Unable to bear feeling so helpless, Bisma got up and went outside. She ran down the stairs, out into the dark forest, tears coursing down her cheeks. She felt like vomiting, and she ran to her garden to inhale the sharp scent of mint, but even that did not help.
The moon shone above her as she fell to her knees, crying out. Bisma sank her hands into the dirt and felt the Forest pulsing beneath her palms, magic calling out to her. This was more potent than anything she’d felt before; it felt like clutching a lightning bolt straight from the sky.
As Bisma cried, a plant grew from the earth. She had never seen it before, but she somehow knew exactly what it was and what it could do.
She stopped crying.
Wiping away her tears, she plucked the plant, then went up to her room, where she crushed the leaves into a paste.
Then she went to the kitchen and gathered cocoa butter, beeswax, and a little bit of coconut oil to mask the nasty smell. She had made hand cream before, but this was a special product, made for one person in particular.
The next time Bisma went to town with one of her older sisters, she snuck off. Disguising herself, she went to the local blacksmith, Luna’s father. The last time she had seen him in town, she noticed how very insecure he was about his hands from the way he walked with them behind his back, as if hiding the soot-stained fingers, the blackened nails.
‘This is a cream that can fix all marks!’ Bisma said, pitching it to him. She brought up her flawless hands. ‘See? I have used it myself for years. I will give you a good price.’
Luna’s father seemed hesitant, so Bisma pressed into his insecurity. ‘Use this and no one will be able to tell you are a blacksmith,’ she said, giving him a small sample. ‘Your hands will be as clean as the bookshop owner’s.’
Luna’s father spread the sample across his hand, smelling it. The cream melted into his skin; he seemed impressed by its magic and bought it, thanking her as he went.
Then Bisma waited. She did not tell her sisters, in case it did not work, but somehow she knew it would; it was only a matter of time.
The next time she came to town, a week later, she slipped away to the blacksmith’s shop, taking Luna with her. They both saw that it was being taken over by another, while Luna’s father wept.
His hands were covered with pus-filled blisters that they could see even from a distance.
Bisma could not help her wickedness; she smiled, and stepped forward so he could see.
‘You!’ he cried, looking at her, recognition flaring through his face, shoving his raw, bleeding hands in her face. ‘What did you do?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied, lifting her chin. He shouted, reaching for her, but she was quick and moved away, twirling as she did, a delicious satisfaction coursing through her. The commotion caused people to come out into the square and watch.
Let them, she thought.
Luna’s father turned to the villagers. ‘The Unwanted Girl! She sold me a cream and this is the result!’ He lifted his hands for all to see.
Horrified gasps spread through the crowd. The plant had done precisely what Bisma had wanted it to. While at first it would have softened his skin, urging him to use it more and more, eventually, it would have rotted his hands. She could only imagine the constant agony he was in, the blisters bursting every time he tried to touch something.
Luna stepped forward, slipping her hand into Bisma’s, holding tight. It was the first time Luna had willingly touched anyone. Bisma squeezed back.
Luna’s father looked to Luna, realization dawning on him. ‘You did it on purpose,’ he said, disturbed.
‘Every time you reach for a cup of tea, or try to lift your tools, the pain will remind you of what you did. And you will suffer every single moment of every day until you are dead,’ Bisma said, a wicked smile spreading across her face. The blacksmith looked as though he would be sick.
As they walked away, Luna let out a long breath. She leaned her head on Bisma’s shoulder. Finally, the twisting vines inside Bisma eased.
After this incident, Bisma became quietly notorious. Everyone heard about what she had done and why, and villagersbegan reaching out to her for similar products—not quite as harsh, but of varying degrees.
Soon Bisma had a booming business on her hands.
She did not need to advertise her poisons; people did that for her. Wives and daughters told one another of Bisma’s skills, keeping the matter discreet.
What wasnotkept discreet was the fact that Bisma was clearly bad news. Unwanted Witch. Garden-wench. An abomination. Vile, twisted, cruel. Rotten to her core.
Good, Bisma told herself.Let them be afraid. There needed to be someone to fear, and if it was her, then so be it.
Her reputation, however, did not come without its problems. The villagers hated her more for it; she was spat at, had garbage thrown at her back when it was turned. For months the grocer refused to sell to her specifically, but would sell to her sisters after they pleaded, though at an outrageous price.
Bisma felt no remorse. How could she? For Luna was no longer afraid.
