Scientific Sorcery : Beware of Kittens!

I found myself once again in the familiar dreamscape of Yaga Grandhilda’s hut. The old witch sat before me, her wrinkled face composed in an expression of forced calm. Her piercing blue eyes studied me intently, as if trying to peer into my very soul.

“So, young Ioan,” she began, her voice measured and careful, “have you done anything else I should be... concerned about?”

“I’ve been.. proactive in my approach to protection.”

Grandhilda’s eyebrow arched slightly “Oh? Do tell.”

“I… surrounded myself in Zemy’s Band banners,” I revealed, expecting to be yelled at.

For a moment, Yaga just stared at me, her face unreadable. Then, to my surprise, she burst into an explosion of uncontained laughter.

“Forgive me, I can’t help but be entertained by your unorthodox creativity,” she finally stopped laughing after a minute. “It is a rather novel approach, not available to the common wilderness-bound witch such as myself. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t try to wear them as clothing."

“I was considering that,” I said. “It seems like a good idea, no?”

“Have you no respect for your dead kin?” She arched an eyebrow.

“They aren’t using it,” I pointed out.

She simply stared at me.

“Hey, in my defense, you didn’t exactly give me a ‘Witch’s Guide to Not Getting Eaten by Monsters’. I had to improvise.”

Yaga rolled her eyes so hard I was worried they might get stuck that way. “Improvise, he says. Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to brew potions in a chamber pot! Do you even listen to me, boy? I told you not to wander out of your domain, yet you seem to be doing just that!”

“Look,” I said. “Just tell me–if I have more of these virgin-woven banners near me, am I safer from flesh-eating abominations? Also, do the banners become weaker with age?”

“I suppose I can’t fault you entirely for your resourcefulness,” she sighed, even though her eyes were filled with amusement. “To answer your questions: yes, having more banners near you does offer more protection. The power of a banner lies in the intent and skill of its creator, not just its age. A banner woven by a gifted maiden will retain its potency for decades or even longer, while one made halfheartedly might lose its power within a year.”

“Great,” I relaxed.

“How many banners did you liberate from the dead exactly?” She asked curiously.

“Enough to keep Jotuns away, hopefully,” I said.

The Yaga tried very hard not to laugh, making a coughing noise. I wondered if she was picturing my out-in-the-open glade covered in randomly strewn layers upon layers of banners.

Having calmed herself in another minute with a sip of her tea, she waved a hand at me to resume.

“Will my domain get bigger?” I asked.

“Yes,” Grandhilda nodded. “A witch's domain slowly grows in power, just as she does, with the enriched earth, grasses and tree roots spreading outward.”

“Is the spread circular... or can I direct it?”

“Sleep on the edge of your glade and domain to grow more in that specific direction,” the Yaga said.

“Got it,” I nodded. “And what if I don’t sleep on my domain, roll off it accidentally?”

“You will never roll off it by accident,” the Yaga said. “Your body is tied to your glade by a spiritual bond, it will take you considerable effort to simply step away from your garden. If a wild beast or a man attempts to push you off your earth while you’re asleep, you will wake up instantly from an awful nightmare, your senses amplified and accelerated by the spirits.”

“I see,” I said. "Is there any point to me trying more meditation? I feel like I'm getting conflicting information here. You said that males cannot see spirits when we met... and yet I should meditate to see spirits?"

"Female witches meditate to empower their existing spiritual sight," the Yaga sighed. "I don't know whether you will be able to do that at all. I'm only telling you what worked great for me, but it doesn't mean that it will necessarily work for you. Making you into a witch was a huge gamble, I had no idea whether it would even work... What I've done is a bit of a violation of natural order. You are a flower growing on poisoned ground and I don't know what you will grow into exactly and how. I am simply doing my best here to accommodate for your ridiculous desire to be a witch. The truth is that you might never be able to see or interact with nature spirits because doing so requires a female body and soul."

"Right," I said.

The witch took another sip of her tea, awaiting further questions.

“Master, you seemed… very insistent that I become a hero,” I said. “Do you make heroes because you want the dragon gone from this land?”

