Page 5 of Caught in the Devil’s Hand

In an obvious attempt to discover such evidence, Kimen and Akki had asked once what kind of plants Majo ordered from Shumei’s family—as if they would know which ones were suspect, which of course they didn’t. Knowledge of magic was forbidden. Even if they had conjured up a flimsy reason or a dubious claim, Shumei doubted they’d have the courage to confront Majo.

What Shumei knew about magic could be summed up in one word: nothing. But after dozens of weekly visits to Majo’s home, she had never seen anything she might think was any sort of magic, which was all she could say in response to Akki and Kimen’s questions.

Not that Majo wasn’t a strange person. She always asked for an odd assortment of herbs, fungi, and roots. When Shumei once asked why, the witch had merely smiled and said she liked to cook. For a woman of her years—Shumei assumed somewhere around forty—Majo was rather fresh-faced and beautiful compared to anyone else her age. Of course, no one knew her exact age, but no one was brave enough to ask, directly or indirectly, Shumei included.

Majo’s home was on the west side of the village and, like Shumei’s house, was set farther back because, also like Shumei, Majo had black hair—the only other person with black hair in the village besides Shumei and her mother.

Shumei didn’t know where the witch earned her income, but she always paid for her delivery in full and purchased more per week than the rest of the entire village did. Shumei had never seen her working on anything, so what she did with all those plants and extracts could only be guessed at. Perhaps she made and sold secondary medicines, but evidently not to anyone in the village as far as Shumei could tell. No one had ever mentioned buying anything from her—not that anyone would necessarily admit it.

The witch’s home was far sturdier than Shumei’s, having been constructed of yellow birch, a strange and rather paranoid choice. It was a type of wood that didn’t burn easily, but other people would have chosen a prettier, longer-lasting wood. Yellow birch was unfortunately vulnerable to rotting, and it was also an unattractive shade of yellowish-green, which made for a home that stuck out like mold on a piece of bread. Her front door, which swung rather than slid, was decorated with an odd arrangement of dried flowers.

Shumei raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the sickly green portal yelped and shuddered as it pulled free of a catch in the doorjamb. Slowly but steadily, it swung inward.

“On time, as always.” Majo draped one hand over the top of the door.

Shumei didn’t respond, though perhaps visibly swallowing could be considered a response. Strangest of all Majo’s habits was her manner of dress, and it was doubly so today.

With the exception of the leader and his wife in their relatively lavish home, most people in their village were of very limited means, including fashion. Men wore bland-colored, traditional clothing, which consisted of loose, dark pants that cinched tightly around the ankle, and thigh-length, robe-like shirts and jackets held shut with ties. The only real difference between what any of the men wore was the quality of the fabric and how well it fit.

Women wrapped themselves in long-sleeved, ankle-length dresses that closed at the waist with wide belts of cloth. If one could afford an under-robe, it was worn to provide extra modesty at the neck. Wealthy women wore bright, fine materials laden with intricate embroidery, but even Akki hardly wore her finest dress and was usually seen in more modest garb, albeit something finer than Shumei had ever owned or even touched.

Majo, on the other hand, had somehow acquired enough wealth to clothe herself extremely well. She always forewent the under-robe and cinched her belt to show off her cleavage, but her fine silk dresses boasted bold, beautiful patterns, such as red butterflies, black birds, or white roses.

Shumei was unavoidably jealous, but she wasn’t alone. All the other villagers sulked about how Majo had far finer clothing than they did, and this, however petty, was the real reason they believed her to be a witch. How else would a crow have nice things?

Today, Majo wore a red robe covered with a peculiar black pattern, and Shumei had to wonder why Majo would choose something as disturbing as spiderwebs. It was a beautifully made dress, but it made Shumei shudder all the same.

“Do you have time to visit with me this week?” Smiling, Majo took the hand Shumei had left hanging in the air and pulled her inside. “I have a surprise for you.”

“I’m sorry, Madam Majo, but my mother and brother are still both quite sick. I’d be glad to visit with you another day,” she offered, even though she disliked spending time with the witch. Majo had never been unkind toward Shumei, but something about her felt off. Even dangerous.

Majo closed the door, leaving Shumei fidgeting under the full effect of her home’s interior. There were no windows, only a small hole in the roof to let out smoke, so Majo’s solution for creating light was candles—but not just one or two. Half a dozen red candles, worth ten times what Shumei’s family made in a week, were always burning. And she had never seen them burned lower than halfway.

The floor of the hut was a cheap but smooth wood, and one threadbare rug covered a large, open area near the entrance. Majo’s cooking pot sat to the left beneath the roof’s smoke hole, and her thick sleeping mat lay to the right. All around were large cabinets and shelves filled with books and baskets of plants. A small, locked case sat in a far corner of the room.

Shumei had often stared at the books at the back of the hut, wondering what was inside. She couldn’t read well, but she still wanted to look. What people, ideas, or places did they describe? Did they all speak of real events, or were fables and epics mixed in with historical accounts?

“A few minutes is all I ask,” Majo pleaded, sandwiching Shumei’s hand between her own. Not wanting to upset her best customer, Shumei hesitated and wondered why she couldn’t bring forth her meager supply of courage in such a simple social situation.

But she had been away from her home only about forty-five minutes at this point, and she had five more deliveries. If she stayed at the witch’s house for a short visit, then made her deliveries, she estimated she’d be home within the hour. Surely her mother and brother could be by themselves until then.

“All right,” she said, giving in to Majo’s cajoling. The woman smiled in relief and led her farther inside.

“Have a seat here.” Majo swept her hand toward her sleeping mat, which was made up with a soft, woolen blanket. “Mind your feet, please.”

Shumei sat with her legs angled away from Majo’s clean blanket and tried to relax while Majo retrieved a jug and a cup from one of her cabinets. The witch rested on her heels on a cushion nearby and set her burden next to the still-steaming tea she must have been drinking before Shumei had arrived.

As Majo rearranged the items around her, Shumei dared to look a little closer at the witch. She saw only a couple of laugh lines around her eyes, the irises of which were nearly black. They sometimes crinkled as if she delighted in knowing something others did not, but more often they were cold and calculating. No doubt the reason Majo’s lips were usually painted blood-red was to distract from her piercing gaze. Shumei was tempted to wipe her finger across Majo’s lower lip and wondered how she might look with a painted mouth.

Such thoughts always led to wondering what it’d be like to actually be Majo. To be independent. Mysterious. Feared and yet desired. Shumei didn’t have to know much about sexual intimacy to understand the undercurrent to some of the villagers’ whispered comments about the witch.

“I’ve been trying my hand at distilling spirits and managed to make rice wine,” Majo revealed. Her long, unbound hair swept over her shoulders as she leaned forward to touch the jug. “I want you to be the first to taste it.”

Shumei nodded rather than return Majo’s smile, but her heart secretly raced with the bit of mischief Majo often brought out in her. A sip of alcohol today, a juicy piece of gossip last week. Mama had always strictly forbidden rice wine, even at village festivals, only one of which crows could attend, so to have an opportunity like this made Shumei feel lucky, if also a little guilty. She always tried to deny temptation in order to refute the bad reputation automatically cast upon her, but she had so easily nodded. Although, why shouldn’t she enjoy something nice once in a while?

Majo presented the small cup of rice wine to her, and Shumei bowed her head as she took it. The wine’s pungent scent filled her nostrils as she glanced up at Majo, who raised her eyebrows in question.

“Do I sip it?” Shumei asked.