The Red Woman and the White Bear

2. The Shadowwood Mother

B riar, oblivious to the weight of the being’s return, wagged his tail and approached her with an air of fascination. Aisling’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of the situation, but there was an undeniable pull that drew her closer. With bated breath, she took a hesitant step forward, waiting for the being to make her next move. She lowered the tiny shard of mirror she’d been using to signal to Aisling and darted a few yards up the trail, stopping to turn every few steps. She wanted the pair to follow, Aisling realized. Placing the blame for her shivering on the cold instead of her fear, Aisling followed Briar’s lead. He, too, continually glanced back at her as though to reassure her they were safe.

The group came upon a fork in the trail not far from where they’d parted ways earlier that evening. Rather than taking the left or the right path, the being instead continued straight, plunging into the woods. Aisling hesitated. Her raw nerves were still on edge—this was close, too close, to the path of the hunt. The party could still be nearby. When the small female stopped to wait for them, impatience obvious on her face, Briar doubled back to heel and pressed against Aisling’s thigh. She relaxed; she trusted his intuition implicitly. If he was willing to forge ahead, she was too. Still, she dimmed the lantern to its lowest setting. The faint glow illuminated only just enough ground for her to see her next step and narrowly avoid the roots and rocks that dotted the ground. Navigating through the darkness, she was truly putting Seb’s theory to the test.

They followed the being through the underbrush for what felt like hours, trudging ever deeper into the woods. The further they got, the more excited the tiny thing seemed to become. By the time she stopped, she was practically vibrating.

She’d led Aisling to the edge of a clearing, at the center of which stood a dense thicket—a tangle of towering trees and thorny bushes, their gnarled branches interlocking to form a web of shadowy limbs that came together as a sort of cave. Moss-covered rocks and fallen logs lay scattered on the ground, a testament to the passage of time that had long hung heavily on the island. The moonlight was different there in the glade. Brighter. Shafts of silver pierced through the clouds and diffused softly over patches of ferns and delicate wildflowers. The air carried the heady scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. To Aisling, the thicket itself seemed almost sentient, possessed by an awareness that sensed her group’s approach and beckoned them closer .

Without warning, the being quickly scampered off. Aisling tracked her by the movement of the tall grass that she pushed through until she disappeared into the brush altogether. I’ve come this far, Aisling thought.

A gentle breeze at her back urged her forward, and the grass caressed her ankles almost as if to comfort her: “You’re safe here.”

She’d been right—the thicket was sentient. As she stood at its opening, the whole thing expanded and contracted. Breathing. A deep inhale, then a long, slow exhale. She tried to match its cadence with her own breath and found that her lungs felt more open than ever before.

“It likes you.” A voice, quiet and rough like wind through dry leaves, drifted from inside the knot of branches. “Come in, girl, we haven’t got all night.”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Aisling tied Briar’s leash to a thick branch and then ducked inside. In the light from her lantern that she held outstretched ahead of her, she found a tunnel lined with thorns and withered vines. It was long—much longer than it should have been. Aisling was forced to crouch lower and lower as she pressed forward, eventually dropping to her hands and knees to crawl the final few feet before it opened up to a small room of sorts. Here, she could at least sit up straight.

Leaning against a log, almost part of the log herself, was a small, wizened female, bent with age. The time that consumed the forest also showed on her face, which was lined with deep creases and wrinkles. Her long, gray hair was woven back in a tangled braid that she kept slung over one shoulder.

“So,” she said with a grim smile. “We meet at last.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Nothing about her seemed at all familiar to Aisling, not even calling to mind any of her mother’s tales.

“Of course not, don’t be silly.” The female dismissed her with a wave of her hand. When she moved, her cloak of thick, rough-spun brown wool moved stiffly with her and several leaves and twigs fell from its sleeve. “Come closer and let me have a look at you.”

The tiny being that had led Aisling there was standing beside the old faerie, grinning proudly. Two rows of sharp, pointed teeth that fit together like puzzle pieces glinted in the lantern’s light. When Aisling scooted closer, she made a chittering sound and hopped up into the brambles overhead.

“Thank you,” Aisling called after her.

“Don’t bother,” the female chided. “She doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“What is she?”

