Poultice
“Is it true, Grandfather?”
The young girl speaks in little more than a whisper, though there are none for miles in the meadows and marshes through which they now tread. She stops, and turns to face him fully, her eyes narrow. “Did you really meet William?”
The old man, bent low and reaching for a particularly plump golden-orange berry, slows in his task. His fingers hesitate, then pick the berry and place it in his wooden pail. Half full, he notes. He stands, twisting to stretch his aching muscles; one hand rubbing his knuckles against his lower back, the other holding the pail.
“Molly,” he says gently. “Have you been listening to tales?”
The girl smiles. Tall for her twelve years, she prefers kneeling to pick berries. She looks at him now, one knee on the ground, a pail of her own resting on the other. She stops, and rests both arms on the rim of her berry bucket.
“I’ve always been told,” she says, “to be mindful. Observant. Unless in the forest, of course. Then, I must be watchful and wary.” She says these last three words in a deep, gruff voice, imitating that of her grandfather. The old man smiles, impressed as ever by the girl’s ability to replicate him. His smile is genuine, but falters as he looks over the girl’s head at the copse of trees in the distance. He has no fear of the forest, but the girl’s question has replaced his light mood with one of unease.
“I wasn’t trying to listen in on the conversation,” she continues, following his gaze. “I heard Mother and Father speaking a few days ago.” Her voice goes quiet. “It was Uncle Daniel’s birthday. He’d have been forty. Mother was upset. They got to talking and… I was outside, weeding the garden beside the window. I… I didn’t mean to listen in. I was going to leave, but-” She shrugs. “Flower beds won’t weed themselves.”
He narrows his eyes, tilts his head slightly to the side.
“Yes, I know, but… they spoke of his disappearance. Him and that woman. Father tried to console Mother; told her she shouldn’t lose hope. It’s only been a few months, and Uncle Daniel has always been…unpredictable. They could return.” She waits until their eyes meet. “They said you returned. That time.”
Ah yes, he thinks. That time. Still he doesn’t speak, allowing her to share what she will.
“I’ve heard bits and pieces over the years,” Molly says. “Haven’t really been able to piece it all together. Stuff said by old fishermen on the wharf who hush up when they notice me. But Grandfather, I’m twelve years old. Almost thirteen. Don’t you think it’s time I’ve been told the truth?”
The old man smiles inwardly. Twelve - said as if she’d reached a wise old age at which all of life’s secrets should be shared with her, for certainly she would understand. After all, she’s twelve years old.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “You’re thinking I’m still a child. You’re thinking I’m not ready to hear the story you’d tell.” She pauses. “Or maybe, you think I won’t believe you…”
Closer to the mark, he thinks. He takes a few steps, and lowers himself to sit on a fallen tree at the edge of the marsh; a snag that had finally given way to the relentless nor’easters that pound the coast.
“So…” He adjusts himself and pats the log beside him. Molly sits, careful to secure her pail on the soft ground. The old man looks in the bucket. “Do you know why they’re called bakeapples?”
“It’s because-” Molly stops. Her brow furrows. The old man smiles, seeing that she was sure she knew the answer before she even considered whether she knew it, because, well… twelve. She shakes her head.
He folds his arms over his knees. “Some say there was a French traveler, years ago, visiting an area much like this.” He gestures to the marsh. “The Frenchman noted the berries, and wondered what variety they might be. The French word for berry is baie. He asked his companions what the berry was called. Baie qu’appelle?”
Molly watches him. Her lips purse beneath a look of confusion.
“Baie qu’appelle,” he says again, more slowly this time.
She mouths the words, thinks, then chortles as the meaning strikes her.
“Funny.”
“What’s funny, child, is that the answer to the question is the question itself.”
“That’s quite deep, Grandfather.” A smirk.
“Of course, we could just call them cloudberries, as do some regions.”
“Is there a region where they’re referred to as ‘change-the-subject-berries’?”
“And now it’s you who’s funny, little one.” He stops then as the moniker triggers a memory in him, and his face changes. Molly, of course, notices this.
“Grandfather?”
“Just… just a memory, dear.” He takes a slow breath as he rights himself, and pats his granddaughter on the hand. A swallow sings in the distance, but its song is lost in the cries of the seagulls.
