2) Moss

When she woke it was to the desperate washcloth tongue of the puppy, who had somehow climbed back up on her rock. She pushed his face away from hers, rolling to one side stiffly, chin and back sore with the bruises she'd earned at the inn. The clearing was pretty enough, sweet ferns growing on the edges of the brushline and the banks of the tiny brook. The thick feathery grass of the meadow was torn and stained with dried blood, though no bodies remained to tell the end of the tale. Looking around she saw the moss stained dark beside her, as if someone had bled quite a lot while sitting there.

Hazily, she remembered the woodcutter, and the wolf hunter's sour yellow eyes. An ancient boulder stood to her left, almost hidden by the trees. She saw that it had been blasted asunder by lightning, and a faint trickle of water wept from the split, cupped to pool just a bit, and then flowed down to join the brook.

Almost crazed with thirst, Bronwyn stood unsteadily, taking stock of herself as she staggered to the little pool. Her bodice was ripped, and the sleeve of her blouse, and a slit had been cut high in her skirt, so that only her heavy cotton petticoats kept her decent. She put the filthy men who'd done that out of her mind, lest the terror rise again, the terror that had led her to take the witch's bargain. Her bottom and arms and breasts would be sore for quite some time from the pinches of hard eager hands.

Dried blood smeared across her fingers and wrist, and she remembered the woodcutter again, holding her hand and keeping watch before crawling off to die alone. She choked back tears as she went to the water trickling from the cleft in the boulder, bending only a little to wash her hands and face. The water was uncommonly sweet, a sweetness that reminded her of a dream she'd had, deep in the throes of the witch's potion. She couldn't remember the dream, exactly, and with a start she realized she could remember little else before the tavern, only her name and a lingering echo of anger and pain. She was distracted from her panic by the puppy, a black and brindle spotted thing, scrambling up to get at the water. To his delight, she bent to pick him up to the edge of the rock where he'd be best able to get at the clear stuff pooling in the shallow basin. He was heavier than he looked, and his paws showed that he'd be a medium sized creature, even if his legs were ridiculously short and his back comically long.

When they'd both had their fill, she turned away from the rock and looked more closely at the torn turf of the clearing. She found the woodcutter's wicked knife, covered to the hilt in dried blood. Turning it gingerly in her hands, she remembered seeing the knife plunge into the wolf's eye. She tried to wipe the blood away with the corner of her skirt, and finally gave up. It would take water and strong lye soap, perhaps even sand to get the blood off of it. The woodcutter's axe was nowhere to be found, but she came upon the witch's pouch and heavy cloak on the ground to the lee side of the rock. The flask with the bitter drink had come uncorked, and had spilled dry upon the ground. There was little else in the pouch, a few coppers, a needle, a spoon and a packet of herbs. She put all of the things on the rock before her; the pouch, the flask the knife and the trinkets and odd things from the bag, and considered them carefully. The puppy nosed through her arm and she petted him absently.

"Well, we can't very well stay here," she said finally, gathering the bits up and putting them in the pouch along with a bit of the red stained moss. She tied it on and thrust the blade through the thong of the pouch, topping it all with the cloak. "Wherever that is." She squinted up at the sun; it was almost midday. Walking around the edges of the clearing one last time, she looked for any sign of the woodcutter or the witch or the wolf. Failing to find trace or track of any of them, she slowly gave in to the urge to simply flee, to walk away from this place and never return, or perhaps only to return after a long while. She filled the flask with water from the lightning scorched rock and finally went to the center of the clearing. With a deep breath, she turned round in a circle, closing her eyes. Her arm raised on its own to point outwards. After a moment, when the direction felt just right, like the weight of a sunbeam falling on her face after the cold night, she stopped and opened her eyes. The forest before her was no more dark or mysterious than it was behind her or to either side. With a shrug she started forward, the little dog following close behind.

3) Chimes

There was no trail at first, but she found that many of the bushes she pushed through bore berries as well as thorns, and when she recognized the fruit she didn't hesitate to eat her fill and put more away in her pockets and the witch's pouch. When she grew tired in the early afternoon, it wasn't long after that she found another tiny spring trickled down into a little pond, the water splashing against a few rocks. Shadowy shapes moved in the cool depths of the water. The puppy bounded off into the underbrush, ignoring Bronwyn when she called to him.

She knelt next to the pool and drank deep, plunging her hands and face as deep as she could. She tried to wash away the memory of blood on her skin, but only succeeded in soaking herself to the shoulders, her dark hair streaming like water weeds over her face and breasts. She tried to pull the bodice closed again but the abused fabric simply gave up. A split in the back that she didn't remember parted all the way to her hips.

Suddenly it was all too much, and she buried her face in the torn bodice and wept, great harsh sobs of frustration and fear and the shock of it all.

"Excuse me, but why are you crying?" A small voice said from across the chiming water. Bronwyn looked up, wary. A young girl stood there, warmly dressed with a golden ball held forgotten in one hand. Bronwyn felt a tentative pull, rather like the tug that led her into the woods. The girl's light brown hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and there was fine embroidery on the edges of her cloak and the hem of her skirts. The puppy plowed through the stream to reach her.

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"I am lost, and my dress is torn, and I'm very hungry," Bronwyn replied honestly, startled by her answer.

"Oh," the girl considered that gravely. "If I bring you something to eat, would you grant me a wish?"

Bronwyn was startled. "I don't think I can grant wishes," she replied.

