It was unusuallytemperate for early Veallan. The shortening days were the only evidence of autumn, as the canopy of leaves overhead resisted the urge to fall and join the aging mass on the forest floor.
Such conditions promoted one final bloom for the common valerian plant. It took over clearings and secluded meadows in white masses. The pleasant scent given off by the flowers intensified as I worked to upheave the roots from below. I wiped my forehead and gave the plant’s base another lengthy tug, disrupting the woodland serenity with mutterings and narrations for none to hear.
My muscles ached. I cursed the plant, then paused to look around. The birdsong continued without interruption; I was alone.
“Come on then, you stinking, foul…” I started up again, taking hold of the overgrown stalks and leaning back with all my might. The earth shifted beneath my feet. Gritting my teeth, I pulled once more and collapsed backwards with a yelp. Moist clumps of soil scattered in projectiles beneath my prize as I held it overhead, mucilage coating my arms. That brief moment of victory was quickly diminished by the stench released by the roots.
I brandished a knife and severed the stalks, tucking the rest away into a burlap sack at my hip before wiping my palms against my skirts. At nineteen, perhaps I should’ve had some grand ambition beyond collecting roots for my parents, helping them make tinctures and ointments. My mother spoke often of the satisfaction found in healing others, the sense of purpose that came from easing pain. That would likely be my path, too: following in myparents’ footsteps as an apothecary, making the occasional trek to Finn’s Hollow to trade remedies for necessities.
Grinding herbs by candlelight, speaking to no one and still learning of the world through books sold by the village scribe and borrowed from personal libraries...it wasn’t a terrible life, even if I couldn’t quite picture myself still doing the same thing until I retired or died.
Above, a pair of goldfinches protested the sudden arrival of a crow. It ignored them and watched me from its perch with interest.
I put my hands on my hips.
“I’ve got nothing for you, Robert.”
The crow blinked simply and cocked his head. He was a lamentable talking partner, but his company was always a welcome reprieve from my lonely existence.
“You know, the villagers of Finn’s Hollow would think you’re an omen.” I eyed another bunch of valerian with consideration, then shook my head. “Such superstition makes me almost glad to be a hermit.”
Robert clicked. I knew the sound well: the bastard was hungry.
“All right.” I laughed. “If you’ll come along home with me, I’ll share something to eat.”
Years of gifting the corvid with treats and trinkets made him a reliable visitor. It was never clear if Robert understood me; for that matter, it was possible he was never the same bird at all… But it was good to pretend. It granted me the fantasy of having a single friend in the world...
Even if that friend was a bird.
I’d harvested more than enough valerian for one afternoon, so I began the journey home. It would be another few days of this; demand for the roots had increased in the village, supposedly, though I only knew this from my mother. She often left our hidden cottage to make trades in town, returning with goods too difficult to acquire or make on our own. Last time, she’d brought home several loaves of bread, some new fabric for mending clothes, and the warning that a man was seen poaching in the woods.
The threat of it was almost enough to keep me from venturing out. In all my life, I’d only ever seen my parents.
I was accustomed to the isolation, though I felt for my poor father; his deafness prevented him from safely traveling to the village on his own, and worry over my well-being kept him from Mother’s company. He remembered what it was to have friends and meet new people, and it was clear that he missed it: whenever he recounted the past, he spoke with such detail, as if he was afraid of losing those particulars to time. Father’s stories always ended with the same bittersweet note, but as much as they must have pained him, he continued to share them.
On days like this, when Mother was out trading, he was especially lonely. He spent more time with his nose in a book, finding companionship in the characters; when that wasn’t enough, he pestered me with awful jokes and, if especially desperate, random acts of physical prodding: pokes to the cheek, mussing my hair. It was a nuisance I tolerated. Despite our constant proximity, I adored him.
One day, I’d be permitted to accompany them into the village; one day, when I was ready… whateverthatmeant. That day felt like it would never come, so long as my parents remained as cautious as they were. Until then, I would stay behind with my father in the woods.
Another woman might have run away by now, but I had my own worries.
I was born in the woods, and no one but my mother heard my first cries. It was fear that kept them here; fear of what might happen if the wrong person heard my voice, fear of the world’s cruelty.
Sometimes I wondered if their protection had become its own kind of curse, suspending me in amber while life continued beyond our secret clearing. I was old enough to know the difference between safety and suffocation, but I loved them too much to ever say it aloud.
As I passed one of many deer paths on the route home, I hesitated. Some of the branches were snapped much higher than usual. The trail was reshaped just enough for a person to fit through, someone at least two heads taller than me. There were other signs of intrusion: a pair of boot prints, large and unfamiliar, and a fresh pile of dung not unlike what was commonly left behind by the family mule. It was unmistakable—another person had come through here since mydeparture.
The more I looked, the more prints I found. It wasn’t one stranger, but many, with several on horseback. While they’d walked in the opposite direction of where I was headed, there was no reason to be reckless. I kept quiet until I reached the spring pond near the cottage, then swiftly tucked myself into the surrounding grass. From here I could lay low and observe until I was absolutely certain that no one had spotted me.
One man in the woods was surely a poacher, but what business could several men have out here? Even if it was a hunting party, it was unprecedented for them to venture so deep into this particular forest. Boar and deer seldom appeared on this side of the village. To add to that, only the noble class were permitted to hunt, and any nobleman would consider this a worthless stretch of forest. Instead, they would head to the nearby Greater Arbordeen.
Certain I was alone, I turned to the pond. From its muddied depths, my filthy reflection stared back at me. Dirt and mucilage stained my arms and face in brown and white splotches, and my hair clung to the sweat of my cheeks in tangles of matted auburn. I took handfuls of water to clean some of the mess, but it was far too cold to suffer more than a few splashes.
Robert’s wings flapped as he perched atop a rotting log. Something dangled from his beak; I squinted, but couldn’t quite make it out—some kind of stiff cloth. I didn’t have to wait long before the crow flew overhead, dropping his possession a little closer and disappearing into the forest.
I took the scrap into my hands. It wasn’t cloth, but a strip of leather, perhaps a bracelet or a broken piece from someone’s satchel. There was an ornate pattern stitched into it with richly-colored threads.
“Kermes?” I whispered. I’d read of it before: a by-product of insects that infested oak trees in faraway lands. It was an expensive import, and unlike the common madder root, it produced a much more vibrant shade of crimson. Wherever this leather had come from, it certainly wasn’t the village. The thread alone was worth more than my life, and its owner, almost certainly a nobleman, would undoubtedly be displeased with my possessing it.