“There’s no easy answer to your question. Like the bakeapple, sometimes the answer simply raises more questions.” He absently rubs the callused fingers of his right hand. “My memories are like berries, love; very few end up in the pail. But…” He sighs. “I’ll share what I can gather.”
Molly sits up quickly. Her grandfather raises a finger in gentle warning.
“Recollections are fallible, Molly. Remember that. They’re thoughts in a heavy rolling mist, in a forest that sleeps uneasily.
And in such circumstances, many things might be lost…”
Sam Greene felt certain that he’d be the next child stolen.
In the months since the dozen or so families had settled themselves in the area now referred to as Fair Ridge, three children had disappeared.
Only two had returned.
The tiny community had settled in the location due mainly to its proximity to the bountiful fishing ground that lay nearby. Simple dwellings had been erected, and it was hoped that the surrounding land would support the modest gardens of root vegetables required for a hamlet so small.
The first growing season showed promise, and the women and youth worked diligently to tend the fields while the men harvested what they could from the cold, rough sea. Wells had been dug, but the main source of fresh water was the river flowing at the community’s periphery. The work was hard, and even the little ones found themselves spending several hours each day engaged in necessary chores.
Sam hauled water.
It was an arduous task, but one in which he found satisfaction. When he’d first begun hauling, the older women had ruffled his hair and told him that his water made the very best tea, and he’d beamed. He’d work all the harder, and brought more water from the river than any of his peers.
But presently, smiles and laughter were as scarce as fatback pork. The happiness that usually permeated the privations of life on Fair Ridge was all but gone. Three children, on three separate occasions, had gone missing. The first, seven year old Sally Blackmore, had disappeared one misty morning as she picked berries. The townsfolk had searched the area through wind, rain and despair. She’ll surely catch her death in this weather, some whispered. Her mother Catherine was inconsolable. Through stifled sobs and muttered prayers, she maintained her certainty that the girl would be returned to her. And so she was. During a break in the early morning rain, Sally emerged from the woods.
Cries of elation met the girl. Catherine fell to her knees, embracing Sally in a vice-like grip. She held her daughter for some time, refusing to let her go even as the wet ground soaked through the hem of her dress. As she felt the chill of the earth beneath her, a chill of another sort shot along the length of her arms.
She released the girl and leaned back, her face tightening with confusion. She reached out, and smoothed the girl’s dress, its floral pattern cheerful against the overcast day.
The dress was clean. And it was dry.
“Sally?” Catherine’s voice cracked, though she worked to present a calm exterior. “Sally, love… Where were you?”
The child smiled. She looked behind her, as if the answer might be found there. Her smile faltered a little, but not completely.
“I… I was dancing. It was lovely. They like to dance.”
Catherine was on her feet instantly. “Who, child?” She took hold of Sally. “Where were you? Who were you with?”
Several of the townsfolk looked at each other warily. The closest women fidgeted, wringing their hands in their dirty aprons.
“I… I can’t remember.” There was no fear on Sally’s face. “Why are you so upset, Mother?”
“Why am I upset? Child! We thought we’d lost you!”
“But… I was only gone a couple of hours.”
Silence fell over the group. Again, looks were exchanged. Catherine turned to the others, seeking answers, but there were none to be found.
Sally had been missing for four days.
Georgie Doyle disappeared under similar circumstances. One moment, he’d been collecting wood for the fire, and the next, he simply wasn’t there.
Only two days passed before Georgie returned. He walked out of the trees, his arms laden with wood and a look of small concern on his face.
The fuss of the reunion was similar to that seen when Sally returned. Georgie was several years older than Sally, but a child still. The worry that wracked his family and friends was no different than that experienced for the girl. But Georgie remembered more than Sally. Whether this was due to his being older, or the lesser number of days spent missing, none could know. What they did know was that his words were indeed a cause for concern.
“He’s not happy we’re here,” Georgie said quietly.
Georgie’s father Alexander, a stern, no-nonsense type of fellow, removed Georgie from his mother’s embrace. “Who?” He grabbed his son’s arm in a tight grip. “Who, boy?”
Georgie seemed not to notice the muscular hand wrapped around his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the forest.
“He said we settled…” Georgie struggled to remember. “...in a most unfortunate location. We have to move.”
The townsfolk began to mumble amongst themselves, speculating on who might be responsible for the disappearances. The hushed voices faded after several moments and they turned back to Georgie. What did he look like? they asked. Did he tell you his name? Was he alone? Their faces grew serious. Did he hurt you?
