Act II: The Witch

He is the little witch boy of the town of Aster, their worst-kept secret. 

Upon her passing Mrs Jan leaves what little she had to Jinwoo, by then lanky and in his 20s. Good-looking and soft-spoken, with eyes that twinkle and deep dimples that crease around a sweet smile. The flower shop is his and for a while everything is as normal, business slow but enough. Margaret, the pig-tailed brawny girl whose twin used to hold his arms back at recess, gets married to the painter's boy and Jinwoo is content to weave decorations of peonies and roses for a week.

In the daytime he grows flowers and cleans the windows for sunlight to filter through and warm the plants, to coax them to bloom. In the late afternoons he fishes by the lake and returns just in time for a simple meal of rice and cod.

Owls hoot often in Aster, perched on trees and sometimes peering into windows, eyes wide and searching. The curious bird is the single crow that only Jinwoo knows, who caws once nightly, painful and screeching, as the bell strikes two in the morning from the square.

As hush falls over the town, Jinwoo goes not to bed but to the back of his shop where the small kitchen is, low-ceilinged and dry, where the big iron cauldron once used for floral perfumes and jams sits idly.

Here he pulls up an old stool, sanded smooth by hand and simple in make, four legs and a flat top. He places it by the cauldron out of habit, but it is rare that he sits. Instead, he bustles around the narrow room, picking sprigs of parsley from where they've been hung to dry in a corner, shreds wide, bright poppy petals. 

Sweetly, ever-so softly, like a lullaby, he sings the words from a worn leather book that sits open by the window. It glows in the silvery moonlight, thin pages etched with sprawling writing that seems to lift off into the air with Jinwoo's voice, as he stands and stirs and watches. 

As he brews liquid metal in his heavy cauldron and the kitchen fills with the fragrance of memories past, of a boy taller than him and fresh blooms, Jinwoo makes magic.

Eventually, the townspeople begin to whisper. 

Of how Jinwoo sometimes slips into his shop early at dawn, fists blackened with dirt and with a sackful of roots and plants slung over his shoulder. Last weekend, the carpenter's kids peeped into his windows and saw him separating slimy snails from their marbled shells, the creatures writhing horribly and Jinwoo's dimples crinkling as he smiled. 

Soon the word spreads; of singing, high and clear, if you care to strain and listen by the flower shop. 

Witchcraft, they say to each other in hushed tones, in line for fresh apples at the marketplace or outside the church on Sundays. Slowly, people stop buying flowers; when Jinwoo walks to the lake mothers grip their childrens' arms tighter and yank them in close.

The old schoolteacher Miss Tansy suddenly remembers how Jinwoo was always a bit touched, always asking about an imaginary friend-- a Lee something or the other, and Mrs Park who runs the candy store chimes in with a story of her own. 

Jinwoo hums his tunes and pickles fish's eyes, and puts new blinds over his windows. The racks of wrapping paper and twine are soon replaced with fresh dirt from which spring all sorts of herbs. Jinwoo still grows flowers but wildly now, as he wishes, as he needs. The shop is fully his own cottage now, worn sofa in the front with a rickety table for meals. Vines spiral all around the ceiling and blooms spring from hodge-podge patches of brown earth. There is a tall bookshelf that fills, gradually, as Jinwoo experiments and brews and scribbles down recipes.

He is the beautiful dangerous town lunatic and everyone steers clear. But Jinwoo has no need for their money, nor friendship, nor pity. He crushes daffodils and blends pine nuts and chases a world he once got a taste of, a long long time ago. The path by his home becomes overgrown and underused. 

One summer day, the mayor falls ghastly ill. Rumours of angry red boils and a cough that leaves the throat raw. 

His wife, the lovely Madame Anne, with worry etched into the fine lines of her face and in many ways braver and more pragmatic than her husband, driven to desperation at the prospect of becoming the widow of four children. She steals into the dark of night at three on a Wednesday and pushes brambles out of her way to arrive at an unlocked door.

His voice, it is as they say it is. Melodic and haunting and above all, longing, and it sends shivers down her spine. But she steels her nerves and knocks firm, loud. The singing ceases.

