Diary of Anna the Girl Witch 2: Wandering Witch

by Max Candee

  “Do you think my grandmother’s wise?” I asked. Let him deal with that one for a change.

  “Well,” he said, yawning, “she must think so. Who am I to say she’s wrong?”

  I was dumbfounded. What sort of answer was that? “You said you were wise, Kot Bayun; you must be able to judge!”

  “Mrrr? No, no, if you recall, I said I was wiser than you, which seems an undeniable fact. I never actually claimed to be wise, little mouse.”

  “So if she thinks she’s wise, she is? Is that what you’re saying?” That was the stupidest thing I’d heard since … I didn’t know when.

  “Tell me, loud, not-conducive-to-napping child,” he said in a sleepy tone, “I assume your granny’s in the throes of another of her grand schemes at present?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Saving the world again or something like that?”

  Granny tried that before? “Something like that,” I said.

  “Do you think it’s a wise plan?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you think she does?”

  “I… Well, she must, right? Otherwise, why would she try?”

  “So which of you is right?”

  I wanted to yell “Me!” but didn’t dare. “Is this another of your trick questions? Will the answer depend on whether one of us is wise?”

  Before I knew what was happening, Kot Bayun had leaped off the ground and thrown himself directly at my chest, knocking me off my feet to land flat on my back. He pressed down on top of me with all of his weight, his face just in front of mine.

  “Little mouse,” he said, “what am I?”

  “A cat,” I managed to gasp with the little air I could get into my lungs.

  “So you’re not completely ignorant. Good,” he purred. “Now tell me, what do they say about cats, mrrr?”

  I scrambled to think what he could mean. Then I got it. “That you have nine lives,” I said.

  “Yeeesssss… It’s quite true, you know,” he murmured. “But people have some strange misconceptions about this. They think it means that we cats can fall from the top of a tree eight times and won’t die until the ninth, or that we’re resurrected or reborn eight times before we die for real. But that isn’t actually true. We live our nine lives concurrently, Anna Wisdom. At the same time. And so we see and feel and know and experience the world nine different ways at once. And they’re all real, and they’re all true. So who am I to say that your granny and you aren’t both right?”

  “That’s not possible,” I said in my constricted voice. “What I think and what she thinks are complete opposites. Enemies. We can’t both be right; we can’t both be true…”

  “Little mouse, little mouse,” he said. He raised a paw and trailed it down my cheek, his claws unsheathed, almost but not quite breaking the skin. “Look into my eyes.”

  I didn’t have much choice; he was staring directly into mine from barely a centimeter away. The yellow and the blue bore into me.

  “Do you think my eyes each see the same thing?”

  “Of course they do…”

  “Close one of your eyes,” he said. I did. Only his blue eye remained in my sight.

  “Now the other,” he instructed. Again I obeyed. His yellow eye was all I could see.

  “Did they see the same thing?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered, “but—”

  “But together they do. Only together. One of your eyes sees colors a little brighter than the other, doesn’t it? They don’t see the same angle. Yet they both see the truth, and together they see more of it than they can on their own. So do mine, Anna Wisdom. So do my nine lives, always experiencing nine ways of looking at a thing, all of them true. Together they let me see its greater truth and how to weave my path between the lesser nine.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “And I can’t breathe.”

  “Of course you can’t, child,” he said in a kindly tone, though which of the two he was referring to, he didn’t say. Still, he lifted some of his weight so that I could get more air into my lungs.

  “The world is a hall of mirrors,” he continued. “Of mirrors and perspective glasses. And until you see how the mirrors hold their equal truths and how to balance them, you’ll never find your way out.”

  “You’re speaking in riddles, Kot Bayun.”

  “Of course I am. But you’ll remember my words, I’m sure. One day they may mean something to you. One day.”

  He rolled off me and yawned. “Nine lives…” he mused. “It’s not unlike how your uncle sees the world, I imagine, though of course he does it on a much more pedestrian level.”