"Is it against the rules?" The younger girl shuffled her feet a little. "See, my brother told me all about nixies, and he said they can grant wishes and answer questions, or do amazing things if you trade with them."

"But I'm not-"

"I'll give you my golden ball, and bring you bread," the girl wheedled. The puppy wiggled his way into Bronwyn's lap, his stomach growling. He licked his mistress's face, and the unseen pull strengthened. Bronwyn looked more closely at the girl, and was moved by the dark circles under her eyes, and cautioned by an edge of self-satisfied expectation in the girl's smirk.

"Keep your ball, but bring me a crust of bread for my dog and I'll answer one question." Bronwyn was astonished again by her answer, but the girl squealed with delight and ran off before she could speak again. Bronwyn felt no compulsion to follow, and a bone deep weariness kept her on the bank.

The puppy bounded out of Bronwyn's lap once again and set himself to chasing the dark shapes moving in the pool. After a few minutes of awkward paddling, he came to her with a fat frog, green skinned with brilliant coppery eyes and a starburst like a crown on his head. The young dog presented it to his mistress proudly and she accepted it graciously. Her hands tingled as she held the frog, a whisper of the compulsion pressing against her mind like an almost forgotten task. The creature was unharmed, so she gently set it on a log out of the puppy's reach.

The dog resumed his hunt. Heralded by a great deal of sloshing in the cold water, he emerged with an elegant dappled fish, spotted with gold and black along its silvered length. She dispatched it quickly with the woodsman's knife, and gave the puppy the guts and half of the fleshy length. Not wanting to eat her half of the fish raw, she started gathering kindling wood from the underbrush on the bank of the pond. The frog stayed on its log, watching her steadily with bland amphibian patience.

Bronwyn had gathered enough wood for a small cook fire and was looking through the pouch for flint when the girl returned with a covered basket.

"I brought you food and an old smock, is that worth two questions?" she demanded, her cheeks flushed with the cold. She pulled back the lid of the basket to reveal bread and cheese and sausages, the smock folded beside them.

"You may ask, certainly," Bronwyn replied.

"Will I marry a prince?" the girl asked.

Taking in the fineness of her clothes but her lack of an attendant, Bronwyn judged that the girl's family might be moderately wealthy, perhaps even poor gentry. Her gaze was drawn again to the frog. "You must never be fooled by appearances. If this frog is a prince, he will surely marry you."

The girl pouted. "That's no answer. How can a frog be a prince?"

"Perhaps a witch put him under a spell," Bronwyn pulled out the smock and quickly shed her tattered dress and tied on the new one.

The girl cautiously approached the frog while Bronwyn ate the bread and sausages and cheese, sharing some with the puppy and giving him the remainder of the fish. Speaking to it in girlish sing-song phrases, the girl praised its fine green skin and the handsome crown on its brow, telling it silly stories about her family and the people of her village. She looked dubious at first, and more disenchanted as the one-sided conversation progressed with the afternoon. Finally, she sighed, exasperated.

"Some nixie you are." The girl picked up the frog, brandishing it at Bronwyn, who'd wrapped herself close with the witch's cloak and sat resting in the cool leaves at the forest edge of the bank. "You said this frog was a prince, but he's just a toad." In a sudden fit of temper, she flung the hapless frog against the bank. Instead of a squishy thud, there was a crack of thunder and flash of light, and when Bronwyn had blinked the spots from her eyes, a young man lay before them, naked but for a crown of gold and emeralds around his brow.

Bronwyn stood, released by the hold that had kept her in that place, and the puppy led her back into the woods before the young girl or the prince recovered enough to look anything more than stunned.

They found the road, and as late afternoon began to fade into evening, she heard silvery chimes. She heard the heavy tread of ox hooves on the dirt and bells ringing. They stood to the side, peering at the bend ahead in the road. The tinker’s wagon was tall and brightly painted, hung about with scores of wares, all tied up with silver and brass bells to announce the tinker’s coming and alert him to thieves. The ox was massive, taller than Bronwyn at the shoulder and as wide as the wagon it pulled.

As the wagon neared, the puppy began to bark excitedly.

The tinker himself peered down at them from the high box seat. “My goodness, girl, did you fall in a creek?” She blinked at him. The man hopped down, looking her over as he approached. He pulled a bit of dried meat from a pocket and offered her a piece. She shook her head, bewildered, but the puppy accepted it with delight.

He was a very average man, of average height, and passably handsome, merry eyes and a slightly rounded paunch. “The dress will serve, and the cloak. Ah, here.” He went to the side of the wagon and opened a cabinet, pulling out a bundle and a pair of simple leather shoes. “You can’t go barefoot, not with the journey ahead of you, and the best thing a girl could have is a good stout shift.”

She shied away from the bundle, fumbling a little with her pouch. A few copper coins fell out into her hand, and she offered them to the tinker. “Is this enough?” she asked, trembling.

The tinker stepped closer and took her hand, closing her fingers over the coins. She looked up at him, and his merry eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’ll not take your coin, girl. Here. Take the clothes, and the shoes, and here’s a bell, too, if you should ever need something silver.” He dropped the bell into her pouch and deftly tied it closed. “Now, if you ever need help, seek me out, Aodhan Tinker. Say it back to me?”

“If I ever need help, seek out Aodhan Tinker,” she replied obediently. He climbed back up to the tall box and chuckled to the ox, who snorted and lumbered on.