The witch had an ageless face. She was old, that was for sure, but no one could tell you just how old. The children would say she had a thousand years and some days she felt like it. Some days, though, she would feel very young while looking around herself in awe of the Creation.
She had been through much. You could fit many lifetimes in the bags under her eyes, her kidneys had seen better days and her heartbeat sometimes weakened, but her eyes and mind were as sharp as a child's, ready to drink the world with an avid thirst and learn from the taste on her tongue. If you got past the scary expression to read her wrinkles, you would see that child inside her. There were also a warrior, a mistress, and a mother.
The child loved her father and his shining shoes and her raggedy mother and her siblings with their running noses and the village where she was born. The warrior was made of duty rather than love and was tougher and a little bit cynical. The mistress loved a blue-eyed man who had a way of making her feel like a lovesick teenager; he came during the day, which was his night, to whisper to her behind closed doors.
(When he left for the last time she thought of cursing him in the name of her fatherless child, but she couldn't bring herself to do it because the ghost of his kisses still haunted her homeless heart).
The mother was made of many sleepless nights, bittersweet reminders that her life wasn't her own anymore, but as the baby in her arms conquered the world she knew they would be fine as long as they had each other, and so she never left. When her grandchildren came her tired heart learned to love four times more.
As the years passed the arts she mastered were forgotten as the Earth got older and the people got younger, but she left fingerprints in the minds of those who were ready to learn. The cards and dreams and the hands of people never lied to her and the believers would come to her doorstep looking for advice. She knew it was her destiny to see where others were blind. She had known it since she was a little girl who pulled the High Priestess from an old deck of cards.
But even witches die and her time would come. The seconds were passing faster and faster as she felt her body perish. Time himself had spoken to her in a dream that lasted one afternoon. He told her that he wished he could walk backwards and that his biggest regret was to never be enough. The witch fed him a clock and sat down by his side telling him she didn't mind dying. It was her nature, as much as passing was his. He told her important things and things that had no meaning, then, and when they parted her dream shifted into something she couldn't remember the next day.
She often felt lonely. When you are this old it gets harder to find people to talk to. Most young men are busy denying the years and playing idealistic games of war. Most young women are busy changing things quietly and waiting for the men to calm down. The times are changing, though, so sometimes things were the other way around.
She had seen many human wars and the sons and daughters of her village were sent to fight battles of their own at a very young age. She had seen her grandson turn into a nightmare with fingers of ice to protect others from the same destiny.
Sometimes she would wonder if the things she saw were just inside her head. What was it that made things real? The babies she had held in her arms were now taller. The eyes of the man she had loved were no longer blue and she couldn't remember how his arms had felt around her. Had it all happened? Did it matter?
People would whisper things as she walked through the streets of her hometown, and she would hear the name Baba Yaga many times. She would laugh and wonder if that was her way of surviving time: becoming the impersonation of a tale that is born every time it is told. She didn't mind the reputation. It kept people on their toes when they were around her.
As the children of her children had children of their own, the witch would think about the decades, and how the years would someday run away from her taking her teeth with them, just as they did before with the color of her hair. She would laugh at her private joke with no fear of the future and hide her amusement with a sarcastic remark.
I sometimes write 'sketches', each of them concerning a different character from the VA world. This one's about Yeva, one of my favorite witches of all times. I hope you enjoyed it, and if you think I should keep posting let me know!