Drawtober 2022: Heart Seeds

The knock comes after the sun has set, a steady beat against the wood of her door.

Thump…thump…thump.

Masha sets down her knitting, waiting. Sometimes the villagers think better of it before they knock again. Seeing the witch on the edge of town is risky business, and Masha doesn’t want to open her door to someone who hasn’t thought their decision through.

The knock does come again, though, more urgent this time, and Masha nods to herself. She stands, groaning as her back complains, and crosses the hand-knotted carpet to the sturdy oak door. The hogweed and nettle that hang above the threshold brush her head as she opens it with a creak. A young woman stands just beyond, her blonde hair escaping its braid and hanging around a tear-stained, blotchy face.

Ah, Masha thinks. It’s going to be one of those nights. 

Masha says nothing, waiting for the young woman to speak. The young woman, sniffly, looks into the witch’s face and bursts into tears.

“P-please,” she says, voice trembling, “can I c-come in?”

Stepping back from the door, Masha opens it wider and lets the young woman inside. The girl crosses into the cottage and collapses in Masha’s chair, squashing her knitting into the cushions. Masha takes the rocking chair nearer the door, her hands folded across her lap, and waits. The fire crackles between them, spitting embers and smoke up the chimney.

The young woman pulls a dirty handkerchief from her skirts and dabs at her eyes, hiccuping. “He—he doesn’t love me anymore,” she croaks.

The witch nods. It’s an old story, one she’s heard a thousand times before. A story to which she already knows the ending. 

But she doesn’t tell the young woman this. Instead, she asks,  “How do you know?”

“He said so,” the young woman says, a fresh wave of tears running down her face. “He said I was just a bit of fun.”

“So it often is with young men,” Masha says gently. “But these pains heal, with time.”

“But it hurts so much now,” the young woman sobs. “I wake up crying and go to sleep the same. I feel as though every drop is being wrung from me! He’s broken my heart, and I have nothing now.”

The witch frowns at the young woman. “This is foolishness. If you have nothing now, then you had nothing then, either. You have lost nothing. What you feel is a scrape against your heart, not a break. Turn away from him. Tend your own garden. In time, it will heal as though the hurt never was.”

“Stop it!” the young woman yells. “Stop it! I didn’t come to you for empty platitudes, I came so you would fix it! Make him love me again! He has to!”

“I can do nothing for a heart that isn’t willing,” Masha says, not so gently this time.

The young woman falls to her knees, and Masha knows then that she will not listen to her, that she is beyond the witch’s reasoning. Knows, too, that this young woman will bring trouble to her door if Masha doesn’t give her what she wants. There is a kind of wildness in her eyes, a pain the witch has seen many times before, and she regrets that she ever opened her door to this wounded creature. Such pain knows nothing of moderation. It eats and eats and eats until it has consumes everything around it, and Masha knows it will eat this girl, too, unless she does something.

“Please,” the young woman begs, grasping hold of Masha’s skirts, “please!”

Masha reaches down to cup the young woman’s chin firmly. “I can do nothing for his heart,” she says slowly. “But I can do something for yours. I can take this pain away.”

The young woman gasps a breath. “You—?”

“I can take your heart from you,” Masha continues, ignoring her, “and give you something sturdier in its place. But if I do this, you will lose aught else. Pain and pleasure, love and hate, all will be gone. You won’t cry beneath the moon, nor will you smile beneath the sun.” She levels her old gaze on the young woman, who watches her with wide eyes. “It’s your choice.”

The young woman takes a shaky breath before nodding. “Yes,” she says. “Do it. Now.”

Masha nods, resigned. She stands with groaning bones and guides the young woman to the long cutting table, lying her down. She makes the young woman unbutton the top of her blouse, just enough to see the pale, blotchy skin beneath it, freckles pattering over the collarbones.

“Go to sleep, child,” Masha says, running wizened hands along the young woman’s hair. “And wake up with something new.”

The young woman swallows, sudden trepidation crossing her face. “Will it hurt?” she whispers.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” she says. Then, “But will it hurt?”

Masha sighs. “No,” she says. “You won’t feel a thing.”

The young woman’s eyelids flutter closed, her breath evening out. Masha waits a few minutes more, making sure she is asleep.

Then, taking a paring knife, the witch deftly cuts a hole in the young woman’s chest, through the skin and muscle and bone. She peers inside and sees the heart beating within, glowing with a dull ruby light. She reaches into the cavity with her paring knife, cutting away the veins and arteries and pulling the organ free. Wrapping it in a bit of cheese cloth, she leaves the young woman sleeping and steps out her backdoor into the garden.

To anyone else, the night would seem silent, but to the witch’s ears, it is full of noise. The crickets sing softly in the fields beyond. A mouse rustles the dirt as it moves through the foliage. An owl clicks its talons, stretching on a branch in the nearby forest.

She walks through the trailing greenery, the heart pulsing steadily in her hands. She stops beside the evening primrose, leaning down and pressing one hand to the earth. A steady beat meets her palm, and she stands, frowning. Twice more she stops to feel the earth, and she begins to worry that she may not have room for this newest heart, when she finds a place beside the moonflower that is still unoccupied.

Masha sets the heart aside and pulls out her trowel. The ground is soft as she digs into it. The further down she goes, the more she feels the steady beating of the other hearts in her garden, other hurts buried away where none might find them save the moles and worms. It is what she has become known for in the village and surrounding towns—taking pains and hiding them away. The first time she did this, ages ago, Masha had been nervous. But it has been many years and many hearts since then, and the witch knows her work well.

Gently, she unwraps the heart. Gently, she places it within the hole. Gently, she covers it with warm dirt, patting it down.

She can feel the heart beating frantically beneath the ground as it realizes it’s been separated from its owner and repotted in new soil. She smooths her hands over the earth coaxingly.

“You’ll grow to like it here,” she murmurs to the heart. “I promise to look after you better than she did. No one steals from this garden.”

The heart slows beneath her whispered words, easing back into a regular rhythm, and Masha gives it a final pat before she stands and surveys her garden, thinking. She needs a good replacement. Wisteria twines around the fence posts, and enormous bleeding heart flowers drip over the flagstone path. Masha considers one of those blossoms briefly, then shakes her head. No, for a case like this, she needs something very sturdy indeed.

Brushing off her apron, she makes her way to the vegetable garden. It’s getting towards fall, and already the pumpkins and squash are plump and rosy. She moves among the plants, selecting at last a fat turnip, it’s white flesh growing purple. Tucking it into her pocket, she goes inside and finds her sewing kit beside the hearth. She takes out her sharpest needle, waxes her white thread, and goes to work.

The young woman wakes as Masha is finishing her stitching. She sighs, blinking her eyes open, and looks at the witch dispassionately.

“Is it done?” she asks.

“Almost,” Masha replies as she draws the thread through the young woman’s chest. The turnip is nestled within, filling the empty space. “I need to finish stitching you up. Do not pick at the spot until the stitches fall out naturally. And no bathing until they do—you don’t want your new heart rotting.”

The young woman nods, her gaze trailing out to the garden. Already her eyes are drying, the memories of her heart fading. She will not know what she was missing.

“I didn’t notice your garden before,” the young woman says as Masha finishes the final stitch. “How do you grow so many different plants?”

Masha smiles as she snips the thread. “Love,” she says. Then she helps the young woman to stand, ushers her out the door, and returns to her knitting. Beneath her feet, the heartbeat of the garden drums a steady beat. 

Thump…thump…thump.