it smells of smoke and fur
Chapter 2

It's spring and his nose has started to flood again. That's another oddity in Rin: they're rarely sick, and whether that was because of their heritage, their pride or fear of Sheba was anyone's guess. Rowan's biggest concern was the fear of Sheba since the other two didn't stop him from getting sick. Sheba didn't either, but when he was he'd have to climb the hill to her house and stand there, quaking in his boots, as Sheba cackled inside and fetched some foul smelling concoction.

But his running nose won't stem with anything else, and at least this ailment is one he's grown a little familiar with. He knows the cause: the weeds that grow on the hill where nobody grows anything. It's the place where the children play, and nose streaming he's played there as well. But now that he's realised it's those weeds he shies away. It's just another thing that ostracises him. It's just another reason the adults look at him and frown in pity and disappointment and the children laugh. The first few times it happened, Jiller or Sefton would carry him up to Sheba's place. Then they'd walk a little ways forward, and then a little ways behind. Now, they both said he was brave enough to go by himself.

He isn't. He quakes in his boots every time. But he goes nonetheless, handing over the coins or seeds his parents give to him to pay with, and coming back with his potion. And he will gag as he swallow it. s thrown up plenty of times and without anyone telling him, he'll take the potion again until it stays down. His parents always beam in pride when he reaches for the bottle again. That's also a form of bravery, his father says: getting up when you fall down, trying again when you fail. It's a type of bravery the children of Rin aren't explicitly taught, though. So the other kids just laugh when he trembles on the way to Sheba again, forgetting that they ignore their own ailments in favour of not going to her at all. But their ailments are also minor things: cuts and bruises from playing too rough and the odd cold. They're not plagued with a runny nose that comes every spring like Rowan, or more than the sparse cold.

He quakes in his books now, one hand holding a rag to his nose. He knows not to rub it now. It makes his nose hurt all the more, and earns him the name "rabbit-nose". The "rabbit" bit sticks around after the redness fades. He's as timid as a rabbit, they often say. They also say his mother is as strong as an ox, so it's not uncommon or particularly cruel. It's how he appears: how they see him. His father Sefton is a Bukshah sometimes, and sometimes an ox. Less fierce than his mother unless he is angered. Then he is more. But through all that he is strong, and reliable, and always there.

Maybe that's another reason why Rowan loves the Bukshah and doesn't want to leave their side. They remind him of their mother. Though he doubts they'll turn aggressive when angered. The Bukshah wouldn't be entrusted to small children if that was the case. The people of Rin promoted bravery, but not foolishness. Only one keeper of the Bukshah has ever been met with an ill fate and that was because she had strayed into a mineshaft in the dead of night, looking for a lost calf.

Most people of Rin will have waited until morning. If it's a child they'll take torches and lamps and round up the adults and make sure there's little chance that all their lights will be lost. But for a calf they'll wait. Their own safety comes first after all – but this keeper of the Bukshah was older than most. Older than Rowan is now, he thinks. He's not sure because the story is only told in the general sense. And never at all in front of Broden, the furniture maker. Some of the children say she's the one who led the keeper of the Bukshah to their death but it's a silly horror tale. None of them really believe. The people of Rin also value unity. There are small scuffles and rivalries but never has a villager of Rin severely hurt or killed another. Even the prides of both parties are always left in tact.

But they also tell stories of Sheba, how she turns the people who trespass on her property into slugs for her plants. And the children laugh and point out slugs, naming them as "uncle" or "aunt" or "cousin" and Rowan knows it's all false because everybody in the village knows one another, but the slugs are still frightening and the stories are still frightening, and on that same vein he can believe the stories about Broden as well.

Luckily, he has little cause to go to the furniture store and he sees her mostly at village meetings. Sheba on the other hand he sees more than he likes.

And he's going to see her again, clutching the coins tight in a fists and forcing himself up the hill.

One of the roots catch him and he falls. He brushes the dirt off his pants and continues. Luckily, the scrape isn't obvious. It won't need any of Sheba's special concoctions either. He can rub a little linseed oil into it when he gets home, if it hasn't closed up by then.

He wants to go straight home, but that will mean coming all over again, so he doesn't. The coins in his palm are a reminder as well. And the rag under his nose and the lightheadedness and itchiness that accompanies the runny nose. And the pain somewhere above his eyes if he presses on them, but he doesn't make a habit of that now that he knows. He doesn't press at his bruises either, when he has them. Sometimes, the other children do, trying to make each other whimper. Rowan is always the first to lose.

He reaches the door and knocks quietly. He doesn't need to knock louder because Sheba has sharp ears and always hears, even if she doesn't listen. And she always knows who it is as well. Maybe she peeks out the window and sees him slowly coming up the hill. 'Finally here, boy,' she cackles. 'Well, I've got your medicine right here.'

Sometimes he's lucky and she gives it to him straight away. Other days she makes him come in and close the door and she mutters by the fire before sending him on his way. He hopes it's the first.

It's the second, unfortunately. 'Come in, boy. You're letting the fire out.' Then she laughs, as though she's said something amusing and opens the door.

Rowan steps inside, the coins biting into his hand. He is silent for a moment as Sheba throws another stick into the fire and mutters to herself. Despite himself, he listens. She's only talking about the fire though, and ash. He quickly looks down. The last time, she'd complained about him tracking ash on her carpet but he's not covered in ash this time.

She's also not paying particular attention to him now that he's inside. She's wrapped in her shawl and poking the fire with a stick and mumbling about fire and ash. 'Wary, wary fire,' she sings, before suddenly addressing him. 'Come. Put your hand here.' She pokes at the flames.

Rowan recoils. Sheba's fire has always been hotter than any other in the village, and it will burn. And there's no sense to the request. He hasn't got a large cut that's bleeding profusely and needs to be cauterised. And he's not metal to be heated in the forge before being hammered into shape, or food to be cooked on a skillet or in a pot.

The woman cackles at him. 'You think that will be painful?' she says. 'Imagine your home going up in flames.' She frowns thoughtfully after that and turns back to the fire. 'House in flames…but who's house? And when?'

She sounds almost worried. Unlike the witch, more like the Wisewoman that's her official name and role. 'Someone's house…is going to burn?' Rowan squeaks.

Sheba glares at him and he backs into the door. Then she smirks. 'Will you scurry up the chimney and save then, little rabbit?'

He can't. Of course he can't. He can't even put his hand into the flames, but if there really is going to be a fire and Sheba's not just pulling his leg then they need to know. Whoever owns the house needs to know.

But it's hard to tell with Sheba.

'Flames are fickle.' Sheba's expression eases and she turns to the fire again, stroking it. 'A house on fire. Ash in the sky – or are they clouds? When, and who? What tragedy?' She pulls back finally and laughs again. 'Fickle, fickle, fickle.'

Rowan's back is still pressed to the door. She stares at him, then throws him a bottle that strikes him on the chest. 'Next time bring some corn,' she says. 'I have an urge for something sweet. Now scram, rabbit boy.'

He obeys, and when his heart has calmed down and his chest is a dull ache which no longer distracts, he thinks about her words, and wonders if the adults will laugh or think it true if he tells, and whether it is true or Sheba's theatrics after all.