Reflection

The wind stirs her long, dark hair, cold and evil. Too familiar in these local landscapes and forests close to the prickly heart. The surrounding nature is shrouded in thick fog, and rare tiny rain droplets occasionally break through the magnificent crowns, still green despite the autumn air. Everything seems grey and dark. Everything seems dull, way too real... Sighing, the woman, wandering through the seemingly vast forest and utterly alone in every possible sense, tries to shield herself from the piercing wind behind the wide hood of her cloak. Alas, in vain. It's as if nothing could hide her from the inner coldness within. Mud squelches under her feet. The trees are murmuring drowsily, and stray birds echo them. The woman won't comprehend their speech; she will never decipher it. The language of nature was never meant for someone like her—a witch, a wretched girl, a messenger of curses and evil forces. Despite tales and books speaking of witches and their abilities in casting spells and brewing potions, witches can't be fully part of something natural and ancient. Of course, they know how to communicate with herds or certain animals, know what that or another plant is for or how to treat it, but it's more like just... knowledge. Not something sincere. They will always be strange. She will always be different. Maybe it's their own curse. Maybe it's her own curse. The wind howls somewhere in the distance; a troubling rustle runs through the crowns. The witch tugs at her hood, longing to feel warmth that's long become a thing she only dreams about. And no fire will offer that warmth she craves to recall. She's sure that even the fatal flames of a pyre couldn't warm her. She will reconcile herself, undoubtedly. She's learned to live with her curse. The woman turns onto a path leading into a small thicket where the herds she needs to harvest before midnight are. Her fingers clench around the basket's handle, as if trying to suppress the slight trembling from the cool air. Deep down, the witch is a bit worried: she's about to meet herbalists, who are surely there, collecting the same herbs and plants she needs. The herbalists... the herb-wives, those closer to nature than anyone. The girls who know the truest magic of nature, who understand its whispers, feel the steady pulse of the earth, and hear the soft murmurs of forests. They are sincere. They are pure. They are part of something good. The young herbalists know the woman—they know she's a witch. The girls don't do anything about it; they know she's not evil, she won't harm anyone. The herb-wives somehow respect her, but neither they nor she speak to each other. The herbalists and the witch simply coexist, not preventing one another from communicating with nature and herbs. The witch is more than sure the girls will keep her secret, won't tell anyone, but... why does her gut curl up every time she sees them? As thoughts of that odd feeling occupy her mind, she finds herself entering the thicket. The herb-wives are there too, tipping their heads in greeting. The girls look natural amidst the grim scene. The witch greets them in response with a barely-there nod. She steps past, not daring to look at any of the young girls, and approaches the old tree, large and tall. Stopping beside it, the woman gently places her palm on the sturdy trunk—the rough bark scratches the soft skin—and mouths with just her lips her hello, thanking the entire living place for welcoming her. After a few moments of silence and quiet solitude, feeling a thin bond, she lowers her basket onto the moist ground and crouches, touching the sharp blades of juicy grass and rare blooms of awakening flowers. She whispers to them, reciting their names, trying to sense their living energy and the pulse of each herb. The witch carefully harvests those herbs she came for, which hold their power only today, and puts them into her basket with utmost attention and care. A while later, she moves further, shifting her positions to harvest other herbs and flowers. Meanwhile, the young herbalists finish their rituals and gather to leave, abandoning the witch in the quiet, beautiful spot of the ancient and wise forest. Glancing into the basket to check the collected plants and ensure nothing is forgotten, the woman pauses in the middle of the thicket. A suddenly loud twitter grabs her attention. She looks around—nothing above, nothing in the woods. The noise echoes again, but now from behind—louder and more distinct. Guided by the sound, her distanced gaze falls to the ground. There, amidst the pale grass, is a bird, tiny and resembling a small feather-ball. Its head and wings are black, but its body is gray with a yellowish beak. It rapidly moves its head, glancing all around. Only then does the witch notice the shimmering thing the bird sits atop. Hesitating, she comes closer slowly, not wanting to scare the little bird away. There is a mirror: small, oval-shaped, with a short handle. The surface of the mirror is framed by a beautiful chiseled border, embracing the glassy part. The reflection of the surroundings is obscured by tiny droplets of dew or rain, capturing the world around and creating their own mirrored images. The bird flies away, leaving a swaying flower in its wake. The witch, glancing at the silent girls and thinking the mirror might belong to one of them, crouches down before the strange object. For some reason, worry fetters her from within. Maybe because this thing has been touched by someone pure and