“Please doctor,” the old woman said, taking one wobbly step forward. She pulled the woolen bundle away from her chest and held it out in front of her. “Please, my boy does not breathe. He does not breathe but he does not pale. Please doctor, my boy isn’t dead. Please help him.”

The stranger looked at the woman in front of them. Shaking from the cold, with a vision of fearful desperation inlaid on her leathery face. Her eyes told the stranger of her grief and sorrow, but also of her hope. She did not take her eyes off the stranger for a second, although fear and unease burrowed into her soul. They watched each other for more than a moment, curious about the other, and if the woman would succumb. The stranger took a step from their cabin, watching if the woman would take an equal step back, but she did not. She still stood, shaking from the cold—weak but resilient.

“I do not take volunteer requests. Return on the morning after I breakfast and I may harbor your will. Be sure to award suitable compensation, or I will not bear to even consider your pleas.”

“No. It must be tonight. Doctor, please,” she brought the woolen bundle back to her chest and took another step forward. The stranger turned their back to the woman, proceeding to walk through the hanging cover of the door-frame to enter the cabin. Disregarding her own safety, the woman continued forward past the perimeter fencing, fear no longer waning her duty. “I know he does not pale, I know he lives, but I do not know if he lives till morning! Please doctor! I will scrounge through every parting of my home to find a reward. He must live. This baby must live. Please.”

By the end of the woman’s pleas, she had hurried uninvited into the stranger’s home. She did not stray to notice the abundance of herbs, effigies, carvings, books, or skulls within the house. She had naught to even notice the silver-eyed cat outstretched on the wooden table, its belly being warmed by the dim oil lamp. She had only to look at the stranger’s frame, their back still facing her. The stranger stood, not still, but eyes looking around the ceiling of the building. The woman had not seen the stranger’s movement, for her focus was finally shifted to the environment where she had placed herself. Her eyes came to the skulls around the home, wondering if there might be a human’s among them.

After her thought, the woman’s eyes quickly leaped to the skull worn over the stranger’s face. They had moved silently to the other side of the building, now facing the woman, holding a sort of plant in an enclosed fist. She felt fear rising within her again, similar to the feeling before vomiting. The stranger took a step towards her, followed by another. The woman resisted the urge to take equal steps back. Her courage was entirely replaced with fear. As the stranger approached closer, the woman desired to move, but could not. Her heart began racing ever faster, her breathing quickened so slightly that it wasn’t noticeable by the stranger. The woman began to regret seeking the stranger’s aid, but she knew they were the last chance she had left.

The stranger stopped mere paces from the woman, looking down at her from their height and an elevated step. They held an outstretched hand, thinking the woman would understand their notions. But when the woman looked at the open palm unknowing, they said, “Give me the babe.” She recoiled slightly, drawing the woolen bundle further into her chest, engraving her worries into her actions. Fear overwhelmed her, and her breathing hurried even faster—enough for the stranger to notice. Before she could turn into a hobbled run, the stranger said, “I will help you.” The woman relaxed slightly, her fear being enveloped by a newfound hope. “If you give me the babe, I can help it.”

While elated by the stranger’s words, regret and distrust still snuck in the empty places of her heart. She knew she had to trust the stranger, but she could not bring herself to willingly do so. The old woman relaxed her grip on the woolen bundle and looked down at it. She watched the only open space where the child’s face saw through. The child could not have been over mere days of age. All of its features were small—its nose was no more than a button on a tiny ball of yarn, and its lips hardly bothered to part its face. The child’s eyes were softly laid shut and its expression resembled a peaceful dream, and as the woman had said, its face was flush the color of a ripe fruit.

The woman looked away from the child to stare at the extended hand of the stranger. For a mere moment she considered passing her hoard into the glove of warped leather, but then she thought to find the stranger’s eyes—to find if there was compassion floating within them. When she looked up, all she saw was the white dust of bone. The daunting sight of a horse’s skull came down below the stranger’s neck, completely masking their face. The skull could not have belonged to anything larger than a pony or a foal, but the image still pronounced itself as devilish. The woman still looked for the stranger’s eyes, but she imagined the stranger only saw from two small holes bored into the osseous surface. Without her intuition, the old woman had but one way to confirm the stranger’s notions; to ask them upright.

The old woman asked, “Why do you suddenly wish to cure him? When you threw so much disdain at the thought before? Why your change of heart?” The stranger’s hand fell back to their side, and they stared silently at the woman. They pondered for a moment, then moved back and began clearing the lonely mattress of the clutter resting atop it. Silence hung in the air of the cabin for thoughtless seconds while the stranger deliberated on their words. They moved old books from the bed to sit atop the wooden floorboards, and they made sure the pelt that lined the top was clean of stray plants and bits. They then stood, looking down at the empty bed. To the woman’s surprise, the stranger spoke with sincerity and perhaps a tinge of forlorn thought.