Georgie looked up. There was confusion on his face, but it didn’t appear to be caused by the questioning. Indeed, he seemed to have a distant look since he’d emerged from the forest; the look of a person perplexed by a riddle whose answer should be entirely obvious.
“He…” Georgie seemed to search for words as if looking for ripe berries. “He said… we’re on his path.” He looked around, at the dwellings the folk had built with such pride. “We… we built on his path. He said we have to move. Said the next child that was lost would be kept. He…” Georgie shivered suddenly. He looked down at his bare arms, and the hair standing on end. Goosepimples, his father often called them with a serious face. Someone must have walked over my grave. His mother dismissed such notions. She’d usually rub the bumps on her own arms away with a smile. Just a case of the willies, she’d say.
Georgie’s head jerked up, and he looked into the worried eyes of his father.
“Will,” he said. He made a futile effort to rub away the chills that covered his arms. “The little ones called him The Will…”
The third child to disappear was Anna McCarthy.
Anna McCarthy was kept.
In the weeks since little Anna had been lost, the dark cloud of despair hung over Fair Ridge. Sam watched as the townsfolk quietly went about their business, completing their chores with mechanical movements. Smiles were essentially non-existent. Anna’s family, though they continued to search diligently, seemed to be losing hope. Some began to suggest that they actually consider moving the village, which led to an emotional discourse. Where would we move? they asked. How far away would be deemed a safe distance from this supposed path? Where is this path anyway? There was no path when we cleared this area! Others took a different approach. We can’t let a madman determine our fate. This must be the work of someone entirely deranged. Someone wronged in the past, possibly with a grudge against a Fair Ridge resident. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t set Fair Ridge aflame!
Georgie, to one side, looked up suddenly.
“He had a flame,” the boy said.
Those gathered turned to Georgie - the closest, Syl Byrne, went to his knee.
“What’d you say, boy?”
“Will. The Will. He had a flame. I… I remember following it.” His eyes got a little wider. “I followed it. Through the trees. It was dark. There were lots of birds singing. It was…musical. And I followed the flame. I remember the flame, the way it danced. It led me.” He seemed surprised at how much he now remembered. “I stopped in a… it was like a circle. Or a ring.” He smiled, lost in memory. “A ring of mushrooms.”
It was likely that some of the townsfolk had considered the possibility; couples whispering suspicions in the witching hour of sleepless nights. But none had spoken the thought in public. None, until Syl Byrne turned to his neighbors, his voice full of resignation and dread.
“It’s the fairies.”
In the days that followed, the search continued, though the despair and anger were now tinged with fear.
Fairies.
None were prepared for this turn of events. Madmen, however evil, could be reckoned with - understood, to an extent. But these unknown creatures were another matter entirely. The rudimentary weapons the townsfolk carried on their searches would likely be useless, if in fact they were even able to find the elusive fae. Sam listened to the adults as they spoke, sharing what little lore they know. Could the fairies be seen with the human eye? Yes, the young ones had seen them, but what if the creatures didn’t want to be seen? Were they benevolent, or the malicious sort? Obviously the latter, as they’d taken children. But no harm had come to Sally or Georgie. There was still hope for Anna. Was there a limit to the length of her capture? Was this the final ultimatum? Leave, or lose your children? Would she be returned if they did so?
None could know.
They continued to search, putting off the inevitable decision they knew they would have to make sooner rather than later.
And then, the land turned.
It began with the potatoes. The crop had been promising; the plants breaking through the ground early. The leaves grew larger, their color deep and healthy, until one day, they suddenly began to falter. Despite favorable conditions, the leaves withered, the plants drooping with a sadness that reflected that of the people. No intervention could revive them. And then, on a beautiful July morning, the sun rose to reveal gardens full of terrible intruders.
Thistle, as if magically grown, had appeared overnight. Interspersed with the thistle were nettles and hogweed that eagerly filled the spaces between the vegetable plants. The villagers worked to remove the invasive plants, but their efforts were futile. Each day the rising sun revealed fields overrun with weeds that had reaffirmed their position throughout the night.