“A tree sprite.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Aisling nearly felt stupid for asking. She reached up with a gnarled hand to grasp Aisling’s chin, turning her head this way and that. Studying her. “Tell me your name.”

“Aisling.”

“ Aisling. ” She tasted the name like wine. “Now, explain to me how it is you know of our kind. You appear quite undaunted by the events that led you here. ”

“My mother told me stories.” Aisling considered her words carefully, not overly keen on delving too deep into her childhood with the faerie. “She had encounters with the Fae.”

The female hummed. “Pleasant encounters?” When Aisling nodded, she posited, “She was lucky then.”

“Who are you?” Of all the questions racing through Aisling’s mind, this was the most pressing, and also the most dangerous. The Fae didn’t often take kindly to humans asking after their identity. She was sure that’s what this female was: a faerie of one sort or another.

“They call me the Shadowwood Mother.” She released Aisling’s chin and turned to dig through a mess of brittle papers scattered on the ground around her. “And we call you the Red Woman.”

Aisling frowned, unsure of what to make of the statement. “I’m sorry?”

The Shadowwood Mother grumbled to herself as she searched the pile, picking up papers at random before tossing them aside again. Finally, she seemed to find what she was looking for half-buried under a clump of leaves. She shook it clean, then held it into the light of the lantern that Aisling had hung from a branch. They both leaned in close to peer at the markings on the page. The words were inked in tight black script, vertical rather than horizontal. Aisling squinted at it, but the text was hardly intelligible.

“This,” the Shadowwood Mother said, “is your prophecy.”

“My what ?”

The old faerie flashed her an irritated look. “Are you going to let me read it to you or are you going to continue interrupting me with useless questions? Now, be quiet and listen.”

Aisling sat back on her heels and chewed the inside of her cheek. When the Shadowwood Mother cleared her throat to speak, she listened intently as the faerie recited the words:

Across realms blackened and broken when war claims the land,

A prophecy long hidden, fate now demands:

Amidst bloodshed and darkness and winter’s bitter sting, the Red Woman will rise to bring revenant spring.

Affined to another, when three signs converge, She stands a beacon of hope to quell tempest’s surge.

With unwavering spirit through desolate night, She must face darkness unnamed, guided by celestial light.

When those stars align with the threads of Her fate, sacrifice begets a dormant magic innate.

Beside Her, a great White Bear shall tread, a guardian and companion through trials ahead.

In a union unmatched with a bond beyond compare, their harmony is forged by this destiny they share.

The softly-breathing thicket quieted around them, the atmosphere becoming pensive. Reverent. The rhyme had a clear effect on the forest and the Shadowwood Mother, but its meaning was lost on Aisling. She hesitated, mulling over the couplets, searching within them for anything that might feel familiar or in any way instructive. She could tell it was important, she just didn’t know why.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” she admitted, frustration welling slowly in her chest.

“Of course you don’t,” the Shadowwood Mother said. “No one does.”

“That can’t be the whole thing,” Aisling argued. There was more, there had to be. None of those words, pretty though they were, meant anything at all. They were no more useful than a children’s nursery rhyme. “Doesn’t it say anything about how? Or where? Or when?”

Now they were both frustrated. “It’s a prophecy, girl, not an instruction manual.”

“I’m not even a redhead, and Briar…” Aisling looked back down the tunnel to where her dog was rolling on his back in a patch of mud, filthy from his nose to his tail. “Briar’s hardly a bear.”

“You humans,” the Shadowwood Mother clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Always so literal.”

“Then how can you be sure it has anything to do with me? Is it just because I helped the sprite?” Aisling was beginning to feel dizzy, as though there wasn’t enough oxygen left in the small space. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from her brow. It stung her eye before she could wipe it away with the back of her hand.

“Because you were recognized by the sprite.” The Shadowwood Mother turned back to the papers, rooting around once again. The next one she found quicker than the first. It, too, was printed vertically, and framed with illustrations so small Aisling could only imagine the hands of a sprite, or something like it, being capable of sketching such detailed markings.

