It was not quite midnight when Crow got out of bed, she’d only pretended to be sleeping. The fire was long dead and the cabin was lit only with a few weak rays of moonlight. She took an oil lamp and book of matches from the mantle then crept across the old floorboards, knowing exactly where to step so they wouldn’t creak. Her cloak, water skin, and satchel were waiting by the door where she’d left them earlier that day, and having taken those she unbolted the door and crossed the threshold. The wind had shifted and there was a chill in the air, the door wouldn’t fit back into its frame. She pulled so hard that the rusted nails sheared and the handle clattered to the ground. She stopped and listened for her mother, hoping the sound hadn’t roused her. Hearing nothing, she set out through the clearing and into the forests that surrounded their home.
The sky was mottled with clouds that hid the stars but let through just enough light so that she could find her way. Unlike her grandmother who had found her way at night guided solely by a few glances upwards, Crow had to take her reckoning from memory. The paths here were seldom trod, most everyone stayed out of the birch wood. Even the trapper Joshua, for whom she was making this trip. He preferred to set his lines out where the birches thinned and made way for pine and spruce. She walked South-East a quarter mile, each step bringing with it a few droplets of melted frost. Her threadbare boots were soaked by the time she’d made it to the edge of the oak wood.
Here the trees were short and dense and gnarled, a forest half-dead and mostly leafless even in summer. Branches curled in on themselves as they reached for the sky, reminding her of the claws of nameless dead things that washed up on the riverbank after a storm. Nervousness turned to dread, as it always did, when she saw the path disappear into shadows somehow darker than the rest. Though her trips here were many, the forest always seemed to change and each trip felt like her first.
She stopped, suddenly aware of being tired and hungry and cold. Supper had been hours ago and only a few pieces of flat bread at that. She reached into her satchel for a biscuit. Even famished and tired they were unappealing. Paper thin rounds of birch boiled three times and dried over a fire. It was better than starving, but barely. She stood there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for her eyes to adjust to this new darkness. The hunger and tiredness subsided, but the dread didn’t. The forest was dark as ever.
Crow crouched down to block the wind and lit the oil lamp. A puff of matchstick sulphur and the tiny wick hissed to life. She closed her eyes and tried picturing the symbol her grandmother used to make. Her grandmother had done it all in complete darkness of course, taught Crow the shape by guiding her hand. The memory was faint and far away. With shaky hands by orange flame, Crow drew it in the earth: a crescent moon with three lines askew, then a sweeping arc that passed back on itself.
She drew it again, and once more after that, each time rubbing the previous tries out of the dirt. After the fifth or sixth time she stood, not bothering to erase the mistake. The memory was warped and worn now, misshapen like unfired clay handled too long. She shook the tin lamp, the oil was getting low. She snuffed the flame with her thumb and forefinger as she’d need the light later. She thought of going home but instead stepped deeper into the oak wood until the path back disappeared.
The forest was silent, she could hear herself breathing. She knelt and felt the earth, closing her eyes she tried not to think, tried to separate reason from sinew and somehow dredge things up that her body remembered but her mind had forgotten. Her hand moved as though by its own power, she could feel the shape take its form. The sign was drawn in one unbroken movement and when she opened her eyes the oak wood was changed. A dim blue moonpath had unfurled before her, a stream of cold blue light creeping along through the underbrush. The shadows were dimmer now and moonlight broke through the gnarled canopy though the clouds hadn’t parted.