It has been a long time since anyone has seen him. But Jinwoo looks far more unassuming than the tales, he looks like a boy. Black hair thick and messy around the face of an angel, he wears linen pants and a cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

He looks surprised. 

How may I help you?

.

.

.

A week later, the mayor is well, rotund and full of cheer as he makes his rounds, gives his thanks. At the next ladies' prayer meeting Mrs Park will fret to Madame of a chronic headache. Tight-lipped, Madame will lean in and whisper, of the glimmering pink potion that smelled of oranges and the flask she threw into the fireplace. 

Jinwoo is the little town witch.

He is collecting moonlight when it happens. 

Margaret from the baker's comes to him weeping of an affair, of another woman fairer and younger; with a bundle of her gold rings begs him for a love potion. Some things cannot be fixed even with magic and Jinwoo returns half the rings and slips her a sleeping draught instead, so that she may at least find peace in the embrace of unconsciousness a few hours a day.

He kneels on the ground with his wide silver dish, half-full of water mixed with a spoonful of sugar. It is a Friday night by Huckle's Inn and the sound of drunken merrymaking echoes through the streets and interrupts his concentration. He shifts the dish carefully, its thin base rattles against the cobblestones as he tries to capture the full reflection of the moon. The magic is strong this time of year, the moon complete and brilliant, the sky unclouded. 

He huffs, annoyed as the noisy sounds of singing and guitar assault his ears. Normally it's quiet out when he works at night but it's someone or the other's birthday and it seems as if the whole town has crammed into the inn. He would love to be in the forest on the fringes of town or at the grassy bank by the lake, but the trees obscure the moon and he needs as much of it as he can get. 

Dish arranged as it needs to be, he leans tiredly against a wall and pulls some dried blooms from his coat pocket to weave as he waits. The noise from the inn is at least somewhat muted here and no one comes by this way anyway. It has been a long time since anyone has lived in houses 442 to 445.

The air is warm and humid this time of year and as he threads thin stems into braids, Jinwoo's fingers inadvertently get slower and clumsier as his eyelids grow heavy. His head starts to loll back lazily against the wall and his hands drop into his lap.

He's midway into the gentle lull of a warmth induced snooze when he's startled awake by an angry shout and the sound of a glass bottle shattering against the pavement. He jerks awake with a start, foot hitting against the silver dish and he curses as he leaps to steady it; only a little spills over the edge and seeps into the ground. 

Once his initial panic subsides is when he tunes in to his surroundings, ears picking up. There is the unmistakable loud smash of a beer bottle crashing to pieces, the sound if heavy footsteps half-dragging and slurred yelling. 

He perks up, wraps his coat around himself tighter and hunches into himself, closer into the wall, out of the light. Then two figures dance, mottled shadows across the streets as they approach, on figure gliding sharply backwards from another clumsier, bulkier form lunging angrily at it. Garbled shouting-- then they're in Jinwoo's line of sight.

He recognises James, the carpenter, ugly squashed face red and intoxicated, the veins on his neck standing angrily. He's cursing, slurred yelling telling someone to watch where the hell they're going--

He's speaking to a tall figure shrouded in a long, dark coat, big hood pulled over their face. Jinwoo sees a gleam of green glass, maybe a bottle of beer? He bites his lip, wondering if he should make a break for it; he certainly isn't getting the peaceful night he thought he would be.

Then the figure moves, and a gasp wrenches itself out of Jinwoo's throat before he can shove a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. Not a beer bottle at all; the green glow is coming from the tip of a sturdy wand-- he watches transfixed as the figure mumbles something unintelligible, as there is a flash of light, as James blinks, dazed, and then simply smiles mindlessly back into the Inn.

Black spots swim behind Jinwoo's eyes, he feels a wave of nausea overcome his body. This is too much, too much; for the longest time he has wondered, he has chased magic, chased a world that once slipped through his fingers--

CLANG!

His foot jerks out accidentally, hits against the silver dish and the sound resonates through the alley. The figure jumps and whirls towards Jinwoo; he's been caught.