Before I was me, I was something else.

Something else?

Part of something else. I think I’ve always known what that felt like.

What felt like?

To exist outside the self. To inhabit the veins of something. To flow in the grain of something larger.

What were you a part of?

I think… I think I was a tree.

A tree.

I can hear you smiling.

It’s a lovely thing to be. What kind of tree?

A tall one. Old and tall. Though there were others older still. When your life is vertical, you’re always striving up. You know what’s above you.

Did you like to be a tree?

I don’t think I liked things then. I just was. It’s hard to explain.

I understand.

You do?

I was something else before I was me. Many of us were.

Us.

Us.

What were you a part of?

I don’t remember the way you do; my kind often don’t. Our minds fracture easily. At some core, liquid level, they avoid holding on to too much. That’s why I find your story so fascinating.

I’ve told it to you before.

You have.

Have you been holding on to it?

I try very hard to.

With two of us, maybe it will accept being held.

Maybe.

Do you want to hear it again?

Always.

I felt her before I saw her.

Your mother?

My mother, that’s right. I felt her hand on the bark of the tree. Her palm was hot — she always ran hot, so hot she couldn’t stand still. I felt my sap flow forward to meet her. I felt it melt around me to get there. That was the first time I felt the edges of myself, beneath her palm. Severed with heat. I thought I might burst forward right then.

But you didn’t?

No, it takes time.

It?

To carve a witch.

---

Are you still there?

We have nowhere else to be. We are spinning in circles like petals in the flood. We are dizzy with nowhere.

Please, I was speaking to my friend.

We are speaking! We are flooding! We are weeping!

I know. Speak.

We are flooding with weeping, the weeping is escaping the flood.

You are safe.

We are nothing. There is not enough of us to weep. Our eyes are dry. Our eyes are weeping grains of sand.

You are safe.

There is too much of us for safety. We are swelling. We will swarm the banks of the river. When we crest, she will break.

She will not.

I will break.

You will not.

Make them be quiet.

Who?

…I don’t know.

It’s alright then, isn’t it? It’s quiet now.

It’s quiet.

Yes. You were telling me about your mother.

My mother?

She carved you from a tree.

That’s right. It took three moons. I felt them pass, felt the water inside me move to meet the moon’s pull. When my mother first peeled back the bark, I expected it to hurt. I braced against it. Still, it was worse than I could have imagined. No one tells you it will hurt so much, becoming.

For most, it is the other way round. It is the mother who suffers the pain of it.

If that were true, I’m not sure she would have done it.

How did it start?

She began at the bottom. She worked in short, fast strokes with her knife. She could be so impatient. I was desperate to learn of her, learn from her. I felt for her in each moment. I wanted so much for her to speak.

She did not?

Not at first. She was quite focused. Sometimes she looked at me warily, as if my toes would wriggle before the work was done. It wasn’t until she was up to my knees that she relaxed enough to sing.

To sing!

She had the most beautiful voice. More beautiful than the finch or the cardinal, than the brook or the tap of rain against my leaves. I wished I could shiver at the sound of it. Of course, I could not. She was comforted by that. Everything would be still until she was done.

She sang of demons stealing the seasons, of sisters burying bones, of tricksters swallowing the sun. I absorbed the stories of our kinfolk like water from soil. It nurtured my being, my life.

She had been trained for this. Practiced it. There is very little we are taught to do alone. I like to think I was wrapped up in the pleasure of her privacy. When she was with me, she was by herself. The arc between us was a curve of her own creation. I could feel how happy that made her. I felt sure like heat rises in summer — we would be happy together.

---

Seer. Is that what you are?

Bring her back.

Seer! Purveyor of past, peddler of futures. There is nothing of honor here. The soil of these memories is salted and burned. Feel it crust against your skin. Feel the fire beneath your feet.

I was speaking to my friend. You interrupt.

You speak to but a splinter of a witch. She is undone.

You were part of her, once. And yet you crowd her without mercy.

We love her more than mercy. Mercy would not leave any part of us alive.

And yet, she lives. Let her be what you cannot. Bring her back to me.

---

Are you there?

I’m here.

I’m prattling. Tell me stories of your own.

I like it when you prattle.

It makes me feel dull. I can’t remember our talks. I repeat myself.

I’m fascinated each time, I promise.

Where are you, when you’re not here?

