and…"
"You don't need to search for specific seeds at all," the old witch reassured me, shaking her head. "The land remembers all!"
"What?"
"Every plant that ever grew and died on your domain should be within your reach through the Astral," the witch explained. "Well... it would be if you were a girl."
"Riiiight," I nodded. "How do girls reach specific plants then?"
"Female witches simply focus their will on their desire, and their land eventually provides them with exactly what they need. Knowing, picturing exactly what you want provides better results. It will take time, so be patient."
"How long is this going to take?" I inquired.
"Don't know," she shrugged. "For you... maybe never."
"Great," I sighed.
"Astral diving depends entirely on the Yaga's determination," she shrugged. "For example, it took me a few decades to grow a specific pear tree on my domain that is fully immune to the white blight."
"If you can create fruits immune to the blight, why did you not share the seeds with the villagers?" I asked.
"Such a tree could only grow in my domain, yong Ioan," Yaga rebuffed me. "Many of the trees I cultivated would not survive a single winter outside of my garden."
"That leads me to my next question," I said, eyeing the organic-looking containers lining the shelves. The jars were shaped like flowers, and didn't look like they were made from glass. "How do potions work? Did you… grow those containers?"
"Anything growing in your garden can be made into a potion," the witch explained. "After a few decades of experimentation and selective breeding, I managed to produce a tree growing these jars for me, yes. Everything you see in my abode was produced by my garden. The land provides her witch with whatever she needs."
"There isn't a book or something on this?" I asked, looking around the tree-grown interior and furnishings with a sense of greater appreciation for the patience and effort it must have taken to cultivate every single item using trees.
"Nay," the witch shook her head. "I was never taught to read and write. Garden cultivation involves a lot of trial and error, but you'll have centuries to learn it all. Eventually, a witch gains an innate understanding of which fruits in her garden can harm or heal, which bugs are poisonous and which are good for the plants."
I looked at the old crone that sipped tea in front of me as gears of understanding clicked in my mind.
Did witches cultivate a kind of spiritual sensitivity, a magical, microscope-like skill that permitted them to perceive beyond the chemical and biological confines of the mundane world? Maybe I could construct an 'Astralscope', if only I grasped the scientific principles underpinning it?
"How long did your entire house take to grow?" I asked.
"Seven hundred years," was her reply.
"Wow," I whistled.
"There is always a mountain beyond the mountain when it comes to spiritual understanding, " Yaga Grandhilda intoned. "The greater insight you gain about a specific plant, the better you can manipulate its growth. If you want to summon a specific flower into your garden from beyond the veil of death, you must have a deep understanding of seeds in general, to picture a certain seed mentally with perfect, near-absolute clarity."
"Got it," I said.
"A wise witch needs not ever to take a single step outside of her domain," the old crone added. "All is within her reach through the currents of the Astral."
"Hang on. Did you not step outside of your domain to get to Svalbard?" I asked.
"Did I?" Grandhilda smirked at me, showing off her sharp, unnaturally pointy teeth.
"I… urm," I stammered, feeling my mind careening sideways. "You poked me in the chest… that was real, right?"
"As real as this dream is," Yaga leaned forward and tapped my hand with a sharp fingernail.
"What?" I blinked. "Did I dream of your presence in Svalbard?!"
"Not exactly," the witch said. "That was an Astral Projection, aided by a potion brewed from blood magic and exceptionally potent dream-herbs which allow my spirit to step through the Astral to… manifest in a specific spot for a brief period to activate a hexagram woven from my magic on a boy named Ioan for example."
"Damn," I said. "Sounds very useful."
"If you get to become as old and wise as me," the witch smiled. "You too might be able to project your spirit wherever you are needed. Attempt to start small. Your first task when you wake up is to feel your garden's spirits. Meditate, breathe in and out, block out all pesky thoughts about shiny rocks and measuring things, feel the sun on your skin, become one with your glade. If you learn to sense the spiritual aspects of the wild, things will progress smoothly."
"Big if, though, right?" I asked.
"Indeed," Grandhilda smiled at me. "You've made your bed, now you must sleep in it. You chose to swim upstream, begged me for it."
"Riiight," I said, not feeling supremely confident about listening to the colors of the wind like some sort of Pocahontas from the American animated 90's musical. "So what if I can't do it at all because simply I'm a boy or because I'm missing some vital ingredient from the equation required for Astral sight?"
"Oh Ioan," the witch cackled. "Being a witch requires patience and a willingness to connect with the spiritual world. If you can't do it because you're a boy, well... perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to take on the mantle of a Yaga."
I frowned.
"Magic isn't some whimsical puzzle that could be solved with mere measurements. It's about opening yourself to the dark Abyss beneath us all, letting go of your mortal limitations, seeing past reality," she added.
I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued before I could speak.
"Even if you turn out to be the worst witch in history, even if you'll never be able to see spirits, never dive into the Astral, it's still better than you dying quickly as the worst sort of hero," she smirked. "At least this way, you're providing me with endless entertainment. Your struggles and fumbling attempts at witchcraft are far more amusing than watching you get devoured by a Jotun would have been."
I squinted at her. She was definitely making fun of me, or perhaps challenging the scientist in me to a battle of understanding of reality.
"That's enough for tonight, I think," she declared, leaning back on her organic-chair. "Sweet dreams, little witch-boy. Try not to crystallize your brain with all of the thinking of rocks."
Grandhilda's mirth echoed in my ears as she clapped her hands, collapsing the dream.