Yanana

“Beware the fields where yellow grass grows, for the dirt is black and darkness haunts. The witch, the one with cream-colored eyes, a toothless smile, she grins and lies. Beware the fields where yellow grass grows, where rabbits feed and wolves dare not. Beware Yanana, the sightless witch, who seeks a soul for her to eat. Beware her grasp, her wrinkled skin, for if she gets you, you cease to be.”

“How does she kill you, papa?”

“She takes your soul.”

She takes your soul. He had said. As if a soul was so easily removable from the body.

Tabatha was not sure if she was inclined to believe such tales. Papa called them true stories, undeniable truths that were spread as a warning. Mama called them lies, senseless fantasies whispered as gossip for entertainment. They often argued about who was right and who was wrong. When papa died, mama assumed she had earned the right to call victory on this matter. But she ignored the principle which states that silence from the opposition does not equal validity to one’s own belief.

Tabatha believed that the field of yellow grass which she had found was ideal for hunting. Little creatures: white, black and brown hopped around, flopping their ears as they moved. She drew an arrow and aimed at a big white one with red eyes. She could already feel the softness of new boots. As she pulled back the arrow, a melody in the form of a soft breeze kissed the back of her neck, sending shivers down her back. Beware the fields where yellow grass grows, where rabbits feed and wolves dare not.

Tabatha hesitated too late. The arrow hit the creature right in the eye; it was dead. She waited for darkness to engulf her, for the sun to go black, or for hands to reach out from the ground and engulf her. But alas, the scenery remained the same, a clear sky and plain yellow grass. Tabatha approached her kill. She retrieved the arrow and dropped the carcass in disgust. The rabbit was rotting. Maggots crawled in and out of its putrefying fur. Flies fought each other for a space to stand on. The corpse secreted the scent of decay and darkness.

“A pretty girl, in my garden.” What once was a woman, was standing behind her. Too close for comfort. Too close to see that the witch’s robes surpassed her feet but did not touch the ground. Too close to see the multiple open wounds that oozed a black liquid across her body. “Thou knoweth whose garden this is?”

“Yanana.” Said Tabatha. Not as a reply, but as recognition.

“Thou knoweth her, pretty girl?”

The witch’s mouth did not move, it was stuck on a permanent toothless smile. Yet, Tabatha could hear every word in that unsettling voice. The witch had white eyes. Not clouded eyes, but white as whipped cream left outside on a warm day and thus had begun to yellow. Those eyes could not see, Tabatha knew. Yet she could feel the witch staring hungrily at her.

The witch smiled broadened “You hath killed a creature within my domain, what payment have thee to offer?” She extended her hand. Her nails black, long and sharp as needles.

“I-I don’t have any money. But if you would just allow me to go, I could come back.”

The witch grabbed her forearm with such vigor that two of her nails pierced Tabatha’s skin and some of forearm muscle.

“Pretty girl can’t pay the price?”

“Please, I promise to come back. Ill bring/”

“You hath not the purpose of returning.” The witch got even closer and took a deep breath. Her nostrils flared and her eyes half closed. “I can smell the lies”

“Please, please, I’ll leave something behind.” Tabatha offered her bow, desperate to get her arm back.

“Doth the pretty girl offer a trade?” The witch’s grasp tightened.

Tabatha cried. “Yes, please. Let go of me.”

Yanana opened her hand, tearing the flesh between where the witch’s nails had entered and where they had protruded.

“A trade, a truce, by darkness, for life. Ill keep a piece of thee with me until the moon is red and thou art back.” The witch extended one arm at her. “Doth the pretty girl agrees?”

“Yes.” Tabatha extended her bleeding arm.

The witch’s hand ignored Tabatha’s. Her long nails moved towards Tabatha’s face. She plucked out her eye, taking some eyelid with her. Tabatha screamed in pain as the witch laughed.

Blood gushed out of Tabatha’s empty socket. She cried and fell to one knee from the pain. The witch held the eye in between her fingers. She held it close to her nostrils and exhaled an offensive moan. Then, she held it to her mouth. The eye rolled into her tongue; she slurped the optic nerves. She enjoyed it too much, it seemed.

Tabatha laid on an expanding puddle of liquid blood. It kept getting larger and larger until she found herself completely surrounded. She turned to the witch with the eye she had left only to find her gone. She tried to scream, but only a squeak came out. She tried to stand, but her new form would not allow it. She had become that which she had killed.

Beware the fields where yellow grass grows, for the dirt is black and darkness haunts. The witch, the one with cream-colored eyes, a toothless smile, she grins and lies. Beware Yanana, the sightless witch, who seeks a soul for her to eat. Beware her grasp, her wrinkled skin, for if she gets you, her pet you’ll be.