Not wanting to fail intentionally is not a lot of motivation, really. But it is enough to keep Derek’s feet moving, even while he sips from the small container of water he conveniently had on hand. There’s no sense in slowing down now.

The path is tidy, and the white stones along the sides make it so clearly delineated that Derek is pretty sure he could follow it in his sleep. He wishes, in fact, that he could do so in his sleep, because that would mean he could sleep through this pursuit and wake up when the villain is handcuffed and in custody.

He still doesn’t clearly know why the sheriff wanted this case to take the foremost priority, but it will surely be obvious once he has Deirdre in his custody yet again. She has always been forthcoming about her motivations.

Bootsie jars Derek out of his reverie by slowing down and sniffing around the edge of the path with what appears to be an uncharacteristic distraction. He jingles her leash and tells his better partner to focus.

The hound is always the better of the coworkers he has had in this career.

She snorts, shakes her head, and continues down the path away from the dense undergrowth at its side.

With the brief interruption, Derek is much more alert to his surroundings when he approaches a fence on the side of the path.

The fence appears to have been crafted either of genuine bones or wood that has been carefully carved to give that impression. Derek will not try to touch it to better determine which, that is absolutely for certain.

Derek sees the fence does not touch or otherwise encroach upon the carefully lined path. He tells himself that so long as he stays on the path, he will be safe.

He does not want to know if this is or is not a lie.

A chilly breeze stirs the leaves strewn across the path. It pricks at the hem of Derek’s coat and tickles the exposed bit of his neck. He flinches at the touch, immediately reminded of that horrible thing that nearly left him for dead in a hole in the woods already once today. He does not want to have anything else taking additional potshots at his survival chances.

When he has finished his involuntary dance move, Derek realizes that for the first time in hours, he is not alone with the hound.

Bootsie is not following a scent at this specific moment. Rather, she is trying her hardest to pass without notice. The already short dog hides herself behind her master, belly dragging on the ground and nose twitching worriedly. She is too afraid to even whimper an alert.

Derek notices her fear. But he cannot react to it.

A woman, hunched with age, is attempting to tend a garden just inside the low fence. Derek notes that the top of the fence is roughly even with the height of his knee. This brings the bone-shaped fence slats into a more grisly context.

A giant mortar and pestle lie toppled over in the scraggly yard. Beyond that, a house of post and beam construction sits gently in a clearing. Here the trees themselves, fear encroaching upon the sunlight that reaches down to caress the elderly woman’s meager garden.

The full night of rain has given way to grim daylight. Low clouds maintain the threat and prohibit any chance that the day may yet grow warmer. The few brave beams that fall into the garden scatter in the drops of rain still clinging to the few struggling plants there.

Derek takes this in and sees that the woman hunches over a limp-looking plant that droops after an early frost.

She pulls at its top, but the little root vegetable refuses to give up its position in the earth. It may die, but it does not want to go easily.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Derek wishes he could take it back as soon as the utterance leaves his lips.

The wizened crone turns to look at him with watery eyes. The little black beads blink at him from their nests of wrinkled skin. Derek does not think she can see at all. A slow smile spreads across her face, revealing an incomplete set of yellowed teeth.

“Yes,” she answers, her voice low and raspy. “Come and help me in my garden, dear, I seem to have misplaced my glasses.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Derek carefully ties Bootsie’s leash to one of the bony fence posts, taking great care not to touch the post itself. Fully cognizant of the risk of stepping off this path and into the unprotected forest, he passes through the low little gate and into the old woman’s garden.

The garden contains several struggling plants, and none appropriate to the season. A pumpkin vine wanders out of its intended row to bother a clutch of mostly wilted potatoes. Several bush beans bare pods that have failed to swell with seed. Empty ground cherry husks litter the space between rows.

And right at the end, where the old woman is sticking her long, crooked fingers into the soil, is a collection of root vegetables: beets, carrots, and turnips.

