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Gem is 10 and small for her age; she gets into fights with the boys that hang around the tavern and likes to be high up. She jumps from rooftops and runs through the hills surrounding her village and her curls are always tangled. Her mother frowns at her brushed knees and dirty sleeves. The townsfolk whisper that she’ll never find a husband, which suits Gem just fine.
At night, when she climbs the ladder in their cottage to perch in the rafters, her brother lies by the fire and tells stories. His voice is loud enough to echo up to her as he talks of a city in the clouds, a mysterious jungle ruin, twin gods of science and invention. She leans against the beams that hold the roof up and studies him. They don’t look alike.
But he’s her brother and she’s his sister, even if it turns out they aren’t related, so that’s what matters.
The months turn, a year passes, two. Gem is 12 and stubborn, getting rips in her skirts and leaves in her hair. Her brother tells her about the Wolf King and his great wolf army, she gets into trouble with boys twice her size and fights her way out of it. Sometimes at night, she fancies she hears howls; sometimes she races through the woods and wishes she could meet the Wolf King.
“Did I ever tell you about the witch in the woods?” Gem’s brother asks one night, when darkness presses closer to the windows than usual.
On her rocker in the corner, their mother snorts. “Fill up her head with fool stories ‘n fairy tales. Hogwash, all of it. Tell ‘er summin sensible for once.”
Grian doesn’t move a muscle at the words even though something in Gem flares up fiercely protective. He’s quiet for a long moment, the firelight making his hair shine.
For a second, Gem thinks they look identical, made of stardust and shimmers.
“All of my stories are true,” Grian says mildly.
“True as the water’s green,” their mother huffs.
“They are. And this one’s about the witch that lives in the woods.”
“A witch?” Gem asks.
“Well, she wasn’t always a witch. She used to just be a young girl. But she had magic inside of her.” He pauses, thinking of his next words. “Her parents ran a flower shop, see, and it was almost like she had a second sense for those flowers—when they needed to be watered, what their names were.”
“Flowers don’t have names,” their mother interjects.
“ Scientific names. She knew all plants well, of course, but it was flowers she was around most. So it was flowers she was most familiar with. She didn’t understand she was magic, though. When she was little, she asked her father if he could feel the flowers like she could. And he got very worried for his daughter; in his mind, magic and witches were dangerous and cursed.”
Their mother snorts but says nothing.
“The young girl learned that she could never tell anyone about the plants or how they spoke to her. Her father, thinking only of how the townsfolk would react if they found out, made her promise to keep it to herself. Every night, he prayed for her magic to be gone. The girl, finding herself in a world turned dark and shadowy, drew into herself and became quiet. She stayed in the flower shop, listening to the flowers, or would go to the wood and listen to the plants there. She liked the woods much more than the village, as she considered the village to be full of people who hated her. And so for many years she spent her time between the two. And in all that time she never knew what she was.”
“Why not?” Gem asks.
“She thought it was a curse because her father told her such. She didn’t know differently until she was older.”
“How old?”
He considers for a moment and opens one eye to look at her. “Around your age. She was watering the flowers in her parents’ shop when she had her first true interaction with witchcraft. See, before this she’d just been magic. Being a witch takes intent. The girl was in the shop, alone, when she heard the door. She peered out from behind a mess of blooms to find a woman standing there, examining the place. Something in the girl was singing, a thing in her bones and heart and soul. She stepped out to greet the woman.
“Hail, traveler,” she said. The woman, startling at her voice, turned.
“Hail, child,” she answered. “Is this your shop?”
“My parents.”
“Have you got anything besides pretty petals?”
The girl was curious by nature and intrigued by the woman. “Why?” she asked.
“Hunger,” the woman said, but the girl knew that she was lying. Something in her called to the woman, the same thing that called to the flowers. She hesitated and asked, “Are you magic?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“I am too,” she reassured, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.
“Are you now? You’d be why mine’s going wild then. Aye, I’m magic. A witch as well.”
“Really?” The girl was amazed, having never met anyone else like her.
“Aye. What’s a wee one like you doing here, shut away?”
“Hiding,” she answered.
“Well that’s no good. You can’t hide magic anymore than you can hide a horse.” The woman considered her for a moment. “How old are you?”
“12.”
“That’s mite a bit bad. You ought to be letting yours free to play and experiment. Introduce it to the world. Let it explore and and learn. It’ll grow. Here,” and the woman’s hands began to dance with flame, “like this.”
The girl came closer. Her eyes followed the fire, wide with wonder. “How?”
“Magic, of course.” The woman took her hands and the girl’s palms filled with a steady blaze. It didn’t burn. “It’s a fickle thing. Needs to be commanded if you want to use it properly.”
“I listen to the plants,” the girl said. “I know them.“
“Aye, that’ll be a start.” From beyond the shop, they heard shouting and commotion. The woman looked to the door. “That’s my cue, then. Goodbye.”