“Of all who come seeking aid, most turn away at the sight of me. It is fear that grips them, and they part without ever speaking a word. Of those who stay, only some come to think of compensation. And of those who don’t, only two others have been like you. To insist that I uphold my practice, and to confront me of my ulterior motives. To me, that shows the depth of their desperation—that they must rely on an unspoken outsider. One who remains untrustworthy, but is also their remaining hope.” The stranger then turned and outstretched their hand to the woman once more, not saying another word. The woman looked at the looming figure hung like death beside the bedside, and she needn’t a single word more. Although the woman could not see their eyes, she knew they held compassion, and she knew that she could trust the stranger with her child.

The woman began taking short, careful paces toward the bedside, cautious of the littered floor and not losing her step. When she arrived, she made to take one last glance at the woolen bundle in her arms and to remember the face of her son in the wraps before passing him to the stranger. The stranger was sure to be delicate with the child, holding the bundle firmly yet gently in their hand. They first examined the child’s face to notice any irregularity. They saw that it was as the woman had described—an unwaking, perhaps dead child—yet its color failed to retreat its plump cheeks. The stranger then pulled back the wool that wrapped the child’s miniature body, noticing that its chest did not rise nor fall. They brought the child up to their ear and confirmed that it did not breathe. However, the stranger heard the faintest twang of rhythm from a beating heart. They held the child in front of their face once more before gazing at the empty pillow upon the bed and stooping over to rest the bundle atop it.

Without standing or offering a glance at the old woman, the stranger addressed her. They asked, “Is this truly your babe?”

They didn’t halt for her response, instead continuing their work and placing the herbs that they held under the child’s nose. The woman stood silently for a moment before admitting, “No. He is not truly mine.”

The stranger moved their hand about the child, examining its hands and fingers, its bare belly, and even lifting its eyelids. The child’s eyes were a hollow green color, resembling leaves just before their shift to autumn—a slight brownish dull to an otherwise beautiful color. Its eyes were blank, staring straight upwards—not rolled back into the skull or glossed over by a lack of life. After their examination, the stranger leaned backward and sat upright. Still not drawing their attention away from the child, they asked the woman again, “What is your relationship?”

The old woman took short time to respond, speaking calmly and with sorrow. She said, “We are both without family. My eldest died of disease naught a month ago, and his only daughter was sold off before our coming here. My other two fought bravely in the war, but sadly neither returned home.” The woman paused for a moment, composing herself before continuing. “I found him four nights ago by a carriage up the river. It seemed to have gone awry and fell off the path quite far down. I saw no sign of horses, but there were three that I assume to be his family—all bloodied and torn up. I was sure to check each of them, but the only one that remained warm was him. I found him smothered against his mother’s breast, back to the ground. I took him home and he’s remained the same since I found him—in that state and unwaking.” She went silent, her face drooping even lower after finishing her thought.

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“Have you given it a name?” the stranger asked, now looking towards the woman.

The woman looked at the stranger, no longer distraught by their appearance. She said, “I’ve taken to calling him Ugo, but why must you know his name?”

The stranger sat in silence for a moment, looking back to the child resting on the pillow. Thinking for a moment more, they grabbed the herbs resting under the child’s nose and again leaned back to sit upright. The stranger started pinching and squeezing the plant in their hand, breaking it apart. The room suddenly filled with a strange aroma, one that stung the sinuses and enveloped the head with a cool sensation. The old woman noticed the smell and started to relax. Even the silver-eyed cat perked its head up from its resting place to whiff the air. “This is an herb I have bred myself,” the stranger started. “It is a remedy that weakens the mind and enlightens the spirit; it can be used to either waken someone from a slumber or set someone asleep who struggles to do so.”

The stranger opened their hand, admiring the greenish paste that now stuck to their warped leather gloves. They braced themselves on one knee, then stood up, coming a few feet above the woman. They moved to the door frame to wipe the residue from their hand and began speaking as they did so. They said, “The babe is cursed.”

The old woman still stood by the bedside, her view had followed the travel of the stranger to the doorway. Inlaid on her leathery face was slight confusion as she asked, “By a witch?”

“No,” the stranger said, turning back into the household. “Curses can be obtained in many of ways. If not applied by a witch or in any other way through ritual, curses may also come through birth.”

“Was his mother then cursed?”

“Most likely not,” the stranger continued. “Some curses befall the unfortunate, and sadly the one attached to the babe is quite severe.”

The woman looked back to the child, walking to be even closer to its side. She admired it, not seeing any sign of abnormality—horns or grotesque features or feathers or ragged skin. She wondered how the stranger could tell that the child had befallen a curse, but she had naught to ask. She chose to trust the stranger’s conclusion, and instead wondered of the curse’s severity. So, the woman asked, “How so? Will he never wake again?”

“No,” the stranger said, rubbing their glove with their opposite thumb, trying to extract the stain the plant had left. “The babe has already died. However, its spirit sought to live and therefore refused to be expelled. The babe’s body was not in such a mean of disrepair that the spirit could not re-enter, but in doing so, the babe’s body has become a state of no longer living nor dead.” The stranger continued to walk back to the bedside, the woman stepping back to offer them space. “The babe will eventually wake, but when it does so, it will never sleep again. It will live in constant agony, shunned by both the living and the dead, finding no true place to reside.” The stranger stopped again, staring down at the child for more than a moment. They then looked to the old woman and said, “There is only one way I can save it from its despair, but it will cause you much grief.”

