Alira ripped at the vines and weeds that had clogged the entrance to the cellar. She was weak and it was hard work so she had to take several breaks, drinking long from the well and catching her breath. Finally, though, she broke through the overgrowth and lifted the circular handle on the door, pulling with all her waning strength. The door slowly lifted in a shower of dirt and dust and Alira smelled the damp earthy smell, one that reminded her of her happy childhood.

She dusted her hands off onto her pants, ones she had found in a trunk in the bedroom. Her shirt, a faded grey-brown linen, was also one she had worn before, one she had left when she had moved to Endmoore, intending to return to re-establish her childhood homestead.

She descended the short stairs and blinked in the dimness, cool air feeling nice on her tired, heated face. Her sweat began to cool immediately, raising gooseflesh along her arms and legs.

Alira scanned the walls of the cellar with delight. So many jars of her mother’s canned goods still remained. As long as their wax seals were intact and the contents didn’t smell funny or bubble, she figured she was likely going to be fine. She slowly walked down the row of shelves and saw that there was pickled wild carrots and strawberry jam, canned crab apples, pickled mushrooms, dried mushrooms, pickled onions, and dried onions. There were several jars of dehydrated egg and others of baking powder. A huge jar of hazelnuts found itself nestled in one arm and she took a large jar of flour under her other arm with a jar of dehydrated eggs tucked into the top of her pants, held in place by her belt. She trudged back up the stairs, excited and starving.

While Alira gathered a bucket of water and took it into the cottage, she wondered how much of her mind Henry was privy to. He had been silent since their earlier exchange and she idly wondered if that was because he was withdrawn or unable to hear her thoughts. She dug in the cupboards and found a couple mixing bowls and a wide flat pan her mother had made bread in. She sat on the floor with her found treasures and began to prepare a simple meal for herself. She tossed a handful of the hazelnuts in her mouth and chewed gratefully. A second mouthful had her feeling better already.

“Are you there, Henry?” she asked as she measured a couple spoons of water into a bowl with powdered egg. She mixed, looking for the right consistency while she waited. It took a few minutes before she got any sense of the spirit within her.

I’m concentrating. And sulking. His admission was probably meant to disarm her, endearing him to her but she merely found herself annoyed. He had tried to end her life. She didn’t owe him empathy, not even sympathy.

“What am I meant to do now?” her voice was hoarse and she coughed a few times. The dust and exhaustion was making talking difficult.

I’m in no state to make requests, if you haven’t noticed.

“I didn’t ask you what you’d like to do. I asked what I should do.” She set aside her reconstituted eggs and began making a simple flat bread dough, sifting flour slowly from the jar and adding water little by little. She dusted her hands off and began mixing the dough with her hands, scraping them clean and rolling the bowl the way she remembered her mother doing.

Kill the Witches, I suppose. Henry finally answered. His tone was sullen and dismissive but she gritted her teeth, annoyed anger rising within her.

“All of them?” she asked facetiously.

Well, ideally, yes.

“That’s impossible,” dismissed Alira as she dusted more flour into the mixing bowl and kneaded. “There’s hundreds, maybe thousands of them.”

Then you’d better stop wasting time and get to work. She felt an odd disengagement and knew that Henry had withdrawn again.

Rolling both her eyes and the dough, Alira huffed, blowing her hair out of her face. She was supposed to kill all the Witches? That wasn’t even an idea that should be thought of seriously, let alone given the time and energy it would take to form a plan of action. But her mother had planned something. Something enormously important because she had lied to Alira, her own daughter, for years to achieve her goals. And her mother was not that kind of person. She just…wasn’t.

“I don't understand what she was trying to do,” Alira said as she rolled a chunk of the dough into a small ball and then flattened it between her palms. She wished she had found some cooking oil but a dry roasted bread would still nourish her starving body. She made three more small loaves and stood to build the fire.

Looking around her former residence, she marvelled at how little her and her mother had lived on and still been relatively happy and healthy. She didn’t remember ever being hungry as a child nor her mother ever wasting before her. They both always had clean, neat clothes. Yes, she and her mother darned and repaired everything a multitude of times before they were worn out beyond use, but her mother always had clean leather shoes, tidy aprons over her roughspun gowns and Alira had always worn comfy boy’s clothes, easier to run and play and help with chores.

Alira gathered the bits of broken chair and the splinters from the useless table and found a flint firestarter, exactly where she had left it on the mantle above the fireplace. She laid a neat, small fire and lit it, watching the shards of the thick table catch first and then the oiled legs of the chair. The fire danced warmly, illuminating the small cottage and bringing tears of loss and regret to Alira’s dark eyes.

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After having made herself a satisfying meal and stowing away two small loaves that she couldn’t finish, she gathered a few bits of cloth from the bedroom and laid herself a bed in front of the hearth, forgoing the large mattress in the other room in favour of the warmth. She needed to sleep and later, when she woke, she would figure out what to do. Yes, sleep was first.

The fire popped and Alira’s eyes snapped open. It was dark outside. She had slept long, but something was wrong. Something had woken Alira.

