JUVEN
the vein that lead to the flames
by Joey Isjwara
Ever since Kaiva was cradled in her mother’s arms, she heard the whispers of fear that hung over the village like an overcast sky. She didn’t remember all of them, but many were repeated until it scarred her mind. Evil. Witches. Abomination. She asked Papa and Mama about the three pyres stuck onto the distant hill where the rays of dawn would illuminate it. A reminder, Papa cooed as he brushed the curls of her hair away, that every evil will be punished. She had opened her mouth to ask more, but Papa insisted it was already far too late to talk anymore. In the following months, little Kaiva would soon learn that evil wasn't them. Evil were witches, and they deserved to be burned.
Mama, why are witches… wrong? she asked once as she sat on her bed, her fingers brushing the yellow woven hair of her doll. Mama went still beside her, the kind of stillness that was contagious. She looked up, fingers halting mid-way in brushing the doll’s hair. She still remembered Mama’s precise words, shaky as though an earthquake was in her vocal chords. Witches are wretched souls, Kaiva. They string innocent limbs with puppet strings to be played in their life gambling puppet show.
The fear carved itself a place in her heart as she grew. Tales of blood-hungry witches echoed in her mind as she’d accidentally run too far from the village or pass by the abandoned dark houses. Even in the dullness and the fear of the village, she was a ray of sunshine with braids that jumped on her shoulders and a dazzling smile on her face. She hadn’t found out about the second vein that intertwined itself into hers, for it was weak, so very weak, as if it was on its deathbed. It was the vein of an abomination the villagers called witchcraft and the one that would someday lead her to the dancing flames.
Amid scorching rays and cold lemonade, she stumbled across a boy when visiting the port, wind-swept hair and glimmering blue eyes, his fingers stained with ink and calloused from so many pens. Yamin, he’d introduced himself. His name lilted in her tongue like a lovely melody that she knew was fate. Kaiva and Yamin spent the summer plunging into the icy waters of the lake and watching the clouds shape into odd forms, laughter adorning them like a crown.
In spring, the smell of white lilies stuck to the tight curls of her hair as she collected red roses for the boy she loved. Blossoms filled the meadows and even the once stripped hill with the pyres was cluttered with red blossoms as though it was spilled blood. Witchcraft, hissed her mind at the view before turning her head away. She spent days and nights sitting under giant oak trees with Yamin as he drew maps and the constellations of stars, telling stories of his home and travels to her.
Orange leaves crunched under the stomps of her steps as she averted her gaze away from the shadowed woods, hugging herself tightly as the wind blew and carried the potent scent of cinnamon and clove. Music floated from the square where the village celebrated the Harvest. A fortnight before, Yamin had boarded the Karyam and returned to his homeland. I’ll send you a letter every week, Kaiva, he had promised, giving her one last kiss before hurrying to board the brigantine. Her heartstrings pulled thin at the thought of him a sea away. She missed the sight of his ink-stained fingers creating delicate constellations, how his tongue spoke of her name as if it was otherworldly, and the warmth that coarse through her when their fingers intertwined.
In winter, there were more pressing problems than pulled heartstrings and heartbreak tears; hidden under her wool gloves were dark webs of glittering magic threaded from her fingers. She locked herself in her cottage, fearing the beast that grew inside her. She did rituals to the Stars begging for forgiveness and prayed to the Sea and the Sky. Nothing happened. Witchwitchwitchwitch. It repeated inside her mind like a cursed chant. Through the frosted window, she could see the pyres on the hill. Would she be there one day? Not if you fly away.
The moon shone bright and full the night she fled. Mama and Papa slept soundlessly when she kissed them for the last time, tears dripping onto their thick blankets. She held up a dim lantern as she walked into the eerily silent woods. A rustle of a leaf sent goosebumps rising and sometimes, she’d thought her footsteps on snow belonged to a wolf’s. All night and day, she kept walking as a never-ending stream of prayers ran under her breath. It calmed her she wasn’t mad or insane, that somehow the Stars were still above her, watching over her and guarding her even with the beast that pulsated her very being.
Over the months, she built a modest cottage nestled a few miles away from a meadow. Bluebirds and doves would perch on her open windows as she made batches of potions from stolen magic books. They’d sing melodies that float up to the woods, synchronizing with the occasional crick from somewhere among the trees. Some mornings, she would decide spontaneously to step foot onto the village she still called home, for the sake of seeing Mama, Papa, and Yamin if they were waiting for her or if they had drowned under the rumors and lies of the village that she knew grew more bloody over time. She never did. The fear always succumbed to her first.
