I decided to gather my tonic ingredients that very night. I know it’s not, strictly speaking, illegal to go foraging in the forest — I mean, I think I know — but there was no need to draw any unwanted attention to myself.

I kept thinking about Iffan’s situation. True, he’d been allowed to set up and run his shop here, but the powers that be were definitely quick to execute him when they got the chance. I’m guessing they were just waiting for the opportunity. They’d probably had it in for him for a long time, and just needed him to slip up. Last week’s Mel might have thought that paranoia, but last week’s Mel hadn’t met the good people of Magalat.

Although I’m pretty sure they knew what I was up to, I waited until Alicia and Mirra were asleep before I left. Arguably what I was doing wasn’t the height of prudence. I didn’t need them explaining that to me for a full turn before I went ahead and did it anyway. It sounds like defiance when I frame it like that, but, honestly, I’d just made up my mind that this was something that needed to be done: the citizens need hair tonic, dang it. Oh, yeah, and we need money.

I inched the chair-lock out from under the handle — I really did need to get that fixed — and took a deep breath. Every time I set foot out the door it felt like I were jumping out of a tree. I wondered if I’d ever get used to city life.

Outside, the street was quiet. The air was cool, with a southerly breeze that had an edge to it but wasn’t up to the task of cutting through my cloak. I could smell rain was coming. Sometime in the early morning, if my estimation was correct; I should have long enough to get what I needed and get back before then. Reading the weather is a farming staple, but I couldn’t help but feel I had a better intuitive sense of what that halo of light around the moon heralded. My list of quirks was growing quickly. Hopefully none of them would be more blatant that chicken whispering.

“Okay, Mel, let’s do this,” I said to myself.

“What are we doing?” Clive said.

“Anvil! Would you stop doing that?”

“It’s not my fault you humans never look down,” he grumbled. “Where are we going?”

“We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going foraging.” I set off at a pace I knew he’d struggle to match.

“I’m a chicken who has been stuck indoors for days. If you’re going foraging, then I’m coming with you. A house is no place for a rooster; we’re not exactly domestic birds,” he said, and I think it might have been proudly.

“Are you kidding? Chickens are the most widely domesticated animal on the continent.”

“Says who? We don’t groom ourselves on your lap, do we? Pompous, spoilt cats.” There was some real animosity there.

“You live in our gardens and get fed. It’s the same thing.”

“Do I come when you call?” The chicken was getting breathy — not something I knew could happen — as he sprinted to keep up. “Can you command me to sit?”

“Do you hunt? Do you grow food?” I countered.

“Listen, if you found a tree that dropped big juicy apples all round, you wouldn’t wander too far from it either. That’s what you are to us, Mel; you’re big, noisy apple trees.”

Unbelievable. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“I can’t believe we haven’t had it sooner! If I’d known you had it so wrong, I would have set the record straight ages ago.”

“Quit talking, you’re going to get me arrested.”

“What a pity that would be.”

Luckily, Clive did quit his grousing. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it that night, or maybe it was taking all his limited lung capacity to keep up with my long strides.

Even more fortunately, we didn’t encounter too many people. Those we did barely noticed us, which was a blessing. With my bow slung over my back, a hood over my face and a chicken in tow, I must look a tad eccentric.

I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, as the way out of town took me through a district I didn’t recognise. The buildings here were largely two-storey. They were also wooden, but the planks were unpainted and untreated. I could see the wood warping at the base and around the eaves where rain and damp had taken their toll. It was a shabby place, with patchy thatch rooves rather than wood or tiles. Nothing looked built to last. From what I saw of the people, both residence and resident looked to have overstayed their welcome.

The first public house I passed actually brightened my mood. It didn’t look like the Rut, but it cast the same warm yellow light in irregular rectangles on the street outside. It was a little noisier than I normally like the Rut to be, but right now the idea of being surrounded by happy, chirpy strangers was weirdly appealing. I slowed my pace as I passed, drinking in the sounds of revelry.

I think I got lucky with that first pub, because it was a different picture at the next. Here the noise was not the harmonic buzz of friendly chatter; it was shouting, swearing, and visceral threats.

As I walked further into the wonky, melancholic district, the shouts evolved into screams, the swearing became the most heinous cursing, and threats developed into fights. I didn’t know if the neighbourhood was to blame, or the hour, but I resolved not to come back this way. After a group of greasy, unshaven men jeered at me from behind their tankards and pipes, I practically jogged the rest of the way out of Magalat.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The surrounding towns and villages were much quieter. There was enough country to these suburban sorts that I mostly felt safe. That’s not to say I didn’t draw looks I’d rather not puzzle out the meaning of. I felt vulnerable and exposed in a way I never had in Braxus. I hadn’t even felt this kind of unease in the wilderness.

It took a lot longer to get out of Magalat than I’d bargained for. Even though I’d only passed through a handful of days ago, I just couldn’t quite grasp the scale of the place. I’d forgotten as well that there was no farewell to civilization at the last house, like in Braxus; the Houmach forest didn’t start like a hairline, it intensified, like a bruise.

“What are we looking for?” Clive asked, as I nosed around the base of a tree — I remembered seeing the herb grow in patches under a species with grey bark, but I couldn’t remember if it was a birch or an anjar.

“Luxenbraid, carbleweed, and ink berries,” I said more for my benefit than his.

“Sounds like a fool’s errand; can’t see a thing out here.”

“Really? I can see just fine.”

“Sure, if the aim is to find black blobs, then me too.”

I did a quick three-sixty. “I can see really fine, actually.”

