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One day, a knight lost her way in the woods.
The path she took disappeared in the undergrowth, and though she tried to follow it to the best of her abilities, and though she looked at the trees to find the mossy north side of the bark, and though she looked at the sun and where the shades fell, she did not know where to go. But she was a proud and brave knight, and so she went deeper into the woods, for surely the path would finally appear before her again.
The knight could not find her path, but she found something else: she found a denser, wilder part of the forest, deep in its heart. She looked up and saw the branches tangled and weaved together, like wickers in a basket or like bars in a cage. She could not see the sun anymore, but she knew that if she turned back, she would be even more lost, so she walked forward, deciding to brave the darkest parts of the woods.
She pushed through the twigs, she fought her way through the thicket, and she forced herself between boughs, and suddenly she found herself standing in sunlight again. She took a hesitant step forward, then two. She had to close her eyes for a moment, for the sun was too bright to see after walking through the dark woods. When she opened them, she gasped: the sight before her was marvellous.
She stood at the border of a clearing. It was bathed in sunlight, and everywhere, as far as her eyes could see, grew rose bushes. The flowers were a deep, succulent red, darker than any rose the knight has ever seen before. Their smell wafted through the air, permeating it, making the wind itself taste sweet. The knight breathed in deeply and walked forward.
She walked between the bushes, which grew thickly, almost oppressing her movement, but unlike the forest surrounding her, this place felt safer, almost like a garden. The knight began to wonder if there was a gardener, as well. And sure enough, a moment later she saw her. A woman sitting in a small space where no rose bushes grew.
The knight approached her, intending to ask for directions, or help of any kind, and she noticed something peculiar: it was not just the rose bushes. Nothing grew around the woman. She was sitting on plain, brown dirt, and she was sitting still, with her eyes closed, as if she was asleep or frozen. The woman’s hair was long, in a shade the knight had never seen before – black, but where sunlight hit it, it looked almost violet, like the gemstones the knight’s aunt would wear in her necklace – and it spilled on the ground around her, smoothly like water, never tangling or becoming spoiled from the dirt. And then the knight looked at her again, and she saw that roses were blooming in the woman’s hair as well, the same roses as the ones that grew around them. She saw that the flowers weren’t dead, cut from the branches, but alive, almost erupting with life, and she wanted to ask a question, and opened her mouth to speak, but then the woman’s eyes fluttered open.
And the woman said, “Who are you to enter the domain of a witch?”
And the knight looked at the woman again and the flowers in her hair were gone.
“Forgive me, for I have lost my way,” the knight said, bowing her head. “I am called Utena, and I am a knight of this realm.”
The woman did not reply at first, and the knight thought to speak up again, but then she heard a noise behind her. She turned to see, and she saw trees part, like if they stepped out of the way to make a corridor leading out of the clearing.
“I have asked the trees to array a path and allow you a safe return,” the woman said. The knight felt that this was the time for her to part, to come back home and forget this meeting. And yet, she stayed.
“Are you truly a witch?” she asked of the woman.
“I have had a name before,” said the woman. “In another place, in another time. Today I am called but a witch. I must be one, then; if so many people say I am, could they be incorrect?”
The knight listened, but she knew there was much the witch was not saying. She also knew that if she asked even one of the many questions that forced their way to her lips, she would not receive an answer.
“The roses here are beautiful,” she said instead. It was the truth, and yet she felt like it rang false and betrayed her doubts. The witch did not seem to notice that, and she merely nodded, agreeing with or merely acknowledging the knight’s words.
A cold wind passed through the clearing then. Many rose petals fell on the ground, though no rose looked disturbed by the gust. The knight looked up to the sky and saw that the sun has gone low and that night was coming soon.
“I must go,” she said to the witch. “Farewell.” The witch did not reply.
The knight went back to her home and family and tried to put the thoughts of this meeting out of her mind. Nothing that had happened on that clearing could have been true, she told herself. And if it was, the better not to think of it anymore. She remembered the tales of witches from her childhood, her fear when she listened to them. Even if the woman she had met truly was a witch – and she could not have been! She must have had played a trick on her – the knight knew that she should never try to find her again.
And yet, before a week has passed, she entered the woods again, and looked for the twisting heart of the forest. And there she found the clearing again, and in the clearing sat the same woman. The witch sat between the rose bushes as if she had not moved since the knight had left. It was as if she was rooted to the ground, forced to be still like a statue.
