A little boy this time, younger than Ari, only three and barely able to toddle a circuit of his parents’ very large garden. The son of headman-mayor-what-have-you Thaddeus Peppergilland his wife Deva – another couple who’d been childless until she’d come and begged for my help. Prosperous people with business interests, who organise the caravans that move the various products of Berhta’s Forge out of the Great Forest and into larger towns and cities, and also bring other things back, either useful or frivolous, for those whose purses stretch to such fripperies. Sold in the small Peppergill emporium: cosmetics, the latest fashions, jewellery, sweet treats, strange alcoholic brews more exotic than those made in the Fox & Crow, the stills in most back gardens, paintings and carvings in marble and other semi-precious stones – as if there is a competition for such things in the middle of the woods.
The place is not large enough to warrant either church or god-hounds, but the commerce Thaddeus pushes is the thing that will one day bring them. For the moment, he is the one to conduct wedding ceremonies and funerals, but eventually the church will come and bump him aside. Doctors will appear and begin to spread lies about the witch in the woods. Everything will change in Berhta’s Forge.
But not yet.
Not yet.
It’s late afternoon by the time I take Tieve back to the village; the idea of letting a child wander in the woods on her own strikes me as the height of foolishness. I could have insisted she stay the night, but if anyone thought her missing it would set off another panic. She’s clasping the cloth-wrapped bundle of sweet buns as if they’re a treasure.
When we’re about halfway there, I hear the crack of a branch somewhere behind us, so loud, then utter silence, as ifsomeone or something has frozen mid-stride. I think about the black thing that stalked me weeks ago, but this doesn’t feel the same or sound the same. Besides, I don’t have time to hide as I did then and I don’t want the child to see me do it, so I urge her up the trunk of an ancient spreading yew. I reach upwards, grab a handful of leaves – its berries would be even better but it’s too soon for those to be out – so I scrunch the leaves, drop them where I stand and then climb the trunk as fast as I can. Not a spell, no, but if I’m right, whatever’s coming will react to the scent of the crushed leaves.
I swing up beside Tieve, put a finger to my lips.Quiet.
The yew’s a tree for the dead; it often takes its place proudly in graveyards, roots winding their way through ribcages and skulls. But in forests such as this, creatures will come to its foot to die; they sense a sacred place, choosing to fertilise it with their deaths. The essence of dying is absorbed, making its leaves and berries not only poisonous to the living but also acting as a deterrent to those who hunt them. A distraction. The smell of the already-dead can throw them off the scent of those yet-to-die.
Peering down, the multitude of branches and foliage obscures whatever comes along the track, then lurks and circles at the base of the trunk – and what I see is a bright red flare of fabric. A cloak. A red riding hood. A quick glance at Tieve shows her hand over her mouth, her eyes big as the moon as she recognises her friend. She probably realises, as I do, that Ari had followed her. The child below makes a discontented sound, a sort of growl, and swirls away from where the crushed leaves lie; heads off in the direction of Berhta’s Forge.
Her reaction to the yew decoy makes me suspect Ari couldn’t cross the boundary of my holding. I hope not. I hope Rhea is safe, that she stayed within my borders; either way, I don’t believe Arlo would allow anything to happen to her.
We stay in the tree for another fifteen minutes, perhaps – not that I’m scared of an eleven-year-old, but of what one might think she can do after stalking an adult – then climb cautiously down. As we continue along, I pluck long grasses from the undergrowth, twigs and leaves from rowan and elm and even spot some of the rare hairless nettles that don’t sting, and as we go I weave together a little doll, give her a rowan-berry cluster for a necklace. I prick my finger and dab some crimson onto the crown of the little thing’s head and whisper a protection spell.
‘Here.’ I hand it to Tieve. ‘Keep her secret, in your pocket all the time, especially if you must travel this path again to see me. It’s to help you pass beneath notice.’ I wonder if I should enspell her shoes too, but the doll should be sufficient. ‘Remember, hide her. She’s yours.’