“An apt question,” the witch sighed. “Many tried to stand up to Zarnitza and failed. I was hoping that the sacrifice of Svalbard would make a hero strong enough to someday take the dragon down, but Glinka only let you live and you… chose a different path. Thus, it will fall to you to someday help produce heroes to stop the ancient abomination.”

“Will you teach me how to make witches and heroes?” I asked.

“In time,” Grandhilda nodded. “Perhaps in two centuries, once you’ve demonstrated patience and wisdom in ample measure.”

“How did you learn to create heroes and witches?” I asked.

“Yaga Baga taught me the basics centuries after she made me,” the witch said with a smile, as if recalling something from long ago. “The rest I figured out on my own.”

“So, witches don’t meet up in covens to exchange spell ideas?” I inquired.

“Not Volva-Yaga,” Grandhilda shrugged. “We, the guardians of forests, are something between a nature spirit and a human. We prefer seclusion to human companionship, and because of it, our lives are exceptionally long and fruitful.”

“What are nature spirits?”

“They’re the avatars of the land personified by belief, woven from magic itself,” the witch explained.

“Do they manifest often?”

“It depends entirely on how much magic is in the land and how much meaning mortals attribute to it,” the witch elaborated. “Belief in the personification of a place sometimes creates a human-like or an animalistic spirit. Those with powers of Astral sight, such as witches, can communicate with these spiritual manifestations and even trade with them.”

I nodded.

“The most potent spirit closest to you is the River Glinka. You’ll be able to speak with her once the ice thaws,” Grandhilda added. “Remember - don’t put more than one foot into the river, and don’t make trades carelessly. Because your domain is Mother Earth, a river will be able to kill you with ease.”

“Sooooo, no fishing for me?” I asked.

“Never!” The witch intoned, her voice sharp. “Stay on your land, damn it! Outside of your domain you are weaker than a baby bird, easy prey for all manner of things. Away from your glade a single poisoned bug could bring you down and water is your greatest enemy!”

“Witches should avoid… water?” I stared at the old crone, expecting more words of witchy wisdom, perhaps a rational explanation of why the Wicked Witch of Oz melted.

“Witches should stay put and be wary of floods. Yaga Shinga drowned even when she was on her land,” the witch sighed. “Foolish men dammed a river uphill of her domain to protect their city. When their city fell a century later, the dam broke and flooded her land. She was washed away along with most of her grove by the tide and drowned. A most untidy way to go for someone who survived two hundred years.”

Ah, that’s not that scary then. No melting for me. Phew.

“So, Master,” I said. “About the river. What sort of trades can I make with it?”

“Don’t make any trades with it at all! You’re a young Yaga, easy prey for a clever spirit. Requesting incredible power or great knowledge without being able to pay the price could result in the river taking your entire soul as payment,” Yaga warned with a serious expression. “All trades with Nature Spirits are unbreakable magic pacts that must be fulfilled to the letter.”

I nodded, wondering if that was how young Ioan had met his end, seeking knowledge to slay the dragon from Glinka and unable to pay the price to keep his memories intact.

“Why would a river need souls?” I asked.

“A river spirit, like a person or a clever beast, wants to extend its life and power,” Grandhilda explained. “By taking magic from us, it strengthens its own persistence in this world.”

“But how can a river trade power or information? Where does it even get knowledge from?”

“A spirit is better connected to the Astral Ocean, which links to everything that has ever lived or died,” the witch replied. “The currents of the Astral abyss are deep and limitless.”

“Right,” I nodded. “So my domain is powered by…”

“Your domain is akin to a vessel holding four hundred and seventeen soul shards of your kin tied to it by your pact with Goddess Zemlya,” the witch revealed.

“Soul shards?” I asked. “Is that what dragons and rivers feed on? Human souls?”

"Indeed," the witch concurred. "The vital life force of Svalbard’s people was divided between you and the dragon. Had River Glinka not sheltered you, had she not enfolded you in her protective current, the dragon would have feasted more sumptuously and slumbered far longer until her next assault. Many of your village’s adults cultivated their strength or wisdom following their forefather’s tradition, so their souls were quite potent.”

