"Master, master, hello, master! Come on, wake up!"
The voice echoed faintly in Mnou's mind, as if it were buried under a pile of heavy blankets. She did her best to ignore it—the only thing she wanted right now was to sleep—but the voice stubbornly tugged at her attention. It was like an annoying mosquito buzzing in her ear.
"Just a few more minutes," she mumbled drowsily and burrowed back into the covers.
"No, we have to go home. The sheep need milking! You told me that yourself last night," the girl's voice scolded her indignantly. "Master, wake up!"
Mnou groaned in frustration and squinted against the sunlight tickling her face like blades of grass. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked. She felt awful. Her whole body was heavy like lead. Every movement took an enormous effort. After a few moments, she began to register the sharp pain pulsing in her head. It was like an entire colony of dwarves had taken up residence in her skull, all hammering anvils at once. Any sudden movement blurred her vision and made the world spin like a whirlpool. With a groan, she collapsed back into the covers and clutched her head.
"Are you alright, master?" Esme asked, genuine concern in her voice. "You probably went a little overboard last night, huh?"
Mnou answered with another moan.
"Ruth, she's not feeling well! I think she's got a hangover!"
Ruth marched into the room with a jug of water. She stopped over the groaning witch and sighed in disappointment. She poured some water into a cup and handed it to her.
"Here. Drink. It'll help." Then she turned to the girl and shot her a stern look. "And where on earth did you learn words like that?"
"Oh, here and there," Esme smiled innocently and sat on the stool beside the bed, gently stroking the suffering witch's hair.
Ruth just shook her head in disbelief and sighed. Then she focused her attention on Mnou again. Carefully, she helped her sit up and take a sip, but she ended up spilling most of it all over herself anyway.
"My head hurts," Mnou muttered, gratefully accepting another cup of water.
"We noticed," Ruth replied dryly, though she was really worried about her.
"Uh… I didn't do anything too crazy last night, did I?" the witch asked nervously, realizing she barely remembered anything from the festival.
"Nothing too bad. You just invited about half the men in the village to dance with you. I don't even want to guess how much you drank."
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by another long groan. The witch buried herself under the blankets in shame.
"But you looked like you were having a great time," Esme whispered.
"That's usually how it goes," Ruth said, straightening the blanket just as quiet, rhythmic breathing began again beneath it. Mnou had fallen asleep.
The drunkard didn't wake again until late in the afternoon. She felt significantly better. Her head was still pounding, but she was capable of functioning.
Only now did she realize Ruth had let her stay the night—and even taken her own bed. She didn't want to know the full details of Iuvefalé night. She could already imagine it involved drunken love confessions, dancing, and vomiting. The bitter aftertaste still clung to her mouth. She banished it with a warm vegetable broth Ruth had prepared. It was likely the only meal her upset stomach could handle after all it had endured. It was still rocking like a pirate ship on stormy seas.
Mnou found herself in that uniquely mortifying situation where someone kindly takes care of you after seeing you absolutely plastered. The thought alone made her stomach churn worse. She couldn't even finish the soup. Despite Ruth's gentle protests, she insisted on leaving as soon as possible. She couldn't put into words how grateful she was, but every glance at her host brought back unwelcome flashes of memory and she started blushing.
So, in the late afternoon, the witches finally headed home. Esme walked ahead, carefully holding her teacher's hand as Mnou stumbled behind her in borrowed clothes—her festive attire having been thoroughly ruined.
She felt awful. Not just physically—more than anything, she was haunted by embarrassment, from both the recent and distant past. She felt like a complete fool.
The afternoon sun lit up the remnants of the festive decorations still scattered around the village. An uneasy silence hung in the air. Only those who had managed to remain upright after the raucous night were out, cleaning up the mess.
The quiet suited Mnou just fine. She felt the cold wind gently brushing her weary face and tousling her hair. She could hear the sound of waves in the distance. But the peaceful moment was shattered by a shout:
"Mariana!"
Mnou flinched. The voice sent a shockwave through her aching skull, forcing her to stop. Her apprentice looked around curiously to find the source.
