Chapter I.1 #2
It was not without its own charms. Not only did flowering shrubs hug the arched doorway, other blossoms cascaded down the sides of the cottage like curtains—tiny blooms in yellows and blues and pinks that added to the illusion that the cottage was simply a natural outgrowth of the woods.
A path ran from the doorway past a well and into a walled-off area to the left.
Tall plants and stubby trees rose above the stones, heavy with bounties that Greta mostly didn’t recognize.
With so much wonder to absorb, she almost forgot where she was and why. Then the cottage door opened, and Greta’s attention snapped back into her body with a single jolt of her heart.
Hans’s grip on her right hand tightened, but her father dropped her left entirely.
Greta swallowed and tried to look brave and good and completely invisible. Every instinct had her feet itching to hide her behind her father’s body, but she held still. Held her breath.
A woman emerged from the cottage, but this time, while Greta’s vision played no tricks on her, she could not entirely tell what she was seeing.
The woman’s face was lightly wrinkled, but her skin sported none of the spots and marks that covered the older men and women in town.
Her eyes were as gray as the hair braided down her back, but neither cruel nor kind.
Her dress was neither fancy nor tattered, and it took a moment for Greta to realize it was no dress at all but a long tunic over a pair of heavy stockings, much like a man might wear.
Only the bright green scarf she had tied around her waist, a scarf that almost appeared to be made of leaves, gave the impression of a flowing skirt.
The witch—she had to be the witch—also did not appear to have an overly large nose or any discernable horns, which was a small relief, and despite her cane, she strode forward with a spriteliness that belied its need.
But perhaps the cane was not meant for walking.
It looked like it would hurt if someone smacked you on the backside with it.
“Well,” she said, stopping several feet away. “What is this?”
Greta’s father stood up straighter. “My name is Garulf.” He barked out the words the way he did when the town tax collector came to their house, and Greta thought that was odd. “I’m a woodcutter from Swiftdok.”
“I said what is this, not who.”
“I’d like to make a trade.” He stepped forward and glanced at Greta.
She didn’t pause to wonder why he looked her way or what he had to trade because, at that moment, there was a commotion from the left, and two chickens flapped their way to land ungainly upon the garden wall.
At least, Greta thought they were chickens.
They were chicken-like, except one had feathers of the brightest blue, as stunning as a lady’s gown, tucked among the white.
The other was a mix of brown and purple, similar in shade to the flowering bushes by the cottage. Greta gasped.
The witch turned her attention from Garulf to Greta. Her expression didn’t soften, but there was something appraising about it, and Greta hoped the witch wasn’t contemplating how much blood she contained.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” said the witch at last. “Go on, there are others in the garden to see, and the raspberries are ripe. You two can have a look and a bite while your father tells me about his trade.”
She should have said no, but the chickens descended back into the garden, and Greta, stupidly, impulsively, forgot that she should be afraid of the witch, that the witch might try to lure her away to steal her blood.
The chickens were too fascinating to resist—and, if she were being honest—so was the possibility of raspberries.
The house made of pastries and candy had whipped up her appetite as surely as the aroma from a warm oven.
The garden fence opened on its own as she approached, and neither her father nor her brother called out to stop her from entering. If they weren’t concerned, it seemed safe to assume that she had no reason to be either.
“Tell me about your trade,” she heard the witch say.
But whatever her father responded, Greta wasn’t listening.
Once she passed through the gate and her attention was diverted by all the splendor before her, their voices dimmed as though they existed in another world entirely.
She was barely aware that her brother had paused at the entry and wasn’t continuing to follow her.
Like the cottage, the garden was nothing she had ever seen before.
There were plants in every shape and color and size, varieties completely unlike those spindly weeds that grew around their house or the colorful flowers that filled window boxes in the nicer part of town.
Here, there were plants with thick broad leaves and others with ones as delicate as the finest lace.
Some were as short as her knees, and others were trees covered in fruit that Greta thought she should have seen beyond the garden walls but could not recall having done so.
