The capital of Clothes Country was like a piece of velvet warmed by the sun; the scent of silk and fabric always lingered in the streets.
Yet within this gentle atmosphere, a legend about a Witch was entwined like a fine thorn, pricking at everyone's hearts.
No one knew her name, just as no one knew when she had first appeared in the city.
People only knew that the manor on the west side of the city, surrounded by dense thickets of brambles, was her residence.
Those thorns grew taller than a person, their sharp points shimmering with an eerie green light; even at high noon, the sunlight hitting them would be cut into fragmented shadows, exuding an indescribable gloom.
The Witch always liked to wear a long robe, its color as deep as aged ink, so thick it seemed impossible to dissolve.
The robe draped from her collar down to her ankles; even the strongest winds could not lift its hem, as if it were part of her body.
A wide hood always covered her face; only when she occasionally lowered her head to pick things up could one glimpse a sliver of her jawline through the gap—pale as a mushroom that never saw the sun, without a trace of blood.
When the people of the country spoke of her, their voices would instinctively drop, carrying an uncontrollable tremor.
The Old Woman who lived near the manor was a lady as thin and withered as a piece of dry firewood; she usually liked to sit on her doorstep.
According to her—
It was a morning thick with fog. She was carrying a basket to the vegetable patch behind her house to pick beans when, just as she rounded the fence, she saw a figure in a black robe standing by the manor's brambles.
The morning mist was as thick as milk, wrapping the figure in a blur so that only a rough outline remained, yet it exuded an indescribable chill.
The Old Woman's legs went weak with fear; she quickly crouched behind the fence, not daring to breathe loudly.
She squinted her aged eyes and peered through the mist, just in time to see the black-robed figure lower her head slightly, as if examining the dewdrops on the brambles—at that moment, the gap in the hood shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of what was inside.
"My God..."
Later, every time the Old Woman told this story, she would slap her thigh and spit on the ground.
"That's no human face! It's three times uglier than the oldest withered bark on the back mountain!"
She would stretch out her chicken-claw-like hand and gesture tremulously.
"Wrinkles! Row upon row of them, deep as if carved by a knife, crisscrossing and looking like cracked old wall plaster! The scariest part was the eyes—there were no whites or pupils, just two pitch-black holes, bottomless like two dry wells!"
At this point, she would suddenly lower her voice and lean in toward her listeners, a frightened excitement in her eyes.
"She seemed to notice something then and glanced over at me—guess what? I felt a sudden chill all over, as if something had grabbed my soul; I couldn't even move my feet! Truly! That gaze could suck a person's soul right out!"
As she spoke, she wiped away non-existent cold sweat with her sleeve, as if she were back in that misty morning, facing those "pitch-black holes" again.
These words were like dandelion seeds, swirling and scattering across the entire capital with the wind.
First, the Woman next door heard it and, clutching her chest, passed it on to the proprietress of the Silk Shop.
While measuring fabric for a customer, the proprietress whispered it to a cook buying vegetables.
When the cook went home to light the fire, she added her own embellishments while telling the guests... Within half a day, the streets and alleys of the capital were buzzing with the news.
No one looked deeper into whether the Old Woman had truly seen clearly, nor did anyone consider if her aged eyes could see accurately through such thick mist.
People simply believed it, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
The Children were so frightened they didn't even dare to cry at night.
Mothers would pat the cradles and say, "If you keep acting up, the Witch from the west side will come and put you in a sack to stew you into meat soup!"—After all, what else could someone living in such a gloomy manor and always wearing pitch-black robes be, if not a monster that eats Children?
Whenever the Witch appeared on the flagstone streets of the capital, the originally bustling market would fall silent instantly, as if a pause button had been pressed.
A peddler carrying silk loads would freeze in place, his bamboo scale pole clattering to the ground; he wouldn't even bother to pick it up as it rolled far away.
The Woman sitting on a doorstone knitting a sweater would suddenly pull her Child into her arms, clutching her knitting needles in her other hand and poking at the air haphazardly, as if driving away something invisible.
Even the meanest stray dogs in the alleys would tuck their tails and crawl into holes at the base of the walls, letting out low growls from their throats, not even daring to lift their heads.
Everyone looked at her with dread, their eyes half-curious and half-fearful, as if watching a moving shadow.
They would automatically retreat to both sides, their soles scraping against the bluestones with a "shasha" sound, clearing a straight path as if the road beneath her feet carried a chill that could not be touched by any human warmth.
But the Witch never cared about any of this.
She simply walked her own path, the edge of her black robe sweeping across the bluestones without a sound, like a ghost floating over water.
Occasionally, she would stop, her hood turning slightly, the shadow beneath the brim facing some Child hiding behind a door—most likely a Child who couldn't resist curiosity and was peeking through the crack.
