Shadows crept across our cottage, draping the cupboards in shadows. A hollow pumpkin sat on the windowsill, glowing from a candle that bloomed inside its womb.
Overhead, the attic stood quiet. Fastening the tassels of my cloak, I tiptoed from my bedroom and climbed the steps, each wooden plank creaking beneath my feet. At the threshold, I nudged open the door, the hinges squeaking.
The sleeping figure rested on a cot across from the workbench, her legs entangled in a plaid blanket.
Because we had little space, and the weapons forge was usually too humid for woodworking, this attic served as a carpentry shop. Sawdust powdered the floor, and tack cloths piled on the workbench, along with an unfinished set of drawers. My throat swelled as I inventoried the chisels, plough planes, and half-completed projects, including small tables and chairs.
At least she was still trying.
As I stepped near, the figure stirred. A hemp apron clung to her waist, and twin braids climbed up the sides of her head. Though, some of them had broken free, creating a frazzled arch around her face.
When her eyes opened and found me, that bleary smile made my throat swell. The sight drew me to her, coaxing me to kneel beside the cot.
“Mama,” I whispered.
“Aspen,” she breathed. “There you are.”
“Here I am.”
Those eyes shone with fear, which took Mama someplace I couldn’t reach. “I dreamed of the woods. The trees crushed you with their branches.” She lifted herself partway from the cot, protectiveness flashing in her pupils. “It’s a message, I know it. If they come near you, so help me I’ll take them down myself.”
“Mama, the trees don’t want to punish me,” I soothed. “Even so, I know how to defend myself. You taught me, remember?”
Pride sharpened her features. “That, I did.”
Mostly true. I had trained myself to wield the axe, but we’d practiced together.
I crossed my arms over the mattress, rested my chin atop my wrists, and murmured, “I’m leaving on a quest.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Where? What for?”
“I can’t say where exactly. It’s confidential and for the greater good.” Since I’d never outright lie to Mama, technically this was all true. “If you promise to take care of yourself until I’m back, I’ll bring you a souvenir.”
“No.” Vehement, she shook her head. “I don’t need anything. Only you.”
My eyes watered, but I covered it with a smile. “Likewise. But this pilgrimage is worth it. Do you trust me?”
“Always,” she quoted.
“And forever,” I finished.
“But it’s dangerous to venture far on your own. If you must go, I’ll join you.”
When she moved to rise, I set my hands on her shoulders. “You can’t.”
“I can, and I shall. Like hell will I let you make the trek without a guardian.”
“The Almighty Seasons have tasked me for this alone.”
If one looked at this symbolically, that was also true. At any rate, it worked. Mama wavered, then grasped my cheeks, stroking the foliage motifs germinating across my skin. “Then hone your axe,” she coached. “Mind the trees. And come back to me.”
I nodded into her touch. “Anything for you.”
After I guided Mama into her chamber and tucked the quilt beneath her chin, she passed out once more. Thankfully, it didn’t take much. I brushed a kiss to her temple and gently closed the door.
In the hallway, I blew out the pumpkin candle. My nose twitched as smoke curled from the wick, and I jerked the curtains closed.
Creeping to the first floor, I collected my axe. Stain gradients from the grip to the handle shoulder. Beveled edges with perfect curvature. A fierce tool of beauty.