The old woman stood in silence, looking to be lost in thought. She stared at the woolen bundle atop the pillow, realizing what the stranger had to do. She asked, “You must kill him?”

“Yes,” the stranger replied. “Before its body can become truly unkillable, I must halt the process.” The stranger looked to the woman. Her face was still and she kept to staring at the bundle atop the pillow. She did not look forlorn, but she neither looked satisfied. She thought that there must be another way, but she knew that if the stranger had said it, there must not. She stood in silence for more than a minute, before the stranger reminded her, “If I am to do this, I mustn’t wait. It may have little time before the curse has fully gripped it.”

The woman let her thinking be drawn out no more. Although she wished to reason and argue, the looming thought of whether the stranger’s words were true struck the back of her mind. If they were true, then her child would live in despair for eternity, much longer than her or any of her descendants would have. She thought that if the child’s future was sure to be torment, then it would be better to cease the chance right here. So, the woman relented, and a single word parsed her barely-split lips. In a quiet and still whisper, the woman said, “Okay.”

The stranger nodded slightly and began to move for a knife in their bag. In their search, they said, “If you wish to give any prayers, you may. I do not object to any god or any words you may have, whether they be silent or not.” The woman’s shoulders dropped slightly as she let out a shallow breath. She closed her eyes but she did not pray. There was no god she thought to speak to, and there were no words she could offer to their name. Instead, she wallowed in her own thoughts and her own silent grief, wishing the child farewell. She heard the stranger’s boots pass by her and she heard them shift their weight down to one knee. She heard the stranger offer up a silent whisper, then she heard a soft slice and silence.

The old woman opened her eyes to behold the stranger holding a silver knife with intricate designs on its blade. The knife was the first thing she looked for because she dreaded to see the sight of her child. But when she witnessed no crimson sheen on its surface and the stranger’s defeated gesture, she was inclined to look. The child had a long, seemingly deep slash across its neck, just beneath its chin. The sight would be gruesome, except for the lack of blood seeping from the wound.

The woman was confused. Her inner feelings twisted between elated happiness and intense worry. She looked to the stranger, who was slumped back on the floor, beholding the knife in their hands. She hesitated to ask, but her question was answered when the stranger admitted, “It is too late.”

The woman looked down, her mind racing between thoughts. The room was in silence before the stranger stood once again and moved to return the knife to the table with the oil lamp. As they moved, the woman looked up and exclaimed, “There must be another way!”

The stranger kept their hand on the knife after setting it on the wooden surface. They stood and said, “Down a path nary traveled, there is a way. It is not the route I wished to follow, but there is no other now.” The stranger hunched over the table, staring at the knife. “The babe is Ugo?”

“Yes,” the woman responded.

The stranger stood and faced the woman. They said, “You must look at me,” and they began moving towards her. She made to take on the stranger’s entire appearance, looking at nothing else. She saw the horse skull adorned atop their head and the long hair riddled with beads and other arrangements that came out its backside. She saw the stained overcoat the stranger wore fashioned with pelts and furs that lead to the warped leather gloves they wore over their hands. She saw the muddied stitched legs and large furred boots that carried the stranger and she was quick to notice the patchwork that covered them head-to-toe. The stranger continued, “You are to forget everything about the babe. Its appearance, its name, and its memory. Everything.”

The old woman stopped again. She stopped breathing and she was entirely still from the shock of what she had just heard. She moved her lips to no avail, as no words came out. Before she could muster up anything, the stranger continued ever forward. “From now you mustn’t look back at the babe, and when you leave you must forget everything you know about me. The babe and I must become enigmas to you or my future efforts will be for naught.”

The woman finally found the words and managed to stammer out between the stranger’s barrage, “How am I supposed to forget everything about my child?”

The stranger ceased relenting and fell into thought. Quickly, they devised an idea and asked, “Did you have another name for the child? A consideration before the one you chose?”

The woman thought for a moment, not lasting long, and said, “No. His name just came to me.”

“Then think of another. Say it aloud when you decide.”

She deliberated for a long while, thinking of a name that would fit the child. Finally, she told the stranger, “Liam.”

“Names hold power,” the stranger said. “Therefore, giving something a name separate from the original derives different thought. If you are to forget its true name, you will have forgotten its true self. You must forget. If you are to remember, know of the babe Liam. The babe with brightly colored eyes of the sky. Of pale skin wrapped in a cotton blanket. A babe not of your own, but left on your doorstep to care for.” The stranger bent down to look the woman directly in her eyes. They said, “Your child died here. In a place unbeknownst to you—as if it never existed. Now go. Leave your memories behind and forget about everything you’ve seen or heard. Do not tarry here and do not look behind you.”

With their final word, the stranger ushered the woman out of their cottage. They watched her hobble away, shivering from the cold—until she left their vision. They remained there for a while longer, remembering the woman’s every detail. Her colorless hair and ragged skin. Her shifting face and her fearful eyes. Her sideways stance and her crooked stride. Her bony fingers and her missing teeth. Her thin rags amongst the post-autumn cold. Her care for a child that was not truly hers. Then, they forgot about the woman.