“Good day to you,” said the knight as she approached the witch. She sat down next to her and the witch looked up.
“Good day to you, my lady,” she replied.
And so the knight came to the witch for the second time.
The knight began visiting the witch often, as often as she possibly could, and every time she would find her sitting between her rose bushes. (One of those times she asked the witch, were those flowers hers? And the witch smiled and shook her head without saying anything. And the knight wondered: did the witch come here to find the roses already in bloom? Or did the flowers follow her here, sprouting around her, tangling their roots with the trees surrounding the clearing, creating another side to the cage?)
One day when the knight came to the witch, the witch cast but one glance her and said, “You look very tired, my lady. You may rest here, if you wish.” It was true; the knight had not slept well the previous night. She thanked the witch and laid down beside her. She breathed in the smell of the earth, stronger here than the aroma of the roses, and fell asleep before she knew it.
She woke up later, feeling a gentle touch on her arm.
“The night is falling, my lady. It is time you went home,” she heard the witch say, and she opened her eyes.
And in the twilight she looked up at the witch and saw roses and briars tangling in her hair, as she did on the first day. And again they disappeared when she blinked, like a mirage. All that remained was the witch, the dimming sunlight and the distant birdsong.
“Yes, I should go,” said the knight quietly.
Weeks passed and turned to months, and the knight kept coming back to the forest. Spring turned to summer, summer to fall, and fall grew colder and greyer, but the clearing stayed the same, as if frozen in time. The roses never wilted, they remained in full bloom. One day in November the knight knelt next to a bush and reached to touch one of the flowers. It was as deep and dark red as on the first day. The knight slipped her fingers around the petals and thought that the rose was like a stag’s heart, freshly cut, still bloody.
“Tell me, will the roses die in winter?” she asked, unable to tear her eyes from the flower.
The witch did not look at the knight when she replied, “I have been here for a long time, yet I have never even seen them wilt.”
The knight reached to where the flower met the branch and pulled. She had hoped to pick a rose, to bring it home as a gift to her aunt.
“How long have you been here?” she asked the witch, and she pulled on the flower again, harder.
“I have been here for longer than I remember, my lady.”
The knight’s finger slipped and she prickled herself on a thorn. She brought her hand close to her face to see. Her blood was light red, and next to the rose, it looked like paint.
The knight came to see the witch again a week before midwinter. Outside the cage of trees and branches, the cold bit through her coat and scarf, it froze the air in her breast, but when she stepped into the clearing, into the sunlight, she felt as if it were the heyday of spring. On that day, she had brought a gift for the witch. The witch was surprised when the knight offered it to her: a white woollen shawl, made for colder weather, and unnecessary to her. Nevertheless, she accepted it gladly. The knight looked at her, wearing the shawl around her shoulders, and thought of the snow that never reached this garden of blood red roses.
The turn of the year had passed, and winter with it, and the knight’s visits to the witch continued without interruption. On some days, she only came to greet the witch and left; on others, she sat with her for as long as the sun was out.
One day the knight asked, “Could I help you leave this place?”
The witch was quiet, and the knight thought she had not heard the question, so she asked it again. And then the witch laughed.
She laughed and it was like bells and hurricanes and it reverberated between trees and the sound surrounded the knight and it was a tremor and a storm. And the knight struggled to stand and ran to the witch’s side and grabbed her shoulder and shook her. And the witch looked at her and she laughed more and the knight understood the stories she had been told. And then the laughter died.
The witch didn’t take her eyes off the knight’s face; she looked her straight in the eye, and the knight did not know if she was being mocked or accused.
And the witch said, “No. No one could help me leave.”
And the knight asked, quietly, her voice shaking, “Why?”
And the witch answered, “The spells that bind me are too strong for anyone to break.”
On the first day of spring the knight came to the garden and she saw the witch sitting with her back turned to the entrance. The witch was brushing her hair. Red roses were blooming in it. Petals fell to the ground with each move of the comb. The knight felt that she was intruding on something private and intimate, and she thought to leave. However, in the end, she remained, and decided to wait for the witch to finish.
This time, she noticed, the flowers did not disappear when she blinked.
She could not help herself, and she whispered, “They are beautiful.” The witch, startled, turned to face her. The surprise on her face disappeared quickly, and she turned away again.
“They are nothing but colourful weeds,” she said, looking at the ground.
The knight sat down beside the witch, and, her voice hesitant, she asked, “May I touch them?”