Another memory broke free somewhere deep within her and bubbled to the surface, sending ripples through the silence of her thoughts. Her grandmother on the moonpath, counting each step as she walked. One hundred, thrice. Her grandmother turned to speak, but the memory lost its edges there. All Crow remembered was part of a rhyme, “Green vein, red leaf…”
Crow counted and walked, lighting the oil lamp once she was done. She cast the weak beam across the forest floor and wherever the coughing orange light set the leaves regained their colour and the moonpath disappeared as though repelled. She reached down and plucked a narrow leaf with ragged edges and held it up to the light. Green veins in a pale red leaf. The rest of the rhyme came back to her,
“Green vein, red leaf, the bane of beasts”
She packed the satchel full almost to bursting, the leaves would lose their color entirely in a few weeks and become the same shade of brown as the rest of the woods in autumn, this would be her last chance of the year. Finished, she tied the satchel, now heavy with wet leaves and washed her hands with the last of her water. It did little good as her skin was already red and starting to itch. She did her best to ignore it and followed the moonpath out of the oak wood, its blue light fading with the coming of morning. It was gone entirely by the time the sun had crested the horizon. The forest became familiar again, but it brought her little comfort. Her mouth was dry, she was exhausted, her body felt wooden and cold. She was in that place past tiredness where existed only things to be done.
In the clearing around her house there was an old dilapidated barn and a stone fire pit with a large black pot, most else had been burned for heat or sold. She dropped the satchel by the fire pit and remembering the axe handle was shattered, broke a few more pieces of weatherboard from the barn. Its roof had caved in before her father had died and she couldn't even remember a time when they’d had animals.
She piled tinder under the pot’s cast iron legs and stacked the wood neatly around it. The pot was already filled midway with rainwater, saving her some work. She flicked a match into the tinder and gently stoked the ember until the wood caught fire. One by one she picked the leaves from the stems and dropped them into the pot until the satchel was empty. By the time she was done the water was boiling and a thin whisp of grey smoke curled from the house chimney, her mother must have finally woken.
A long while passed while Crow tended the fire with more weatherboards and stirred the boiling leaves, careful to hold her breath above the vapors. She saw her mother before she’d even heard the door slam shut.
“You’ve been out again, have you?”
Crow didn’t meet her gaze. The larder is empty, there’s no coins in the purse and no harvest, is what she thought, but managed only to say “We’ve no money.”
But it was enough. There was no arguing the fact, they both knew the few coins she’d get would be gone by mid winter at best. Her mother scoffed, Crow was sure she was going to launch into another lecture, but her expression softened.
“I’ve baked bread with the last of the flour, it’s still warm. I’ll tend to the fire if you’re hungry. Pray your friend comes back with firewood, as we’ve none left.”
“He’s not let us down yet, has he?”
“Still. Oh, there’s no water either. I hate to rush you, but be quick? I’ve yet to do my morning devotions.”
Crow made her way to the river twice before sitting down to a breakfast of cold bread. There was dust all over the table and the dishes were piled up near the basin. Every muscle ached and there seemed to be no bottom to the tiredness she was feeling. Ever since her brother had left the days seemed to stretch on forever. Things broken then mended, painted and patched, straightened, shimmed or cut, bought and sold or burnt or cleaned; a never ending list of things to do. Each new chore cut into the day until only darkened shreds at both ends remained.
It was late in the day and she was stirring the last of the coals when Sevryn came by with a bundle of firewood. She’d heard his heavy footfalls long before he entered the clearing. The younger son of the mill house was lanky and sunburnt, hair cut short with a dull blade and his brother’s too-large clothes draped over his wiry frame. He dropped the bundle by the fireplace and stood to catch his breath.
“I swear they make this hill steeper every time.”
“I suppose you’ll have to add this to my tally, you know I’ve got nothing to pay you,” Crow said with a wry smile.
“Tally? I don’t know what you mean. It’ll be years until I, uh, we pay back our debts, as far as I’m concerned. I’m just glad you accept payment in kind,” Sevryn said, but kicked himself for it. He went red in the cheeks and hoped she didn’t notice. The words were never what he wanted and it wasn’t for tallies and debts that he came by. He stood watching her tend the pot. There was something radiant in her, though touched by hunger and overwork as she was. Skin fair as though the sun had no bearing on her, features delicate and movements quick like a bird’s. It was these moments around which he anchored his day, Sevryn dug deep for something to say but found only half-thoughts and feelings that slipped away wordlessly. He kneaded a bundle of cloth in his hands, nervously.