The one that she has been pulling is a turnip, in fact, and is one of the better looking plants in the group.

“Help me with these,” the old woman commands.

And Derek, ever helpful, obeys. He kneels in the dirt and finds that the soil is slippery with ash and dark soot coats his fingers where he touches it.

“You said you were looking for your glasses?” Derek asks, trying to receive direction.

“Yes,” she answers, “They are down here somewhere.” Pulling again at the turnip with no progress, she commands, “Get this one for me, dear.” She scoots away to tug at a much smaller carrot.

So Derek puts his hands around the turnip and yanks. It does not release its grip on the soil in the slightest.

“I thought so,” the old woman says dismissively. “You’re both too stubborn for your own good."

Derek looks at the turnip. It is just a turnip, right?

Nothing looks abnormal about it. It just looks like an entirely average root vegetable.

But pulling will not get it to move.

So, Derek does the painfully obvious thing. He changes tactics and removes the dirt around the root with his hands. As it scrapes away, he reveals that the turnip, which appeared to be a wilted, dying thing, is actually quite healthy at the roots. Thank you very much.

And clearing the dirt away is arduous work. He sinks his fingers in around it and pulls stuck clay from the root. It’s a lot easier to accomplish this than it was to just pull with all his strength.

And finally, when he unearths the root’s bottom, he finds a mystery.

Embedded in the root is a chain.

The chain is thick and rusted, with heavy iron links that screech complaint when moved. It pierces the tip of the root, and it is very clear that the root has grown to surround it.

Derek isn’t sure where the chain leads, but tugging at it is a futile effort. When he attempts to dig out more of the chain, it only leads directly straight down.

The old woman holds up a similarly pierced carrot - though hers has instead caught the chain for a pair of cracked spectacles.

“Can you be a dear and clean these for me?” The elder passes him the filthy lenses.

Derek places the captured vegetable on the ground carefully. He isn’t sure why he feels obligated to be gentle with it. And then he takes the glasses and gives them a thorough wiping with the hem of his shirt, still clean underneath his raincoat.

When he hands them back, she shoves them over her crooked nose immediately. The lenses magnify the old woman’s beady little eyes. She blinks at him with confusion and then turns her head like she is listening to something far off.

“Do you think I should cut it free?” he asks, indicating the trapped turnip.

“Why do you ask?” she responds, looking at him suspiciously.

Derek stops to think for a moment.

“It did this to itself, didn’t it?” Derek’s statement comes out as a question. “And I don’t know why. Shouldn’t I leave things alone if I don’t understand why they are?”

The old woman smiles, showing off her remaining yellow teeth.

“You’d let it just rot there because you don’t see that where we plant, something will affect how it grows?” She passes him a knife.

The knife has a bone handle and a blade that has been sharpened so frequently that it has developed a distinct curve.

Derek accepts the knife and cuts a piece of the turnip off to free it from the chain. He cuts the smallest amount possible from it. Looking around the garden, he does not see how someone could feed themselves on this tiny plot of land. There isn’t enough food. She must be starving.

He offers first the knife and then the turnip back to the elderly woman.

She accepts only the knife.

“I think you need that more than I do,” she explains, “There’s a lesson in it that’s just for you.”

“I can’t take your food,” Derek insists, holding the turnip toward her insistently.

“I eat just fine,” she says, standing a little straighter in her dirty wooden shoes. “You take this, and it will serve you well when you need it most.”

Derek considers refusing once more, but gently brushes the dirt from the root with a delicate touch. There’s no sense in upsetting someone who is clearly not well.

“When you see where the chain should attach,” she says, reaching down and poking the free loop of the large rusty chain into the earth, “get it to eat that. It will do the rest for you.”

Derek has absolutely no idea what she could be talking about. He walks backward to the bony gate, and only then notices the toes that stick out from underneath the house.

That cottage has its very own pair of hen’s feet.

Derek grabs Bootsie’s leash and gets out of there as fast as he possibly can.