The witch nodded, her gaze still fixed on the ground.
And the knight moved closer and slowly raised a hand to the witch’s hair, and she touched a rose blooming on the witch’s temple. It felt like the flowers from the bushes around them; soft, but almost bursting with life, feeling like it would stain her fingers red.
“They are beautiful,” the knight said again, her voice barely above a whisper. Her other hand, almost unbeknown to her, slowly moved to touch the witch’s hand. The witch closed her palm around it.
“They are but weeds,” she repeated, her eyes closed. She did not let go of the knight’s hand.
“I would free you, if I could. Please tell me how I can free you,” said the knight.
The witch sighed and replied, “You cannot free me, my lady.”
“Even if you are a witch, you deserve freedom.”
“No one could free me, my lady. No prince, no lord, no knight, not even you.”
Yet the knight insisted, for she took a great pride in herself. And the witch repeated, time and again, that she was bound to this garden for eternity.
“My lady, you know nothing of me. Not even my name,” she said finally, and laughed. This time her laughter did not rise to become a storm, and she stopped laughing after a moment. “Forgive me. I know my name is of no use to you, or to anyone. I am, above all, a witch.”
One day in summer, flowers appeared in the witch’s hair again. The knight, once again, asked if she may touch them. The witch allowed it.
The knight reached to touch a flower blooming from a curl beside the witch’s ear. She wished to cup it, to hold it in her palm, but when she moved her hand, her fingers found a thorn instead. She winced, and moved her hand back, wishing to find another flower, but they have disappeared again. All the knight could feel was the witch’s hair. It was soft, she realised. She had never known that hair could be so soft. She expected the witch to oppose her touch, tell her to stop. The witch did not.
“Your hair is beautiful,” the knight whispered. She was surprised it took her so long to notice. “You are beautiful,” she added. She drew her hand back, if only a little; for after a moment, she reached to hold the witch’s hand.
“You are beautiful,” the knight said and she leaned in. And the witch turned her head so that she was facing the knight. And the knight asked, “May I?”
And the witch replied, “You may.” And she lifted her hand and touched the knight’s face, and she leaned in as well, so close that their lips met.
When the knight pulled back, she grasped the witch’s hand tight, and once again, she said, she pleaded, “Tell me how I can free you”. And she said it again, and again, and she asked and she begged, and her voice broke and she wept, and between sobs she asked, again, “Tell me.”
And the witch stroked the knight’s cheek softly, and she said, again, “You cannot free me.”
And each time the knight came back to the witch, she asked again. And each time the witch said the knight could not free her.
And then the knight did not come back.
And the witch waited, she waited, she counted the days, and she allowed her impatience and anger first, and then she allowed herself hope and longing, and then she allowed herself sadness. And then she felt acceptance, and the familiarity of disappointment. This had not been the first time for her to be abandoned.
And then one day, someone else walked into the clearing. It was a young girl. She had light brown hair and wore a page’s clothes.
When the witch saw her, she asked, “Why are you here?”
The girl replied, “Lady Utena asked me to come here.” The witch felt her heart jump at the sound of that name. The girl continued, “She had gone to war and she had not returned.”
And the witch felt cold, as if the sun vanished.
The girl did not notice, and she said, “We don’t know what happened. She had not returned with other knights, and yet nobody saw her among the dead, either.”
And the witch felt a soft wind blow through her garden.
The girl reached into her pocked and pulled out a small pouch. “Lady Utena had asked me to come here and give this to you if she did not return,” she explained, and handed the pouch to the witch. “She wanted you to have this.”
The witch opened the pouch and shook it above her palm, and a ring fell out of it. And the witch had seen this ring many times before, for it was the ring that the knight wore every time she came to her. It was unmistakeable; the same aged silver, the same rose-coloured gemstone.
The girl’s eyes widened and she let out a gasp of surprise. The witch looked up to her, surprised, and the girl said, “Forgive me. It’s just… this ring had belonged to Lady Utena’s mother.”
“Is that so,” said the witch. She slipped the ring on her finger, and asked the girl, “You said you don’t know what happened to Lady Utena?”
The girl shook her head, and the witch said, “I see.”
Her visitor turned away then, feeling as though it was time for her to leave. However, after she took a step, she hesitated and turned to the witch again.
“If I may, my lady,” she asked, “what is your name?”
And the witch said, “My name is Anthy.”
And Anthy stood up.