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She ran.
She ran as fast as her body allowed. Back to the hut. She only stopped when she arrived, panting, at the door. The only thing on her mind was that the Hag would read her thoughts. She’d know what Val heard. She’d punish her. She would punish her so severely that Val was not sure if this would be the day she died. She’d come so close before, writhing on the ground wishing for it to take her - to relieve her finally once and for all.
But death never came. Perhaps it, too, was not allowed to cross the border of the meadow.
Before opening the door, Val had begun reciting all her daily thoughts.
Focus, think of nothing else. The frogs, the trees, the birds, the garden. Baking bread and the cool water of the well, even on hot summer days. The broom, the mop, the cot. The nightshirt that had worn and deteriorated into pathetic rags. The boulders along the path, the fence that threatened to fall into ruin any day now. Her world.
She walked into the cottage and was met with the Hag, her arms crossed and scowling.
“Lazy wretch! The night has fallen, and you’ve yet to…” the old woman paused, her nostrils flaring. She seemed to consider the girl momentarily, but then her anger returned, “You’ve not even cooked dinner! Achy bones, I waste away, and you, with your idle hands, play in the garden night and day!”
Val’s head hung low. Frogs, trees, birds, the bog.
“I’m sorry, Grandmother, I am a lazy wretch.”
The crone seemed to relax. The past days had sated her need to torture the girl. The miserable creature might very well die if she continued.
“Sit, sit, my love.” The crone now uttered softly, “Your tired feet and blistered hands, now that won’t do. Sit, sit, I’ll work my fingers to the bone and slave away for you.”
Val became much more nervous than before but obeyed. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins and to her face as she sat stiffly—Garden, well, the bucket, the hut.
The Hag fussed and cooked, and before Val appeared a banquet that made her eyes grow wide: jams, bread, and cuts of pig. There were berries and jellied fish. She ate hungrily, nearly forgetting to breathe. She ate until her stomach ached so much she did not think she could stand up - and then she ate some more.
“Now sleep, child, you deserve some rest you’ve been on your feet all day - hush and in the pillowed covers you will lay.” The old woman took her by the hand. Val felt the force of the Hag’s pull, and gritting her teeth through her stomach pain, she slid out of her chair. To her surprise, her cot, normally a mattress filled with straw, was now adorned with feather pillows and a covering so soft that Val thought it must be made of silk.
She first sat, then lowered herself down and was immediately asleep.
Val woke in the night, her head spinning and pulsing, muscles aching, and thirst consuming her very being. Her stomach hurt as if someone had skewered her with a blade. She lost no time and dashed for the door - out into the night and around the hut - past the garden, where she nearly collapsed in the grasses. Her bowels emptied, leaving her in pain. She tried to hold back tears, but her body suffered the effects of her malnourishment. She looked up to find the Hag standing far off, a smile on her face. Then, she disappeared back into the hut.
It’d been two days.
Mop, cot, well. Garden, shovel, cauldron on the stove.
She did not allow thoughts to stray even when she was nowhere near the Hag. But now, she waited by the well until she heard the whispers in the trees. They’d been illegible until the third night came.
“Burnnnnnn, giiiiiiiiirl…”
“Be freeeeeee…”
“Burn the gifttt…”
“Take to the piiiiiiiiiit……”
“Come with uuuuuuuuuuuuus…”
“Your naaaaaaaaame giiirl…”
“Three moreeeee…”
“Three more daaaaays…”
“We waaaaaaaaait…”
So she’d not dreamt it after all. In her sleepless delirium, she’d not imagined the chorts speaking to her. She took the metal bucket and banged it on the stones, scaring the chorts off into the woods. She could not risk the Hag hearing their whispers.
Stolen story; please report.
That night Val lay restless. She’d ensured that the Hag had gone to sleep before her mind drew to the words from the darkness. A gift. A gift the Hag had given her when she first came?
The clearing, the gathering pit. The dance as the effigy she could not recognize burned. What gift? What has the Hag given her besides the food she ate and the cot she slept on? The broom with which to sweep? That seemed absurd. Not that the rest of it was not bizarre.
She’d gone to sleep with her thoughts troubled and running wild.
The next morning, she got up to start her work. As her night shirt dropped to the ground, and she’d begun to button up her dress, her hands grew cold, and she stopped on a red button just below the nape of her neck.
The dress.
Once red and white, so beautiful it took her breath away - now stained with soot and ripped along the hem. The golden stitching had ripped off, caught on the bushes and the weeds. Produced out of the chest the first day she’d awoken in the Hag’s care. Along with it was a shawl that had not been worn as Val had hidden it under the cot - tied up in it the very few belongings she could say she owned.
