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For the three mothers to see her now, she thought, would only draw their pity. Unwanted pity, at that. She was a witch disgraced, jostled away from the traditions and practices that she had grown close to over the years. It was but a single mistake, a step too far beyond the beaten path, that had sent her coven reeling, eager to express her from their ranks.
What was she if not a witch? A coven-less witch, perhaps, but that was a condemnation among her peers – and a blaring, blinking signal for those who chose to hunt her kind. As powerful as she was, more so than her fellows she would argue, a witch out on her own would always be balanced on a precarious ledge. One which she herself teetered upon now.
The dark shape cutting across her skin was an indication of that. With her free hand, the little witch pawed at it, fingertips grazing the lines and whorls that had been etched into her flesh. She’d taken great care to rid herself of the curse that had once festered there, thorns and petals and drawn blood, but even after vanishing the curse had left behind a stain. The mark, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a barbed vine, twisted around her upper forearm, spiraling upwards and disappearing beneath the short-capped sleeves of her shirt.
Pizzazz scowled. How distasteful the impromptu tattoo was, and how utterly unrelated to her talents. There was a way to remove it, sure, but she wanted a solution that didn’t involve cutting her arm off or gouging her skin from the bone. She was more focused on finding somewhere to bunker down for the next little while. If it wasn’t the hunters that were coming for her, it would be another witch.
As if summoned by the thought, a puff of hazy smoke appeared from over the treeline. Green eyes squinting, Pizzazz took another few steps forward before allowing her body to still. Albeit mortal and startlingly human-like, her senses pricked at the back of her mind, silently reminding her that she was far more capable than those who weren’t privy to the abilities she possessed. The smoke wasn’t magical in nature, or at least it didn’t smell like it: the warmth of a hearth, the sharp zing of brewing herbs. Was that oregano she was smelling? Probably.
Normal cottage smells. It posed little risk, then, if she sauntered up to the door and asked whomever was living there if she could stay a night or two. So that’s exactly what Pizzazz planned to do. Fingers curling into her palm, she rapped on the door.
The door, creaking on its hinges, opened and Pizzazz could only take a step back as an elderly woman answered her knock. With a kerchief tied around her head and her skirt hiked up below her ribs, the elder was the perfect image of a kindly grandmother. The woman’s mouth parted in a gentle yet nearly toothless smile.
There was a moment of silence between the two; the distant cry of a raven, the wind whispering through the pines. The witch and the woman stared at each other, one with apprehension and the other recognition.
“Éadaoin,” The name was strange and almost twisted when the old woman pronounced it, warped by her heavy accent. It was vaguely european, lilting and stumbling: Italian, maybe? “That is your name, yes?”
“No,” the words slipped out before Pizzazz could stop them. Unconsciously a hand raised to the front of her shirt, fiddling with the collar. She continued, letting the words spill before she could come to regret it. “… Yes, I suppose my mother gave me that name. That’s not what I go by, though. Not anymore. Call me Pizzazz.”
A thoughtful hum from the old woman, and then she was moving aside, motioning for the witch to enter. Although she hadn’t quite gotten the chance to ask yet, she entered regardless, brushing her feet against the step before setting foot in the cottage proper. Quietly the woman brushed past her, gnarled hands seeking nearby objects for balance. Pizzazz was tempted to help, she really was, but the woman was fast for her age and was well out of arm’s reach before she could ask.
Toeing off her muddied shoes at the threshold, careful not to track in any dirt, Pizzazz followed her into what seemed to be a kitchen. Trinkets of all shapes and sizes decorated the walls, and with some degree of amazement the witch realized that they were objects from all across the world. How had a little old woman such as the one before her have gotten these things? Family, perhaps?
Tearing herself away before she was tempted to admire the knickknacks a little too closely, she promptly seated herself at the kitchen table. The woman was over by the stove now, stirring a large pot. Propping herself up onto her elbows, Pizzazz cleared her throat.
“Thank you for your hospitality; I’ll surely pay you back in full. But I never got your name?”