  “Uncle Misha?” I asked as I got up, confused. Uncle Misha had never given me any sense of seeing the world more than one way at a time.

  “Mrrr? No, of course not him. Your actual uncle. Sereda’s brother. Well, half-brother, I suppose.” He caught my look. “Oh dear,” he mocked. “Am I telling family secrets? Have I, as they say, let the cat out of the bag? Mrrr? They really ought to keep you better informed, little mouse.”

  “I have a real uncle?” I managed to say.

  “A little extra knowledge for you,” he said, still in that sarcastic tone. “Does it make you feel wiser?”

  I didn’t even know what to think. Why was I only finding this out now? And why was I only finding it out from this mean-spirited cat?

  “You’re not answering my question,” Kot Bayun said.

  “No!” I yelled, my patience snapping. “No, it doesn’t! All it’s doing is making me more confused. Is that what you’re playing at? Is that what you’re trying to do, muddle my mind so much that I can’t remember what I’m here for? Are you just trying to keep me thinking until it’s night again and you wake up properly so you can rip my soul away? If you’re so desperate, just do it and get it over with!”

  I expected him to jump on me. I didn’t know what I would do, and I didn’t know why I’d let myself yell, but for an instant I was certain I was about to die.

  Instead, he just hissed. There was nothing sleepy about him now.

  “So if it’s not knowledge,” he said, “what about this kindness you find so precious? What about this precious kind friend of yours? Does caring for her make you feel wise? Does it make you feel kind? Does being able to care about her make you feel better about yourself? Does being kind make her feel better about herself?”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not like that; she’s not like that…”

  “How can you know?” His voice was taunting, cutting across my speech, goading me.

  My temper flared again in some weird form of grief, and suddenly I was shouting again, almost in tears. “No! Lauraleigh didn’t have to learn to be kind! And I’ve never, never met anyone else like that. She would put her hands in the fire to save the baby. She would have helped that bluebird, and it would never have crossed her mind to ask it for anything. If she met you, she wouldn’t just give you cream, she’d try to find some if she didn’t have any. And she wouldn’t want anything in return. She doesn’t do it to feel good about herself; she just does it!”

  I was crying, but he didn’t seem to care, pressing on with his questions, not giving me time to think.

  “What’s more important to you to find in others,” he asked, “wisdom or kindness?”

  “I still think it’s wise to be kind.” I sobbed. “But if I have to choose, I’ll take kindness.”

  “And is that a wise choice on your part?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  For some reason, that was too much. I sank to the ground, tears still trickling down my cheeks, feeling completely empty. “Because…” I choked back another sob. “Because I don’t get to choose if I’m wise or not,” I said. “I don’t get to decide. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I don’t know. Maybe I can learn to be. Maybe that’s impossible. But it’s only someone else who can tell. I can’t judge. If I try to, it’s just proof that I’m not.”

&
nbsp; I looked up at him. He was nearby. The expression on his face was odd, one I hadn’t seen there before. It was almost kind.

  “That’s why you never claimed you were wise, isn’t it, Kot Bayun? We don’t get to say that we are. If we do, we’re lying. Lying to ourselves. Even if I found you wise. The things you say might sound wise and be wise for me and guide me, but for someone else, they might just be useless nonsense. For anyone who believed what Baba Yaga said, what she’s doing would be wise too…”

  Kot Bayun purred. It was a comforting sound.

  I didn’t know why I was crying, but I hid my head behind one arm on my knees. Kot Bayun came closer and nuzzled the palm of my other hand. I stroked the top of his head and started to scratch his neck, my fingers completely lost in his fur.

  Finally, my tears stopped, and I took my hand away. Kot Bayun turned away and started to walk toward a sunny spot nearby.

  “Kot Bayun?” I called.

  He glanced back at me as he settled in the warmth. “Yes?”

  “The game’s over,” I said.

  He smiled gently. “The game’s been over for some time, Anna Wisdom,” he said. “It’s just that you didn’t notice when it ended.”