She shut her eyes tight, forcing the thoughts out of her mind.
Frogs, the garden, the shrubs. The chickadees and sparrows in the trees.
Now, Val had never been a brave girl. But as the next night came and the crone had gone to sleep, Val could not help but feel her fingers itch. Were this a game, or if she would be caught - or worse yet, if there was no merit to the chort’s words - she would surely die. Or, more appalling of a thought - the Hag would find a way to punish her through methods worse than death.
Two nights were left.
She’d gone back and forth, initially convincing herself that there was no certainty or evidence about the claims that promised her a way out. But then again, how many times had she wished for death now? Would this be any worse than at her own hand?
The night had come and gone.
There was only one left.
It’d been an especially cold one, although Val could not recall a winter breeze a single day in her time there. She’d left the stove to burn down to glowing coals and finished up her chores for the evening. The Hag rattled off her nonsense and went to bed, twisted in her blankets and shawls.
Val lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of the cottage. She had let her thoughts rest on the hut itself. What a strange thing it was. Alive and breathing, yet here it stood, never moving or speaking - could it even speak? It housed them, and here, she hung dried herbs and weeds around the roof and above the door daily. She never knew the purpose.
The stove, built into the walls, burned fire and cooled coals. She wondered - did that hurt the hut? Was it an accomplice to the Hag or a prisoner like Val? It had no windows. You could not see beyond its walls. She thought perhaps this meant that it was blind.
She pondered on it until she heard the steady snores of the old crone. She felt her heart bother, and soon, it was as if it would burst out of her chest.
She had no strength all of a sudden. No will to move.
But, in a moment of rare courage, she swung her legs off the cot and softly onto the creaky boards of the floor. She was so careful in her movements. Her mind went completely blank, caught in the rush; she pulled the bundle from underneath her bed. Then, the dress from atop a chair where it had been draped. All the while, she listened for Hag’s breathing and any stirs.
She grabbed a metal bowl where she had mixed up the dough for daily bread - she filled it with coals from the stove. Tip-toeing to the door and grabbing the lantern, she quietly stepped outside.
And then she ran.
A coal fell out of the bowl - burning a hole and scorching her leg. She yelped under her breath but did not slow down. There was no turning back.
She’d been slowed down by the overgrown grasses and weeds on her way to the gathering pit, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered but the tall wooden pole ahead, charred almost up to the top. She almost fell as her feet hit the dirt inside the circle. Her heart beating out of her chest, she dropped all she had brought at the base of it - holding the lantern above her head.
“Please,” she thought, “Please, gods, do not fail me…”
She’d quickly gathered as many dry branches as possible - there were plenty here since no one cared for this part of the meadow. She stacked them at the base, throwing her dress and shawl on top. Val poured the oil from the lamp and the red coals she had on them.
The fire had ignited almost instantly. She watched it in disbelief. This felt surreal, almost as if she’d dreamt it up.
A scream, almost animal-like, pierced the cold night air. Guttural, inhuman. It burst through the Glade. As it hit Val, she had to turn her face away as it carried dirt and sticks, and small particles of sharp stones. The fire flickered to one side but did not go out. Again, the wails came - and to her horror, they’d come from somewhere closer than the hut. And that was when Val ran.
She took off, no longer feeling her legs. She felt nothing but her heart beating and the cold whipping her face. The gathering pit had been near the tree line, only a short walk away on a good day. But now, the plants clung to her legs. The uneven ground slowed her - threatening to snap her ankle at every step.
The shrieking got closer to her - a moment too long, and it would catch her. It was angry, but more than that - it was vengeful. And it turned shrill as it came near.
Only a few steps more.
And that’s when she felt hands clutch violently at her shirt. They pierced the back of it and tore right through her skin, trying to take hold. Another swipe was at her legs, where they had clawed, drawing blood. They got a hold of the remaining fabric as Val scrambled to get up.
“Do not look back!” a man’s voice boomed from just ahead. She could hear heavy footsteps running toward her.
For a split second, she’d lost hope.
And then her nightgown ripped - leaving the claws holding the remains, swiping at empty air behind her - barely missing.
Val closed her eyes, expecting to disappear into the certain death of leaving the Glade. Instead, she fell forward, grabbing onto the roots of the closest tree - her body slamming against pebbles and muddy foliage. She was in the forest.
At that same moment, the Hag’s foot had stepped over the boundary after her, and instead, she met the forceful swing of Marat’s steel - her head flying clear off and landing at Val’s feet.
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