Song of the Forest Book One - Into the Shadows

By Jess Smith

When widowed Reywen stumbles upon a body in the woods, she must fight for her life and outrun a killer. Hunted to the very doorstep of a not-quite human creature, the real battle begins. Who is the greater danger: the murderer on her trail, or the entity who has given her refuge?

Uncovering her own healing nature, the root of the evil who hunts her, and malevolence itself, Reywen is forced to reconcile her fears with her own strengths while struggling to protect those she holds dear. As violence spreads like disease and war threatens between kingdoms, can she heal those who have been infected? Can she defeat the very essence of evil itself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781365604997

Jess Smith

Jess Smith was raised in a large family of Scottish travellers. She is married with three children and six grandchildren. As a traditional storyteller, she is in great demand for live performances throughout Scotland. Her autobiographical trilogy began with Jessie's Journey, continued with Tales from the Tent and concludes with Tears for a Tinker. She has also written a novel, Bruar's Rest.

Book preview

Chapter One

Reywen

She stomped the mud off her boots before scaling the stairs, removing, then crashing them together before allowing herself inside. As she shouldered open the heavy beam door, the citrus heat of burning spruce in the stove wrapped around her, drawing her in. She felt her cold, pink cheeks blaze painfully with the contrast.

The chickens and sheep were fed and tended: the dwindling eggs were collected; the ewes were milked. Garden fare was gathered – chard, parsley, carrots, mints, and fading lavender, all in great armfuls, and robust weed sprouts had been mercilessly uprooted. Reywen ladled water from the rain bucket just outside her door into the kettle before briskly rubbing several sprigs of fresh mint between her hands, dropping them into the clay mug she had cherished for four years – it was an anniversary gift from her husband.

Then she got to work brushing the dirt and waste from the eggs, gently but efficiently depositing them into tidy fir ribbon boxes, six per box. Soon the kettle began to bubble and hiss, just as she finished closing up the last box. She broke away from the counter to pour the spitting water into her mug, and promptly the crisp scent of mint began to fill the room. She took the opportunity to tie bundles of carrots and chard with tow flax twine, and smaller bundles of the herbs, to allow her tea to steep.

At last her morning work was done, and Reywen allowed herself

to slowly sip her tea at the table, knitting furiously, overlooking the rising sun outside the broad kitchen window. She nibbled at seed bread dotted with last summer’s strawberry jam, and, after a while, set about loading the miniature cart outside for today’s market: Carrots lined the edges, then orderly bunches of chard, and finally the egg boxes cocooned by fresh herbs.

When that was done, Reywen went about washing herself and

dressing in fresh wool, then sat down to ply the last skein of yarn on her spindle. She didn’t do this long, mind: There would be plenty of opportunity this morning at the market when business slowed or lulled. 

Work filled every aspect of her day, as it did for many, but Reywen’s hands flew with all the vigor of a mind desperate to remain distracted.

For Reywen had lost her husband a year ago and a day, and if she wasn’t careful, her mind would begin to wander; and if it began to wander, she’d find herself missing the warm touch of her love, his crooked smile, his smell like home. She’d start to look for him at the fire, checking the chimney newly repaired, or whittling spoons and bowls and… and toys, as he once had, for their unborn.

She’d start to remember the blood dripping down her thighs, and the pain of contractions that could not compare to the pain in her heart as she had held their little boy, too small and weak to survive outside her body that was not strong enough to keep him safe. She’d remember her love’s tears, her own, and all the sorrow she firmly held as her fault.

She’d remember his promises of trying again, of one day, of the future. 

A future that would never be.

Her eyes blurred with hot tears. Frustrating mistakes were made in her spinning, and she tossed the spindle into the basket beside her, into the warm nest of wool, standing with a huff.

Well, there was work to be done somewhere. It was another hour and a half yet before she would don the little cart’s arms on her hips and march onward to the market, and the unoccupied space was intolerable.

There was a basket of mending…

~      ~       ~

By the time Reywen could acceptably start the half-hour journey to the market, she was calm and cool. Smoke from several homes dotted along the hillside spiced the air, and the sun was beginning to warm the mist that creeped along the fields and forest edge around her. Behind lay her small farm, several acres that she and Jodrin had purchased and left mostly wooded. On either side of her now were fields of flax and hay, belonging to one of her elderly neighbours. Jodrin used to help with the harvest every summer. If she wasn’t mindful, she might see his silhouette among the grass, feel the summer’s heat on her shoulders as she remembered offering lunch and cool water to those hard at work.

Ahead, the morning sun lay glinting above the road, throbbing a dull ache at the back of her eyes; she kept her gaze down and counted her steps.                    Hello, Cen Jodrin! called a voice to her left, and she spied Samoval’s wife tending her pigs at the fence just twenty paces away. She was a stout woman, firm but not cross. Reywen appreciated her nononsense demeanour but shied away from any social engagement with her. For one, her insistence on formal greetings struck like daggers every time she sang her dead husband’s name, and Reywen cringed inwardly. A fine morning, it is! Just look at that sunrise.

Good morning, Cen Samoval. A fine morning, yes. Your fleeces will be available by midday tomorrow. I’m nearly through carding the last.

Thank you, thank you, she sang again, her voice carrying into the fields. Surely she did not have to be so loud. Jonna has only just repaired my spindle, but little Tiadras will need a new jacket this winter, and I am anxious to get on it. Oh, these boys just keep growing.