“There will come three signs—a convergence—that will signal the coming of the Red Woman.” The tip of the faerie’s finger traced the lines down the page as she read aloud. “All will be of the natural world. The first will be sent by Aethar: the sun will rise to hang blood red in the sky. The second—”

Aisling interrupted her with a sharp laugh. “Wildfires have been burning up north for a month now; the sun has been red because of the smoke in the air. It happens nearly every year around this time. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

The Shadowwood Mother shot her a harsh glare before she continued: “ The second will come from the Low One: there will bloom an eclipse of pale green Luna moths. And the third will be a consequence of nature, when the tides are drawn out beyond their normal reach.”

Aisling’s wheels were turning, rationalizing. She hadn’t a clue who the entities were that the Shadowwood Mother was referring to by name. “Luna moths are rare here, but they’re not unheard of,” she tried. Her voice came out weaker than she would have liked.

“Sprites are far more intelligent than you might expect, and they can certainly get around quicker than a faerie with ancient bones like mine. They love few things more than shiny gifts—for a handful of new coins, I keep a number of them in my employ.” The Shadowwood Mother glanced up into the tangled brambles that the sprite had disappeared into. “They are my eyes. I am the keeper of your prophecy, among others, and I have been watching for this convergence for many, many years. The red sun has risen, and the Luna moths hatched soon after. When I smelled the shifting tides here on your island, I sent my eyes out to find you.”

“But how—” Aisling started.

“Sprites have an uncanny ability to sense things. There is something special about you, Aisling, and I don’t doubt there is more to you than even you might understand. It is no coincidence that you and the sprite met as you did, nor is it coincidence that you are already familiar with our kind.”

Suddenly overwhelmed, Aisling shifted to sit in the dirt so that she could draw up her knees and drop her head down between them. She needed the earth to stop spinning so that she could think straight.

A hand patted the top of her head. The Shadowwood Mother had reached across the space to comfort Aisling, the gesture stiff but kind. “Take a breath, girl.”

“How can I be a part of something I don’t understand?” Aisling pressed. “How am I supposed to know what to do?” She wished the thicket were big enough for her to stand and pace; the confines of its thorny walls were only constricting her lungs further.

“The centuries-old war between the Fae Courts has grown out of control; its devastation has reached an unprecedented magnitude. Innocents are dying. The land is dying—our forests, our rivers. Our homes. It is both the fate and the burden of the Red Woman to bring peace.” When Aisling raised her head, the Shadowwood Mother was peering at her with dark eyes. They weren’t looking at her, but through her. Into her. Scanning and parsing through whatever was inside of Aisling that tied her to this prophecy.

So she was meant to stop a war. Trepidation brought Aisling’s hands to tremble and her heart to race. The significance of this moment, and the weight of the prophecy, were almost greater than she could bear. “What if I can’t? Or if I refuse?” she challenged. She could crawl her way back out of the thicket now, before this went any further. And yet, she made no move to leave. Something in the Shadowwood Mother’s eyes held her rapt.

“You bore witness to the answer to that question tonight when the earth moved beneath your feet.” The Shadowwood Mother drew a bony hand across the dirt floor. “The tremors are echoes of war. Of magic. Of hatred. There will be more.”

Aisling frowned. “More earthquakes?”

“More echoes —quakes, tidal shifts. The weather will change, and the land along with it. And not only here on your island, but anywhere there is a Thin Place. Soon enough, the Veil will weaken further. The echoes will spread. And then things will begin to come through.” The Shadowwood Mother lowered her voice as she delivered this warning, leaning forward so the lantern’s light illuminated her features. The harsh shadows it cast across her face made her wrinkled skin appear as tree bark.

“What kinds of things?” Aisling lowered her voice, too, almost whispering now.

“Things that have not been strong enough to come through for a very long time, but that have been waiting on the edges of Wyldraíocht for their turn. These are not the Fae of your mother’s tales, Aisling. These will not be so friendly, and they will certainly not be confined to the borderlands. Your home will be theirs to take.”

Aisling’s mind strayed momentarily back to her friends, sleeping soundly not three miles away. Unguarded. Unaware. She shivered.

“That can’t be all there is,” she pled again. She looked around at the papers scattered around the Shadowwood Mother. Surely there must be something else amongst them that would at least guide her in the right direction.

“The prophecy will unfold as it’s meant to. They always do.” The Shadowwood Mother settled back against the log and folded her hands in her lap. “You’d best be on your way now; you’d do well to return before your friends wake.”