In the time that passed, her cottage became a haven for lost travelers. She’d offer food, medicine—if needed—and a room to rest for the night. When they slept, she’d align the stars and tinker with their fate, opening new doors and pathways for the lost. On certain occasions, the travelers would stay longer and tell her about their adventures and journey in the comfortable warmth of the hearth and the soft plush of the oversized armchairs. Her services were free of charge, but they all would insist on giving her a few gold coins or a prized possession. As they ventured out into the woods, whether following the sound of the river or the lollop of a hare, she’d sent out a prayer from the Stars for their safety because she knew the woods weren’t kind to strangers. But with every fleeting traveler, she felt some part of her screaming for something more than the homogeneous pine trees and birds.
Decades slipped through her fingers, and time made its mark on her: every movement she made now felt stiff and awkward, her skin wrinkled at every attempt of a smile and sagged at every frown, and coils of silver curls sprung up a decade ago, now spreading all over her once dark curls. Much to her dismay, the need for something that had once only taken a pocket of her time became a physical aching that rattled her bones. She ached to be needed by life, to not just be a figure there and then gone. Spells of indenturing souls echoed back into her mind, taunting her at the thought of company without endangering herself. No, she thought firmly, her knuckles white on the mug, I will not become the witch everybody fears.
News of the famine came through the wind, whipping the trees sideways outside her cottage. The overlapping voices were weak, some were soothes of a despaired parent and others were worried merchants of the surging prices. It will all be fine, she caught. How are we going to do this, another one rang before drowning in a sea of voices. The beast in her roared at the opportunity, evil dripping from its fangs and trickling to the base of her withering soul: do it now, Kaiva.
She could never justify what she was about to do for the next few years, and she doubted she would. She was just grateful that only the Stars would watch her doing this. Strings of charms and enchantments fluttered from her lips, spells threading and morphing themselves into candy cane bushes, gingerbread roofs, fences with a dollop of icing, and cracker-lined walls. One by one, starving people stumbled into her utopic cottage, feasts and a warm bed welcomed them. The next morning, they were empty corpses in the streets, just another victim to the famine while she indentured their souls into the glass jars on her shelf.
The boy and the girl came like any other: jutting elbows, hollowed-out cheeks, and desperation in their eyes. From inside, she heard the breaking of the candy canes with sighs of relief, and above all, she could feel their souls: beating strong like the wings of the falcon roaring with hope only a child could harness. She opened the door and said, “You poor children, do come in. There’s more food inside and a safe bed.”
At the sound of food, they perked up and stumbled inside. Their movements were weak and clumsy as they tore from chicken to meat to fruits, a rim of sauces and liquid around their mouth. Almost immediately did they collapse, sleep weaving into their eyes, bellies full and an ecstatic smile on their faces. The snores of the boy floated to her ears as she stirred another batch of soup for their breakfast counterclockwise. The girl was peculiarly quiet.
In the next few days, she locked the boy in a cage and fed him mounds of pancakes and lies as the girl stirred potions and soups for her in the day and survived off leftover clamshells. She studied the boy, sitting on the hay as though he was a king with a rim of white cream around his mouth and licking his icing-covered fingers. She doubted that the boy—Hansel, she heard the girl call him—would mind if she told him he was to be a soup of flesh and blood for her to eat in the following week. Some witches would’ve done that, but Kaiva didn’t have a taste for those.
The girl, on the other hand, was peculiarly different. Kaiva felt the silence that rippled throughout the woods whenever the rare word was uttered out of her small mouth. It was as if the Stars had tailored the girl with their own sharp edges. She knew that the girl stole her spell books and read them under the stream of moonlight or the flicker of candlelight. She knew the girl planned on vengeance when she ordered for her to see if the oven was hot enough.
The girl had swiftly pushed her into the crowd of dancing flames; her trembling arms slamming the oven close. As the flames licked her skin into crippling ashes, Kaiva could feel the waking magic in the girl’s arms pulsing through her and shaking her very gravity. Everything burnt a snow-white, blinding her eyes and engulfed her faster than the orange flames. A scream tore up from her crippling lips and echoed back to her. Or was it a mad cackle? For the woods were infamous for making brilliance into madness.