  I stared at him. He yawned widely, his mouth like some weird pink flower with sharp white petals. Then he rolled over onto his back.

  “Oh, joy,” he muttered. “More intruders.” He was looking up at the sky. “Are they with you?”

  I looked up. Squire and Knight were flying toward us, mop and bucket well in hand. Had it really taken them this long to get here? Or had my conversation with Kot Bayun not actually taken that long?

  The cat batted vaguely in their direction with one paw. He didn’t seem hugely invested in tackling them.

  “They’re with me, Kot Bayun,” I said. I looked around, found the apple and picked it up.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that,” Kot Bayun murmured drowsily. “What you’re looking for is that way.” Again he batted a paw, this time vaguely toward the north. He sounded extremely sleepy.

  “Thank you, Kot Bayun,” I said.

  As Squire and Knight came down to join me, I picked up my backpack and started to walk in the direction he had indicated.

  I had only gone a few steps when the cat spoke again. “Anna Wisdom,” he said.

  I turned back. His blue eye was half-open and looking at me.

  “Yes?”

  “Your parents chose your name poorly,” he said. That mocking tone was back in his voice. “I said it was that way. And I’m not going to stop you or hurt you. You can go ahead.” He grinned. “But I never said it was safe.” He closed his eye.

  I didn’t have any choice, though. I had to go on, dangerous or not. I wondered if I should ask him another question or if that would be pushing my luck.

  And then he started to sing again, utter mockery in his tone:

  “Proschay, radost’, zhizn’ moya!

  Znayu, yedesh’ bez menya.

  Znat’ odin dolzhon ostat’sya

  Tebya mne bol’she ne vidat’…”

  I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it for a moment. I had thought he had a kind streak in him. Here he was, watching me go into what he said was danger, and he was mocking me: Farewell, my joy, my life! I know you will leave me. It seems I have to live alone, without ever seeing you again.

  How could he turn that whole song into a sneer?

  Lying bathed in sunlight, he continued to sing. The night is dark, the words went. Oh, I cannot sleep.

  Kot Bayun began to snore.

  Chapter 24

  Dear Diary,

  I am not going to feel sorry for Granny. Even though I know what she felt when she cut out her heart, I also know what she’s done since then. I will not forget that. I refuse to forget that.

  I’m glad I have you. Rereading some of my entries helps me remember why I hate her and why I have to do what I’m going to do.

  She chose to cut out her heart and stop feeling. She chose to be evil. I am going to get my revenge on her — for me, for Lauraleigh, for everyone she’s ever hurt.

  Including herself.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until I was out of hearing range of Kot Bayun’s snores that I noticed my magic energy coming back. It’s not that it suddenly flooded me or anything. I just became aware that its tingles were back up and down my arms, that I could feel it spreading its web from beneath my ribs. I still had just as much power inside me as when I’d arrived. Kot Bayun hadn’t taken it away from me; he’d just blocked it for a while.

  A spasm of anger clenched my gut, the magic welling up as I thought of that nasty, sarcastic cat and how he’d played with me. He was sleeping now, and I was tempted to turn back and set the whole clearing where he was on fire.

  But I didn’t. I was surprised to feel that violent urge. I also had to be wise, as he’d have said. I didn’t know if my magic was back just because I was out of his presence or because he was sleeping. And I didn’t trust him to be sleeping deeply. He was quite capable of pretending to be taking a catnap.

  Besides, he wasn’t my real target.

  How could I not have heard that I had another uncle? Why had no one ever told me that my mother had a brother? That Baba Yaga had another child? Unless he wasn’t Baba Yaga’s child but my grandfather’s? Who was my grandfather, anyway? Who was Sereda’s dad?

  Granny, Dad, Uncle Misha — they must all have known. Probably even Vodyanoy. Any of them could have told me. Didn’t I have a right to know? Why did they leave me to find these things out from an oversized housecat who wanted to rip my soul out and wouldn’t stop playing with me until I was in tears?

