Witch's Eyes

The rain falls angrily on our clay tiled roof, appropriate for the eve of pharmakopia. I see it as the tears of the gods condemning the barbarity of it all, but they see it as approval. We have not had rain in weeks. The farmland is filled with shriveled nobs of indistinguishable plant matter; the animals’ bones show through their hides as they lose the energy even to flick away the flies. This rain will be seen as a blessing, an encouragement to keep following tradition. Tomorrow, when I reach my fourteenth autumn, they will select me for the sacrifice.

In this village of blonde-haired blue-eyed Adonises, I have always been a freak. Long red hair cascades down my back in untamable curls. My gold-flecked green eyes shift colors like the sea in a storm, witch’s eyes the yah-yahs say. My mother died birthing me, and I never knew my father. The yah-yahs murmur rumors of a man from the forest, but silence themselves quickly when they notice I am listening. I am smaller than most, and my unusual appearance gets me out of the daily chores and allows me to freely roam the area around our village, places no one else dares to go. No one wants to work with the girl with witch’s eyes. I prefer the quiet of my sanctuaries; with no one around to whisper or point behind my back, the flora and the fauna have become my friends.

My favorite hideaway is the forest at the foot of the mountains, with towering broad-leaved oaks and pockets of ferns and asphodels. I take my mother’s knife and bow for safety, though I never need them. The forest is friendly if you come in peace. Sometimes, I find mushrooms hidden among the detritus on the forest floor that I bring home for dinner. I observed the deer and wild boar to learn which ones are safe to eat. Now, I try to find the best patches before the boar do. They absolutely adore good mushrooms. My ability to eat these earthy morsels and survive is yet more proof that I am an unholy oddity to my village. Fear has no taste.

The villagers are afraid of the forest. Centaurs live there, or so they say. I have yet to see one in all my visits, witch’s eyes notwithstanding. Most mornings, I hike to my favorite tree, shimmy up to a sturdy branch, and wait. The animal trail below is excellent entertainment. A doe and her fawn step cautiously out into the mottled light. She is moving him to a different haven so that she can go look for food. Her ears flick cautiously in all directions, straining for any hint of danger. She sniffs fearfully, alert to something new in the air. My scent must still linger. She urges her fawn down the trail and out of sight. Five minutes later, a hare bounds out across the trail, in search of ferns. He finds a bed of them between two young strawberry trees and begins nibbling, nose twitching. I am entranced by the movement of his whiskers with every bite, when I see something swoop by out of the corner of my eye. A peregrine falcon hopes to make the hare its next meal. The falcon shrieks in annoyance as the hare skitters off into the underbrush, the near miss perhaps life changing for them both. I am about to climb down and head to the waterfall for lunch when I see a pack of wolves about a field’s length away. They trot in single file behind their leader, on a mission only they know. They seem to be heading toward Georgios’ farm. I know his animals are in the worst shape from this drought, and I say a little prayer for them all – the wolves and the farm animals, the hare and the falcon, the doe and her fawn.

No one in my village has ever seen the waterfall; they would never venture that far. The forest is traversed by the Erymanthos River, which has scythed a deep gorge into the earth with pools and a cascading waterfall. The trees and the ferns cling to the banks of the river like a lover. Ivies and flowering vines entangle themselves around every freestanding structure, and mosses and algae flourish in the constant damp. Drought has no sway here. The mountain giveth water freely, thunderously, like the overflow from the gods’ chalices. Whenever I want rain, I come here and watch the shimmering cascade spill over the mountain’s edge into the pool below and then split into two smaller torrents sweeping around and down past a large, ivy-covered boulder and into the river below. I do not need conversations when I can listen to the river sing to me as it traverses the knees of the mountain.

I usually eat my lunch here, in the filtered green-gray light of the early afternoon. I nestle in the hollow of the roots of a large oak, just out of reach of the lapping of the river. A family of brown bears, a mother and her cubs, sometimes comes to visit the river here in the afternoons. The mother bear tries to teach her cubs to hunt fish in the pools, without much success. They just want to play, much to her exasperation. She firmly swipes at the ringleader and grunts at the other one to get them refocused on the fish. I giggle at their wide-eyed stares as they shuffle back over for the remainder of their lesson. My village could learn a thing or two from mother bear.