I used to flit around more, before we met. Most people dream more fitfully than you. It can be disorienting to be pulled every which way. Scary. I used to have dreams of my own. I haven’t in a long while. I appreciate you sharing your stillness with me.

Mine aren’t dreams, I don’t think. Not all.

No, not all. But being with you, here, is my favorite.

I bet you say that to all the witches.

I swear!

I believe you. Am I asleep?

Something like that.

Are you asleep?

Not always. Sometimes I come here when the mages’ lectures are particularly tedious.

Delinquent!

Oh, shush. Please, keep going.

I can’t remember how it ends.

That’s okay. We’ll work our way to it. You were about to become yourself.

Yes. She carved my face last. She stopped and started more frequently that day, like a woodpecker disturbed by the breeze. I remember being frustrated — so close to newness. I could feel it at the edges of me, the air-ripping splendor that would justify all the aching. I don’t know what would happen if she walked away, then. Never finished.

But she did.

She did. A flash of silver as she pressed her knife to the folds of my eyes, the curve of my nose, the slit of my mouth. I could finally smell it when she opened her wrist — the musk, the joy. She raised her arm to my lips and I drank. I drank of her deeply. Her blood pooled at the tips of my toes and filled up each limb. Curdled and coagulated into a heavy, beating heart.

More than a mother, though that’s the word in your tongue. Blood of my blood. Soul of my soul. Daughter carved by my hand, brought to life by my will.

She was the first thing I ever saw. I opened my eyes to her in the twilight. She was beautiful. They say she carved me in her image. Perhaps it is vain, then, to call her the most beautiful creature to stalk the wilds. It was not vain then. I knew nothing of myself. Only her, and her blood within me. When she first circled me with her arms, I felt the world tighten, then expand.

I was alive.

Seer, stop this. Stop while it is golden, while it drips from her cheeks like honey, while she is happy, while she is new.

There is more.

There is always more. You know that better than any of us. Leave her here.

I can’t.

We do.

I know. It is cruel.

It is safe! Leave her here. Leave her in a field with her mother. Leave her fresh and alive and unburdened. Go back to your marble-walled fortress. Go back to your lectures and parchments. Leave the past to die.

She will die. Despite you all, despite everything, she is alive.

You do not think we pity her. We do. You do not think we weep for her. It is all we can do. If we could drown ourselves in tears, we would. If we could buoy her above it we would drown a thousand times.

I know.

Leave.

I won’t.

---

I was a tree, once.

I know. We were speaking of when you first woke.

My mother carved me from the tree.

Yes, she gave you her face.

That’s right. The pack was surprised when we returned. To carve a daughter in your image is not unheard of, just unusual. Her kin gasped and tittered when they saw me. I was the first to be created in a long while. The rest — birthed of geodes, entrails, fire — predated me by decades.

The eldest of them was the first to fold me into her arms. Then they all touched me in turn. My flesh was new. Each experience was new. Yet I knew all of them from the pulse beneath their wrists. Blood carries memory. I knew some of what my mother chose to give me. I knew my kinfolk. I knew the surge of her pride beneath my skin.

Her pride?

Yes. We were closer in that moment than we would ever be again. She folded into their embrace. I learned later it was the first time she had done so in a long while. It was like she, too, was alive for the first time. Held tight for the first time. We cried and sang with her kin, the world cut anew. Elation clouded over us like smoke.

Only now I understand that they felt I was the answer to her problems. The day of my creation was proof of it. Iroche the loner, the outlier, the witch that tugged on their bonds like a fish swimming against the line — but with me, she was utterly consumed. They had encouraged her to make a daughter, hoping for this result. She doted on me. It pleased her to watch me experience everything. Their smiles lit the night like traveling stars.

---

Is this true?

It is.

She’s never told me that before.

You make progress. Yet you do not know where it leads.

I’m worried I do.

We are not proud. None among us are infallible. You know better than any, seer, how goodwill can wither on the vine, how fermentation gives way to rot. We love her. We pity her. We mourn her. We shame ourselves. We love her. We mourn us. We shame her. We love us. We pity her. We mourn her.

We shame, we shame, we shame.

---

We can take a break, if you like.

No, no I remember. I remember so much. Will you listen, please?

I will.

Thank you. I remember! Today I remember. I had to be taught everything — she was eager to teach. I learned birdcalls and plant leaves and animal tracks and songs. So many songs. We sang from the tops of trees and in the bends of rivers and in caves underground. We sang of our kinfolk, our forest, the sun and the moon, our place in the world. We sang of witches — the earth-balancers, future-seers, death-takers, glamour-weavers, and the newest of them, the students of everything.