As is the way of them, Cen Samoval, Reywen pinched her face into a weak smile. Shall I drop them off tomorrow?

Leave them under your awning: Samoval will be riding by tomorrow near nightfall after delivering the wood to the Kethar family, and he will fetch them. Speaking of, are you in need?

She suppressed another cringe as the dagger twisted deeper. Oh, I’ve just chopped and stacked the last cord from our woods, but thank you kindly, Cen Samoval. I think Harriter down the river may be a steady customer for you this year. He’s gone and fallen again, and his son isn’t back from the cities yet.

Cen Samoval – Marly, her given name – nodded, thanked Reywen, and returned to feeding the greedy pigs who shuffled and grunted through the hewn wooden fence at her feet. 

Reywen tread faster now, aware of lost time.

~      ~       ~

The market was uneventful, though Reywen sold most of her goods. All that remained were a few bundles of herbs, and these she could dry to sell through the winter. Once, not long ago, she would have devised grand plans of steeping the herbs for healing salves, soaks, and teas, but now bags of single dried herbs for seasoning would have to do. 

Arriving home, she locked away her cart and clipped the bundles to a few hanging strings in the far corner of the main room where they would dry. She gently squeezed the twigs of those already hanging, but there was still some give, so they were not yet ready.

Then Reywen hung her fullcloth jacket by the door and went outside to the fleece processing shed where she sat down to card the last bit of Cen Samoval’s fleece. She would not need the jacket here. Her arms worked quickly, her body rocked fluidly, depositing roll after roll into the basket beside her. Soon she even draped her knitted shawl over a pine knot hook as fire ignited her shoulders.

~      ~       ~

The lowering sun set the sky ablaze. Reywen smiled a weary halfgrin. Cen Samoval’s fleece was done ahead of schedule, and Reywen had begun working on her own fleece from her favourite ewe, Lolly. The fibres were soft and glinted in the copper light, shining with grease. It always gave a comforting thrill to work Lolly’s fleece. Her hands were soft from gently thumbing apart locks of fibre, and the smell that arose to welcome her was a mix of clean lanolin and the herbs with which the fleece was meticulously washed. It almost hummed with an energy that set her arms tingling, straight to her heart, as if smoothing the tangles there, too.

How often this energy would work through her body in times past, as friends and neighbours came for advice. They would come to complain about the weather, or an ache, or something more serious, and Reywen always seemed to know just the right things to say. She would send them home coincidentally with just the herbs to settle their afflictions, salves and medicines she’d had the sudden intuition to create mere days or weeks before, or else they walked away lighter in heart and clearer in mind. Even a warm embrace could provide a strange and immediate effect, as if by magic. The hum of energy seemed like divine inspiration, connecting her to something greater.

This hadn’t happened lately, mind. Almost no one came up the narrow path to her doorstep now, too nervous of grief and at a loss for what to say to the widow. The women Reywen had helped after their own babies were born did not knock with meals and offers to clean as she once had. Although their abandonment had stung for a long time, Reywen convinced herself that she could only rely on herself, anyway. 

Dutifully, Reywen set aside the fleece to finish her evening chores before the light vanished entirely. She spent longer than necessary out here, fussing over the ewes and paying excessive compliments to the ram. Jodrin had insisted that he preferred to be called handsome, and so Reywen scratched his forehead and the base of his very fine and fierce horns, my dear, while Lolly and the other ewes bleated and pushed at her legs for the same.

Once the animals were fed and it was well and truly dark, Reywen sat down to eat her fare, fresh from the garden. Her food was cold: She hadn’t cooked in her forged wood oven since Jodrin had passed. Elaborate, delicious meals had once been her choice way of showing affection for her husband, ecstatic as he moaned and complimented her meals, even the odd time they were burnt, or overseasoned, or included a vegetable he secretly despised. She had once put so much thought and care into chopping and rolling and baking – now who did she have to feed but herself and her animals? It was a stark and unwelcome reminder, and so she ate her meals cold and raw, or with a bit of warm broth. 

KNOCK KNOCK-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Reywen rose, answering the door with a drag in her feet.

Evidently it was time for her nightly visit from Mattiu, neighbour to the east up the alley. The closest neighbour at that – she could see his cottage from her upper fence.

Under the guise of bringing leftover tow flax, preserved goods, or cabbages in exchange for wool or garden fare, Mattiu would check up on her in the evenings. He had done so nearly every night since two weeks after Jodrin passed, without fail. 

Reywen threw a small chunk of fir resin on the stove and unlatched the door.

Good evening, Reywen! I have some nice, choice cabbages tonight, perfect for brining. These are the best in my garden, and I marked them for you as soon as I knew. How’re things tonight?

Reywen nodded at the four cabbages cradled in Mattiu’s arm and stepped out of the way as he kicked off his boots and came in. She shut out the crickets chirping in the star-speckled night. Marvelous, Mattiu. Put them on the table, will you? I don’t have extra wool tonight, but I have just pulled six bundles of carrots and set them aside. You know how good they are brined with garlic weed. How does that sound?

Mattiu smiled, trying not to let the cold, heavy cabbages roll around and off the table. His heavy steps echoed in the little room though he had left his boots by the door, and thin puffs of resin smoke rose from the oven to scent the air. He noted that she had not answered his

question, but that was not unusual. That sounds just fine.

