Christian K Martinez - [BCS286 S02] - Witch’s Road (html) Page 2

  Catalina watched as she became unrecognizably herself, every habit worn into the color of her hair, into features as strong as her chin and her gait and her hands that would not clench, would not claw. She saw every flaw flower into virtue, and every virtue break jagged and harsh into flaws.

  And she saw her eyes become things without color, despite their soft brown sweep. There was too much in them. Too much weight; a pressure, a knowledge, that crushed out the pigment, crushed out the air around them. Until her gaze was a thing that made and broke people that held it.

  Cracked open hearts, on plain faces. Ordinary faces. She would still leave those in her wake. Pressure, presence, could break a thing as easily as emptiness.

  It was an awful, accruing, weight. What was the point? If she wouldn’t escape it. The longer she stared at the face, the more she saw the breaking and breaking. It rolled on, over and again.

  Her body went tense as she tried to see past the face on the Witch’s face. Past everything held in the Witch’s eyes.

  Was there something beneath the Witch’s gaze too? Did her eyes have another color? Did it matter the Witch anymore?

  The Witch’s expression, beneath the face, did not change. Catalina could see that much. It was a smooth thing, despite the wrinkles of her face. Not precisely uncaring; it wasn’t cold. There was a furrow to her brow, ever slightly; her mouth was set but not flat or loose. If she spoke, or hummed, or sighed, it didn’t show. And Catalina could not hear.

  She continued to paint, stripping over Catalina’s image in lines and strokes that still left her feeling swept through. But she could not see deeper; she wasn’t sure if it was magia or exhaustion or something else.

  There wasn’t a lot she understood. Except that someone, something, expected her to be afraid of something terrible. Instead of angry at it, or willing to accept it. So!? She’d be less human as time went by. She’d be no less a person. Just more dangerous. Everything that lived grew.

  At least she wouldn’t leave things half done! If she died, that was it, she was done in the world. Which might be for some people, for most people. But she couldn’t imagine it. There were always too many things to do.

  Normal, ordinary, impossible things. Skirts to darn, and sheep to care for, gardens to plant, books to puzzle out, to borrow or trade for. There would be nieces and nephews, grand nieces and nephews to baby. Children. Lovers’ legacies. There would be so much to see, so many ways to learn.

  The third face bled out of the second, and embers blew into a whole flame of rage as she realized what it showed. She did not quite register the bemused tilt of the Witch’s head, as her own expression went all into sharp and jagged angles.

  Whatever Catalina set her hand to, as permanent as she was, would not be permanent in turn. That was it. And there was nothing she could do to change it. All things would turn, and she would walk through it. No wars would end forever, no pains would always be eased; there would be more pains, later; what she saved would not be saved forever.

  Her brother would not bury her. But he might his first spouse, or child, his grandchild. His children would still break open around his death, or he around theirs. Her eternity would not spare him facing death at all.

  But she’d never thought it would.

  “Just—” Catalina’s mouth moved, but her gaze didn’t waver, even as it teared up, even as her head wanted to snap back to laugh or spit or defy. It felt like talking through cotton stuffed in her mouth. She couldn’t hear herself, or how the words came out.

  Only that they bubbled up all hot and liquid and twisting in her, demanding their way out. She wasn’t afraid! She wasn’t afraid of what would come. Of messing up. There were always consequences. It coiled in her, until it was boiling out of her mouth in words.

  “What’s scary about that!?” she demanded. ”Things will change. I will too. Things will end. I just don’t want to. So what if I can’t protect people from every pain? Just because someone will get sick again doesn’t mean you don’t take care of them now. I just don’t want them to get broken open because I die. I couldn’t do anything about that, I’ll be dead. And—and damn that! Over the hill with that, but I won’t follow! I know what I’m asking for!” Her voice cut at her own lips, and the words hung there for a moment.

  She couldn’t hear the hiss in the air, and she felt her heartbeat more in her throat, in her body, than in pressure beating at her ears. It was hard to see past the weight of helplessness, the stroke of the brush through her body, over and over and tremors of it, once it stopped.

  And then the Witch coughed. “Asked for, Catalina de la Rosa. The gift you asked for.”

  That’s when Catalina realized the Witch had set the brush down. That both the Witch and Anasael were regarding her without terrible intent; without weight and age and purpose. Just looking. She was sticky with sweat, her limbs trembling slightly, her dress clinging to her awkwardly. And she wasn’t held by anything at all; the Witch was stretching her arms out, popping her shoulder with an audible sound and a grimace.

  The painting was done.

  She didn’t feel anything different till she stood, pain snapping into her leg, bear-trap swift and just as cutting. And... immortality was not any distance from the pain. If anything it felt sharper, clearer. But the fear of it was gone. She tensed against tensing, ready to push back on the bone-deep instinct. Which she’d felt before when tired. But it didn’t come. She felt aware. Cool as the bees began to buzz around them, their wings twirling the air into lazy currents.

  And she realized she was smiling, soft and wondering, as she lurched across the room, smearing paint over her dress as she pulled the Witch into a hug and thanked her. The Witch actually squeaked in reply, half stepping-back to brace herself, even as Anasael hissed in amusement and retreated back beneath the bed.

  Catalina didn’t stay to watch the paint dry. She washed herself quickly; borrowed a dress in green that looked like it’d been made for her and waiting. And she hugged the Witch a second time, and told her goodbye. There was no rush in getting to know each other, not really. And, she wanted to not see the Witch’s face, for a little while.

  She was fairly certain the Witch understood. The Witch handed her a few letters, for the other painted people in case she met them. Apparently, it was easy to recognize them. Catalina did not think about what her eyes looked like; if they remained the same for now.

  The Witch even let her write a quick letter of her own to her brother, so he would not be afeared for her. She couldn’t return home, not for a long while yet, but she was certain he could meet up with her here and there. The bees or one of Anasael’s cousins would deliver it, for which she promised to bring some new flowers or a few tasty mice their way when she visited again.

  Then Catalina left by the same door she’d entered. Just outside it, she found her cane waiting, leaned up against the wood as if she’d set it there herself.

  With that, she put foot to the road, and she walked.

  © Copyright 2019 Christian K. Martinez