It’s what they call me. To my face sometimes, but mostly as whispers into eagerly spiteful ears. Or in the cold intimacy of their own homes, the places they feel safe. Mama knows what they say about me. The word has never left her lips but there’s a way she look at me now, from the corner of her eyes, as if I’m a trick of the light, something she doesn’t want to see head on.
The thing is, when no one’s looking, I can’t help myself. And despite what they say, I’ve never hurt anyone. On that at least, they are well and truly wrong.
Illness and injury in our town always makes it worse. It emboldens them. They stop whispering and say it to my face, spit flying and noses crushed in disgust. Mama keeps an extra close eye on me then, and it gets harder… to do what I do.
Eventually, they lose vehemence… as heal and wellness returns. They praise their gods and go back to their whispers. Some have the grace to look ashamed for their outbursts. At least to mama, they never extend that courtesy to me.
I’ve learned to live with this ebb and flow. It’s a pattern that’s at a complete odds with what they call me. because when no one is looking, I’m exactly what they accuse me of: bruha, witch. But their fear of me clouds their judgement. They don’t see the pattern for what it is… That I go to the forest after illness comes, that infection is rare, and recovery swift. That bruha and witch are jus tother words for healer.
Home Sweet Home 