The stirring of curly, grey hair is the only indication that the old woman gives to make the witch believe that she’s listening. “Il nome mio?” Another twist of her wrist, the wooden spoon clacking against the inside of the pot. Her face crinkles in a silent laugh. “No been asked that in long, long time. You call me Nonna.”
“Nonna?”
“Sì, Nonna. Va bene?”
Pizzazz didn’t understand a lick of Italian, but she got the message anyway. “So, Nonna, what’s for supper?” The question was innocent, more of a joke to steer the conversation away from who she was and why she’d shown up so suddenly on the doorstep. She was surprised when the older woman answered her in earnest.
Spoon now raised from the pot, Nonna took a sip of what appeared to be tomato sauce. “I make a little bit-a pasta tonight.” Seeming satisfied with how it tasted, she set the spoon back down and let it simmer. It was nwo she turned to face Pizzazz, arms clasped against her front. The look she wore was nothing less than kind, a reflection of someone who truly understood what she was going through. By the mothers did it make her squirm in her seat.
“You run. Why?” Pizzazz allowed the question to roll about through her thoughts, wondering if she should answer truthfully or concoct some sort of lie to throw the woman off. Choosing the former, she licked her lips in anxious anticipation, eyes darting towards one of the walls.
“Well,” she began, treading carefully. She doubted that Nonna and the witch hunters were in cahoots, but one must never rule out something as an impossibility. “There are men chasing me. Bad men. Someone sent them after me knowing just what I am--” Pizzazz stopped there, sucking in a quick breath.
Nonna merely raised a hand, the wrinkles along her forehead and the creases of her eyes softening a degree. “I know, figlia mia.” With a swish of her hand and the curl of her fingers, the elderly woman beckoned something from the corner of the room. Everything clicked into place when an object came soaring over Pizzazz’ head, spinning up to the ceiling and descending back down and towards Nonna.
A broom, floating miraculously in midair.
Oh, everything clicked now. The cottage in the middle of nowhere? A crone, bent with age but welcoming nonetheless? Even the spanning garden outside should have been a sign. Pizzazz had come into the home of a fellow witch, and it made sense that someone as old as this would know her name. To grow to this age where hundreds of years were starting to settle within the body, Nonna must have been a witch of true remark.
She likely still was. But the smile upon her face, the lack of a cruel sneer, was all she needed to know. Nonna wasn’t out to get her, of that must she was sure.
“Come,” Nonna was unfettered by Pizzazz’s astonishment, and leaving the pot to its own devices, she beckoned her fellow witch and began to hobble towards another room. “I show you story.”
She was on her feet faster than she could think, trailing after Nonna and into the living room. The hearth crackled at the corner of the room, embers spewing and harmlessly fizzling out into the air. Pizzazz watched as she bent down and picked up a book from one of the shelves, and squinted to read its cover as Nonna turned it towards her.
“The Legend of Old Befana?” she read aloud, head tilted in concentration. Bright green eyes flickered up towards where Nonna was grinning wider than ever. “Don’t tell me.” Her back straightened, mouth agape. “Nonna. Nonna-- don’t tell me you’re la befana?”
Nonna’s head lolled backwards and Pizzazz could have sworn that her resounding cackle was the most joyous sound she’d ever heard. Instead of giving her a straight answer, Nonna sank slowly down onto the living room couch, perching the book upon her lap. The younger witch moved to sit beside her, posture straight and reverence evident.
Thoughtful expression crossing her face, Nonna turned to Pizzazz, reaching out to place a hand upon her collarbone. “No worry, no worry. I know you a good girl.” Those black, wizened eyes connected with the harshest of greens. “I teach you. No more bad men come after you, but you listen, capiche?”
“I’ll listen.” Uncharacteristically silent, Pizzazz leaned forward and against la Befana’s touch. “Please,” her voice was hushed. “Teach me. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
Removing her hand, Nonna instead thumbed at the cover and flipped the book open to the first page. And Pizzazz watched, enrapt all the while.