“Good night, young Ioan,” Yaga Grandhilda’s face welcomed me in the land of dreams. “How did your first day of meditation go? Were you able to sense the Astral currents?”

“Uhhh,” I blinked, blushing ever so slightly because I spent the entire day roaming around the village, harvesting books and not actually meditating.

I cleared my throat and put on my best innocent expression. “Well, you see, Yaga, I was so focused on reaching the Astral that I accidentally meditated myself right into sleep.”

“It happens,” the witch smirked at my words. “After all, I did not expect much progress from a boy. True meditation requires a level of patience, focus and discipline which most men struggle to achieve even in their twilight years. Perhaps in a decade or two, you might manage to stay awake for an entire session and actually reach the Astral depths. Or not, on the account that boys cannot see nature spirits.” She shrugged, her eyes twinkling. “Now, did you think of what else to ask me? Or has your mind been too occupied with boyish pursuits and daydreams?”

I pursed my lips.

“You must learn to be patient,” the old witch intoned. “It takes centuries to master the art of witchcraft. The advantages of being a Yaga is that we can outlive our enemies.”

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to outlive Dragon Zarnitza then?”

“Alas, the ghastly abomination wields an excessively long life by sleeping for several decades and then devouring a village or two,” Grandhilda sighed. “It cannot be outlived as long as it has men to devour.”

“So, how immortal am I exactly?” I asked.

“You are not immortal,” Grandhilda shook her silver mane. “Plenty of witches have been slain by sword, bow and fire. We are harder to kill, but we are not invincible. Your domain can heal you if you are hurt, keep you warm even in the coldest winter months, push tiredness and hunger away, but its power isn’t limitless.”

“What exactly is witchcraft?” I asked.

“Witchcraft is a unique blend of knowledge, skill, and innate power,” she began, slowly sipping her tea. “It’s the art of harnessing the hidden energies within the natural world. A Yaga learns to tap into the forces of life and death, shaping them to achieve her goals. It’s a path of self-discovery, growth, and transformation that ultimately leads her to a deeper understanding of herself and the wild around her.”

Right. Generic question equals generic answer, not sure what I’ve expected.

I nodded, absorbing Grandhilda’s words. Then, remembering my earlier observations, I asked, “I’ve noticed that my magical earth seems to be crystallizing things. Rocks and metal flakes mostly. What exactly is happening there?”

Yaga let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “Oh, young Ioan. A witch’s job isn’t to obsess over the color of rocks or the shape of metal flakes. You’re still looking at the world with your eyes instead of your spirit.”

I frowned, already sensing where the conversation was going.

“This is precisely why I told you to meditate! You’re a boy playing with colorful pebbles when you should be reaching for the stars of the Underside of the World. The physical changes you observe are merely surface-level manifestations of far deeper spiritual transformations.”

“But isn’t understanding the nature of these changes important?” I protested. “Measuring…”

“Measuring?!” Yaga scoffed, interrupting my words. “What’s important is sensing the currents of the Astral, listening to the spirit of the wind, seeing the flow of life rushing through the roots of ancient trees, observing and communicating with spirits! Not fretting over pretty crystals like a magpie with a shiny bauble!”

Right. Don’t tell the Astral-obsessed witch about the scientific method, got it.

“A witch deals with life itself!” Yaga boomed, waving a hand at the furniture and potion-filled shelves around her grown from tree roots. “Do you honestly think that I measured these shelves or walls to craft them? Do you think that a witch uses a saw to cut wooden planks to size or chops down trees as a pitiful mortal would? My domain grew into my perfect home for me over centuries as I desired it to!”

“Fine,” I said simply. “Where do I start?”

“You’ll need specific seeds to grow specific trees,” she said.

“Where am I supposed to find specific seeds in the middle of winter?” I asked. “Or should I just wait until summer and…”

“You don’t need to search for specific seeds at all,” the old witch reassured me, shaking her head. “The land remembers all!”

“What?”

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“Every plant that ever grew and died on your domain should be within your reach through the Astral,” the witch explained. “Well... it would be if you were a girl."

"Riiiight," I nodded. "How do girls reach specific plants then?"

"Female witches simply focus their will on their desire, and their land eventually provides them with exactly what they need. Knowing, picturing exactly what you want provides better results. It will take time, so be patient.”

“How long is this going to take?” I inquired.

"Don't know," she shrugged. "For you... maybe never."

"Great," I sighed.

“Astral diving depends entirely on the Yaga's determination,” she shrugged. “For example, it took me a few decades to grow a specific pear tree on my domain that is fully immune to the white blight.”

“If you can create fruits immune to the blight, why did you not share the seeds with the villagers?” I asked.