"Mariana!" came the cry again, closer this time. It was raspy and unsettling. A chill ran down Mnou's spine.
"Let's just get out of here." The witch tightened her grip on the girl's hand and picked up the pace, doing her best not to trip and fall. It's just some drunk, she told herself.
Then someone tumbled over the wall onto the road right in front of them. The figure struggled to stand and stared at them. Esme gripped Mnou's hand tightly. The witch felt the girl tremble.
A man stood before them—but something was wrong. His body was unnaturally shrivelled, his skin grey like dirty snow. He stared at them with empty eyes. Though his gaze was fixed on them, it felt like he was looking through them. His eyes were dead. He wore… a burial shroud.
Something inside Mnou clenched.
"Mariana! Is that you?" the thing shrieked and began stumbling toward them.
Instinctively, the woman raised her hand, the one that usually held her staff—but she had left it at home. Her heart pounded and her throat tightened as if icy fingers were already wrapped around it. She forced her legs to move and ran full speed back toward the village.
The man stumbled after them slowly, seemingly unable to fully control his movements. His limbs jerked, and his head lolled from side to side, all while he wailed the name "Mariana."
Mnou picked up speed, about to scream for help, when something jerked her arm sharply. Pain shot through her shoulder, and she collapsed. It took her a second to realize Esme had tripped and was now lying motionless on the path. She rushed toward the girl but quickly realized that right now she had bigger problems.
The man was getting closer. Mnou's mind raced. I can't carry Esme and run—I wouldn't make it. It looks like it's after me, but I can't leave her. I must buy time. She quickly grabbed a stone from the road, and she stepped protectively in front of the Esme's limp body.
"I… I'm not the Mariana you're looking for," she tried weakly, hoping it might have some semblance of reason left.
"Mariana, Mariana, come back to me," it croaked, ignoring her words.
"Hello?! Can anyone hear me?!" The witch realized there was no way to resolve this without a fight. "Help!" she cried, her voice breaking. She caught a glimpse of movement in windows, a door creaking open, someone shouting.
The man lunged. He grabbed at her with wrinkled hands, but she dodged just in time and slammed his hand with a stone. He shrieked in pain.
It can feel pain, she noted, but stayed alert. The adrenaline pushed back her headache. She dodged a few more swipes and struck back each time. The man now bore bruises and welts. His cries grew shaky and desperate, still calling for Mariana.
Mnou stumbled over Esme's body and lost balance for a moment. That was all it took. The creature roughly grabbed her by the hair and yanked it. Mnou couldn't see anything through the tangled mess of hair, so she swung the stone blindly around. She hit something. A wet smack echoed, and the grip around the strands of her chestnut hair loosened. She pushed her locks from her forehead and field of vision, searching for the enemy. It didn't take long to find him. He lay at her feet, twitching grotesquely. His temple was caved in, skin torn and bleeding.
Mnou's legs gave out. She dropped to her hands and knees, and her stomach lurched. She vomited.
After a moment, she dragged herself over to Esme. She turned the girl over and laid her head on her lap. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of the swollen, bruised lump on Esme's forehead. But she found a steady pulse and calmed slightly. Then came the sound of running footsteps.
"What happened?" Several villagers stared, stunned, at the horrific scene.
"What the hell took you so long!?" Mnou snapped, glaring at them.
The men apologized and offered to carry Esme when they saw the witch struggling. She gave them a quick rundown of what had happened.
"That's Dorgo," one of the villagers confirmed, face pale. "He drowned three days ago. Washed up on the beach. We buried him. I carried him to the cemetery myself."
Mnou had already suspected as much, but the confirmation still shook her to the bone. She asked about the Mariana the man had been calling for.
The villagers racked their brains, but none could link a Mariana to Dorgo. Then a voice called from behind a woven fence on the side of the road:
"Loshkar used to cry out for his wife like that at night. Called for his dead wife, Mariana. Went mad after she died."
A somber old woman leaned on the fence. She turned to leave, but Mnou called after her:
"Wait! Who was this Loshkar? What happened to him?"
"Poor Loshkar killed himself. It'll be three years now." The old woman nodded sadly and disappeared into the darkness of her little cottage.