"So it begins," the witch said softly out of the darkness behind the girl's closed eyelids as the rim of the cup touched her lips.
The draught was bitter. Bronwyn almost choked on it, but knew that spilling it or not finishing the cup would mean death or worse. She drained the horn cup and as she lowered it the world spun about her. She fell heavily against the bench, cracking her chin against the table. The old woman stooped to take the cup from Bronwyn's limp fingers, her long white braid brushing the stricken girl's face. She paused to twitch the girl's skirts straight, covering her bare legs. One of the miners made a rude comment, and the rest of the drunken crowd murmured in assent. A weanling puppy snuffled Bronwyn's ear and face, licking her lips dry of the last clinging drops. The old woman turned to the restless workers, now deprived of their sport, and raised a thin hand to point at the speaker.
"Aye, you could do that, Jacob Tanner, but would you risk it?"
"What risk is there? She's out cold, couldn't even put up a bit of a fight." He sounded a bit disappointed.
"Oh, she's not asleep at all, nor is she dead, and that's what she should have been if she weren't a witch." The woman raked them with her dark gaze. An uneasy tremor rippled through the group, very like a great beast shuddering its hide to shoo away a biting fly.
"Then get her out of my inn, Gilda Oldroot. One witch in this county is bad enough, I'll not have two in my taproom." The inn-keeper gestured curtly to two of the men to carry the girl out. The wagoneer shook his head, backing away, and the hunter eyed the apparently sleeping girl speculatively. Dressed in the wolf-skins that marked his trade, a necklace of teeth around his neck, he looked rather like he wanted to test the risk involved in bedding a witch against her will. His eyes were gold, but not the warm gold that is almost brown. They were cold yellow, a wolf's eyes, as if he peeled their souls away with their skins, and took their essence into himself even as he ate their flesh.
As he stepped forward to gather her up, another man pushed forward through the crowd, dressed in a coarse brown tunic and trousers. He carried a heavy wood axe on his back, a hunting knife at his belt. "I will take her," he said in a quiet voice. Their eyes met for only a moment, but the clash of wills was almost audible. Bronwyn heard a future moment, the bite of an axe into flesh and the tearing of teeth against sinew. The wolf hunter paused a moment and stepped aside, bowing with a sarcastic flourish.
"Indeed. Take her now. She is fond of wandering lost in the woods, so I shall have her later." Gilda Oldroot stepped aside as the woodcutter knelt to gather Bronwyn up, cradling her against his chest. The old witch gathered up her walking stick and pulled her cloak over her ancient frame. Slipping the flask of bitter drink back into her pouch, she took a shaker of salt from the table. The crowd parted before her, and she led the woodcutter from the taproom and into the night.
"I've never known you to be cruel, Dame Oldroot," the woodcutter’s voice was a pleasant rumble through his chest. Bronwyn became aware of his scent, spicy with tree sap, musky in a way that made her wish she could move closer to him.
"Bah. If I'd not offered her the cup they'd have passed her 'round til she died of it."
"She could have died of the cup," he pointed out, shifting Bronwyn higher on his chest, her head falling to lie against his shoulder, forehead against his neck.
"Better that than the other," the old woman snapped, glancing at the girl.
"How long will she sleep like this?" He ducked around a low branch.
"Who knows? A night, a hundred years, depends on her."
"Will anything wake her?"
"The usual, I'd imagine. Mix a potion made of the powdered horn of a unicorn, an apple from the tree of knowledge and follow it with True Love's kiss, that sort of thing. She'll wake on her own eventually, though, no need to go to great lengths chasing down wee beasties." He was silent for a long while, striding through the woods in the wake of the witch. It seemed that the woman moved with the sureness of youth, and Bronwyn vaguely wondered how old the witch really was.
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"We're being followed," he observed quietly, his short beard tickling Bronwyn's cheek as he turned his head, scanning the woods.
"That's the way of things," the witch said, and there was a peculiar sadness in her voice. "Here, lay the child down, this clearing will do." Bronwyn could hear the murmur of a brook nearby, and felt the cool mossy rock beneath her as the woodcutter carefully laid her down, folding her hands together over her waist. She could see a sliver of sky through her eyelashes, but nothing else but the stars twinkling there. “She'll be safe enough from most things, but the wolf is coming, and him we should defend her from, at least." Bronwyn felt the air move as the witch walked around her, heard the sandy fall of salt shaken on the fallen leaves.