good, like the herbalists? Shaking off the feeling, she extends her hand; the familiar howl of the wind sounds once again, piercing to the core. The droplets slide down, forming uneven wet trails on the perfect surface. The witch wipes them away with her long, wide sleeve. She is about to stand up and call one of the young girls when an inexplicable urge to look into the mirror surges up within her. Why or for what—she couldn't say even if she wanted. It floods all of her senses, overwhelming and relentless. As though in a trance or under some spell, she slowly turns the hand holding the weird thing. A shiver runs down her body. The second she catches a glimpse of her reflection, the mirror breaks down into many crooked fragments! And her breath is completely stolen. The perfect glossy surface is now blanketed with countless cracks, crossing each other and ruining the entire world trapped within it—and the witch along with it. The witch's prickly heart pounds with all its might as the fog thickens all around. She trembles so fiercely that the broken object slips from her hand, falling onto the soft carpet of grass and landing on a stone. The witch stands abruptly, taking a few steps back from the fragile thing, a sharp sigh escaping her lips. She looks around nervously, unsure what she wants to see or understand. A plethora of thoughts buzzes in her head like a swarm of bees. The little mirror had been intact, unharmed, and in a heartbeat, it just... broke. Covered in ugly cracks! But nothing could have caused that... It happened right before her eyes! She couldn't have done it; she only picked it up. She couldn't... could she? She blinks, trying to shove away the delusion, and steals a glance back at the herbalists, who are preparing to leave. The girls seem to not care about her, bothered with their own tasks. The witch turns back to the strange object—why would someone like the herb-wives carry things like this mirror? Finding no rational answer, she steels herself and approaches the seemingly elegant and beautiful thing. Her legs barely obey her will. The witch can't believe her own eyes; it's as if the ground itself has shaken beneath her feet. The mirror—the broken mirror—is now pristine, without a single crack, as smooth and even as when she first took it. The now perfect surface reflects the herbalists, gorgeous and serene; their silhouettes grow distant, fading into the depths of the forest. Somehow, it cuts her deeply, though she's unable yet to pinpoint why. An odd suspicion comes to her mind; with something akin to an angry determination, she picks up the small mirror again. She turns it toward herself... The mirror breaks again—again into many fragments! This time, the witch doesn't drop it, forcing her grip to tighten, and peers into it closely, trying to... look at herself. A lump catches in her throat. But the very moment her eyes land on her face, all of a sudden, the broken pieces erupt into a mad whirl, spinning and circling restlessly, over and over again. A stifled squeak escapes her lips. The fragments mix together—what was in the center is now at the edge, and what was at the edge is now in the center. The once-seamless, once-complete reflection becomes a chaotic, corrupted, wretched picture. Malicious. The witch can see nothing coherent in the devilish mirror, but as she looks closer... One eye is in a piece that's the upper part of the whole; the other eye is in another piece, lower... The nose is all the way down, lips are in the center. It's as if a puzzle had been ruined by a child and gathered back without any mind behind it, without any attempt to restore the image. And the little shards are scattered randomly, creating a wrong picture, ugly and distorted. Nothing is right about the reflection! And unexpectedly, a stray but painful, fearful thought strikes her: nothing is right about her either. The witch can't help but feel she's gazing straight into her own core, soul. A witch. A wretched creation. Her being is corrupted; everyone believes she carries only evil things, malice. Her soul must be as distorted and ugly as the reflection the mirror shows. As if someone has torn her entire soul apart, only to gather it back in a wrong way, granting her magic but taking her true self away in return. Transforming her into a misshapen similitude of herself, just like the deformed reflection of her. She is broken. It's become bitter, unbearably painful, and impossibly scary! She throws the cursed mirror away. It falls flatly onto the grass, softly, without a sound. The glossy surface faces upward, toward the sky hidden by the thick, magnificent crowns of the old trees. The witch can't bring herself to look at it; it's as if glancing at the object would instantly shatter her apart, eroding that fragile certainty she has been bringing up for her entire life. She can't tell how long she stands motionless. But what snaps her back to reality is a familiar loud twitter. Nearby. Instinctively, the witch turns toward the sound, running into the same gray bird with her eyes. It circles the thicket before descending. With another little chirp, it lands onto the handle of the mirror. The shimmering surface is normal once more. The bird's reflection is not distorted or deformed—there is no single crack on the glossy mirror. The forest's nature flourishes vividly and rightly within the small picture the cursed mirror vaults. The bird glances at her. The rain conceals a stray tear on the witch's cheek. The wind continues to eerily howl.