As the residents struggled to deal with loss of their crops, a new challenge afflicted the village. Sam heard several of the adults commenting on the drinking water, noting how it was decidedly off, as if a generous pinch of salt had been added. Jeb Walsh, one of the village's bigger residents, turned toward the young ones that were nearby, his fists clenched. His low voice rumbled slowly, quietly from his throat.
“If one of ye thinks this is a time for pranks and tomfoolery, I’ll teach ye the difference.”
“Jeb!” his wife said, smacking his arm. “Leave off the young ones. Look at the scare you’ve given ‘em. Love of God, you got young Sally crying.”
“Brackish,” said Alexander Doyle. He spit the water into the dirt. “This wasn’t the young ones.” He paused, took a breath. “But I’d bet Grandfather’s old stopwatch there’s little ones to blame…”
“Father? Where are you going?”
Sam watched as his father hurried about behind the house, shoving supplies in his sack.
“Upriver a bit.” Alphonsus Greene turned to his son. “I don’t believe in watching wounds fester, Son. Right now, Fair Ridge is festering. Only a fool turns his back on a chance to heal.” Sam thought a pained look crept across his father’s face as he spoke. “I’m going to go up the river, see if I can find the source of the problem. Barring that, I’ll see if I can’t find another source of good water.” He smiled thinly. “Best grab your jacket. You might need it.”
Sam’s eyes went wide. The children had, for the most part, been expressly forbidden to go into the forest. His father nodded. “We’re not goin’ too far, lad. It’s a sunny day. I told your mother where we were headed.” He smiled again, but to Sam’s eye, it seemed a little forced. Alphonsus ruffled his son’s hair. “I also have it on good authority that no one can haul water like young Sam Greene.”
Sam beamed as he bustled about, readying his things. What would Michael and Ronnie say, Sam wondered, when he told them that he’d been chosen for an excursion upriver? They’d be proper jealous, no doubt.
Sam pulled on his jacket. Though it was July, there was an unseasonable chill in the air and a low fog hung over the land. Sam cared little. It was a glorious morning in his eyes. He saw the potential for a bit of excitement. He saw a break from the village, and the opportunity to boast to the other youngsters of how he helped the residents of Fair Ridge.
What young Sam Greene did not see, however, was the unfortunate reality that adults often have ulterior motives, and are sometimes called upon to make terribly difficult decisions.
The forest, for the most part, was quiet. There were few animals to be seen or heard, save the occasional bird that flitted about in the trees. Sam could hear the soft roar of Split River as they approached. It was a wide river, and while it was not at its most raucous at this time of year, its flow was still quite heavy. His father stopped occasionally, and carefully scooped water with a little tin cup. Each time, he’d taste it, spit it to one side, and shake his head.
They continued like this for some time. Sam assumed they must have traveled a mile or more by this point. If they did find good water, the lugging from this distance would be difficult indeed, even for a lugger like himself. But good water was important. The wells, the river and the pond, all likewise afflicted. Tainted, Catherine Blackmore said, by those demons in the forest. Several townsfolk shushed her when she spoke this way, but she still wasn’t over Sally’s ordeal and she maintained that she’d call them what she bloody well pleased, whether they could hear her or not.
Sam stopped suddenly when he noticed that Aphonsus was no longer walking. He looked back at his father, who gave a weak smile as he put a hand to his stomach. “Breakfast isn’t agreeing with me lad. Give me a couple moments in the alders, alright?
Won’t be long.”
Sam nodded, showing no great deal of concern. It was a lovely morning, and the song of the river had a relaxing effect. He watched as his father stepped into the forest brush, branches cracking and rustling as he went. It went on for some moments, until the sound of the river covered his father’s movement. Odd, Sam thought, for his father to want that much privacy. He shrugged inwardly, watching the river.
He thought he saw a rabbit dart in the underbrush at one point, but couldn’t be certain. He looked across the river. It was fairly wide, perhaps thirty feet at some points, and in areas with rocks, a white froth was mixed and tossed about. He looked back in the direction of his father. Still no sign. He took a couple of steps in that direction, leaning a little to look around a few thick spruce trees. Nothing. He turned again, and found himself face to face with the fairy.
His breath caught, and he froze. He quickly saw that there were two of the creatures; an older one, female, and a young male who stood just behind her.
“Sláinte,” rasped the taller of the two. She looked much the same as a short woman, if not a little more ragged. The feet and hands of both fairies seemed disproportionately large to Sam; their noses a little longer than seemed natural, and their posture slightly hunched, as if from perpetually sneaking up on prey.