There was a sense of finality to her words; Aisling knew then that there were no more answers to be found here. At least, not tonight. After several long moments of silence, Aisling retrieved her lantern and crawled back out the way she came. This time, the sharp thorns protruding from the walls of the tunnel scratched and pulled at her hair and clothes—the thicket, or whatever it was that possessed it, was reluctant to let her leave.

Briar was waiting patiently, having at some point drifted off to sleep beside the entrance. His fluffy, white fur was almost entirely brown and matted and when Aisling unhooked his leash, he pranced around her as though to show it off. It was a brief moment of levity that she desperately needed.

Retracing their steps through the woods, the words of the prophecy reverberated in Aisling’s mind. She replayed them over and over, repetition etching each line deeper into her consciousness, dissecting every word for a meaning that she could understand. The imagery evoked by the lines resonated with her in a way, but she struggled to comprehend how they could be tied to her. The war, the darkness, and the destined role of the Red Woman felt at once both distant and intimately personal. She yearned for answers, but they remained elusive, teasing her with fragments of understanding that remained just beyond her grasp.

At least now, too tired to be concerned about hunters or sprites or any other manner of Fae finding her, Aisling could enjoy the hike back. Briar bounded on ahead, glad to finally be free of the leash. The early morning air was crisp and laden with dew and smelled so much sweeter than the heavy, earthy air inside the thicket. She allowed it to clear her head and quiet her racing thoughts for a time. Instead of the words of the prophecy, she tried only to hear the sounds of the forest waking up around her. The soft birdsong, slowly replacing the crickets’ chirping. The steady rhythm of her footfalls.

By the time Aisling and Briar stumbled back into camp, exhausted and streaked with mud, the sun was just barely beginning to rise. Through the haze, it still shone a muted shade of red. Aisling rolled her eyes. It felt like even the sky was taunting her.

It wasn’t worth the cleanup to track all their mud back into the tent just to lay down for a couple of hours, so Aisling instead knelt outside the door and leaned in to pack up her things. Her back and shoulders ached from the tension she’d carried there all night, and shivering against the cold didn’t help, either. She pulled on her heavy coat, but the chill was deeper than it could warm. The icy grip of fear squeezed her tightly, especially when she looked at the other tents where her friends were still asleep, utterly oblivious of the other side of the world around them. Ignorant of the insidious threat looming ever closer, echoing across the Veil.

Conflict surged in Aisling’s stomach as she grappled with the weight of her choices. Just as she had when she saw the tree sprite, desperate and alone, she felt called to embrace her role and protect her friends. Her home. But doubt crept in like choking vines, whispering that she was ill-equipped for such a monumental task.

Sensing the swell of her emotions, Briar ambled over to Aisling from where he’d been searching for scraps around the grill. He laid down beside her and rested his chin on her thighs. He sighed a short puff of air through his nose and Aisling stopped what she was doing to scratch the top of his head. Briar’s weight was an anchor that brought her back to the present and drew her away from the maddening thoughts of Fae and prophecies and world-saving. Here, they weren’t the Red Woman and the White Bear. They were just Aisling and Briar.

“You’d like to think of yourself as a bear, though, wouldn’t you?” Aisling teased him, finishing her own thought out loud. If he could have rolled his eyes, she was certain he would have.

“Fuck, and here I thought our mud bath wasn’t scheduled until later this afternoon.” Seb was the first of the others to wake and couldn’t resist commenting on her appearance when he crawled out of his tent.

“Funny,” she quipped. “Briar took off after a rabbit when I let him out this morning and decided to take a detour through a mud puddle the size of my car.”

“And you—what? Swam in after him?” He was picking through the remains of the fire, looking for anything to burn to cook breakfast over. There was nothing left but crumbled ashes. “When Jackson and Lida wake up, we could all go back to my place to eat if you want.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll head back once I’m done here and get this guy cleaned off.” Aisling shooed Briar off of her lap so she could finish packing.

Though the normalcy of a morning with her friends would have undoubtedly done her some good, Aisling was critically low on patience and wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed and close her eyes and pretend that the night before had been nothing more than a bad, bad dream.