When the bears leave, I sigh and head back, taking my private trail. The river and the runoff from the mountain have created canyons throughout the forest. Some are wide, like the gorge that currently houses the river. Some are no bigger than a boar run. On either side, the moss-covered earth rises twice the height of a grown man. The ground below is strewn with leaves and fallen rocks. Above, a canopy of roots arches across like bridges under which I stealthily pass. Even higher above the light fades gold as the sun sets behind the oaks, but in the little canyon trail, it is a greenish twilight. Towards the end of the trail, I hear familiar voices, men from my village. I crouch low and listen, as they discuss the upcoming pharmakopia.

The evening breeze carries snatches of conversation, enough to confirm what I already knew. I have been chosen as this year’s sacrifice. My witch’s eyes, my long days in the centaur’s forest, my love of mushrooms, and my uncertain parentage have sealed my fate. I have until the feast of Thargelia when they will throw me off a cliff into the sea. It is for the good of the village, they reassure themselves. I think I detect a slight tone of remorse, perhaps not for me but for my mother. She was well-loved in the village before, well, before me.

I overheard that conversation two weeks ago - a fortnight preparing for my escape, an escape no one else had ever accomplished. Tonight, I lay under the clay tile roof listening to the rain and rehearsing my plan, wondering if it could possibly work. I must make it work. I have no other choice.

My wanderings took on extra urgency as I searched for shelter. Following the bears at a safe distance, I found a system of caves near the waterfall. One relatively shallow one did not smell like bear, and I began to store supplies in it. Every trip became a smuggling expedition: An axe I stole from farmer Georgios, discarded hydria and some amphora that were painted the wrong colors, parcels of salt and flour, bedding and clothing from my room at home, a flint and some pyrite to start a fire, and several lengths of rope. I will bring my mother’s knife, bow, and quiver of arrows with me when I leave. Her weapons are all I have left of her now. I pray they will sustain me until the villagers stop searching for me.

The worst of the storm has rolled off the coast, but the rain is still falling lightly. The yah-yahs are finally sleeping; I can hear their guttural snores from the next room. I know I must leave before dawn, when the fanatical mob will descend on this oikos and drag me from my bed to begin the ritual. I bless the rain that will cover my footsteps, grab my gear, slink across the courtyard, and quietly exit the dwelling that had been my home my entire life. Keeping carefully to the shadows, I disappear quickly into the forest.

To prepare for the inevitable search party, I lay a false trail towards one of the little canyons that crisscross the forest floor. Breaking twigs on the shrubs lining the trail and leaving the occasional strip of fabric and heavy footprint as if I was in a hurry and did not know what I was doing should convince them that this was the route I had taken. At the canyon trailhead, I double back, walking softly and leaving minimal trace, as I learned to do when tracking the boar and the deer in the forest. I take up residence in a tall, sturdy oak, hidden within its foliage, and wait.

The sun rises with flashes of fire under an ominous sky. I cannot see them, but I am sure that my eyes flash gold like they usually do when I am feeling especially determined. Today will be a day of reckoning. Before long, I hear the uproar from the village. My departure has been noticed. The sounds of the search party reach me long before I see them. Every animal in the vicinity has long since scattered. Clearly, they are not planning a sneak attack.

My ruse works perfectly. The party follows my “trail” into the little canyon. It narrows quickly so that the men must walk single file. I can hear the leader angrily shouting about what they will do to me once they find me. Others bringing up the rear are fearfully looking around, and a murmur begins to rise about centaurs. The last in line, with his petasos hanging lazily down his back, is especially nervous. In the early morning, the canyon floor is dark; the sunlight has yet to penetrate that far. The leader fails to notice the rope I placed as a tripwire in the narrowest part of the canyon, and he falls, tripping at least three others who are fast on his heels. I immediately fire an arrow, pinning the petasos of the last man to the wall of the canyon. The party is thrown into chaos. Cries of “centaur attack” and pleas for mercy from the gods are mixed with incomprehensible shouts as these grown men flee for their lives. I laugh, silently, but so hard that I almost shake myself off my branch.

When the animals return, and therefore I can be sure that the men have left the forest entirely, I slide down from my tree and go grab the petasos and my arrow. A good hat can come in handy. After foraging a few mushrooms and herbs for lunch, I head to my cave to begin my new life, no more alone than I was in my village, but safer.

Autumn is turning the trees the color of my hair, of living fire. I feel home here. Listening to the nuthatches chirp among the oaks and the river gurgling below my cave, I consider the future. Perhaps in the spring, I will search for the man the yah-yahs whispered of, my father, to see if he has witch’s eyes too.