The last words uttered softly under her breath like a soft lullaby weren’t prayers of forgiveness to the Stars, nor was it a spell to stop the flames or a curse for the girl. Kaiva’s last words were as clear as the fate of the girl she once was, the beast of magic awakening in her like a nightmare brought to life: Beware, Gretel, a monster grows in the depths of your sunless soul.
Mama, why are witches… wrong? she asked once as she sat on her bed, her fingers brushing the yellow woven hair of her doll. Mama went still beside her, the kind of stillness that was contagious. She looked up, fingers halting mid-way in brushing the doll’s hair. She still remembered Mama’s precise words, shaky as though an earthquake was in her vocal chords. Witches are wretched souls, Kaiva. They string innocent limbs with puppet strings to be played in their life gambling puppet show.
The fear carved itself a place in her heart as she grew. Tales of blood-hungry witches echoed in her mind as she’d accidentally run too far from the village or pass by the abandoned dark houses. Even in the dullness and the fear of the village, she was a ray of sunshine with braids that jumped on her shoulders and a dazzling smile on her face. She hadn’t found out about the second vein that intertwined itself into hers, for it was weak, so very weak, as if it was on its deathbed. It was the vein of an abomination the villagers called witchcraft and the one that would someday lead her to the dancing flames.
Amid scorching rays and cold lemonade, she stumbled across a boy when visiting the port, wind-swept hair and glimmering blue eyes, his fingers stained with ink and calloused from so many pens. Yamin, he’d introduced himself. His name lilted in her tongue like a lovely melody that she knew was fate. Kaiva and Yamin spent the summer plunging into the icy waters of the lake and watching the clouds shape into odd forms, laughter adorning them like a crown.
In spring, the smell of white lilies stuck to the tight curls of her hair as she collected red roses for the boy she loved. Blossoms filled the meadows and even the once stripped hill with the pyres was cluttered with red blossoms as though it was spilled blood. Witchcraft, hissed her mind at the view before turning her head away. She spent days and nights sitting under giant oak trees with Yamin as he drew maps and the constellations of stars, telling stories of his home and travels to her.
Orange leaves crunched under the stomps of her steps as she averted her gaze away from the shadowed woods, hugging herself tightly as the wind blew and carried the potent scent of cinnamon and clove. Music floated from the square where the village celebrated the Harvest. A fortnight before, Yamin had boarded the Karyam and returned to his homeland. I’ll send you a letter every week, Kaiva, he had promised, giving her one last kiss before hurrying to board the brigantine. Her heartstrings pulled thin at the thought of him a sea away. She missed the sight of his ink-stained fingers creating delicate constellations, how his tongue spoke of her name as if it was otherworldly, and the warmth that coarse through her when their fingers intertwined.
In winter, there were more pressing problems than pulled heartstrings and heartbreak tears; hidden under her wool gloves were dark webs of glittering magic threaded from her fingers. She locked herself in her cottage, fearing the beast that grew inside her. She did rituals to the Stars begging for forgiveness and prayed to the Sea and the Sky. Nothing happened. Witchwitchwitchwitch. It repeated inside her mind like a cursed chant. Through the frosted window, she could see the pyres on the hill. Would she be there one day? Not if you fly away.
The moon shone bright and full the night she fled. Mama and Papa slept soundlessly when she kissed them for the last time, tears dripping onto their thick blankets. She held up a dim lantern as she walked into the eerily silent woods. A rustle of a leaf sent goosebumps rising and sometimes, she’d thought her footsteps on snow belonged to a wolf’s. All night and day, she kept walking as a never-ending stream of prayers ran under her breath. It calmed her she wasn’t mad or insane, that somehow the Stars were still above her, watching over her and guarding her even with the beast that pulsated her very being.
Over the months, she built a modest cottage nestled a few miles away from a meadow. Bluebirds and doves would perch on her open windows as she made batches of potions from stolen magic books. They’d sing melodies that float up to the woods, synchronizing with the occasional crick from somewhere among the trees. Some mornings, she would decide spontaneously to step foot onto the village she still called home, for the sake of seeing Mama, Papa, and Yamin if they were waiting for her or if they had drowned under the rumors and lies of the village that she knew grew more bloody over time. She never did. The fear always succumbed to her first.