Crow broke the silence first.
“Any word from my brother?” she asked, without looking up.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. This’ll be what, fifth, sixth month?” Sevryn asked before realizing the implication “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s fine. This coming month will be the sixth, yes.”
“How’s your mother taking it?”
Crow ran her fingers through her tousled black hair but it fell back down around her shoulders exactly as it’d been before. Sevryn already knew the answer. Devotions, prayer beads, sweet herbs and burnt offering from dawn until dusk. It’d been that way since the day her brother had left as a mercenary, but gotten steadily worse once the letters and money stopped coming in. Crow and her mother both assumed the worst.
“I suppose it’s best I go,” he said. Everything had seemed simpler at the bottom of the hill, he’d come here to ask only a single question but now it seemed impossible.
“Any news from the town?” Crow asked him, not knowing what else to say to stop him from leaving.
“Nothing out of sorts. More of Lord Brigham’s men are leaving, called down by the King, supposedly.”
Crow could tell he was biting his tongue. “I suppose one can’t be certain, most of the talk around the mill wheel is just rumor especially when it concerns the Lord.”
“My father heard it, he was at the tannery when the King’s messenger rode by, it’s truth!” Sevryn became suddenly animated, he’d been following the war with great interest. “The King’s fighting for the river crossing at Talastyr,” he picked up a stick and drew crude horses in the ash around the fire. “The enemy had archers and siege engines ‘cross the bridge and cavalry hid in the woods on the hill. He drew more shapes in the ash. “It’s been a total rout for the king,” he drew arrows and Xs into the ash until all the shapes were incomprehensible. And now he needs more -” He stopped and looked at Crow sheepishly, realizing the implication of what he’d divulged. Crow was too tired to realize, the story existed just as figures in ash.
Sevryn turned to leave but stopped mid step. “Are you coming by the town later?” He asked, without even facing her.
“Is that a joke?”
Sevryn turned to face her, shook his head and smiled when he saw the faintest hint of red across Crow’s cheeks. He handed her the bundle of cloth.
“The harvest’s in and it’s first day of the new moon. Beers’ been ready for weeks and they tapped the barrels this morning, They’re roasting hogs. There’ll be feasting and dancing and more drink than you’ve seen in years!
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“You know I can’t, I’m sorry,” she said.
“I reckon everyone will be too drunk to care or even notice one more, especially if you come late. Who’s going to know? I’ll be waiting either way,”
“No. The answer is no, Sevryn. I can’t. I won’t. You know exactly what would happen if I were found out.”
“It’s a masquerade! Just wait until you see the mask I’ve found for you. Not a soul on this earth would be able to tell it was you.” Crow pressed the bundle back into Sevryn’s arms, but he let it fall to the ground. “It’s yours now, do as you will with it,” he said, stepping back.
He sighed and shifted his weight. “I suppose you ought to know the full story, then. My folks, well, my old man mostly. He’s keen to see me wed to the butcher’s daughter. I reckon if she sees me dance with someone else…”
“So that’s what this is about?” Crow’s tongue was sharp, she couldn’t hide the anger and the hurt. “I’m just a pawn to you? Just a set piece in your game, ready to be discarded, hidden away on some hilltop after you’re done?”
Sevryn was dumbstruck for a moment, then bowed his head and took her hand. “No, Crow. It’s not like that at all. Why do you think I come here? From some sense of guilt or duty? It’s for you, Crow. I don’t wish to be wed to that girl because I don’t like her.” With that he turned and left.
Crow watched Sevryn disappear into the woods, she tried calling out to him but the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. She wasn’t going. She couldn’t go, hadn’t been to the town proper for years. But Sevryn’s words hounded her for the rest of the day, and each time doubts and fears beat them back. She tipped the scales one way and then the next, working each option over until she was left where she started, with an impossible tangle of hopes and contradictions. So she let it go, stopped working the thoughts over and lost herself in her work.