Mattiu, would you do me a favour tomorrow?

His breath caught and he turned to her, endeavouring to hide his surprise. This past year, Mattiu had imposed help and company on Reywen, never waiting for her to ask. She wouldn’t, of course. She was too hard, too withdrawn and stubborn to ask, ever. Even when she’d broken her toe nearly six months ago, she could be seen hobbling along to do her chores or pull the cart to the weekly market, waving him away when he dared offer assistance. ‘It’s a toe, not my leg!’ she’d retort. Of course. What do you need, my friend?

Reywen poured Mattiu a cup of daisy and self-heal tea after setting the bundles of carrots beside his boots. Settling across the table from him with her own cup, she explained, Jodrin had a nice little shed set up deep in the mountains. He would spend a few weeks up there, hunting, fishing. He took me with him the year before last and I noticed a fair feast of chanterelles, hen of the woods, turkey tail, and kings. I even spied a chaga. With all the rain this last week, they’ll be up and ready for harvest. Listen: I’d like to go up there and stock up for winter, but it is several hours to get there, and though he marked the path clear enough, I think it would be better for me to spend the night in his hunting shed than try to get back by moonlight. If you tend my hens, milk and feed my sheep, I’d be glad to give you an honest portion of whatever I manage to bring back. What do you say?

Mattiu’s teeth pressed together, his face pulled down into a grimace. Reywen, alone in the woods? She was a small woman, strong though she was, and leaner than he thought was healthy. She had no dog, no guide, no protection. What if she met upon a bear, or a wild cat, or – goddess forbid – a man? Reywen…

Don’t you start. I know that look. Listen: I’m going anyway, and if you don’t watch my animals, I’ll ask Cen Forsith down the way. She’ll gladly do it for a price, but more likely than not would mix it all up and try milking my chickens and check the ewes for eggs. I have Jodrin’s knife, and a good lamp, and his trail is secret. I am as safe as I can be, and I need those mushrooms to sell at the market this winter. The vegetables can only go so far, and –

All right, all right, Mattiu leaned an elbow by his tea, tucking his fist by his gristly jaw. I will. I’ll tend things here while you’re away. Only… I worry is all. Reywen. The bears are getting hungry this time of year, and a knife won’t do any more good than a pin against a hog. Why not ask Cen Forsith to tend things here, and I go with you?

Reywen twisted her hands in disapproval. This had been Jodrin’s sacred place, where he had been able to leave the world behind and connect with the divine in life, spiritual and lofty-minded man that he was. He had brought Reywen shortly after the miscarriage to help her do the same, to find some semblance of comfort, and that place was full of bittersweet memories. She wasn’t sure that she could bring someone else there; it would feel wrong. This had been where they had sought healing together. Thank you, Mattiu. I really think I need to go alone. I think… I need this.

They looked at each other a long while in silence, both as still as stone. Finally, Mattiu sucked in a deep breath. All right, Reywen. You can count on me. However, if you’re not back by the evening after tomorrow, what am I to do?

I’ll come back, she quipped with more venom than intended. But if I get taken away by the Fae – she rolled her eyes – take care of my sheep, and you can sell my market goods for your own profit until my seven years in the Otherworlds is up.

Mattiu threw up his hands. I’m only worried, is all!

You’d be right to worry about me staying alone in this house much longer. Mattiu, I need to breathe a bit. You know that I’m not in the habit of clucking on about these things, but this hunting shed is about the last place I need to make peace with… with Jodrin gone. 

Mattiu was mournfully quiet, watching her with a mouth slightly agape. Reywen’s face was stoic, firm, but her eyes flashed something that hinted at a fire inside. She took the rare opportunity of his silence to continue.

So, what I’m saying, Mattiu, is that I’m going… and I have to go. Because if I don’t, I am quite sure I’ll never get the courage again. And if I don’t make peace with this, I don’t think I will be able to make peace with Jodrin’s death. There. She said it, and it was out in the open now. It gave her a sickly vulnerable feeling, unpleasant, but also a slight relief.

She was careful to screw her lips shut tight, lest she rattle on more.

Reywen, Mattiu reached across the table to take up one of her hands, but she pretended not to see, instead grasping the kettle to pour more water into his mug. Mattiu slinked his hand back. Will you tell me where it is?

"Yes. And only you. If word gets out, Mattiu-Rimb, I’ll feed you to Cen Samoval’s hogs. This is Jodrin’s secret trail. You’ve got that? Secret.

And private."

Mattiu thumped his chest and made an exaggerated motion of sewing his lips shut. The corners of Reywen’s mouth flinched into something resembling a tight smile.

You’re a good friend, Mattiu. I’ve been grateful to you, if also fairly irritated at you.

Mattiu beamed. Like an old dog you can’t get rid of. All right, it’s settled. He drained his cup, though it must have still been quite hot.

Chapter Two

The Hunter

The land was still dark, and Reywen had just finished her morning chores, earlier than usual. She had packed the night before and as she secured her bag, she mentally repeated her supplies:

Bread

Dried vegetables for soup

Dried fruit

Waterskin, full

Dry herbs for tea

Small jar of healing salve

Blanket

Fire striker and flint

A knife hung on her belt, and four large woven baskets nested into each other tied to her pack. Their lids dangled off with a bit of twine. She’d have liked to stay a few nights, drying her intended mushrooms by the fire so that her bounty could be smaller and light, but she had a feeling it was stress enough for Mattiu to do her chores tonight and tomorrow morning.