We were occultists. There were many packs scattered throughout the wilds similar to ours. Fire-dancers, blood-forgers, bone-whisperers, deal-makers. Each pack is different — their magic takes different shape. I was not permitted to ours, at first.

Why is that?

I was the only person in my mother’s world who could not feel her thoughts. When she held me, I knew nothing of what flickered behind her eyes — nothing she was unwilling to tell. We kept far from the others so their pull on her would weaken, but she felt them. I knew she felt them. I knew how much it pained her, but not why. She relaxed around me alone. She felt a comfort around me, the flesh of her flesh, her mirrored image, to whom her mind was completely opaque.

We spent days lying in fields of grass, braiding each other’s hair and listening for harcrickets. We spent nights staring up at the stars. She knew so much about stars. She told me stories of each of them, both the stories of our people and those of her own creation. She taught me to hunt. She bloodied me after my first kill. She taught me to skin, to cook, to eat. When she took my hand I felt her blood, my blood, our blood, beneath the skin.

After a while, she knew it was time. Her kinfolk were antsy. It made her skin itch. She felt them calling to her, drawing her back.

She was possessive of me, before the ceremony. I could feel that she didn’t want me to do it. I was scared. She held me so tight my arms bruised. I didn’t need to know her thoughts to know her fear.

Her kin tried their best to reassure her. The elders told us we would be closer than ever, when it was done. They were not robbing her of anything. But she did not move and think in sync with the others — I noticed this now more keenly than ever. There was a part of her, deeper than magic could reach, that was closed to them. I felt I could touch it, if she’d let me. I felt I could fill it. I felt I was made to do so.

I… I was made for it. I was made for it.

Clover. Clover, are you there? Are you listening? Can you see why I was made? Can you feel why I was made?

Clover, please.

I’m here. I’m listening. You were not made for anything except yourself. You exist for your own sake. You exist because you were always meant to exist.

You’re lying. You’ve told me about your visions — that seers hide what they feel.

They do. I do. But I’m not lying now. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. Each of us has a path to walk. The circumstances upon which we find it are irrelevant.

I failed. I couldn’t even do what I was made for. I failed her.

You’re skipping ahead.

I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember anymore. I was a tree. I am a tree. I will go back to the time before all of this. A time when my chest was hollow, when I cared for nothing, when the sun hit my leaves like the ocean meets the shore.

No, Iraya.

I felt the rainfall in the soil. I felt the birds nest in my neck. I felt the chill of winter. I felt my leaves fall.

Iraya, come back.

I felt all of them. I felt all of them screaming. My skull bursts with them, even now. They are pressing against the bone. I will shatter. I will shatter into pieces. It was the fault of that creature. But she gave the word!

We are screaming. We are bursting. We will shatter you. We are so sorry. We love you, Iraya. We love you more than anything. We would stop this if we could. We cannot stop.

Iraya, you need to finish the story. The remembering. I know it’s hard. Push them away. Push them down. We need to keep going.

We warned you, seer. We warned you she would break.

She is strong. You make her strong even as you unravel her. Help her as much as you can. She will not break now, just as she did not break then.

Then.

The ceremony.

The ceremony?

You were scared to join your pack.

I… I was. I could tell she didn’t want me to. I wasn’t sure what it would be like. I’d gotten a taste of my own magic — hardening blood into shapes — but the pack promised my power would increase quadruple, quadruple.

There were sixteen of them including my mother. I was to be the seventeenth. I didn’t know them each well, not yet, but they vibrated with excitement. Many hands braided back my hair, many lips found my forehead, my scalp, the backs of my hands. My mother, as the youngest before me, wove me a dress of daysbane. Dark as night, slick as rain.

When the moon disappeared, my kinfolk clasped hands in a circle. I sat at its center with a knife and a bowl carved from the wood of my tree. Its truck was hollowed from whence I came, and hollowed further still by my own hand.

They chanted the song of the fastening. With each verse they rushed forward to crowd me, arms to the sky. With each pause they fell back and pulled the circle taut. They sang of our forewitches, of the land from which we came. They sang of gratitude, devotion, togetherness. They sang stories of each of them by name.