Bushes rustled nearby, and a small yelp broke the silence, followed by an anxious whine. "Well, I suppose you'll do as a last resort. Watch after her, mind you, and never let her st⁷arve or go thirsty, if you're able." The witch's voice was tender, and Bronwyn felt the weight of a small and squirming thing on her thighs, and it crawled up her body until the puppy could lick her face again before settling on her chest, head heavy on her folded hands. "Girl, when you wake keep the pouch and cloak and whatever else you find. I've no time to teach you, but fate is a cruel master, and it has its hooks in you now, deep in your gut. Do as you see is right and you’ll fare reasonably well. Use the things that come to hand when they are needed. Use cobwebs and bird feathers, and bits of string and wool and soot. Use ashes and tender young leaves and wind chimes. Use stray copper coins, caterpillar silk or pretty rocks to focus your will or your sight. Bundles of herbs fashioned into dolls or animals, bits of carved wood and scraps of string. A single drop of blood or the tears of a maiden or a witch. Wildflowers, morning dew, raindrops; first snow, frost melt, wine, mead or brandy. Anything, girl, remember that. Bind it, breathe it, feel the weight of the spell and then set it free, as a gift or a sacrifice or just something set aside for the nonce. Don’t fret if you don’t have much to say; the magic will speak plenty through you, for good or for ill. Remember, though, there are things one takes along, no matter what the journey's end. Keep those with you, they will always fit in the pouch."
There came another rustle, and the old woman muttered under her breath, moving away from the rock Bronwyn was laid out upon. The woodcutter uttered a startled cry, and a vicious snarl was followed by the sound of iron on rock. The sounds of bodies colliding terrified her, the snap of jaws and the whistle of the axe through the air, all just outside her narrow field of vision. There was a red-silver flash and she saw the blade of the axe rise high before descending, and then the yellow eyes of the wolf, intent upon her as it stood over her for a brief moment, its breath hot on her face. The puppy growled a warning as a thick muscled arm came 'round the throat of the creature and hauled it off the rock while the other hand plunged a knife into one of the wicked yellow eyes. The scuffle of combat dragged on out of her sight, beast and man grunting occasionally as a blow fell or missed. All the while the witch chanted her spell, the wind rising to whip the branches on the trees above Bronwyn, clouds obscuring the few stars she could see. Something warm and wet sprinkled her jaw and lips, salty on her tongue, but she was helpless to wipe it away.
The witch finished her magic with a final cry and lightning struck so close that the hair on the girl's arms and legs stood on end. The puppy was knocked off of her and ozone hung heavily in the air.
The silence was absolute for a moment, and the girl waited, trapped in her own body, for death or salvation to reveal itself.
A dragging shuffle to her left brought with it even more fear, without even the weight of the small dog to comfort her on the cold and mossy rock. The night birds began to sing again, and the clouds boiled away as if they'd never existed. She would have shrieked aloud if she could when a cold and sticky hand touched her wrist, and then cradled her unmoving hand against a warm chest. The woodcutter bent over her, blood from a slash on his forehead dripping down his nose. He wiped at it futilely, the blood on his hands simply smearing his own blood.
"If you can hear me, lady, listen close. This wood shall be friendly to you, and the trees will give you what shelter they can if you only ask. The wolf is dead, I think, and perhaps I'm not far behind him. The witch is gone with her own spell. I have nothing more to give you that might save you. Perhaps even my own life won't be enough." He sat beside her for a moment. "I'm frequently wrong about things, so please forgive me if any of that proves untrue. Forgive me this, too. I'm not a prince, but I have watched you yet a while, and perhaps loving you simply may make up the difference in my birth." He bent over her again and kissed her lips gently. The bitterness of the draught and the coppery tang of blood sweetened under his mouth, and she felt her heart skip and then resume its beat, faster now. He sat by her, keeping watch as the moon arced overhead and passed out of her view. The sweetness filled her slowly, spreading through her flesh, thawing the core of her helplessness by mere finger-widths at a time. At length the sky grew lighter, and finally he sighed. Folding her hands together at her waist, he said "I am truly sorry. I hoped it would help. I must go now, lady. I would not die beside you and disturb your sleep with my rotting." He kissed her once again, and a tear fell from his cheek to hers, warm in the chill morning. Her eyelids sank closed completely, and the last she heard of him was the rustle of leaves as he staggered into the forest to die where he would not disturb her sleep with his rotting.