“Such a tree could only grow in my domain, yong Ioan,” Yaga rebuffed me. “Many of the trees I cultivated would not survive a single winter outside of my garden.”

“That leads me to my next question,” I said, eyeing the organic-looking containers lining the shelves. The jars were shaped like flowers, and didn’t look like they were made from glass. “How do potions work? Did you… grow those containers?”

“Anything growing in your garden can be made into a potion,” the witch explained. “After a few decades of experimentation and selective breeding, I managed to produce a tree growing these jars for me, yes. Everything you see in my abode was produced by my garden. The land provides her witch with whatever she needs.”

“There isn’t a book or something on this?” I asked, looking around the tree-grown interior and furnishings with a sense of greater appreciation for the patience and effort it must have taken to cultivate every single item using trees.

“Nay,” the witch shook her head. “I was never taught to read and write. Garden cultivation involves a lot of trial and error, but you’ll have centuries to learn it all. Eventually, a witch gains an innate understanding of which fruits in her garden can harm or heal, which bugs are poisonous and which are good for the plants.”

I looked at the old crone that sipped tea in front of me as gears of understanding clicked in my mind.

Did witches cultivate a kind of spiritual sensitivity, a magical, microscope-like skill that permitted them to perceive beyond the chemical and biological confines of the mundane world? Maybe I could construct an ‘Astralscope’, if only I grasped the scientific principles underpinning it?

“How long did your entire house take to grow?” I asked.

“Seven hundred years,” was her reply.

“Wow,” I whistled.

“There is always a mountain beyond the mountain when it comes to spiritual understanding, ” Yaga Grandhilda intoned. “The greater insight you gain about a specific plant, the better you can manipulate its growth. If you want to summon a specific flower into your garden from beyond the veil of death, you must have a deep understanding of seeds in general, to picture a certain seed mentally with perfect, near-absolute clarity.”

“Got it,” I said.

“A wise witch needs not ever to take a single step outside of her domain,” the old crone added. “All is within her reach through the currents of the Astral.”

“Hang on. Did you not step outside of your domain to get to Svalbard?” I asked.

“Did I?” Grandhilda smirked at me, showing off her sharp, unnaturally pointy teeth.

“I… urm,” I stammered, feeling my mind careening sideways. “You poked me in the chest… that was real, right?”

“As real as this dream is,” Yaga leaned forward and tapped my hand with a sharp fingernail.

“What?” I blinked. “Did I dream of your presence in Svalbard?!”

“Not exactly,” the witch said. “That was an Astral Projection, aided by a potion brewed from blood magic and exceptionally potent dream-herbs which allow my spirit to step through the Astral to… manifest in a specific spot for a brief period to activate a hexagram woven from my magic on a boy named Ioan for example.”

“Damn,” I said. "Sounds very useful."

“If you get to become as old and wise as me,” the witch smiled. “You too might be able to project your spirit wherever you are needed. Attempt to start small. Your first task when you wake up is to feel your garden’s spirits. Meditate, breathe in and out, block out all pesky thoughts about shiny rocks and measuring things, feel the sun on your skin, become one with your glade. If you learn to sense the spiritual aspects of the wild, things will progress smoothly.”

"Big if, though, right?" I asked.

"Indeed," Grandhilda smiled at me. "You've made your bed, now you must sleep in it. You chose to swim upstream, begged me for it."

“Riiight,” I said, not feeling supremely confident about listening to the colors of the wind like some sort of Pocahontas from the American animated 90's musical. “So what if I can’t do it at all because simply I’m a boy or because I’m missing some vital ingredient from the equation required for Astral sight?”

“Oh Ioan,” the witch cackled. “Being a witch requires patience and a willingness to connect with the spiritual world. If you can’t do it because you’re a boy, well... perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to take on the mantle of a Yaga.”

I frowned.

“Magic isn’t some whimsical puzzle that could be solved with mere measurements. It’s about opening yourself to the dark Abyss beneath us all, letting go of your mortal limitations, seeing past reality," she added.

I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued before I could speak.

“Even if you turn out to be the worst witch in history, even if you'll never be able to see spirits, never dive into the Astral, it’s still better than you dying quickly as the worst sort of hero,” she smirked. “At least this way, you’re providing me with endless entertainment. Your struggles and fumbling attempts at witchcraft are far more amusing than watching you get devoured by a Jotun would have been.”

I squinted at her. She was definitely making fun of me, or perhaps challenging the scientist in me to a battle of understanding of reality.

“That’s enough for tonight, I think,” she declared, leaning back on her organic-chair. “Sweet dreams, little witch-boy. Try not to crystallize your brain with all of the thinking of rocks.”

Grandhilda’s mirth echoed in my ears as she clapped her hands, collapsing the dream.