Tieve gives me the glance of a co-conspirator and hides the doll away in the pocket of her rough pinafore. ‘And don’t tell anyone about what we saw.’
‘Didn’t see anything,’ she says airily.
‘Good girl. Now, let’s hurry along.’
16
The lad’s disappearance had been discovered early this morning, Tieve said, the village alerted by his mother’s screams. That was when Tieve took it upon herself to come to me because she figured sooner was better than later, after what had happened with Ari.
Once there was a child who went a’wandering into the woods, down its paths and then off them, setting foot onto mossy slopes and rocks, forging through undergrowth and brambles, feasting on berries and nothing else. Certain that the deepest part of the forest held no dangers, only the siren-song of the trees, calling.
I think of my mother’s voice, low and soft, telling this tale to my sister one eve. I wrack my brains trying to recall the ending, but the memory’s murky, something I’ve given up or suppressed – something I didn’t like and preferred not to hang onto. Something other than the trees was calling, perhaps? Something other than a gentle creature? Something with appetites? The child never left the woods, that’s the only thing of which I’m sure.
I think of Yrse, the old woman who lived in the cottage before I did, the one Fenna deposited me with. The one I ignored when she warned me against so many acts, including going to Faolan’s bed, then against caring for him in addition to fucking him. She was right and I’ve hated her for it. But by the time her predictions of heartache came true, she was dead and gone, and I was left with no one to beg sympathy of, no one to complain to – although I did, sitting by the grave I’d dug for her in the rose garden, where smaller ones would be later sunk to keep her company. She’d never mentioned children going missing, not in her time, and she’d been the witch by Berhta’s Forge for almost sixty years. Born in the village, raised there, moved into the forest with a woodcutter husband in her youth, buried him among the trees not long after (Not the man I thought he wasshe sang to me once in her cups) and then remained there with only occasional guests in the form of runaway rebel witches. Her own powers were very small – she was a potions woman, though, handy with those medicinal and healthful, occasionally destructive (But only ever for good purpose, to save a woman or a child). The greenwood had been, for her, quiet and restful, a place of refuge.
Then I came, her last fosterling, a little like Rhea though older, not necessarily any wiser. Angry and hurt and fearful, used to power and all it had brought me, full of imperious habits, but finding myself unable to use my magic the way I had. Obliged to hide everything I was because it was too dangerous to show everything I could do. Eventually, I settled in. After Faolan and that debacle, I settled better. Made a new home, made my own peace with the villagers, showed them Icould be trusted. But I was never one of them, not born here; a foreigner forever.
‘Mistress Mehrab.’ Tieve’s tone is soft, her small hand on my arm insistent. ‘We’re here.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘I could tell you were elsewhere.’ The child looks solemn.
‘Thank you for pulling me back to earth.’ I need my wits about me; it’s one thing to be lost to the world when I’m on my own or even with Rhea (who’s grown used to my habits) and quite another to wander into the village looking like an idiot. Not a good idea. ‘And now, Tieve, it’s time for you to go home. And not a word of defiance – it might not help for folk to know you came to me.’
Reluctantly, she nods. ‘Yes, Mistress Mehrab.’
‘Don’t forget to keep that poppet safe and secret. Take her with you everywhere and avoid Ari as best you can.’
She nods again and slips away. I wait beneath the trees until she enters a small cottage, one of those in the back rows of the village. What must it be like to live with seven brothers? Fighting off a shudder, I make my way to the marketplace, which is empty, as is the green. Stores and stalls are shuttered, and all is silent. I imagine that most of the adults are out searching the woods.
I make my way towards the Peppergill manor, the largest house in Berhta’s Forge. I notice, as I always do, that there’s no green woman at the door – she hangs as an ornament on the large ash tree by the picket fence. Patiently, I begin rapping and am eventually rewarded by a red-eyed maid, very young, opening the door. She hesitates.
‘I’m here to speak with your mistress,’ I say firmly. ‘Since I’m assuming the master is out.’