And she was gone before the young girl call out.”
“Was she a witch?“ Gem asks.
“I’ve already told you that,“ Grian replies. He takes a moment, thinks of what to say next. “After the woman left, the girl spent a year thinking over what she said and going to the woods as always. Her magic felt almost eager inside of her, bright and ready to be used. She sent it out in small gusts, at first. A little at once. And then she began to get more confident. She let more magic free, allowing it to explore and mess about and find. It always came back feeling calmer, more her, and she had more control over it. So she continued to do it. It was on one of those days, when she was 14, that she was found out. It was accidental, like most things. She simply let out magic a bit too close to the town, and a boy happened to be watching. It was only bad luck. But the boy had seen. And he ran to the village council, or anyone who would listen to him. He told everyone about the daughter of the flower shop owners, and that she was a witch. Not that she was, then, but she was on the path to becoming one. The townsfolk wouldn’t have listened to her anyway. They chased her to the woods, and there they left her, hoping animals or hunger would get her. But the girl had spent so long in the woods that it knew her. The trees and leaves, and every flower and berry and animal in that knew her, and it would protect her. So she did not die. Instead, she became a witch. And because she lives in the wood, she is the witch in the wood.” He sighs once he’s finished and stretches out.
“What was her name?” Gem asks.
“I don’t know.”
Gem thinks it’s sad, that a girl not much older than her was forced out of her home for being different. “I wish I could meet her.”
“She’d turn you into a toad.”
“Would not!”
“Sure she would. One wiggle of her fingers, and you shut up. A blessed miracle.”
“I bet she’d make you fish.”
“How come?”
“You’ve got the brains of one.”
Grian doesn’t bother to respond.
“It is sad though,” Gem says after a minute. “That she had to leave everything she knew.”
He only hums drowsily. It’s the last time they speak of it. The story sticks with her.
A year later, Gem meets Pearl.
She’s running from someone again, slides off a roof and stumbles on the landing, finding herself in a cow pen. She climbs the fence, tearing her skirt in the process (that’ll get her yelled at later) and finds herself a few feet away from the tree line. Hearing the shouts, Gem quickly ducks into the wood.
“You alright?” someone asks, and she whips around to see a girl a few years older than her, leaning against a tree with an amused smile.
“Fine. Ignoring the angry person chasing me.“
“I’m sure.”
“Well, it’s true,” Gem shoots back. “Who are you?”
“Pearl.”
“Gem.”
Pearl’s smile widens. “We match,” she says. “Our names.”
Gem realizes what she means and snorts. “Meant to be.”
“Obviously, it is,” Pearl says. “We’re destined to meet. You can never get rid of me.”
“I just met you.”
“Too late.”
“I am mourn yesterday when this wasn’t happening.”
Pearl rolls her eyes. “You have been blessed, I tell you.”
“Really? How?”
Pearl only smiles more. It’s the first meeting of many.
It seems that somehow, in the blink of an eye, Gem is 14 and loud, a streak of red fire and made of something brighter than the village, she and Grian both. She climbs trees and jumps from branch to branch, and sometimes Pearl will come by and watch from the ground
“You’re going to fall one day,” Pearl tells her once she’s climbed down.
Gem tugs a stick out of her hair. “Not if I don’t look down.”
“That is terrible logic.”
“No, it’s very good logic. You’re just a non-believer.”
Pearl looks like she’s struggling not to laugh. “Nonbeliever of what?”
“My perfect logic, obviously.”
“Mm.” Pearl motions for her to turn around. She does so, feeling gentle fingers combing through the wild curls. “So if you don’t see it, it’s not there?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think that’s how anything works.”
“You just have to believe in the magic!”
Pearl stills behind her for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s measured. “Magic isn’t real.”
Gem rolls her eyes. “You sound like my mother. Magic has to be real.”
“Oh really? How come?”
“We met,” she points out. “That has to be magic.”
“Sentimental,” Pearl laughs, tapping Gem’s head.
“Hey!” she objects, spinning around to see her. “You treasure me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes you do—stop giving me that look!”
Pearl makes her eyes wide in an expression of innocence. “What look?”
Gem tries to shove her, but she’s laughing too hard.
It’s a cold night in autumn, right on the cusp of winter, when Gem asks Grian if he knows anyone named Pearl. He examines her like he does everything. She can’t read the look on his face.
“No,” he says finally. “I don’t know anyone named Pearl.”
Something about the way he says it tugs at the back of Gem’s brain.
“Do you live in the village?” Gem asks the next time she sees Pearl.
“Why?” Pearl asks, wary.
“I don’t see you there, is all.” She falls into her back in the dirt.
“You’ll get mud in your hair,” Pearl says, sitting next to her.
“It brushes out. Answer the question.” She waves her hand in Pearl’s general direction. Pearl pushes it down again.