Prey like me, thought Sam.
“Please. Please don’t…” was all Sam could manage. The closest fairy stepped forward.
“Master Will has asked us to-” But she wasn’t afforded the chance to finish. From the bushes, Alphonsus Greene burst with extended hands and a roar that drowned out the river. Sam screamed as the chaos unfolded. He fell to the ground as his father flew over him, reaching for the fairies that, with incredible speed, had spun to run from the enraged man. But Alphonsus had the element of surprise in his favor and was able to grab the startled, older fairy as she ran along the riverbank. She cried out, not so much in pain, but in fear and confusion. The small fairy ahead of them stopped. When Alphonsus - still gripping the older fairy - lunged for the younger one, the small creature twisted away. As it took a step backwards, the soft earth of the river bank gave way, and the fairy plunged into the water below.
The fairy that Alphonsus held - and now assumed to be the mother - thrashed and screamed with an intensity that matched that of the fairy in the water. So shocking it was that Alphonsus released his grip on the creature, almost falling back as he did so.
Beside them, Sam’s screams joined the chorus.
The fairy on the bank began running alongside the one in the water. Alphonsus followed, with Sam close behind. The small fairy had been pulled into the current, and while it was not particularly forceful, it was well beyond his ability to navigate.
“Can’t… can’t swim!” the mother cried as she watched her child tossed about. She ran, her eyes never leaving the small one. Sam prayed his father would not try to grab her again - such was her desperation that she’d likely rip him to pieces to free herself. Alphonsus, Sam saw, was confused; torn as to what he should do. He knew his father wanted to capture the creatures, to pull from them the whereabouts of Anna McCarthy. For the moment, they all just ran.
In the river, the fairy thrashed about, and managed to grab a small outcropping of rock that jutted from the waters. One hand slipped, and he slapped the other against the rock. The rock, Sam saw, was sharp, and while it provided a better grip than smooth stone, it must be dreadfully painful to hold, pulled as the creature was by the current.
The small company stopped on the river bank. The fairy turned, tears in her eyes. She looked about desperately, seeking something to cling to, something to allow her to reach the child. Her head spun about crazily, fingers splayed and shaking.
Such pain, thought Sam. It was, in fact, quite similar to what he’d seen in the faces of Sally and Georgie’s folk. The fairy was tortured; her face a visage of agony as she watched the youngling’s thrashing limbs lose strength. Alphonsus must have seen all this as well, for before Sam could shout his protest, his father had removed his boots and sack, and jumped into the river.
Sam and the fairy screamed. The splash must have scared the youngling terribly, for it let go of the rock. A moment before he was pulled away by the current, Alphonsus' hand clamped around the fairy’s slender wrist.
It took some work to get the creature back to the riverbank, but Sam knew his father was as strong as he was determined. A few minutes later, kicking savagely, he reached the bank, the fairy clinging desperately to his shirt, buttons ripped away. He grabbed an overhanging branch, and hoisted the young one to the waiting arms of his mother. She grabbed the child and stepped back several paces from the dangerous water. She fell to her knees, wrapping herself around the body of her child in the most tight, yet tender of embraces.
Sam grabbed his father’s hand, and gave what assistance he could as the man pulled himself up onto the bank.
None spoke.
After several minutes of gasping and reclaiming breath, the mother looked at the pair from Fair Ridge.
“You… saved him.” Almost a question.
Alphonsus nodded. He stretched his pained neck and then focused his gaze on the fairy.
“I did. And there is one that you might save as well.”
The fairy was silent. She knew of whom Alphonsus spoke. Her eyes lowered as she spoke. “We… are Brounies.” She must have seen that the word meant nothing to the pair. “Brounies. We… we have no authority. We serve the Will but-” She shook her head. “But he will not listen to us.”
Alphonsus stood quickly, and the fairy raised a finger. To Sam’s surprise, it stopped the man. “We… I can try,” she continued. “I will try. But we are… low in his eyes.” She held the child tighter. “I see what is in your eyes. The hatred. The fear. And I see that you are contemplating capture still. Ransom? A trade?” She shook her head sadly. “It will not work.” Her voice lowered. “The only way to get the girl is to find the path. And only he… only The Will can open the path.” A look of resignation crossed her face. “If you try to capture us, I will make it…difficult. But hear me, Master…” She paused.
