Daughter of the Wood.

The trees whisper as she walks among their branches. They seem to part their boughs in graceful bows, sighing softly as she treads lightly, barefoot on the cushiony carpet of fallen leaves, moss and pine needles. She is the Daughter of the Wood, or the Wicked Witch, some children in the village whisper amongst themselves quietly, when they think she can’t hear them. She pays them no mind, contented in her solitude, in her modest house at the edge of the village, away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, an old, harmless crone, shuffling about here and there, and tending her garden. The company of the forest is what she seeks.

Bundled in her layers of shawls and her thick woollen cloak, she feels no chill, even on this cold night, as she gathers the forest’s spoils for her potions. No eye of toad or tail of newt; she takes only what the wood offers freely: a pellet from an owl’s midnight meal; a cone from the tallest pine; the last berries of autumn. She is the wood’s protector, after all. Tonight, she is searching for that most elusive of gifts: the feather of a barn owl. Those pale ghosts are rarely seen, even by her, with her keen eyes and heightened senses. She might catch a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of her eye as they glide on silent wings, a glimmer of white caught in the moonlight and then they are gone. Or hear their haunting, distant call but, much like trying to find the end of a rainbow, when she finally arrives they are nowhere to be seen. But she can sense their presence. They are not afraid of her. She knows she has their respect, that they will furnish her with their gifts at a time of their choosing.

She wears the names of the girls embroidered into her cloak, woven into the fabric close to her chest. They are the ones she couldn’t protect. The girls, and sometimes boys too, lured, chased or dragged into the forest by the men of the village, hunted as if by a pack of wolves. Only, that is to do wolves a disservice, for the wolf does only what is in its nature, what millions of years of evolution have determined it needs to do for its survival. The wolf holds no malice, no calculated brutality. It merely is.

These men though, they have no respect for the nature of things. Their acts are a perversion of nature and, left unchecked, their rot and decay would destroy the wood, destroy the community that sits balanced upon its edge, eat it from within. She knows. When they plied her with drink and coaxed her here all those years ago, they had no respect for her body, her spirit. Leaving her brutalised and empty, they had no idea that the forest would seed its dark power within her.

So, tonight she must do what is in her nature: she must protect. These draughts of sleeplessness she brews with the forest’s help are easy to slip into a drink here and there, especially when she has the help of the girls. Transformed by moonlight by her incantations, these woodland spirits fleetingly assume their alluring, mortal bodies, long enough to lead a cocky, careless man astray. Consumed by the relentless, sleepless urge, they wander into the forest late at night, where they are lost, driven mad.

She is not like those men. She does not kill or maim gratuitously, but she leaves them to the forest, where her spells strike an unnamed terror deep into their hearts. What follows is of no concern to her. Some of them disappear forever among the dense, tangled trees, their remains left to feed the soil and nourish the trees, plants and creatures of the forest, as is the natural order of things. The wood taking back from them in death what they stole from others in life. The ones who emerge are forever changed, a lifelong, debilitating fear haunting them until the end of their days. They will never enter the wood again. It is as it should be. The wood knows what it needs to survive.

She wishes she could give the gift of life back to the girls, though. That is why she carries them with her. She gives their restless ghosts a purpose, something to hold onto. They help her with her spells and potions, their tiny lights guiding her to the places where she can find what she needs. One day, maybe, she will no longer need to brew her potions and the children of the village will walk freely. Until then, she will continue her work, night after night, while the village sleeps.

Now, overhead, the canopy parts slightly, enough for the full moon to shine through, casting a shaft of silver. She feels the girls’ whispers, their building excitement: she is getting close now.

Above her head, a silent flash, quieter than quiet, softer than a sigh. She looks down at where the moonlight’s ghostly glow graces the forest floor. At her feet, the elegant, smooth sweep of a barn owl’s pristine feather. She smiles to herself and gathers it into the pouch at her hip. The forest is pleased tonight.