At these moments, the sound of collective gasps would ripple through the air like wind blowing through torn window paper.
Timid Women would cover their mouths; some would even be so scared their legs would give way, collapsing onto the ground with a "putong," lacking even the strength to crawl back up.
And she would only let out a "gaga" chuckle; the sound was not like a human voice, but more like ice shards striking sheet metal—cold and brittle, making one's ears ache.
After laughing, she would turn away, her black robe cutting a dark arc through the air, and slowly disappear into the shadows at the end of the alley, leaving the street filled with lingering fear.
In truth, no one had ever actually seen her do anything bad.
She hadn't stolen fabric from the Silk Shop, nor had she overturned a Bakery stall; she hadn't even plucked a single wild flower by the roadside.
Yet the terrifying legends about her grew wildly like vines after rain, entangling the people of the entire capital until they could hardly breathe.
It was as if as long as her black robe appeared on a street corner, the air would turn icy and the sunlight would lose its warmth.
This city, famous for its soft fabrics, was thus pinned down by a lingering shadow cast by a black-robed Witch.
But today, the Witch did not enter the city.
Her manor was surrounded by a dense thicket of brambles; the sharp thorns that usually brandished themselves like claws were now trimmed neatly like a formal green wall, respectfully receding to both sides to reveal a well-ordered little vegetable garden inside.
The soil was tilled soft and the furrows were straight, without a single weed in sight; one could see how much heart the owner had poured into this place.
The Witch stood in the center of the garden, still wearing that unchanging black robe, the fabric as heavy as the night sky, with the edge of her hood pressed very low, almost touching her shoulders, hiding most of her face in shadow.
Only a pair of eyes was exposed—they were deep blue eyes, like sapphires sunken ten thousand meters deep in the ocean, with all light filtered out by the thick seawater, leaving only a bottomless abyss.
Her long, thick eyelashes cast light shadows on her eyelids, making her already sharp gaze seem even more severe, as if capable of piercing through every thought in a person's heart.
Beside her stood several Scarecrows, their bodies hunched, wearing old clothes picked up from somewhere, with strips of cloth swaying gently in the wind.
Strangely, the pumpkin-carved heads seemed to have two glowing glass beads embedded in them, shimmering with an eerie light in the sun like real eyes, staring unblinkingly at the activity in the garden.
The Witch held a polished wooden-handled hoe in her hand, its blade glinting coldly.
Her movements were slow but powerful; with every stroke, the hoe cut precisely into the soil. The earth, turned up with the morning dampness and the scent of decaying leaves, released a faint, fishy sweetness mixed with the fresh fragrance of plants, diffusing through the air.
Strange plants that couldn't be found elsewhere grew in the garden—some had leaves like fine silk, slippery and cool to the touch, which changed color as the sun moved, from bright green to pale yellow, then to light purple at dusk, like a breathing palette;
some flowers were like buttons for sewing clothes, crowded in clusters on the branches—pink, white, blue—exuding a rich fragrance of soap that made one feel clean just by smelling it;
and on some vines hung spindle-shaped fruits with a satin-like luster on their skins; when touched lightly, they would actually make a tinkling "ding-ding" sound, like a string of small bells.
After farming for a while, the Witch straightened up and wiped her brow with her sleeve (though no one could see if she was sweating).
She walked to a corner of the garden where a patch of Lettuce was growing; the leaves were so green they looked like they could drip water, and the stalks were plump with a healthy light purple tint, growing exceptionally vibrantly.
She bent down and carefully picked several, her movements gentle, unlike the Child-eating Witch of legend.
"It's time to let my daughter eat some Lettuce."
She spoke, her voice still carrying its usual severity, like water flowing beneath ice, yet faintly tinged with an undetectable tenderness.
"This is a good thing for longevity."
She placed the Lettuce into a bamboo basket and continued talking to herself, her tone gaining a hint of melancholy.
"My daughter has grown up, she really has... she's not listening anymore."
She stroked a Lettuce leaf with her rough fingers.
"She's not as well-behaved as before, when she believed everything I said. Now, she's learned to brush me off; when I ask her something, her eyes are always wandering..."
At this point, she paused, her breathing beneath the hood seeming a bit heavier, as if she were sighing.
But before that melancholy could spread, she suddenly stopped speaking, her tone returning to its previous severity as if she were giving an order to the air.
"My servants, watch over my manor. Don't let thieves steal my things."
As soon as she finished speaking, rustling sounds immediately erupted all around, like countless stalks of dry hay rubbing together, or like countless mouths whispering at once.
"By your command, my master."
Those Scarecrows that had been standing by the garden suddenly moved.
Their hunched bodies slowly straightened, their pumpkin heads turned slightly, and their glowing glass eyes scanned the surroundings.