Donning her pack, she stepped over the threshold, locking the door behind her. The air was cold and damp on her cheeks, her hands wet with the dew that speckled the doorknob. She turned and beheld the first greying of the sky to the east. The timing was perfect: She would be far down the main road and up the rising hill toward the mountains by dawn.

She sucked in a breath – both out of nervousness and, dare she say, excitement – and stepped forward.

She couldn’t look at her beloved sheep who gently bleated their welcome song for her. Dear friends she had confided in, she felt guilt for leaving them now, even just for the night. No, she kept her face forward, her chin raised, and indeed by the time she climbed the hollow hills toward the mountains, the sun peeked its face above the horizon, igniting pink clouds with a fiery golden light. 

It was a breathtaking sight. A strange flutter was in her chest, something warm and familiar, just melting the edges of the sadness there.

Wordless, she carried on, bathed in the golden light.

The sky had settled a bit as she reached the line of alder trees bordering the forest. Their leaves were yellowing, and long, wet catkins trembled in the breezeless air. She searched for the looped sapling that Jodrin had bent to mark the entrance to his trail, but it was harder than she thought. For several minutes she walked the edge until she remembered the stones that she had once sat on to rest… and looked up. Found at last, much larger than she remembered, she paused at the entrance to the wood.

The path was overgrown. This she expected, but she did not expect the chill like ice to grip her stomach so… entirely banishing the warmth of just moments ago. Even the sky seemed to darken beyond the clear blue sky. Every ounce of her wanted, very much, to not go forward, to not enter this deep and endless wood.

Reywen, you silly goat! she admonished. It’s Jodrin’s memories that keep your feet planted here. You’re finally going to have to face them. Come on, you coward girl! Lazy bones!

And yet she could not make her leaden feet inch forward.        Reywen stood staring into the abyss of that trail, though the sun shone merrily through the sparse alders and aspens, and indeed would have been a picturesque sight. Her shoulders twitched. Her hands tingled.

Never had she had more of an urge to run.

Loudly, she cleared her throat, and it seemed to break her nervous spell… or enough that she could stuff it down and scold herself again. There was a bounty ahead, she knew, and she needed that bounty to get through the winter dry market spell.

Slowly at first, she trudged into the trees, thanking the Spirit of the Woods for allowing her to enter, instead of asking permission as was custom in those days, in this land. She slipped along the path, keeping careful watch for markers that Jodrin had put up along the way.

~      ~       ~

She was two hours down the trail, and Jodrin’s last marker should have shown itself about ten minutes ago. Reywen backtracked to the last one, tried again, but still could not find it. She backtracked again, but now couldn’t find the last marker, either…

It’s all right, she thought. It’s a mountain. The way back is down.

Fifteen minutes, and still no markers.

She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t worried.

The air felt strange, almost charged. She was sure it was her nerves.

But there! Through the bushes, about twenty metres ahead, she saw fur. A bear?

No…

No, it was not fur.

It was hair.

As her mind scrambled to make sense of what she saw, she realized that it was a man or woman lying down, curled and sleeping. Their face was nestled down and away from her. Their clothes were shabby, but what else could be expected from falling asleep in the woods like this? She did not think of why they might be asleep – perhaps lost as she nearly was, or in search of spiritual epiphany – only that she would be mortified if she woke or disturbed them. She felt she was a trespasser on something deeply private.

She saw Jodrin’s marker ahead, past the dozing person. 

Oh, providence! She would have to be silent to not wake them. Yet… she had the feeling that they might be in need of some help, though what that could be, she could not fathom. She thought she should check on them as she passed.

The marker was her goal, and it kept her feet moving and her intuition silent. She drew nearer the sleeping form, about to pass them with a wide berth, and for just a moment, she peeked to their face.

That’s when she saw the blood, smeared over their battered face, collected in a small, black pool beneath their cavernous head.

That’s when she saw their bloody fingers, curled tightly near their chin as if to protect themselves.

That’s when she saw the white eyes, staring – empty – at the sky, at her.

That’s when she heard the flies who had already gathered in the warming air, droning a deafening, low hum. It was suddenly all she could hear, until a sharp ringing exploded in her ears and drowned out everything else.

Terror hit her heart like an arrow, and metal flooded her mouth as she gasped inward, casting frantic glances around her. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

Where was the murderer? Or predator? No, no animal could do that…

She backed away, silent but swift. The world moved sickeningly slow. At once leaden and twice filled with fire ready to spring, she hastened to the trail she had lost, and though the shrill scream in her ears blotted out all sound, somehow a crack to her left stabbed through.  Too close…

Unwilling, her body froze, her head snapped toward the source of that sound. 

A face blinked into existence thirty metres to her left – a man, bedraggled and wiry – and in the split moment that she met his eyes, she took in every detail at once: his long and tangled brown hair, his thin pink lips, but more importantly his lean, strong muscles and wide, wide blue eyes. Those pools were the focused eyes of a cat, feral and dangerous, and they locked on her now with a bloodlust that nearly stopped her heart.

Reywen turned and bolted.

The man, spurred to the chase, fled after her.

The forest flew by her, and yet beyond the wind in her ears and the sound of her own heart drumming for its life, beyond her own crashing over branches and stones, she could hear or sense her hunter closing the distance.