It was already starting to get dark by the time she bottled the the boiled-down tincture and cleaned the pot. Barely one and a half bottles for all her effort. She held the full one up to the setting sun. A faint purple hue cut through the oily liquid, exactly the color her grandmother had shown her all those years before. There was enough poison in the bottle to last Joshua til the doldrums of winter. There were still some hours before midnight, so she busied herself and worked at chores. Though some part of her still protested, in her heart of hearts the question had answered itself, and now it was just a matter of fighting the tiredness, hunger and cold that cut through her bones.
By the time she was done she was working by lamp light as the sun had long set. The firewood was neatly stacked and the house almost spotless. She thought of building a fire, but her mother had collapsed in front of her makeshift shrine and was fast asleep, Crow doubted she’d notice and preferred not to waste the firewood. Her mother was still holding prayer beads and her lips half parted as though she’d passed out mid prayer, Crow snuffed out the last of the cheap incense and covered her with a blanket. She took her brother’s old cloak as hers was still drying and stuffed the bundle Sevryn had given her in one pocket and slid the tincture into the other.
It was a warmer night than the one prior, though the clouds were thicker and darker. A gentle south wind blew across the town bringing with it the smell of charcoal fires, baked pies and smoked meat along with the muddled sounds of flute and mandolin alongside laughter and shouting. Where the birch wood path met with the road, she kept to the shadows though there was no one around. She walked this way until the road left the wood and the glow of torchlight cut through the dark. In the half light she could just make out the silhouette of a milestone with a worn sign beside it. Though she couldn’t read she knew its graven words said Eskryn.
There Crow counted out fifty paces and cut left through a field, finding the well trod path to the cabin Joshua kept behind his father’s tannery.
The light was on inside, Crow circled around to the back and knocked three times at the door. There was no answer. It had been a long shot, Joshua was certainly out feasting with the others, but she was never one to waste a trip. She turned to leave when the door opened, Joshua stumbled out and threw up in the grass.
“Are you okay?”
He stood up unsteadily and wiped his mouth. He had the gleam of drink in his eyes.
“Me ’an the boys started too early is all, might go back for seconds later though,” he said slurring, before Crow saw a click of recognition that sobered him up somewhat.
“You’re here on business, eh? I’d love to help, you know I would. Been yer most loyal client I reckon, but something’s come up,” he said looking around nervously.
“Is someone else here?” Crow asked.
“Can’t be too, uh, sorry ‘ang on” he said, doubling over and heaving into the grass again.
“Can’t be too careful, is what I was sayin’. Someone’s caught on, no holes in my pelts. Like I ain’t usin’ a trap. I don’t want them to start looking into it, so I’ve laid snares in the far woods again. Big mean iron ones, won’t nobody complain about perfect pelts after they see the next ones. Come back ‘round in a few moons and we’ll talk again.”
“You might find my prices have doubled by then, so it’s best you buy now” Crow said, trying to mask the desperation in her voice with anger.
“I won’t. I can’t. You know it’s not my fault. Not like I’d be the one complicatin’ my life for no reason. It’s probably best you go, lots of eyes around tonight.”
Crow had left before he’d even finished talking, it was just after midnight now so she made her way towards the town proper. She could find her way even in the dead of night, she’d been welcome some years ago and those memories refused to fade.
There was light coming from every house and each chimney billowed with smoke. Torches lined the road leading up to the Lord’s barn where the doors were open wide letting music and laughter spill out. Every crevice in the old town seemed to be filled with warmth, the shadows lost their edge and became benign and faded things. She thought of Sevryn and her stomach turned. She could go back. She should go back. Instead she watched herself unwrap the cloth bundle to find a hideous hooded mask. A demon thing, half-porcine with vicious eyes and bloodied fangs, sewn into an executioner’s hood. She pulled it over her head and set the wooden mask into place, finding it covered her face almost entirely.