“Greene,” Alphonsus replied. “Alphonsus Greene.”
She nodded. “Hear me, Master Greene. Let me try to convince The Will. It’s the only hope for the girl. If you harm us - servants of The Will - you’ll have more to fret about than troublesome weeds and water.”
Sam could see that it was now his father’s face that was tortured. He could try to capture the fairies, but he likely knew what it would bring about. Violent behavior, possibly torture at the hands of Anna’s family. Vengeance from The Will. At that moment, Sam was glad he was a child, and such decisions were not his to make. Be that as it may, he spoke.
“Let them go, Father.”
They all turned to the boy. He continued before he lost his courage. “I… I believe her. I think she will try.” He looked into the forest, and thought of Anna. “We have to let her try.”
The fairy stood, a hand still on the shoulder of the child. Sam noticed the blood that ran from the youngling’s torn hands. His fingers hung limply, ravaged by the river rocks. “We owe you a debt,” she said. “I owe you a debt, one that I will repay, however I can. I promise.” The youngling’s head spun to his mother, who patted his shoulder to prevent him from speaking. “Do you understand the promise of a fairy, Master Greene?”
Alphonsus shook his head.
“Fae are unable to lie.” She inclined her head toward the trees. Tentatively, she continued. “We will go now.” She took a step, watching him all the while. “We will go… and we will keep our word.”
After several long moments Alphonsus inclined his head, and the fae disappeared into the arms of the forest.
Days passed. Little changed in the village. The townsfolk struggled with their new reality, seeking solutions where there was none to be had. Each night, Sam could hear the hushed voices of his parents. The night of the encounter, Alphonsus had told his wife Beth about what had transpired. The voices had grown loud, then quieted again, and continued this way for many hours. There was a tension in the Greene house, but Beth must have understood her husband’s reasoning, for she said nothing.
Several days later, Sam rose before the sun. He rushed for the chamber pot, his bladder painfully full. As he returned to his bed, he heard a noise - a rustling from without. Quietly, he moved to the window and squinted in the predawn light.
Heaven preserve us, he whispered.
He ran to the bedroom, roused his parents, and brought them to the back door. None spoke as they looked out on the yard.
Under the waning moon, a great pile of thorny weeds sat beside the potato garden. Within the stalks, two hunched creatures moved about.
Weeds flew from their hands.
“It’s them,” Alphonsus whispered as he took a cautious step off the back porch. A board squeaked beneath his weight, and the figures in the garden froze. Alphonsus grimaced, and raised his hands as the figures turned toward the trees.
“Please,” he hissed quietly. He took another step. “It’s me. Alphonsus.”
Slowly, the pair crept alongside the garden and approached the little family.
“We know,” the older brounie replied. “We… are repaying the debt.”
The fairies eyed Beth cautiously. Despite her shaking, her face was stoic. They now stood but several paces away.
“The Will?” Alphonsus asked.
“We are trying, Master Greene.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Believe me.”
Beth gasped suddenly, her hand flying to her mouth. The fairies started, ready to burst across the field. Beth took a slow step back, turned and rushed into the house, leaving the group in an awkward silence.
Sam watched the sky for long moments. The sun would soon rise, and the villagers would be about.
“Anna must be returned to us,” said Alphonsus.
The fairy nodded sadly, wringing her hands in her tattered clothing. “I know that yo-” But she was cut off as Beth emerged from the dwelling. She held a large bowl and moved with purpose, but was careful not to startle them. She stopped at the top of the steps.
“The little one,” she said quietly. There was pain on her face, Sam saw. “His hands. I need to see to that.” The entire group turned to the youngling, who shoved his hands behind his back. Beth looked at the elder brounie. “This is your child, no?”
The brounie nodded.
“Then, as a mother, I know you’ll appreciate that we cannot-” She paused for effect, pointing as only a mother points. “-cannot leave his hands in this dreadful state.”
Sam was taken aback. He recalled the fear, the disbelief upon seeing these creatures. Fairies. It had taken him days to process what he’d seen and experienced. And here was his mother, speaking to the fae as if it were her own child. He watched, and waited.
Slowly, the mother turned to the youngling. Something unseen passed between them, and she nodded. She took a step toward Beth and the youngling followed.