She veered right, wrapping her arm and swinging around a tree to keep her momentum, for a moment nearly fearing she might tear off her own arm. Moments later, she heard his feet slide and take off once more.

A hill! A hill ahead! She darted for the hill, sliding down on her feet and legs with no care for the sharp stones beneath moss and prehistoric ferns that jabbed at her and bruised, nor the sticks that tore her clothing before snapping beneath her falling weight. She pinched her arms behind her to drop her pack in one fluid movement before propelling herself forward and downward, turning right again as the ground levelled out. She did not hear Jodrin’s knife drop.

She ran as never before, and she saw light ahead, an end to trees. It was too much to hope that this was the exit from the forest, but every muscle, every fibre of her being pushed her toward that light as if it were the surface and she were deep, deep under water.

The Hunter was fast, much faster than she, and he had little trouble cutting down the distance between them now that her trajectory was straight. He drew closer, every movement controlled and focused like an arrow. 

No! No! Every part of her being cried out against her fate. Her legs burned; her lungs seemed to seize with grating breaths, her heart nearly ready to burst.

The light grew brighter, wider, until she could see its cause: a huge rift in the forest like a wound, broken in two, and the thunderous hiss of water overtook her.

She had no choice. She could not slow. She could waste no time with turns. She could not stop!

The Hunter closed in.

Reywen pushed onward with one last rush of power, never slowing as the ground gave way beneath her with a sickening lurch, and the creek – more of a river – opened up to swallow her from below.        She fell, arms splayed before her, legs still twisting, down, down until the ice water hit her like a hammer, shocking every muscle. Blessedly she did not land upon the boulders which foamed and spiralled the raging waters.

Immediately she was hurled into one of these boulders, bashing her ribs and battering her arms and face. The force and speed of the water was tremendous with the recent rains, impossible to fight even if her muscles hadn’t been useless with shock, for this high in the autumn mountains it was as cold as ice. Like being wrenched in several directions at once, jostled and thrown against stones, Reywen was carried downstream, far from her Hunter who stared at her disappearing form from the shadows.

Her skirts began to grow fearfully heavy, pulling her down as the wool drank up the water in which it was submerged. It became harder to push her head above the churning surface. Reywen somehow found her strength, and kicked. She beat upon the stream, though her movements seemed hopelessly slow. Desperate, she struggled to grab hold of a stone, but they were worn smooth and slippery with algae. Her fingernails dug into anything she could touch as she passed, grinding to her fingertips and breaking, bloody.

Finally, her back crashed into something sharp, and it held her fast, the water rushing its resistance over her face. She could not breathe, bent tightly against a log which seemed to hold her fast.

It was no use. A broken limb from the trunk of a fallen tree was lodged in her skirts, tangled beyond aid even if her normally deft fingers could move to release her. She tried to turn, but there was no room. She tried to push herself up, but could not compete with the raging stream which seemed to delight in its game, ravenous for sacrifice.

Her lungs ached for air, and it was all she could do to keep herself from gasping in the frigid waters that would be her tomb. She pushed and tried to pry herself away, even as she weakened. She could feel the compulsion to suck in the water grow, and with new horror she realized that it was inevitable. It was in this moment that she felt new pressure, almost like hands, squeeze at her shoulders, but she could hold it no longer. 

The limb broke beneath her weight, and by some divine

intervention her face surfaced just as her lungs gave way in a frightful gasp. At once she grabbed hold of another limb of three, like long fingers which now only just stopped her from continuing downstream, holding her like a drowned mouse. Beneath her were inches of rotted, slippery leaves, moss, and forest debris caught in its makeshift hand, and in this moment she did not feel much different than them.

She stayed here for what felt like ages, not daring to upset her balance. She shivered madly as the ice water swirled around her legs, her teeth chattering behind blue lips, yet her mind worked furiously to determine how to drag herself to shore without being caught again.

Slowly, for her fingers were near useless, she unbuttoned the woolen outerskirts and heaved her backside up the smallest degree that she dared. The current, as if sensing her plan, immediately took hold and tugged on her outerskirts, which slipped off smoothly and were carried away. Reywen curled her knees up, for the skirts had tried to suck against her legs and drag her with them, but she would not give them the chance.

She watched them bob once before they were out of sight, so was the greediness and speed of this stream.

Significantly lighter, though her linen underskirts still weighed a great deal with her fatigue, Reywen inched herself toward shore, slowly, slowly, holding to branches for her life.

When she grasped dry conifer needles at last, Reywen hitched a sob of relief, but would not allow herself to celebrate nor grow careless, for the waters below her now, though seemingly a bit calmer, were perilously deep. It was not until all of her was on dry land that she kneeled to face the water, tears streaming down her dripping face.

She rested here only moments before forcing herself up again. Quavering, aching, and bloody, she knew she must go on. It would not be long before her Hunter could find her, though she was sure the stream had carried her far. She had no time to squander, especially in her limping state. She had to get out of these woods!

~      ~       ~

Hours later, the sky was darkening. There was no beautiful sunset, only a grey, dismal sky. No trilling birdsong heralded the impending night, nor did twilight creatures scurry about. She was mostly dry now, but freezing, still limping, and so, so tired. Eyes bleary and burning, she counted her breaths and shuffling steps to continue on. Her stomach gnawed with exhaustion, and with each step, she felt as if her body were breaking.

