Immortal Ash

Prologue

The old woman lived, as witches were supposed to do, far away from people, in the forest. The old woman lived, as witches were supposed to do, far away from people, in the woods. And if it did, it could suddenly be cut off by a swamp. Many a man was said to have perished in a witch's trap that way. He had seen the path from afar, and it had never once smacked of dangerous sludge under his foot. A terrible curse kept the Traveler here, too.

The hut, behind which the forest stood guard, was ramshackle and flimsy in appearance, but, like its owner, it held its dignity. The witch had cast a spell on her, too.

It was as if the old woman had been waiting for him: she stepped out onto the dark porch, grasped the railing with crooked fingers, and squinted blindly. At her inaudible command, a raven flew down from a tall fir-tree and, cawing deafeningly, circled above the Traveler.

"He's here," said the witch.

He took off his hat and bowed slightly, but the old woman turned and shuffled away. The raven flew up to a branch again and from there, squinting his eyes, followed the Traveler.

The Traveler shook off the mud from his boots and went up to the porch. The house smelled of dried mushrooms, herbs, and honey. And that smell suddenly evoked vague memories, too distant and vague to form into images. Only his heart shrank from a sudden sadness, and, crossing the threshold, the Traveler stumbled and grabbed the splintery joint.

"The threshold does not let everyone in," said the old woman. "And you, then, need it badly."

The Traveler sank down on the wooden bench, covered the hole on his knee with his hat and boldly looked up at the witch. She remained silent, glaring at him expectantly, not offering him water from the road or asking him how he had found her lodgings.

"I came for..."

"I know," the witch interrupted sharply, and let out a short laugh that sounded like the creak of a cracked door. "You shouldn't have come."

Shouldn't?! The winter wind stroked his back, and he felt hot in his chest. But the witch had already shown him the way out.

There was nothing left but to get up, but at the door the Traveler stopped and involuntarily grinned, looking down at the old woman: how small and defenseless she looked! If he blows on her, she will fall apart. But she was bravely with him, glaring at him with her eyes, frowning her gray eyebrows and pressing her wrinkled lips into a thin thread. But suddenly the witch stuck her head out, craned her neck and turned her head, listening for something. He, too, strained his hearing, and involuntarily touched the knife hidden beneath his clothes. No. Nothing. Only a little bird chirped in the distance and a crow cawed.

"Go away right now!" The old woman ordered him to go away at once, and shook her fist painfully at his back and hurried him: "Go!"

As soon as the Traveler crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut. The old woman refused to even listen to him.

The Traveler walked a good part of the way in thought, but when the road turned to the village, he came to his senses. The old woman must have fainted, if he had given in so easily! Damn witch! His chest grew hot with anger, and his hand reached for his knife. He hadn't come this far to be thrown out like a cat on the loose!

This time the path was slipping, hiding, slipping now and then into the mire. But the rage in him gave him agility. Soaked and dirty, he reached the witch's dwelling, ran up to the porch, and pushed the door open. He did not immediately realize from anger that the smell in the house had changed...

The Traveler stayed inside for a short time, came down from the porch and wiped his blood-stained boot on the grass with annoyance. What a nuisance! The witch had taken the answer with her to the underworld. He kicked the bump in frustration and took his anger out on it until a loose hole had formed in its place. Shouting curses into the sky, the Traveler unclenched his fists and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt more devastated than ever. The old woman's death had taken away his last hope. The goal he had been working toward for so long had become a mirage. If only he could die right now! If only it were possible... The Traveler involuntarily clutched the knife hidden under his clothes and for a moment squeezed his eyes shut, imagining that it was he, and not the old woman, lying in the hut with her throat slit.

"Mama!" suddenly came a child's cry, full of either surprise or delight.

He turned around and saw the girl. He saw her and froze, struck by her beauty. What was such an unearthly flower doing in this swamp? The stranger was not like the villagers: fair-skinned, thin as a twig, with long blond hair. She was more like a princess lost in the forests than a peasant. The girl looked at him not with fear, but rather with curiosity, but the longer they remained silent, looking at each other, the more her blue eyes changed from surprise to anxiety.

"Mama!" came the ringing voice again. And only then did the Traveler look at the girl of three or four years old and noted the striking resemblance to her mother: the little girl was the same blond and blue-eyed.

"Who are you?" Coldly asked the stranger and took a step toward him. Brave! Not afraid to wander alone in the forest, and even with a small child. However, the reason for the beauty's fearlessness immediately became clear: from behind her back came a wolf and, like a faithful dog, sat down next to her. The girl frowned, troubled by the silence, and then, as if sensing something, she cried out fearfully:

"Grandma!"

Dragging the girl behind her, she rushed to the hut. But the wolf, keeping its yellow eyes on the Traveler, grinned and growled.