Some of the smaller plants were heavy with fruits and vegetables as well, in yellows and greens and reds.
Many were unfamiliar, but a few she knew—beans, peas, gooseberries, and finally the raspberries.
The blue chicken had led her to the latter as she followed the bird through the overgrown paths.
There were several bushes, each heads taller than she was.
Each dazzling with hundreds of bright red berries, the biggest, juiciest looking raspberries Greta had ever seen. They hung from the vines like jewels.
She reached out—the witch had invited her to eat some—but her hand froze before it could pluck the first berry.
Was this a test? The witch hadn’t handed her any portion of berries, and at home, taking food in front of her without expressly being given her allotment was a way to get her hand slapped. To be naughty.
Greta’s stomach growled, and for the first time that day, she acknowledged how hollow it felt, how hungry she was. Surely, one berry was okay. They’d been offered to her.
The fruit was heavy, so heavy in her hand—practically the size of her thumb.
Greta popped it into her mouth before she could think twice, and sweet juice burst over her tongue, more flavorful than anything she’d eaten for as long as she could remember.
It left behind a trail of sticky redness on her palm, and she licked the juice up, trying not to notice the dirt on her skin that she licked up with it.
Her gut felt a little less empty after she swallowed, though hardly full, and her mouth craved more. She didn’t remember picking another, but the raspberry landed in her hand. Quickly, she ate that one as well, though her heart beat faster as she wondered if she should have.
Same with a third and fourth.
She ate so quickly that the fear didn’t catch up to her until her stomach truly began to feel content—a strange and foreign sensation, but one that was hard to enjoy, despite the delicious flavors lingering in her mouth, when she began to fear what it meant.
A single berry was one thing. Two, perhaps, was acceptable when the plants were laden with so many.
But Greta wasn’t sure how many she’d eaten.
She wet her sweet-tart lips and scurried away from the plant before temptation bettered her again.
Around her feet, the chickens pecked contentedly at the ground.
They paid her no mind as she searched among them for the pretty blue one that had led her to the raspberries.
She didn’t see it, but a purple feather caught her eye, lying in the middle of a path.
Delighted, she picked it up and marveled at the color.
Chickens, in her limited experience, were only supposed to be white or brown, so this feather must be magic.
Greta poked it into her braid. It didn’t want to stay without much finagling, and her hair started to come undone. Eventually, she made the feather stick, although it might have been raspberry juice gluing it in place.
As she neared the garden gate again, snippets of her father’s conversation with the witch floated by her ears. Hans didn’t appear to have moved the entire time. Instead, he seemed to be listening intently, and he pressed a finger to his lips, silently warning her to be quiet.
“We all know what you need,” her father was saying. “I’m making it easy.”
The witch cackled. “Men always think they know what a woman needs.”
“You don’t want a trade then?”
In the pause that ensued, Greta crept closer to the garden wall.
“I didn’t say that.” The witch’s voice took on a darker, more serious tone. “But it’s presumptuous. If you know what I need, then you know I can take it on my own. But this is far worse than that, and I hope you know it. I will grant you one wish for your trade.”
“One?” Her father sounded indignant. “For all I’m giving up?”
“It doesn’t seem to me like you consider all you’re giving up much of a sacrifice,” the witch snapped.
“Besides, don’t be greedy.” Here, Greta rubbed her sticky hands on her dress, her gut tightening with renewed worry.
“A wish is the most potent of magic, but you get no more than one. A man who overreaches loses his balance and will fall to his doom one day. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine. It’s a deal.”
Had her father really traded with the witch then? Greta temporarily forgot to worry about the raspberries as curiosity about what a wish looked like overcame her. She peeked her head around the garden gate for a better view.
The witch was reaching into a small purse that she wore around her neck, and she pulled out an object no larger than the raspberries had been. Even in the high sunlight it glowed a mysterious white, as though she held the moon between her fingers.
She offered it to Greta’s father. “Use it only when the moon is full and tell no one what you did. If you do, the magic will fail. Understood?”