She knew she should have seen some sign of the forest’s end by now, but it was clear she was not getting out of the woods tonight. She tried not to let this realization sink in to destroy all hope. She tried not to think of it at all. 

She had to rest. She hobbled at a snail’s pace, too afraid to stop, thankful for her stiff and tightly bound boots. She would do well to build a shelter now where she could warm herself and doze, but the risk of being found set her dry mouth welling with metal again in dread. It was too much to believe that her Hunter could not find her trail.

Reywen.

Her knees buckled, setting a fresh bolt of pain through her ankles. She nearly collapsed to the ground, such was the impact of that one word…

Of that voice.

There was no air in her lungs.

Reywen, the voice urged again, and she glanced around in panic, her heart pricking with fresh grief like an opened wound.

What was happening?

Jodrin? she whispered aloud, the name barely slipping from her cracking lips. Where…

In the trees, my love. Hide. Please, now. Now!

Like an explosion in her muscles, Reywen dashed to the tree that seemed to reach its limbs out to her, a menziesii with thick boughs. Fire in every sinew, she climbed, and the boughs seemed to enfold her. Only a few metres up she stopped, for she could go no further. Heart hammering, threatening to tear from her chest, she clutched to the scratchy trunk and pressed herself tightly against it, eyes wide.

It was only moments later when movement flickered in the corner of Reywen’s vision. Barely daring to breathe, she watched, willing herself to be a part of the tree, begging it to swallow her up and keep her hidden and safe.

It was him.

The cruel and savage man who had so defiled that body, who now set his will upon a new target, managing somehow to track her all this way.

While one half of Reywen tried desperately to sink deeper into the tree, away from herself and this mess, the other half threatened to jump up and out of her, so much that the inner war was unbearable. Though she wanted to scream, she could not so much as inhale. Time stretched painfully and she observed her Hunter, every detail soaking into her unwilling mind.

She thought she would never forget the earthen shade of his hair, burned into her vision. His clothes were in tatters, as if he had lived out here in the wild for a long, long time. His movements were smooth, methodical, and fearfully silent. Like a cat, some part of her threatened again, a skilled predator through and through. He had no need to go quickly, for his prey was injured and weakening. His broad shoulders slinked, and his bare toes skilfully missed the crunching leaves. He paused a moment, searching around him.

Reywen groaned inwardly. She had been so careless! She must have been thunderously loud by comparison, not thinking to hide her faltering prints. Of course he had found her! Again, she willed herself as part of the tree, withdrawing her focus from him as she had done ages ago as a child playing hiding games.

Yet… And yet… The Hunter stalked past her tree, eyes alert for signs of his prey. He did not even look toward her, and yet also never seemed to pause his steady pace, as if her trail had not been interrupted at all. She watched him for ages, aghast, as he faded far from sight.

It was only then that she allowed herself to truly breathe, suddenly full of light and yet ready to sob. She was shaking, and the cold seemed to reach deeper. The core of her belly felt sickly, and she recoiled from this by hugging the tree even tighter, though its bark scratched her face, thanking it profusely in her mind for keeping her safe.

How? It was impossible that she could be so lucky.

Her muscles locked. She knew that she should climb down and find her way home, if nothing else than to elude her Hunter. Surely if he came back, he would find her trail one more.

She could not. As much as she knew what she should do, she could not move.

~              ~              ~

Warm, strong arms slipped under hers, wrapping around her. A once-familiar heat surrounded her, bringing a rapturous notion of safety. She heaved a deep sigh, snuggling into those wonderful arms and lovingly holding the thick, rough hands, fingers entwined. Soon, the shivering stopped. Comfortable, even a little hot, she rested her head back against his shoulder. Where his body pressed against her, the ache of the day’s injuries was soothed, and her muscles softened. He smelled of menziesii and moss, of sunshine and wildflowers and warm grass.

Jodrin, she whispered, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. I miss you.

~      ~       ~

Reywen startled awake, nearly falling from her perch. Her arms were still tight around the tree that held her so faithfully, and a tumultuous shiver overtook her entire body. Her teeth clattered together, and she felt she could have never known warmth for the depth of ice in her body. It was this moment that she wondered that she might have been close to death in her euphoric sleep.

Light was just beginning to appear in the eastern sky, and she stared in disbelief. She didn’t even remember closing her eyes…

She stifled a cry as she unlocked herself to sit up. Every muscle screamed.

I’m alive, she whispered reassuringly. I didn’t fall. I wasn’t found. I didn’t freeze completely.

Her stomach rolled and her head swam. She needed water.        Carefully she slipped down, alert and silent as a deer, and headed to the creek where she drank the cold water with revulsion. Sips at first, soon followed by long gulps once her stomach had settled. Nibbling on some conifer needles, she plotted her next steps.

If I follow the stream, sense says that I should find the river that feeds the villages on the other side of the mountain from Ceilscartha, she mused. From there, perhaps I can find someone on the road who can help me. It’s better that I not try to find home yet, truly, lest he follow me out of the forest. Surely he will spot me once I am out of the trees. Can I run fast enough? I can’t hope to fight him off, but I may have to try. She pulled some wilted, half-frozen wild lettuce leaves from the ground and chewed as she pondered. They were the size of coins and sparse, yet might have been the most delightful feast from the hall of kings for all she knew. Their intensely bitter juice made her body rejoice, and she thought of her harvesting knife long gone with her pack and baskets. I’ll need to make a weapon.