Beth sat on the bottom step, which seemed to lessen the fairies’ apprehension. “Come,” she said gently. “Folk will be about soon.”
Ever so cautiously, the fairies approached the women. Their trust, Sam thought, was likely due to the fact that they knew Alphonsus depended on them to save Anna. As they’d said previously, to capture them would only serve to bring more misery to the village.
Beth worked quickly. Within the bowl, Sam saw that she had splashed milk over a bun of bread, along with leaves of some variety. Beth worked the combination into a paste, and tore the leaves into smaller bits. When she was happy with the consistency, she nodded to the youngling.
“It will help,” Alphonsus said. “I promise, we’ll help you.”
The fairy gave another look to his mother, who nodded again. Sam wondered at his age. Was he as old as Sam? Much older? He was fae, after all. Whatever his age, the fairy was terrified. He extended his hands, and Beth gently covered the wounds with the gooey concoction.
Everyone started as the first cock crowed. The fairy, about to pull away, was held firm by Beth. “Just one more moment,” she whispered. Lacking time, she ripped two strips of cloth from the bottom of her sleeping dress. With deft movement, she wrapped the youngling’s hands and tied a gentle knot.
“Leave it as long as possible,” she said to the mother. The cock crowed again. “Now, go.”
In moments, they were gone.
Sam and his father made an effort of weeding that morning, hoping to convince the village that they were up rather early and had done the work themselves. They went about their routines, completing chores, saying nothing of what had transpired.
Sam’s thoughts raced throughout the day, and he saw to his tasks with slow effort. Late that afternoon, he returned home. He sat with a sigh on the back step, enjoying the quiet and the cool breeze that blew from the north. He rested his head against the railing, admiring the temporarily tidy potato garden as he ate a handful of bakeapples. He ate slowly, savoring each one as he burst them with the pressure of his tongue. When they were gone, he wiped his hands on the knees of his overalls and stood. He was turning toward the back door when movement caught his eye. He spun, narrow eyes watching the trees.
Slowly, he walked across the yard. He was sure that he’d seen something. He stopped, squinting. There! Just at the fringe of the trees. There was- What in the blazes?
The fairies! They’d returned, but were not looking in his direction. They moved away from him, and… was the mother carrying the child? Sam felt his breath catch. Had the youngling’s infection worsened so? Sam shook his head, panicked. He made to run after the pair, then stopped, turned and darted into the house. He cursed silently. His father had been gone since noon. His mother had spoken of picking berries with the other women. He looked about. There was no time.
Sam grabbed a bowl from the cupboard. Into it, he threw some bread, milk and… Curses! What was it Mother used? Oregano? Thyme? He recalled her joke, There’s never enough thyme, she’d say.
Too true, he thought. He grabbed a sprig of the herb and dashed through the doorway, mixing the contents as he ran.
The evening sun sank as he ran to the trees. There was no sign of the fairies. He looked about, trying to recall where he’d last seen them. Settling on a copse of birch, he ran in that direction. He dismissed the sense of foreboding that arose in him, and searched the area. In the distance, he thought he heard a branch crack underfoot. He raced toward the sound, realizing the foolishness of trying to run with a large clay bowl in his arms. Another crack, this time further away. He sighed, and began shoving handfuls of the poultice into his overall pockets. Laying the bowl where he’d hopefully find it later, he began running.
Rays of sunlight shot through the canopy, speckling the forest floor with flecks of light. Sam stopped, listening hard for sound in the still woods. He was by no means a tracker. He’d need to rely on sound and- He stopped. There was movement, far off in the shadows, as if a ray of light were being carried. He ran again, his eyes fixed on the lightsource. He ran between the trees, oblivious to distance and danger. He slowed, his legs tired. Funny, he thought. It seemed that when he slowed, the moving light slowed with him. Waited for him. He walked, the urgency lessened as he followed the light. It took him only moments to reach it.
A lantern, resting on a tree stump in the middle of a clearing.
A clearing ringed with mushrooms.
“Sláinte,” the voice whispered from the shadows.
Beyond that point, things were hazy for Sam. He felt… tingly; lightheaded, as he assumed Syl Byrne felt after he’d imbibed in one too many, as was oft the case. He looked past the lantern, in the direction of the voice.
There was a figure in the shadows, barely discernible. Sam shook his head, thinking that he saw the horns of a stag rising over the sparkling eyes. But he felt no fear.