  In my anger, I rubbed my face with my sleeve. I still had no idea why I’d started crying, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like that Kot Bayun had made me cry, that he’d been able to, that he’d seen me cry, and that my family had put me in this position. Why did they treat me like that? All of them — not just Granny — all of them seemed to think I wasn’t important, just some useful puppet or something.

  “I’m allowed to know things!” I shouted. The hands flew back from me, fluttering worriedly. “You don’t get to keep them from me!”

  I’d already had to spend thirteen years not knowing I was a witch, who my parents were, how my mother had died. Did Uncle Misha really think that teaching me about the birds made up for all the other things he could have told me? At least Mama Bear had the excuse that she couldn’t talk.

  My magic was curling up inside me as if gathering itself to strike out. When I get back, I thought, I’ll have some things to say to them. All of them.

  Then I started wondering why I should even bother going back. Why should I want to have anything to do with their stupid wars and quarrels? Granny couldn’t fulfill her plan without me, so if I just vanished, I wouldn’t be condemning the world to be destroyed or anything. And Kot Bayun was right. Dad probably deserved to be in that cage, if he was stupid enough to get caught.

  If it hadn’t been for Lauraleigh, I would have just gotten into my bucket, flown back to Switzerland, and told Monsieur Nolan to find me a nice quiet place to live far from my nasty relatives.

  Still, I’d promised Lauraleigh I’d save her. And I’d told the cat too, and I wasn’t about to give Kot Bayun another opportunity to make fun of me. I had to find that heart.

  Kot Bayun had indicated the north, so we went that way. The hands flew a little in front of me, scouting. I wondered if I should let them set the mop and bucket down, but I didn’t want to risk losing those items.

  Kot Bayun had said this area wasn’t safe, and I was going to believe him.

  North was up a bit of a hill, and soon the trees started to thin out. Rocks began to emerge from the grass, spotted with lichen. Stunted berry bushes dotted the landscape. The air was even thicker with magic here than it had been on the beach. I felt as if I were walking through layers and layers of sheer curtains swaying in the breeze.

  I still wasn’t sure
how to find the heart, though. I wondered if I should ask the apple again. But Kot Bayun hadn’t seemed to think I’d need it.

  It occurred to me that this might be another of his tests. He’d said it wasn’t safe. He wouldn’t stop me or hurt me, but that didn’t mean I was safe from his tricks. If I used the apple after he had said I didn’t have to, would I be cheating?

  I closed my eyes. Now I could almost hear the vibrations of magic, like some huge hum swirling around us. Surely there would be some sign?

  Almost all the island’s magic had felt like Baba Yaga’s ever since I had sensed it on the shore. That had to be due to the heart, didn’t it? If Granny wanted Koschey’s heart so she could absorb its magic, then hearts were powerful. Could I trace the heart that way?

  With my eyes still closed, I started to examine the magic. I concentrated on its texture, how the hum seemed to span from a deep bass to the merest high whisper. It was like a swirl of sound and color melting together, but the more I focused, the more I could distinguish its shades. The magic didn’t all originate with Baba Yaga, but she was present in all of it. As if her magic were the varnish on the paint. Or, I thought, remembering one of her stews, as if she were the garlic. Everything was flavored with it, but I had to find the actual clove.

  Where was it strongest? What felt most like her?

  It was like plunging into the depths of the sea and trying to find a current. I traced the layers of magic with my mind, like sweeping my hands over the strings of a harp, hearing each string’s note, matching the colors, seeking out the one tone that would resonate with my memories of my grandmother.

  At first, it seemed impossible. But the more I focused, the more I could see the gradations in color, the faint differences between the notes, like looking at a piece of woven cloth and slowly becoming aware of each individual thread. One of which was—

  There.

  In my mind, it seemed a deep violet, and I let my own magic find it, a thin thread of blue that went to touch the violet to make sure I wouldn’t lose it. Then I’d be able to trace the thread all the way back to its beginning, and surely that would lead me to Granny’s heart.