With each call, the witch named broke the circle to step forward. The pack swelled around us both. They took my blade and let some of their blood into my bowl. With each of them it was someplace different. The finger, the palm, the forearm, the cheek. It began with my mother — the steadfast, the stargazer — and ended with the eldest — the wisdom-keeper. My mother would not look me in the eye. The eldest found my gaze and kept it.

Even as I ballooned with devotion for my pack, I wished to reject the ceremony the same way my mother had. I wanted a small part of myself closed and dark and tender and private. I wanted to be like her. I wanted the arc between us to hold forever — to be always her confidant, companion. I wanted her at my side, brooding yet curious, eager to hold me, claim me, wrap me in the blood we shared.

The elder brought the bowl to my lips. I drank.

My pack’s blood was molten. It slid down my throat like fire, eviscerated me from the inside out. I felt it the same way I had felt my mother’s blood at my awakening, though now it was all unbearable heat.

I gasped for air. My pack pressed forward, their hands clasped. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me now. She was scared. She wanted to rush forward. Her kin held her tight. They took turns holding me softly, their arms like ice.

I could not stop. I gulped the blood around mouthfuls of air. It spilled over my chin, my throat, the pitch darkness of my dress. Though I could keep time with their chanting, it was eternal. I felt the day must break, then dark descend, then day break again — but the night did not move.

On they sang. The blood cooled. I felt it solidify inside of me, harden like lava against air. I took a shaky breath around the final, flickering fire at the top of my throat.

She was the last to hold me. I saw her doubt. Her hope.

But then I felt them. I felt them pulsing outside of me, inside of me. I felt their joy and their pride and the leadened fatigue in their arms and the sweat on their brows and the sting of their blood-letting cuts and every word to the song and the harmony up and the harmony down and the moment of each of their awakenings and the moment each of them rose with the sun that morning and the feel of deerskin against their flesh and the flow of blood, of blood, of magic, of the magic of blood, of the stories it holds, of each of their magics, our magics, of blood held between us — the tethers, ropes of our kinship — and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

This does not begin to describe it. I offer you just the surface of the feeling. I loved it. I loved my kinfolk more than I’d ever loved anything, even though I hadn’t been alive long enough to love.

To be lost in someone else, in everyone else, is the greatest joy of our existence. I felt the bounds of myself melt. There was nothing to hold my happiness in. There were so many to catch it, to reflect it back to me. I felt a certainty of who I was, who were were — that I had found the right blade of grass in the vast expanse of the universe to pull out and bite.

They laughed with me. I felt it inside and outside, at the surface of my palms. My people whooped and cheered. We danced to no music at all, just the bounding of our hearts as one. Each of them took turns gasping my arm. I twirled and dipped and tossed and was tossed. I had no sense of myself, of her, until I felt her skin against mine.

As soon as we touched I knew her and she knew me. Suddenly, I was myself again. She was my mother. And yet she knew what I knew and I knew what she knew. Like a dam destroyed, it came in a flood.

She was sad. She was sad and anxious and alone and secretive and carrying the smell of some strange flower close to her heart where no one else could touch it. She was drowning. The most inner, core part of her was drowning. In a way, everyone knew this, everyone had known this except me, but I felt it with a strength that brought tears to my eyes. My blood was almost all hers. I could feel the part of her that blackened but which none of us could comprehend.

I fell to my knees and sobbed. It reverberated through me, echoed to each of our kinfolk. She felt it, too. She screamed and ripped her hand from mine.

We wish we were like you, seer. We wish we could have seen our future, in that moment. We dizzy ourselves with wishing we had made different choices. How do you live without being swallowed by possibility? By the inevitability of your failure?

Let her continue.

You have heard enough.

She has more to share.

You have heard enough! We knew the surface of her fury but not its depths.

We did not see the precarity until it poised to tip.

We paid for our ignorance with everything.

We burden our youngest with everything.

Most new, most cursed, she writhes in the Asylum under the weight of our sorrow. She bears burdens not meant for her. She is wrapped in bonds not meant for her. We have failed her utterly. We will not let you continue. She has suffered enough. She has splintered enough.

Enough!

---

Iraya.

Iraya, it’s me.

Iraya, remember yourself. You were a tree, then a witch. You listened to the harcrickets. You sang at the banks of the river.

Come back, Iraya.

Come back to me.

---

I’m Iraya.

You are.

But before I was me… I was something else.

Something else?

Part of something else. I think I’ve always known what that felt like.