Slowly, she walked between the torches and into the barn where she stood on the threshold and let her eyes adjust to the light. The whole barn had been whitewashed and the entire town was dancing and drinking, even the musicians were glassy eyed and swaying unsteadily. Before she could take another step someone pulled her inside. It was Sevryn, she could tell right away. His mask was simple, plain, almost childish, and he was unmistakably himself. Right as he pulled her into the crowd Crow saw a girl storm off, fuming.
She lost track of time, dancing with Sevryn. Few people paid her any mind, save to point and laugh at the mask. For the first time in ages she was smiling, genuinely. Sevryn pulled her close. Though her steps were poor and untrained, she did her best to follow and tried to stop her mind from wandering. Though the thoughts about what life could have been like if fate had been less cruel were hard to keep at bay. The mandolin player fell over drunk, the music stopped and Crow was knocked her out of her revery. She looked around and found the crowd had thinned somewhat.
“I think it’s winding down, there’s still bound to be food at the table and it’s likely unattended. You should go, I’ll meet you there in a few moments.” Crow wanted to protest knew he was right. They held each other close for a moment that would have been too short had it been an eternity.
She walked down the muddy lanes between fences half-fallen and out behind the bakery. There, stood a great table on a bed of fresh straw. Even now in the dark, long after the feasting was done and the candles all burnt up it looked unreal, like it would vanish if she got too close. Pies and sweetbreads and bird’s eggs and fish of all kinds piled between giant heapings of pork. Food like she’d never seen before. She looked around, all was still and dark. Slowly, she pulled the hooded mask form her head and ate for a long time, tasting each dish and saving bits of the best in her pockets for later.
By the time she’d heard the clumsy foot steps and drunken voices it was too late, they were right behind her. She turned around and froze. There were two of them, though she couldn’t make out their faces in the dark.
“Who’s ‘at?” Asked a voice that sounded familiar.
She heard a match hiss before she saw two faces in the weak light. It was Joshua and Conrad, friend of the Lord’s son. She turned to run. “It’s the witch, grab ‘er!” Conrad yelled and Joshua grabbed her cloak. She could smell the liquor on his breath, stronger than before.
“Witch?” Joshua slurred, loosening his grip.
Conrad lit a lamp and crept up closer. “What’s the witch doing here? and I wonder what it’s got in its big cloak?” Conrad asked, stepping forward and cutting the bottoms from her pockets with a razor. Food spilled out all over the hay and the bottle rolled to a stop by Conrad’s foot. He picked it up and held it to the light.
“Poison!”
“Poison?” Joshua asked slowly, as though somewhere two things had connected in his mind before falling loose again.
A shadow shot out of the darkness and slammed into Conrad, knocking the breath out of him and sending him sprawling. The lamp pitched sideways as it landed, spilling its oil and setting the hay alight. Joshua stumbled backwards and Crow tore free of her cloak. He stood in a stupor not sure what to do. Knowing he should do something, he fanned the flames with the cloak in an effort to blow the fire out but only made things worse. Crow took the bottle from where Conrad had dropped it and took off into the night.
A great fire roared skywards before she’d even made it to the sign post. Calls for water and horses and the Lord’s hunting dogs filled the night. She wiped her mouth with her shirt sleeve and regretted eating as she’d already been sick twice. Horn blasts stopped her before she’d made it to the ragged edge of the birch wood. The hunters were close now. She broke into a run again and her stomach heaved, though there was nothing left within.
She ran down the paths like an animal, running faster than she’d known she was able. Few people knew the birch wood like she did and every second gained here was a precious advantage. The cold night air that kept her mouth from drying and her clothes from soaking through soon gave way to morning and with the light each step grew slower. Still, she seldom stopped as each time she rested she swore the wind carried with it the sounds of barking dogs and hunting horns alongside the smell of horses. She ran through brush and mire, through shrub thickets and down rabbit paths, hoping the hunters would lose her track that way. She crossed every bog and fetid stream, no longer caring that her boots were soaked through. The sounds got fainter, she slowed somewhat when they had disappeared entirely, replaced with the sound of rustling leaves.