“Non-heroes can… cultivate strength too?” I asked curiously.

“Mortals can cultivate their muscles with physical labour,” the witch affirmed. “Sometimes, unintentionally, through prayers and greater focus or a spiritual pact they can embark on a deeper journey... that of cultivation, which in turn bolsters their physical form beyond the mundane. Each time a man fells a tree or hunts a beast, he assimilates a fragment of their life essence into his soul. Similarly, when a woman nurtures a garden or gives birth, she absorbs the magic of wisdom, life and creation. There’s a reservoir of vital energy and magic in everything around you. Because of the sacrifice of your kin and my guidance you now stand on a higher tier than your parents ever will.”

“Does everything have a spirit?” I asked. “Do rocks have spirits? What about flowers and trees?”

“Everything can house a spirit,” the witch affirmed. “It requires a great deal of magical focus to spot the weaker, smaller ones. Some spirits are nice, some neutral and some are incredibly dangerous. Death-bound or vengeful spirits haunt blighted lands. When a mighty beast, an abomination or a leviathan like the dragon, is slain, leaving behind decaying magic-infused flesh, it births a malevolent spirit on the spot its corpse rots.”

“I see,” I said, “Is it possible to cultivate spirits to do different jobs?”

“Certainly,” Grandhilda said. “A witch who can see spirits can cultivate and guide their growth, just like a mortal would cultivate a tree. Perhaps in a century or two you’ll get there... Or not."

“Gee thanks,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

The witch simply smiled at me, amused with my impatience.

“Are there evil witches that make pacts with cursed spirits or witches that produce murderous heroes?” I asked.

“Regrettably, some of our kind yield to dark temptation, forging pacts with cursed spirits of death,” Grandhilda confirmed. “And yes, certain heroes descend into villainy, slaughtering indiscriminately in their thirst for power. They don’t last very long. Murder begets murder. Evil deeds manifest curses which are impossible to remove and gradually corrupt a witch or a hero, turning her into a Nightwalker or a Jotun or another cursed eldritch abomination.”

“Why didn’t the people of Svalbard hide themselves or their kids in the cold storage wells during the attack of the dragon?” I asked.

“Those of age stood their ground and met the beast head-on with whatever weapons they could muster. Zal-Slavi doesn’t entertain those who flee the fight or fail to protect their homestead,” the witch explained. “The younglings sought the River Glinka, pleading for strength. Sadly, all were consumed by the dragon or were taken by the river’s merciless, icy current, leaving you the sole survivor after the dragon’s departure.”

“What is Zal-Slavi?” I asked.

“The halls of eternity is a place where souls go after death,” Grandhilda replied.

“Heaven is real then?”

“Many believe that the palace of heroes and legends exists somewhere beyond the veil,” the witch shrugged. “Belief births spirits, hence it isn’t far-fetched to imagine Zal-Slavi existing somewhere in the Astral, as a grand sanctuary for departed souls. The Astral Ocean is boundless and the souls that drown therein are but droplets.”

“Unless they’re used as kindling to forge heroes and witches?” I asked.

“Yes,” Grandhilda replied, squinting at me. “Well… on that dreary note… I shall end our joint dream. Be wary–the connection between us has frayed quite a bit so I am uncertain how soon I’ll be able to find you next time.”

“Thank you for educating me as a witch, Master,” I said. As frustrating as our conversations could be, I realized I would definitely miss her guidance, cryptic as it often was.

"Before you go," I said quickly, "can you tell me more about how to actually sink into the earth for protection? I tried, but nothing happened."

Yaga sighed. “Oh, Ioan. It’s not about physically sinking into the soil like some overgrown earthworm. It's a spiritual act, a dance of partners, a merging of your essence with that of your domain.”

Having said that, Grandhilda clapped her hands with a sigh and the dreamscape around me began to dissolve. The walls of her hut melted away like wax, and her figure blurred into a swirl of colors.

I felt a sudden vertigo, as if I was falling backwards through endless space.