You snore. Henry accused her. His tone said he was still sulking.

“Shut up,” she whispered as her skin crawled. Something was outside.

I sense it, too. Henry now sounded alert. I’ll go see. She felt the awful buzzing numbness as the mist rose from her. Henry’s shade coalesced and drifted to the nearest window, pressed his incorporeal hand to the pane and tilted his head. Was it just her imagination or was he a little less mist-like than earlier?

“What do you see?” she whispered as she rolled quietly to her side and sat up. “What’s out there?” She felt less dizzy and sluggish than she did when he had appeared before she had eaten and rested.

We need to go. Henry’s shade turned back to her and faded, melting back into her skin. She felt a rush of energy fill her and she breathed in deeply. Having him apart from her made her feel…uncomfortable.

“What did you see?” she hissed. She was sick of his cryptic words, his snarky remarks.

Get up. He said instead of answering. As quietly as possible, pack whatever you will need into some kind of bag and put on the spidersilk cloak. I can sense a witch outside. The urgency in his voice prompted Alira to move.

She quietly tiptoed around the cottage, finding a leather pack she had left behind years ago. She stuffed it with the two loaves of bread and emptied several large handfuls of the hazelnuts into a small square of cloth and tied it up neatly.

Next, she put the jar of gemstones into her pack, then she put the entire scribe’s satchel and its contents into the pack. She shook out the spidersilk cloak and draped it over her.

Lastly, she put the two daggers, both still stained with her own blood, into her belt, careful to not nick herself. As she worked she wondered why she was trusting Henry again. What was in his tone that made her so sure that she must obey him? What had he seen or felt?

Alira doused the fire, the steamy hiss loud in the relative quiet. She crept to the window and put her head up, scanning the silvery scene. Moonlight highlighted the slick, wet stones of the well and cast a white glow on the grass. A shadow moved at the edge of the trees, roughly her size and appearing to slink back into the treeline as she watched.

“Someone’s out there,” she said unnecessarily. It was probably the threat that Henry had detected.

I don't want to meet the neighbours tonight, dear. Let’s close the curtains and say we aren’t in. Henry whispered in her head.

“We have to find out who it is,” Alira said as she put her hand on a dagger at her waist. She wasn’t trained in any sort of combat but she knew that the dagger was insanely sharp and all she had to do was clip someone with it to deter most adversaries. Briefly, she remembered the short skirmish in the woods days before. The slaver’s hadn’t intimidated her but something about this shadow lurking around her did.

“I don’t know what good you’ll be, stuck inside me like you are. But whatever you can do to help, do it.” Alira stepped out into the night and stood in the doorway, bracing herself.

For several tense moments nothing happened. The silent night was brightly lit by the moon and she could see fairly well up to the trees. The shadow flickered behind a trunk, reappearing a second later.

“Who’s there?” she called. The night remained silent, the moon’s spotlight not reaching the shadow.

I don’t have a good feeling about this… Henry warned her. She could feel him trying to exert himself on her body, willing her to go back into the cottage.

“Show yourself!” Alira said loudly. She removed her hand from her dagger and took a step forward, throwing herself into the full relief of moonlight.

“Ain’t nobody lived there in years!” a country voice called back. “I saw the smoke from the chimney and thought the old place was burnin’.” The voice was friendly enough but suspicion chased down her skin.

“I saw it was empty and abandoned and needed a place to rest. I was injured.” She felt the need to hide her identity until she knew more about the person.

“Used to be a little family here,” called the voice again. Was it an old lady or young boy? The voice was androgynous and echoed strangely in the small clearing around the cottage. “A young lady named Erin and her daughter. Was a man, too, sometimes,” the voice held a note of disapproval, possibly judging the impropriety of the perceived situation. “And a servant.”

“What happened to them?” Alira called. She was answered only by silence. Finally the reply came, embittered and not a little angry.

“Maybe it was the witches that killed ‘em.”

“All of them? Erin and her child? The man, too? And the servant?”

“Maybe so, maybe not. The servant disappeared long before Erin or her man did.”

The trees rustled and the shadow crept a step closer, still hidden by the leaves.

“Show yourself,” Alira called suddenly. “I would see your face!” The shadow seemed to be shuffling from foot to foot then it came forward, the light spilling across their form.

“Erin asked me to look out for her little girl,” a wizened old lady said as she pulled her hood down. “I don’t think she’s alive but I’ve been keeping watch on their home just the same.” She limped closer and Alira could make out a milky white eye and a long shock of silvery hair surrounding a flabby, drooping face.

“What’s your name?” Alira called, putting her hand to her blade as she watched the crone amble closer.

“Ohira Nunjuli,” wheezed the old lady. Alira’s skin prickled at the mythical name, one that she remembered her mother using to scare her into obedience. “You can call me Granny, if you’d like. Henry does.”

By the Mother, Henry breathed in her mind. The Witch of the Wood. Alira felt him pull away from her and a misty, sparkling fox bound to the figure, throwing himself into her outstretched arms.