Young Writers Society

The longer she stared at the jar of eyes, the more certain she was that they were staring back. Cyra made a face and pushed the jar behind a crystal ball, far out of sight. She continued her task of stacking the store’s shelves and polishing the windows. Cloves of garlic and rosemary hung from the ceiling, leaving a pungent smell in the air.

Esfir’s potion shop was a quaint place, stashed away on a lonely corner of Pebbler Alley. The windows revealed an almost deserted cobblestone street. Occasionally, a lone elderly couple would pass by, tipping their hats to Cyra. Business was never busy these days; many of Eden’s witches had gone off to the countryside to avoid the growing scorn for all things magical. Cyra suspected that the shop’s prime income source were the errands that Esfir would go on, disappearing for sometimes weeks at a time. She would always come back with a gift for Cyra; a pretty doll or a new book of spells.

Cyra had learned not to ask what Esfir did on her errands, though her curiosity bade her to do otherwise. The witch would return looking exhausted and a sort of weariness in her eyes that made her apprentice worry. Cyra would ask if she was alright, and if there was anything at all that she could do. Esfir would smile sadly and ruffle her hair. “You could fetch me a nice cup of tea, my love.” Then Esfir would give her a gift, and Cyra’s worries would dissipate. Her mentor was a capable woman, after all. She always came back in one piece, and that was enough for Cyra.

Not for the first time, Cyra wondered if Esfir could indeed be her mother. They were almost a mirror reflection of each other, Esfir being the older, more elegant one. Cyra’s unruly halo of curls were the same shade of black as Esfir’s, and her sun-kissed brown skin was only a few shades lighter than her mentor’s.

Once, when she had gained enough courage, Cyra had asked Esfir if she was indeed her mother. Her mentor looked up from the potion she was making (a charm for good luck) and had a sad sort of smile on her face. “No,” she had said, ruffling Cyra’s curls. “Not in the way that you think.”

And that was that. Cyra never mentioned her mother again. After all, why should she dwell on someone who didn’t want her?

Still, Cyra was curious. She would often dream up scenarios where her mother would just walk into the shop one day. She’d have the same wide, curious eyes as her daughter, as if she couldn’t take in all the wonders around her. Cyra would be stacking the shelves when her mother would tap her shoulder and smile shyly, asking if they sold any forgiveness. Then Cyra would burst into tears, hugging her mother with a grip she didn’t know she had. Or she would throw rotten mushrooms at her. It really depended on what Cyra would be feeling that day.

“Cyra!” The apprentice startled, almost dropping a handful of felicity potions. “Would you be a dear and go to the apothecary? I quite forgot that my shipment arrived, and you do know how impatient that man is.” She said this last bit with a huff. Cyra couldn’t see her mentor, but she imagined her muttering profanity about the man.

“I’ll be straight away!” Cyra yelled back, setting down the potions and grabbing her apprentice’s cloak. It was a beautiful navy blue, shimmering with gold accents. An image of the sun and stars were emblazoned on the sleeves and back. Cyra felt pride swell in her chest, making her walk straighter and with purpose. She was an apprentice to one of the finest of Eden’s witches, she thought with a burst of joy. If only her mother could see her now. She would’ve regretted ever leaving Cyra.

___

The steady clip-clop of hooves reverberated down the street. Cyra wound her way into alleys and side passages, leaving behind Pebbler Alley for the main road. She took in all the sights and smells of the busy street, smiling at a scraggly dog gnawing on a bone. She could smell the brine of the sea, mingled with spices and horse manure. The palace shone in the distance, its magnificent towers gleaming white in the heat of the sun. She slipped stealthily through the throng of the crowds. People were jostling and shouting their wares, waving food and talismans in the air. Cyra’s mouth watered at the sight of chicken thighs, the skin burnt to a light crisp.

Shaking her head, she forced herself towards a building with gold banners tacked onto the shop’s sign. The sounds of Eden muffled immediately as the door behind her closed shut. A balding, gruff man was jotting down something in a tome at the front counter. Cyra stopped before him, her wild tangle of hair barely visible over the countertop. “Good day, sir.” She piped up, her voice coming out as a squeak. The man gave a huff in response. “I’m here to collect Lady Esfir’s package.”

The man peered at Cyra over his spectacles. Abruptly, he disappeared into the back, and reappeared with a crate almost the same size as her. “Tell her that if she’s late again, I won’t be doing business with her any longer.” With that, the man returned back to scribbling in his tome.

Cyra took the package in her tiny arms, struggling against the weight. She stuck her tongue out at the old man and scurried away, half expecting him to chase after her.

Returning back to the potion shop took much longer than the journey there. People seemed to completely disregard her, bumping against the crate and cursing as they passed. Sweat was soon pooling down her face as she stumbled into an alley, hoping to avoid the bustling street.

She had only gone a few steps when a group of boys appeared at the other end of the alley. “Look what we have here,” one of them shouted, taking a threatening step towards her. Apprehension grew in Cyra as they stood before her with hungry looks in their eyes. They were twice her size, and older besides. They reminded Cyra of a pack of vultures. “An apprentice hag. Let’s see if she can use a magic trick to disappear.” The boy, the biggest one of the group, snatched her by the hair. Cyra smashed the crate against his feet, making him yelp in pain. The boy let go, and Cyra ran as fast as her tiny feet could take her.

Which turned out to be not very far. The boys soon caught up to her and pushed her against the cobblestones. Ribbons of blood appeared on her knees and palms. Cyra did not dare cry in front of these boys; she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her in pain. The group trapped her in a tight circle, whooping with victory and snarling their hatred. They started kicking at her in a tangle of limbs. Cyra gasped for breath, her vision blurring from the tears. One of them was screaming in her ear. “This is for my ma, you monster! Your kind has been tolerated for too long!” Someone ripped away her cloak and tore it to shreds of blue. A terrifying rage shook her body. She lunged for the hand that had taken her cloak and bit into it. Blood spilled into her mouth. The boy’s scream echoed down the street.

“Hey, what’s going on over there?” A man shouted in the distance. The boys turned and scrambled, gone just as suddenly as they had appeared.

But before they disappeared around the corner, the leader of the boys turned around again. The hate in his eyes pierced through her; she could see the promise of more pain to come. “Don’t think we’re done with you. Guards are coming, and they’re going to split you and that crone of a woman in two!” He spat and ran, leaving Cyra’s broken body in the middle of the cobblestone streets.

Cyra crumpled onto the ground, her chest rising and falling very slowly, as if her lungs didn’t remember how to breathe. The last image she recalled was her mentor’s slender form rushing to her side and a pair of arms wrapping around her.