“I… think I’m lost.”
“You’re right where you ought to be, lad,” said the voice.
To his left, he heard a soft giggle, and turned to see a young girl dancing toward him. He felt the urge to giggle as well. The air was thick with euphoria.
The girl approached him, skipping lightly.
“Care for a berry, Sam? They’re delicious.” Juice ran down her chin.
He smiled as he was offered the food. Strawberries, dipped in honey.
“Thank you Anna.”
She giggled again as he took them, and resumed dancing in slow circles, humming softly.
“You are welcome here,” said the voice. “As long as you wish.”
Sam looked around again, feeling the silly smile on his face. How long he stood this way he couldn’t say. Minutes? Hours?
He was lost in the wonder of it all. Soft notes from a tin whistle wafted through the trees. Errant rays of sun still broke through the canopy, and fireflies appeared to float around him.
Yes, he thought. I could stay here.
Anna giggled then, suddenly. “Sam Greene. Have you wet yourself?”
Surprised, he looked down to see the wet patch on the front of his overalls. He laughed then as he remembered.
“No,” he smiled. “I… It’s… it’s just the poultice.”
To the side, he saw the figure sit up.
“Come again,” said the shadow.
“It’s-” Sam reached into his pocket, and retrieved a handful of the wet bread. “-just poultice… for the little one.”
The figure was standing now, moving from beneath the trees.
“So…” the voice was heavier. “’Twas you who assisted Bwachob?”
“Who?”
“The brounie.”
“Oh. Umm… yes. I helped… ah, Mother helped. Father promised we’d help, if they’d let us.”
The figure didn’t move. “Promised… did he?”
Sam nodded, toeing the mossy ground. “We don’t believe in watching wounds fester.”
The figure grunted. “The brounies,” he said, “seem fond of promises also.”
Time lapsed once more. Sam forgot the shadow. He danced with Anna. They ate fruits and berries. They sang. The rays of the sun took on the look of moonlight, and then sun once more.
They ate.
They danced.
They slept.
Sam awoke as the deep, rich voice spoke from behind the lantern.
“It’s time to leave,” the shadow said quietly.
The children’s faces held a flat, still look. They did not express unhappiness. Nor was there joy. They simply waited.
“It’s time,” he repeated. He lifted the lantern from the stump, and sighed. “Saved…by the bread in your pocket.” He shook his head and began walking, muttering something about poultice and promises.
After a few moments he began to whistle a low, melancholy tune, and the enraptured children followed in his footsteps
From the trees above, the brounies watched in silence.
Sam Greene stands with a groan.
It’s been a long day, and now all he wishes for is the comfort of his rocking chair, a cup of tea, and a slice of his wife’s freshly made bread.
Maybe a few berries to savor.
“So, that’s it,” he says. His eyes look deep into the forest. “Well… that’s all I remember..”
Molly stands, and pulls him into the tightest hug. “Thanks Grandfather.”
Sam smiles through a grimace. “Sweet Saint Michael, love. I haven’t been hugged like that since…”
And for a moment, he’s back in Fair Ridge. Twelve years old, embraced by his parents. Amidst the screams, the shouts and tears, he and Anna are pulled back into the fold. He’s stammering, trying to explain, reaching into his pocket to show them the poultice he’d made; the reason he ran into the woods.
But there is no poultice.
Only breadcrumbs.
After eleven days and nights, it’s completely dry.
They arrive back at Sam’s little cottage just as the sun sets.
“Perfect timing,” says Molly.
Sam smiles. “But never enough thyme.”
Molly groans at the familiar joke as Sam leads her up the steps. He watches the sun’s rays illuminate the field. “Come child.” His smile is unreadable. “This be the hour of The Will.”
“The Will?” A voice from within. “The Will O’The Wisp?” Molly’s grandmother emerges from the cottage, wiping her hands in her apron. She kisses Molly on the cheek, and points at Sam; points as only a wife can point. “Samuel Greene,” she smiles. “Have you been telling tales?”
Sam takes her hand in his own.
“Of course not, Anna.” He kisses her hand, and winks at Molly. “Who’d believe me if I did?”
They enter the cottage, but not before Sam empties his pocket. He scoops out a handful of breadcrumbs and tosses it at the threshold of the doorway, leaving it to the night and what light it may contain.