II
In a darkened and ruined cavern buried several feet beneath the earth's surface a hag stood careful watch over a boiling cauldron set atop a fire made of burning logs and blackened charcoal. The steam from the pot's contents swirled above the lip and engulfed the woman in a smoky hue. Her brittle, blonde hair lay limp beneath the cloak's hood she always wore when working her magics. The strands that fell forward clung to her cheeks and lay limp in curled strands on the front of her dark cloak. Her face was smeared with soot and wet with sweat. The underground cavern was always baking, but with the cauldron ablaze the temperature was above sweltering. It was most uncomfortable, even for a seasoned professional such as herself, but it was unavoidable. The signs had been showing for days. The time to act was near past and she needed the direction; the answers. While she had preferred to use the cauldron above ground she knew her work was too important to leave to chance. Eyes saw all above ground but only the skilled could read beneath the surface and penetrate rock. This cavern was ideal and her magics protected her location and goings-on like the cloak on her back protected her from the elements. No. It would not prove wise to work her magics above ground and so she stole herself miles below the surface wherever chance afforded itself. It was bad enough this location had taken long to find. The signs had been appearing for days. Nay, weeks, and it took her this long to find a safe and secure place to work. The heat would just be something she'd deal with. Best to deal with the heat then the spying eyes of… no! She berated herself for even going there. This was not the time to worry over such matters. Her work was too important. Too vital.
One ingredient at a time she made her magics. It didn't matter if the pestilence she wielded struck out at her. Beneath her cloak and under the protection of her magics she would not fall victim to spider bites or rodents claws. She braved their retaliation knowing it would do them no good as she flung their soon to be corpses into the boiling stew before her. In her native tongue she spoke the verses her mother had taught her and her mentor had drilled into her.
Years before today, she never would have been able to utter a single word of what she needed to say now. Such was the purpose of her servitude over the past many years. Now, the Bruja was her native tongue and speaking the Common Tongue, when she needed, was the foreign language that left her tongue-tied and vulnerable to detection. Her accent never gave her away; it was always her poor choice of words. So it was that her mentor had taught her, through multiple difficult lessons, that silence truly was golden and her most beloved tool of the trade. The "trade" being survival and the "tool" more of a trick; but what was that to her? She could have not helped being born into this lifestyle any more than those commoners who scorned her. It was a hard life, but it was her life, and she would be damned to ignore it or be forced from it. Now, she was smarter. Now, she was capable. Now, she was a force of her own. Gods pity the commoner who sought to do her harm now.
Over her long life, she had even conceded to aid a commoner or two along the way. She was, after all, not without a heart. Her price, true to be told, was steep. But if a commoner was willing or able to pay she'd oblige their desire. What else was there for her to do during the long hours of day and night and night and day? All her life she'd been told to watch and be patient. Yet, in between the waiting and listening, why shouldn't she involve herself in the world about her? What better way to watch and be patient than being able to interact and understand one's surroundings? That was what she had told herself, had convinced herself long ago when her mother and her mentor had long left her.
The fire's heat and the cauldron's steam did not bother her. They were a welcoming necessity and she knew that they would aid in the answers she sought. With the embers beneath the metal pot bright and the white steam seeping into her pores she took the ceremonial blade from its sheath beneath her cloak. In her left hand she held it over the stew and spoke the words. She thrust the blade into the pot and waited, baiting her breath, counting slowly as she had long ago been taught. When she reached the right length of time she withdrew the sharp steel, brought it to her lips, kissed it like a lover's wrist, and then held it, once more, over the pot. This time she also extended her right arm. The cloak's sleeve had already been rolled up before she had begun and her arm, bare and stretched over the cauldron, waited. The hot steam enveloped the bare arm and turned the skin to a fine shade of pink. Uttering in her native tongue she brought the blade to skin and slowly pulled it from right to left mid arm beneath the crook.
She did not cry out. She did not wince. The blood flowed free from its housing and fell in a steady line into the cooking stew below. Only when the contents began to bubble did she withdraw her arm, house the blade back into its scabbard, and hold her arm upright so that the blood flow would cease. She then looked, unblinking, into the cauldron. Watching patiently, just as she had been taught all those years ago, the witch was still as a statue.
Time meant nothing as she stood there silently. After a fashion, it happened. Simultaneously she smiled as her eyes grew wide with wonder and understanding. Patience, a voice somewhere deep within her said, is a virtue.