Then, they stepped out on legs made of branches, limping as they scattered; some went toward the manor gate, some patrolled along the brambles, and others stood guard at the edge of the garden, like a group of loyal sentries, vigilantly watching every shadow that might intrude.
The Witch watched the Scarecrows limp away, their glass eyes flashing with vigilance in the sunlight. She stared silently for a brief moment; the gaze beneath her hood seemed to soften slightly, yet also seemed as if nothing had changed.
Afterward, she turned around, carrying the bamboo basket to the other end of the garden. She picked some berries as red as agate, purple eggplants, and several heads of Lettuce with thick leaves. She filled the basket halfway before carrying it and slowly walking out of the manor.
The brambles automatically closed behind her, their thorns rising again, returning to their unapproachable state.
Not long after leaving the manor, having walked about a hundred paces along the dirt road marked with shallow wheel ruts, she heard a "creak-creak" sound.
Looking up, she saw a Scarecrow driving a simple carriage toward her.
The carriage was made of elm wood, with iron-clad wheels that made a piercing grinding sound as they rolled.
Pulling the carriage were not horses, but two "horses" made of dry hay, with faded red silk ribbons tied around their necks.
The Scarecrow driving wore a tattered leather jacket and a crooked old hat on its pumpkin head; it gripped the reins, its glass eyes staring straight ahead, looking somewhat respectable.
"Master."
The Scarecrow spoke, its voice like sandpaper rubbing against wood, carrying the coarseness of dry hay.
The Witch didn't say anything; she just carried her bamboo basket and bent down to board the carriage.
The carriage was lined with a thick piece of linen, which was relatively clean.
After sitting down, she placed the basket beside her; the hem of her black robe spread out, covering most of the carriage floor.
"Let's go," she said flatly.
The Scarecrow grunted in response and shook the reins; those two Hay Horses actually started moving their hooves, pulling the carriage forward.
The wheels rolled over the dirt road, kicking up fine dust; the "creaking" sound was exceptionally clear in the quiet countryside.
As the carriage traveled slowly, moving further from the manor, the surroundings gradually became livelier.
First, a few scattered log cabins appeared, their roofs covered in thatch, with wisps of blue smoke rising from the chimneys.
A dark-skinned Farmer was leading an ox to plow the field; the ox's hooves stepped into the moist soil with a "puji" sound, and the plowshare cut through the ground, turning up waves of deep brown earth.
The Farmer looked up instinctively as the carriage approached; when he saw the black-robed figure inside, his face turned pale. He quickly lowered his head and pulled the ox toward the side of the road, even softening his breathing.
Further ahead, a small clearing appeared by the roadside where several Children in coarse cloth clothes were playing.
They circled an old locust tree, chasing and playing, their laughter as crisp as silver bells.
A little girl with braids was holding a dandelion, puffing out her cheeks to blow away the white fluff, watching it drift into the distance.
"Look! It's that..."
A little boy pointed at the carriage, but before he could finish, his companion covered his mouth.
The Children fell silent instantly, each shrinking back and hiding behind the tree, only daring to peek with half an eye.
There was curiosity in their eyes, but even more fear, as if they were seeing something they shouldn't.
The Witch sat in the carriage, seemingly oblivious to all of this.
She just tilted her head slightly, looking at the fields and houses passing by outside the window; the busy figures and playing children were reflected in the blue eyes beneath her hood, yet no emotion could be seen.
Only the Lettuce leaves in the basket swayed gently with the carriage's motion, showing a vibrant green.
The carriage continued forward, heading toward the distant forest.
The wheel rolled over a protruding stone, and the carriage jolted suddenly; the Lettuce leaves in the basket shook, and a few pale yellow leaves fell onto the linen.
The Witch instinctively steadied the basket beside her, then, as if casting off some heavy shackle, she slowly raised her hand and pushed back the hood on her head.
The moment the hood slipped off, the face she had hidden beneath was revealed.
It was a typical Witch's face—skin like aged parchment, covered in fine wrinkles that spread from her forehead down to her jaw, every line seeming to hide the frost and wind of years.
The bridge of her nose was high but somewhat crooked, as if it had been struck by something; the tip of her nose was slightly red, with an unnatural swelling.
Her lips were very thin, a pale bluish-purple color, pulling into several deep folds when pursed, as if she were trying hard to suppress something.
Her hair was grayish-white, like a messy clump of withered grass, draped casually over her shoulders, with a few strands stuck in the wrinkles on her forehead, clinging to dust or perhaps bits of grass.
Her ears were small, but their contours were very pointed, the tips curving slightly upward, exuding a hint of non-human eeriness.
This face indeed fit all the imaginings people had of a Witch—aged, strange, and carrying a gloom that was out of place in the secular world.
If it were revealed in the market, it would likely frighten the children into crying on the spot.