“I keep to myself.”
Gem blinks up at the sky through the canopy. Several things are going through her mind, puzzle pieces. She doesn’t know how they fit together yet. “Do you know the story of the Wolf King?”
Pearl smiles at the abrupt topic switch. “I’ve heard of him.”
“It would be cool to have a wolf army, wouldn’t it?”
“Could my army be made of dogs?”
Gem thinks. “It’s similar to wolves. I suppose that’s what matters.”
“Then I’d be the Dog Queen.”
“Queen of Hounds.”
“Call the dogs of war!” Her voice is creaky and threatening; it doesn’t sound like Pearl. Gem snorts, she laughs, and the spell is broken.
“I’d like a dog,” Gem says. “Or a snail. Grian and I could have snails together.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. He’s the one that told me about the Wolf King.”
“Does he tell you any other stories?” she asks, curious.
“He knows a lot. The Queen of the Hunt, the twin champions of good and evil, the god of trickery and the Angel of Death…” Gem sits up, shaking bits of moss out of her curls. “My favorite was the one about the island of nowhere.”
“How can an island be nowhere?”
“I don’t know. Hidden, if I remember right. Supposedly several gods lived there, and they used their power or magic to hide it so they wouldn’t be disturbed by the rest of the gods with their wars and favors.”
Pearl tilts her head to one side, a sign that she’s thinking. “How many gods lived on the island?”
“A lot?”
She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Specific.”
“I haven’t heard the story in a while!” Gem protests. “I just remember that there were enough to be able to hide a whole island.”
“I think that’s sort of implied. Because it’s, you know, named after the fact that the island is hidden.”
“You are so mean to me,” Gem huffs. She casts around for any other stories and remembers the one that lingered in the back of her mind for months after she heard it. “Oh! He told me a story about a witch that’s supposed to live in these woods.”
Pearl goes very still beside her. “He did?”
“I liked it. It was really sad, though.” Gem frowns. “That she had to leave her home.”
“It was,” Pearl says quietly.
“Do you know it?”
“Yes.” She looks at the ground, a beetle crawling through the dirt nearby. “I do.”
Slowly, the puzzle pieces begin to connect in Gem’s mind. She turns to Pearl, the brown hair that seems to almost shine, the blue eyes that seem to almost glow. She met her in the woods. She never sees her in the village. I keep to myself. Grian doesn’t know her.
In an instant, the space between words, the space between decades, a pause that passes in the snap of a leaf and the wearing away of a beach, realization hits.
“Oh. You’re her. You’re the witch in the woods.” Gem’s voice is hushed, amazed. Pearl is a witch. It makes sense, in hindsight.
No wonder she seems so attuned to the world around her.
Something strikes a chord deep in Gem.
Pearl doesn’t look up as she nods. Gem reaches dirt-blackened fingers, tips her head so she’s looking at her. She smiles.
“That is insanely cool.”
Pearl laughs.
“All this time and I never realized!” Gem exclaims. “You let me go on about magic and said nothing! You traitor!”
“How was I supposed to know? You never asked.”
“Clearly we’re not good enough friends if you can’t read my mind.”
“Do you have a single rational thought in that brain of yours?”
Gem falls back to the ground and pokes Pearl’s knee. “That’s cold. I wish I was a witch.”
“All you need is magic and intent.” Pearl pokes her back. “You’re already one half of the way there.”
Gem shoots up again, full of excited energy, urgent. “Which half?”
“Which half do you think I’m talking about?”
She stares at Pearl for a moment before looking down at her hands, eyes wide. “I have magic?”
“You’re Gem,” Pearl says. “Of course you have magic.” She stands up, and Gem stands up, and she holds out her hands with an expectant look.
Gem smiles harder and takes them.
They breathe in, breathe out. Gem stands in the woods with Pearl, with her friend, her witch, and feels . She feels the entire wood; every plant and animal and sunbeam and speck of dirt. She feels it all, closes her eyes, something inside of her singing.
And something inside of her rearranges, alters, shifts, and Gem feels whole. Feels like she’s made of stardust and fire and light and electricity, and it’s so much better than every rush of adrenaline, every burn of her lungs, every spark in her gut.
It’s her, her magic and her intent and her being, and it’s singing, finally free.
Pearl, when she opens her eyes, is smiling more than she has since she met her.
“Magic and intent.”
Gem lets a little bit out, to see how it feels. It’s bright and playful, a curious thing. She laughs.
“You’ve got it now.”
They say there are two witches in the wood. Some will tell you they’re twins, others, the closest of friends. My grandfather told me that they’re the sun and the moon reborn into humans. They’ll grant you a wish, if you can find them and you ask nice enough. They protect all of the wood, and the wood protects them. My grandfather claimed he met one of them, and she was like a flame.
No, I’ve never seen them. But I know they’re real.