Night Witch

Chapter 1

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Be good, be kind."

Thump. Thump. Thump. The dasher ground into the butter churner. Karina hated the way her fingers trembled at the sounds of her adopted sisters praying, and her pace quickened to the beat.

"Be fair, be gentle."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Karina glanced back at Helga and Gertie from the kitchen. Their usually unkind faces were pressed in concentration, their foreheads were beaded with sweat. Despite their attempts to be still, Helga's golden braids wavered and Gertie's skirts shifted every so often.

"Treat your elders with respect."

Thump. Thump. Thump. The elders in the village were rotten and cruel, their hands only used for slaughtering innocents. Why should anyone respect that? Karina slammed her eyes shut. Concentrate. You're churning butter, you are better than them. You can do this, 'Rina.

"Guard against evil spirits, yagas, and warlocks."

Thump. Evil? Karina's eyes flew open, her hands striping a more vibrant red and white the harder she gripped the dasher to prevent her fingers from shaking even more. There was no way her mother was evil. No way any yaga truly was. Focus. Thump.

"Hang witch charms on your doors and iron on the doorways to keep out yagas, as those sacred objects are toxic to them."

Thump. The butter was finished. She turned around to grab the butter urn, and did so successfully despite the blurring of her vision and the trembling of her fingers. Don't focus on them, focus on you.

"And above all, defend, respect, and yield to your Ancestors."

Her vision burned red. The Ancestors. Clatter.

The butter urn fell onto the floor, and Karina scurried to pick it up. But it was too late. The mistake had been made, and she would pay.

Gertie and Helga glanced across the room to Karina before nudging each other and continuing the prayer. They may have ignored their so-called sister's mistake during the Ancestor's prayer, but that was only because they couldn't have any more interruptions. It was one of the most important rituals in the whole year, and Karina had ruined it.

Karina felt her face flush with shame, and she hid beneath her curtain of auburn hair. She walked outside with the butter urn and a rag to wash the utensil. Her head bent low over the urn, muttering a prayer of thanks to the Ancestors that it hadn't cracked. She would have been in a deep mess if it had. It was the ceremonial pot used only on spiritual occasions: Accusation Day, Ancestor's Day, and Trader's Day. All of which were important. All of which were her worst nightmares.

Sighing, Karina walked to the well and pulled up the bucket from the bottom, weighing the rope carefully in her calloused fingers to make sure that there was a good amount of water in it. The mistake would probably get her multiple smacks from Olga and perhaps a few days without food. It was fine, she told herself. She was used to it.

Eight years of forced servitude had done her pride good.

Dragging the bucket onto the edge of the well, Karina dipped her rag into the water and began to scrub the butter urn. The pot had to be perfectly spotless, otherwise the Ancestors would get angry. At least, that was what Olga had told her.

Finishing her cleaning of the butter dish, Karina tromped back inside, into the kitchen. Gertie and Helga were finished with the prayers; they were packing up the engraved Ancestor stones into the cloth-lined wooden boxes. The sight of such revered objects sent a shot of pain through Karina's heart. If Ma hadn't been killed, if Da hadn't died, I would be praying right now, too.