Clive was making some comment about me rubbing it in, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking for the moon. I found it with difficulty: a sliver, obscured by a tangle of branches.

“It’s almost like daylight,” I marvelled. “Not broad daylight, maybe, but a winter’s afternoon, for sure.”

“I hope you’re prepared to carry me back, then. I could lose my own wings in this darkness.”

I have to admit, it was hard not to brim a little with this discovery. Being a druid was a constant source of anxiety for me. It was nice that it was finally giving something back.

It might just have been adrenaline, but I also felt kind of great. I could smell, I could see, I could hear, I was barely winded after the long walk. I’d been up for hours, yet I felt like I’d had a great night’s sleep.

Huh, no wonder Iffan always looked so cheerful.

“You found it yet?”

Then again, Iffan wasn’t haunted by Clive. “Not yet. I don’t think this is the right spot.”

“Then, why are we here?”

Anvil, he could be a pain. “Alright, let’s keep moving.”

If what I’d seen before had been luxenbraid, then I’d no doubt find it fairly close to the road. We never wandered too far from the path, not even when we made camp. On that logic, I struck out to the north-east, and prayed my internal compass was calibrated.

As it turned out, we didn’t make it as far as the road. I stumbled upon a patch of the prickly, hair-like plant — it was under a birch — before Clive had even started to grumble again. It was definitely the same plant I’d seen on the way to Magalat, but was it luxenbraid. I pulled out Iffan’s drawing and compared the two.

I was surprised to find I was a mixture of nervous and excited as I matched the red hues of the flowers to Iffan’s sketch. They looked spot on. The general shape and look of it also matched, and it was definitely prickly.

“I think this is it,” I said to Clive.

There was one more test to do, this one foolproof.

I took a tiny petal and crumbled it between my fingers. Immediately I was struck by the distinctive and none-too-pleasant aroma of rotten eggs.

“This is it! This is it!” I’ve never been happier to get a whiff of pungent rotten egg.

“Brilliant. We done then?”

“What?” How could he not be excited. “No, no, this is just one of the ingredients.”

“Ugh. I should never have let you talk me into coming.”

The luxenbraid would no doubt be the easiest to find, given that I’d kind of already found it before, but I was determined to complete the set. I got so excited that this time I actually did break into a jog. I pranced through that forest like a fawn. Who knew foraging could be fun?

To be fair, the whole thing would have been a lot less fun if I didn’t have Iffan’s notes. I can imagine the whole experience being a bit dull if you don’t know what you’re looking for or where to look. True to form, though, my uncle had furnished me with detailed instructions on how to find exactly what I needed. Mix this with a little bit of country knowhow — and probably a dash of druidic magic — and I was a herb hunter to be reckoned with.

The carbleweed was described as growing around pools and ponds of standing water. It might not have been the most scientific approach, but I sussed out its location by running around like a crazy person until I found patches of squishy mud. The softer earth usually wasn’t too far from some sort of glorified puddle, and on the fourth such attempt, one of those puddles handed me a bunch of carbleweed.

The carbleweed grew in long proud stems, with a little knot at the top where it started to grow too heavy for itself. Iffan’s foolproof test for this one was that it tasted like uncooked mushroom. Sure enough, I had my second ingredient.

The inkberries took the longest to find, but, fair enough, that was on me. I’d only half read the description and then decided just to go off the picture. This meant that I spent two turns looking at ground level for a berry that actually grows in trees. I’m only half mad at myself, though, because who expects a bush to be in a tree? The berries didn’t grow on trees, the actual bushes did! They hung over outstretched branches like a thick moustache. It was as weird as the Glade, but at least there was no doubt as to what it was.

True light was bleeding over the horizon when I popped the last little berry into my pouch.

“A job well done,” I said. I knew I would have found my own enthusiasm annoying on someone else, but I couldn’t help it.

“Good! Can we take a rest now?” Clive plonked himself on the spot emphatically.

“I guess we have been at it a while. Perhaps we should take a rest.” I was feeling it now as well. I guess that answered the question about adrenaline.

“Just a few hours of sleep. Really could do with some sleep,” Clive said, around a close approximation of a yawn.

“Yes, that’s right. Stay,” a voice said.

“What was that?”

“Wha’s what?” Clive mumbled through his beak.

“Just have a little rest. You’ve been working all through the night.” The voice was a jumble of sounds. It was vaguely shrill, with a nasal quality but, crucially, the words creaked and groaned into one another, like the popping of old joints.

“Who—”

I didn’t finish my question. Other voices were speaking over me.

“Hungry.”

“Early.”

“Tired.”

“Food.”

“Feast.”

“Stay.”

“Work.”

“Feed.”

“Stay.”

“Stay.”

“Stay.”

It was happening again.

Bugs, birds, beasts, their words swamped me. I could hear the worms crawling beneath my feet, I could hear the midges, swarming above my head. Only this time, some of them were talking to me.

“Yes, Mel, stay. You’ll like it here, I promise,” the first voice spoke again.

The light splashing the sky wasn’t a soft pink, or shepherd’s red; it was yellow. It was a dull, rancid yellow. Like pollen.

“Clive, we have to go.”

“What? We’ve been awake for hours.”

“We have to go!”

The rooster was startled by that. He got to his feet instantly, alert to the danger he could hear in my voice.

“Best you carry me,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

I could have kissed that silly chicken then.

I scooped Clive in my arms, and I ran. After a day and a night of work, I still ran. I pushed with everything my limbs could give me.

The soft young girl from the country, running to the safety of the cold, hard city.