In the time that passed, her cottage became a haven for lost travelers. She’d offer food, medicine—if needed—and a room to rest for the night. When they slept, she’d align the stars and tinker with their fate, opening new doors and pathways for the lost. On certain occasions, the travelers would stay longer and tell her about their adventures and journey in the comfortable warmth of the hearth and the soft plush of the oversized armchairs. Her services were free of charge, but they all would insist on giving her a few gold coins or a prized possession. As they ventured out into the woods, whether following the sound of the river or the lollop of a hare, she’d sent out a prayer from the Stars for their safety because she knew the woods weren’t kind to strangers. But with every fleeting traveler, she felt some part of her screaming for something more than the homogeneous pine trees and birds.
Decades slipped through her fingers, and time made its mark on her: every movement she made now felt stiff and awkward, her skin wrinkled at every attempt of a smile and sagged at every frown, and coils of silver curls sprung up a decade ago, now spreading all over her once dark curls. Much to her dismay, the need for something that had once only taken a pocket of her time became a physical aching that rattled her bones. She ached to be needed by life, to not just be a figure there and then gone. Spells of indenturing souls echoed back into her mind, taunting her at the thought of company without endangering herself. No, she thought firmly, her knuckles white on the mug, I will not become the witch everybody fears.
News of the famine came through the wind, whipping the trees sideways outside her cottage. The overlapping voices were weak, some were soothes of a despaired parent and others were worried merchants of the surging prices. It will all be fine, she caught. How are we going to do this, another one rang before drowning in a sea of voices. The beast in her roared at the opportunity, evil dripping from its fangs and trickling to the base of her withering soul: do it now, Kaiva.
She could never justify what she was about to do for the next few years, and she doubted she would. She was just grateful that only the Stars would watch her doing this. Strings of charms and enchantments fluttered from her lips, spells threading and morphing themselves into candy cane bushes, gingerbread roofs, fences with a dollop of icing, and cracker-lined walls. One by one, starving people stumbled into her utopic cottage, feasts and a warm bed welcomed them. The next morning, they were empty corpses in the streets, just another victim to the famine while she indentured their souls into the glass jars on her shelf.
The boy and the girl came like any other: jutting elbows, hollowed-out cheeks, and desperation in their eyes. From inside, she heard the breaking of the candy canes with sighs of relief, and above all, she could feel their souls: beating strong like the wings of the falcon roaring with hope only a child could harness. She opened the door and said, “You poor children, do come in. There’s more food inside and a safe bed.”
At the sound of food, they perked up and stumbled inside. Their movements were weak and clumsy as they tore from chicken to meat to fruits, a rim of sauces and liquid around their mouth. Almost immediately did they collapse, sleep weaving into their eyes, bellies full and an ecstatic smile on their faces. The snores of the boy floated to her ears as she stirred another batch of soup for their breakfast counterclockwise. The girl was peculiarly quiet.
In the next few days, she locked the boy in a cage and fed him mounds of pancakes and lies as the girl stirred potions and soups for her in the day and survived off leftover clamshells. She studied the boy, sitting on the hay as though he was a king with a rim of white cream around his mouth and licking his icing-covered fingers. She doubted that the boy—Hansel, she heard the girl call him—would mind if she told him he was to be a soup of flesh and blood for her to eat in the following week. Some witches would’ve done that, but Kaiva didn’t have a taste for those.
The girl, on the other hand, was peculiarly different. Kaiva felt the silence that rippled throughout the woods whenever the rare word was uttered out of her small mouth. It was as if the Stars had tailored the girl with their own sharp edges. She knew that the girl stole her spell books and read them under the stream of moonlight or the flicker of candlelight. She knew the girl planned on vengeance when she ordered for her to see if the oven was hot enough.
The girl had swiftly pushed her into the crowd of dancing flames; her trembling arms slamming the oven close. As the flames licked her skin into crippling ashes, Kaiva could feel the waking magic in the girl’s arms pulsing through her and shaking her very gravity. Everything burnt a snow-white, blinding her eyes and engulfed her faster than the orange flames. A scream tore up from her crippling lips and echoed back to her. Or was it a mad cackle? For the woods were infamous for making brilliance into madness.
The last words uttered softly under her breath like a soft lullaby weren’t prayers of forgiveness to the Stars, nor was it a spell to stop the flames or a curse for the girl. Kaiva’s last words were as clear as the fate of the girl she once was, the beast of magic awakening in her like a nightmare brought to life: Beware, Gretel, a monster grows in the depths of your sunless soul.
Joey Isjwara is an Indonesian teen writer who juggles the task of being a full-time dreamer and a student. On most days, you can find her obsessing over another fantasy or be suspended into another world rather than doing very important schoolwork