Heaving herself up, no small feat for her injuries, she began to limp forward with purpose and this time with stealth. She followed the creek, but not too closely. She kept her eyes searching for both potential weapons and quick hiding spots, should she need them. Above all, she watched the signs of the forest, and for signs of her Hunter.

The cold snaked through her underskirts, making her hairs stand on end and her skin raw and red. At least there was some cover, she encouraged herself, and her boots, though still sopping wet, were warm enough and held her injury fast. She had not taken them off in case she had to run again. Her tough skin would have been chafing but for her thick, woolen socks, rich with lanolin.

A particularly savage-looking black stone stood out to her, nestled below another fir tree in a grove of maples, waiting for her. Oblong and curved, it had broken in such a way that the outer edge was sharp. Too sharp – she couldn’t safely wrap a handle nor carry it on her hip without fear it would cut away the binds. At first she was suspicious – it seemed too good of providence that it should be laying so serendipitously – and expected a trap, but the forest continued its merry chatter. She had noticed the forest yesterday fell silent at the presence the Hunter.

With a bent prayer of thanks to whatever beings were offering this to her, Reywen grasped the cold stone by the blunt side, tucking it into her sleeve before continuing her steady pace. She imagined ways she may have to use it: Surprise would be to her advantage, and if she were close enough, would be able to slice her enemy viciously. 

She thumbed the stinging edge. It was good and strong, and very, very sharp. Again, she thanked whatever beings were looking on her, and she felt a tingle snake its way through her arms.

~      ~       ~

For hours she hobbled along the creek, nibbling on what bits of wild things she could find this late in the year. Her stomach was weary with the rise and fall of heavy dread, yet it was only when she began to trip that she allowed herself to rest, for only a few minutes. She picked a massive, towering, gnarled menziesii tree with low branches, surrounded by a carpet of soft, brown and orange needles. They wavered in her vision, and she could almost imagine they formed shapes or words. She felt disarmingly comfortable here, and warm, the air spiced with the resin of the tree and something else that tickled her senses. Her ankle screamed out its agony, but she dared not take off her boot in case the swelling forbade her to reapply it.

Her head spun and her ears pounded with the force of her heartbeat, echoing over the chirps of tiny songbirds and the restless creek not far away. She closed her weary eyes against the white glint of the near-winter sun, not comprehending at first how the forest prickled into a charged, straining silence. For several minutes she only felt the strength of the tree behind her, a soothing balm to the throb within her skull. She could feel it reach up and wrap around her, to hold her in its steady embrace, and she remembered with fondness the nestling hug of her dream.

The crack of a missed footstep had her eyes flinging open, sweeping the area. Her vision rimmed with red as terror flooded her body in full force, knocking out breath with a strike to her chest.

He had found her once more, the Hunter, his eyes wild and starved. He was only paces away, so close that she could see the full savagery within his expression, setting her alight with sickening fear.

Through the trees he stalked, focused and deadly.

Yet she could not move, could not urge even one single muscle to twitch to life, let alone jump to her feet and attempt to flee.

Her ears felt painfully stuffed with wool, and yet she could hear with aching clarity each muted footstep while she was caught like a mouse in his trap, waiting for him to finish the deed.

He did not stop.

He did not so much as look at her.

Her Hunter continued past, meticulously searching the way ahead for signs of her wandering.

She watched in bewilderment, her head screaming.

After what felt like hours, her muscles unlocked and she felt she could breathe again, move again, as if with the lifting of a spell. Warily she stood, peeking out from behind her chosen tree. There was no sign of her Hunter, now long gone.

It’s better in this world, anyway, whispered a small voice behind her. 

Reywen spun around and clasped a hand over her mouth so as not to shriek, brandishing her weapon stone with feral strength toward the source of those words.

The sudden figure which stood before her was not tall, only a hand’s length shorter than she, with variegated brown, shimmering hair and clothes like tree bark. They hugged his body as if the air weren’t biting cold and threatening snow, and the long fists perched upon his narrow hips made her pause before beginning her attack.

A child?

No… His face was boyish, bright with youth, but strange, green eyes betrayed an age beyond comprehension. His high, foreign cheekbones and offset smile set her on edge, and his utter stillness convinced her that this boy was not human.

Her gasping breaths did not slow, and she did not lower her weapon.

The boy winked.

Reywen blinked back.

The rogue cannot see us, but he can hear us, the boy whispered, so please do not scream. Thank you for choosing my tree. I see that you are in great need of rest and sustenance, and I can show you to both, if you’ll come with me.

The formality of the boy was unnatural, and unnerving. With a quick shiver, Reywen broke from her trance. Who are you? she threatened, raising her weapon stone again.

He leaned forward in a hasty bow. I am Mehofwehuil, but please tell me now if you will come. He is circling round, as he knows he has lost your trail. I cannot hide you a second time.

Her heart beat quicker, if it were possible, and her vision pulsed… yet his words brought a measurable relief to her shoulders. It was as if yarn under too much tension finally snapped, and a strange and trembling lightness filled her belly. Yes; yes, I will go with you. Thank you, the words spilled out, and she was careful to lodge her weapon stone back properly in her sleeve.