Crow thought of going home for water and her cloak but dreaded the thought of leading the dogs there so she walked on, no longer able to run. By midday the trees around her were shorter, the forest brown and bare of leaves. Autumn comes first in the pinewood, she repeated her grandmothers words like some kind of mantra, as precious few thoughts were in her head. She fought the exhaustion and forced herself to march on, no longer taking any precautions and leaving a trail of muddy footprints. The thought of stopping nagged at her before it finally won out. There was nothing but silence around her, and so under a towering old fir she sat, stretching her legs out in the bed of fallen pine needles beneath its hanging bows. She realized she was still holding the bottle but was too tired to make any sense of where it should go. Her breathing slowed and she closed her eyes, her heart slowed its frantic beating. Warmth washed over her from within, she leaned back against the tree and savored the smell of pine.
She woke with a start. Cold water dripped down her face. The tree was now heavy with snow and the wind howled, the sun was throwing out a few dying rays. She got up at once and regretted having stopped. Everything ached, she moved as though lead coursed through her veins. The forest floor was white with snow and the wind whipped it against her face. Still she pressed on, each step deliberate and planned as though her body itself was revolting. She heard her teeth chattering but couldn’t feel anything but the cold. The world seemed to get narrow and far away, her lips were dry and swollen and she felt like throwing up. But the sound of barking dogs brought everything back into focus.
Her eyes went wide and her stomach turned and she tasted bile, her heart beat out of her chest. She tried running but fell face first into the show, unable to catch herself with hands numb and fingers blue at the tips. She got up and stumbled up over slick leaves, doing her best to move fast over roots and gullies hidden under a thin layer of snow. She fell again, but this time found it harder to rise. Warmth poured out of the earth and its blanket of snow and took the chill out of her soaked clothes. Her left hand was numb and stiff, a rictus claw curled around the glass bottle, her right hand was bleeding. She didn’t feel anything to the elbows now and her feet felt as though of stone. She stood, even in the moonless dark a blind man could follow her path. Still, she walked on.
Crow heard the click of oiled iron before she felt her ankle shatter. The pain was immense, cutting through the frozen numbness and sending lightning up her spine. She fell and thrashed in the snow, screaming, teeth gnashing and her numb hands reaching blindly around her. An eternity later silence filled the woods again. She’d stopped screaming, the pain subsided somewhat. She reached slowly, deliberately down to her bloodied leg and made sense of it. A trap, wrought iron and spring loaded. She knew it’d be chained to a tree, there was no point in looking.
She banged her right hand dumbly against the trap, watching blood pool at its base. Joshua had told her, once, that it might take hours for an animal to die like this. It was bad for the fur. That’s why he preferred the… She couldn’t even finish the thought before she heard barking and the snapping of twigs. Dogs. The lord’s hunting dogs, hungry and mad with the chase.
Her left hand was still clutching the bottle. She undid the cork with her teeth and used her right hand to tilt it over into her mouth. It was bitter and warm. Her throat hurt and it got hard to breathe. The world got fainter before disappearing entirely.
Tendrils of black gossamer enveloped her and icy fangs bit into her throat. She gasped and tasted blood.
There wasn’t supposed to be a here, here.
“It’s not your time, child.”
A voice like wind playing through frozen trees wrapped itself around her. It came from all around.
“Who are you? Where am I?” Crow tried to speak but the words never left her mouth, the darkness heard nonetheless.
The strands of gossamer loosened and turned to smoke, the fangs slid from her throat.
“You may call me Nimaena of the river crossing, though I go by many names. They never told you, did they, child?”
The darkness seemed to grow deeper in one spot and Crow saw a wispy figure who’s form shifted like oil on water, darkness moving within darkness, as though she was made of something deeper than shadow. Looking made Crow’s ears ring and blood pooled in the corners of her mouth.