With a flaccid sweep of his arms, the outline of a doorway etched itself into the furrowed bark of the giant tree before them. The child Mehofwehuil pressed gently, and soundlessly it opened inward. From inside, the warmth and light of some hidden fire echoed out, along with the rich scents of cooking breads, fruit, and nuts. Reywen’s stomach clenched in on itself painfully, though her mind was on her attacker and how close he may be.

Mehofwehuil stepped inside, holding his hand out to guide her across the threshold. He watched her expectantly, his eyes bright with an unnerving zealousness.

She took his offer gently, but quickly, eager to fall out of sight. His skin was cool, as if he had just been playing in the creek, and it sent shivers through her body. Her skin tingled where it touched his as from the remnants of static shock, but she did not have time to mull on this. She hurriedly stepped across the threshold, and the heat of the place enveloped her, hugged her, set her icy skin painfully aflame in a way that she had come to know from countless winter nights tending her animals. Always the ache and itch of returning to the hearth was welcome, and she trusted that it would soon ease.

The door closed behind them securely, leaving no trace of its existence. Reywen wondered if she would ever surface again alive.

She followed Mehofwehuil down long and winding narrow stairs. Reywen brushed the walls beside her with the fingertips of her free hand. The smooth, polished wood was surprisingly warm, reflecting the firelight from where she could not yet guess, for onward and downward they continued with no end in sight. She felt they had looped around, though it should have been impossible, for surely she had seen this grain pattern before, and again before that… and she wondered if she might go on forever.

She watched the boy, how his fluid steps made him seem as if he were gliding, and her own limping gait felt clumsy in comparison. She tried to guess his age – the open face, narrow shoulders, and thin limbs would have immediately pronounced this a boy of nine or ten, but for his bushy brows and knowing expressions, for now and then he would turn his head to reassure her that it wouldn’t be much farther. She realized then that his presence was oddly reassuring… likely only the relief of being scurried away from danger.

Just as Reywen’s weariness was catching up with her again, causing her heels and aching ankle to flirt with missing the steps below, Mehofwehuil reached the bottom landing and stopped, guiding her to stand beside him and take in the view.

Before her was the coziest room she had ever set eyes upon. By now her ears and skin had finished their flush of red, and the luxurious heat was no longer painful. The fire within the hearth at the far-right wall was no fire at all, she grasped, but glowing orange stones that gave endless light and heat to this lovely place. Two thick-cushioned armchairs faced the fastidious stonework of the hearth, and between them lay an intricate woven rug of earth tones.

It was more welcoming than she could have ever fathomed.        Mehofwehuil snapped his fingers, and scores of multi-sized fungi along the walls and ceiling began to glow with a faint light that did not hurt her eyes as the sun above. She could see there were more rooms beyond this one finished with clay, but the lovely room here was lined with polished wooden walls. The designs within the shining grains were enchanting, lending warm, golden tones that glimmered in the flicker of the hearth.

Reywen’s eyes then focused to her immediate right, where she saw a small carved wooden table dressed with all manner of victuals: acorn and sweet chestnut bread upon a platter with an earthen jar of honey and another of raspberry jam; hot rosehip tea within an ornate clay pot; sliced mushrooms marinated in juniper and unknown other spices; honeycomb, fresh from the hive; chopped wild greens; and a hearty root and rhizome soup. 

Her knees nearly buckled.

Somewhere in the far reaches of her mind, she remembered the clear advice among scores of others to never accept food nor drink from the Fae, for to do so would seal a contract and damn one to servitude for seven years or until one’s death. Had she stepped from one danger into another?

I know the tales spoken of us, Reywen, said the boy in his unusual formal tone, though she could not remember that she had given her name. She fixed her studious gaze on him. Those green eyes glimmered, and she had the distinct sense that she was speaking with someone very large, though he appeared but a child. And, while I will not compel you to partake, I give my word that you will owe me nothing.

Reywen’s face flushed red. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was dry and she had trouble forming the words. She swallowed. Thank you, Mehofwehuil, she breathed shakily, for saving my life. I didn’t leave my body up there, did I?

Mehofwehuil blinked twice in utter astonishment, then surprised her by laughing uproariously. It was a strangely heartening sound, and the fungi gently pulsed with light as if joining in. He laughed until he held his sides, gripping the chair behind him to remain upright. You are in one piece, dear one. Truly! You are not in a flight of spirit, nor are you dead. This is the work of magic. Please, sit, and call me Meho. He opened his long hands to the chair before her.

Gratefully, if cautiously, she sat, and he took the chair opposite her around the small table before loading her plate and his own with the bounty set before them. Reywen watched with saucer eyes. She held her cup of tea first to her lips, taking several moments to just breathe the fragrance in before sipping the fruity, bitter brew.

The warmth and sweetness flooded her senses immediately, and her shoulders dropped in appreciation. She’d never been so thankful, nor tasted anything so soul-stirringly satisfying. She nibbled at the bread, already slathered with a generous dollop of raspberry jam and honey, and her body revelled in it. Then she moved on to the soup and mushrooms, enjoying greatly the contrast of bitter, creamy sweetness, and pungent spices that seemed to feed her core and set her spirit alight. She ate slowly, savouring each bite and sip of the meal, allowing her stomach to slowly adjust from its long fast.

When she was done, Mehofwehuil pushed toward her a small cube of honeycomb on an earthen plate. At first she was unsure if she could stomach it, while also fearing that she might seem gluttonous.

At her hesitation, Meho announced,