Chapter 12 #2
Ducking through the branches felt like entering a sanctum, the world beyond reduced to a reverent hush.
I did not like it. I’d avoided the forest for more reasons than just its creatures; I tried not to remember, but here, it was impossible.
Valerie’s red knuckles. The slender sinew of her worn fingers as she showed me how to peel back the bark.
“Only take the new growth,” she’d said, patient and firm.
The way she trusted me to go off, working under her careful eye.
Slowly, I reached for the slender shoots, twisting them off, collecting the stalks in one clenched fist because I had no basket.
Back at the chateau I would need to find a knife and some kind of animal fat to turn the branches into a poultice for my ribs, but for now, I peeled off the outer layer of bark of one of the shoots and stuck the bare branch into my mouth, chewing on the meat as I went back to harvesting.
My headache eased, but the more I moved, the worse the pain flared in my ribs.
When I had a handful of branches, I tucked them under my cloak and turned for the river.
My memories of Valerie made me feel more sure, less afraid.
The forest remained quiet, but now a few squirrels crashed through the brush and occasionally a wintering bird twittered from the canopy.
I found my mark and curved away from the river.
The shadows stretched long and spindly; my errand had taken longer than I expected, and I quickened my pace, focusing on my tracks to be sure I did not waver from the right path, confident in my stride until suddenly, the snow turned to water.
I yelped and threw myself back.
Somehow, I managed to keep a grip on my precious bundle of sticks, but the wind was knocked out of me, the pain in my ribs screaming, and I lay in the wet snow, gasping and tangled in my skirts and cloak. Above me, thin flits of gray sky shone between the dark spruce understory.
When I finally caught my breath, I slowly pushed myself up.
My tracks—the prints I had followed so carefully—led straight into a hot spring.
Trickery. Even if I had missed this … how would my tracks have come out of the water? I narrowed my eyes at the tall trees, innocently still in the long afternoon shadows.
Lord Death had said the house drew from a deep well of magic, and that well was the forest itself.
Now, I was at the heart of it, an intruder alone in its depths.
But as the moments passed, nothing came to grab me.
No faceless creature emerged from behind the tress.
It was as if the forest had simply arranged itself around my path.
I lowered my hand into the water. It was hot.
Very hot. Steam twisted off the surface into the dark firs and spruce trees, making every breath fragrant and heady.
Despite the fading daylight, the pain from my injuries made the water tempting.
It would speed along the work of the willow bark.
If I was quick. If I was careful and the forest didn’t drown me for the pleasure of it.
I bit my lip and looked up at the hovering fir boughs.
“Please, I’m hurt,” I said to the trees, even though I felt like a fool to be talking to nothing.
Nothing stirred. Nothing answered.
Before, I would not have risked it. I feared the forest most. But now …
I did not want to disappoint Lord Death.
He had given me the keys to his home, these fine, warm clothes, and the belief I was worth the time and effort to train.
I thought of his face, his piercing dark gaze that betrayed nothing, and I imagined him disappointed in me.
I could not do anything until I bound up this wound. So I’d risk the forest.
Quickly, I undid my cloak, peeled off my clothes, boots, and stockings, and set my willow branches on the little pile, keeping them all within reach of the edge of the spring.
My naked body felt stiff, braced against the chill and the radiating pain as I picked my way through the wet snow and lowered myself over the edge.
The blue-green water closed over my ribs and a shudder of relief flooded my body.
I sank deeper into the pool and breathed a long sigh.
Settling into a shallow bowl of stone, I moved my breast out of the way.
The bruise was spreading, now glistening purple-black.
I didn’t like the look of it. Was it just a bruise?
Could it have been enchanted? All I had to cure it was willow bark and the water.
I spread my arms in a wide circle and dipped my shoulders under the surface, luxuriating in the heat of the spring.
I had just started to breathe normally when the wind rose, lifting the voices of the fir trees and rippling across the water.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
In the wind was the voice that had followed me in the wood the night I ran from the village.
I recognized the crawl of winter and ice, and the same frozen flesh split down to the bone that leapt into my mind.
That night, I had thought it was Death, but it was not.
Something else was out here. Something as tall and slender as the spruces.
Maybe I had even passed it, where it stood in a cluster of boughs, waiting.
I could not see it. Could only sense it. The very air trembled. I was so full of terror I couldn’t move or lift my gaze. I stayed frozen as the wind died and the steam shrouded me once again. Nothing moved in the woods—no birds, no small animals. Even the sun seemed to hold its breath.
The shadow passed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it as a great disturbance of the world. But then it continued on. Slowly the feeling eased, as if releasing me from its grip. Exhaustion washed over me, and I sagged under the water, wishing I had just kept walking.
“He smelled that magic you’re bleeding everywhere, child.”
I startled and whipped around, arms across my chest.
An old woman, clad in lumpy gray furs with a little iron kettle swinging from her back, peered at my pile of branches and sniffed suspiciously.
“Willow bark? I tried to find you sooner. You need to patch up those wounds before you go bleeding through the woods again.” She sniffed again.
“What do you plan to do with these sticks?”
I couldn’t tell if this was an illusion, a predator, a nightmare, or something else in the skin of an old woman.
For in my short stay with Death, I had already learned not to fully trust my eyes.
I swallowed quickly, trying to answer, but my reactions were slowed, like a river thickened as it froze into stillness.
Finally, I found my voice. “I needed them. For a poultice.”
The old woman picked them up and turned to me. “Well get out and get dressed, we don’t have all day.”
It was delivered in such a brisk, almost maternal tone, so confident of being obeyed.
My mind was still scattered, unable to come up with anything beyond the fear that I could not trust what was around me, which only had the effect of making me as stupid and docile as a newborn lamb.
“Who are you?” I asked, as if the woman would answer truthfully.
I pulled myself up into the snow, shivering as I rushed to grab my shift and tunic.
The old woman just shook her head and tsked, picking up my bundle of willow bark and turning into the woods. “A meddlesome old woman is what I am. Have you seen Schneid yet?”
I yanked the tunic over my wet skin and balanced ungracefully, trying to get my stockings on without getting snow in my boots. “Who?” I asked through chattering teeth.
She studied the forest, wrinkles carving her brow. “I guess not. Well, if you want some help with that nasty wound, you’d better follow me.” And with that, she trotted off into the trees.
With my willow bark.
“Saints,” I muttered, grabbing my cloak and hopping through the snow after her.
The pain in my side flared, but it was much more manageable after the hot spring.
I stayed a cautious distance behind as I followed her deeper into the wood, farther from the river and the chateau.
“I can’t go far. I need to get back,” I called.
The old woman turned, and for a split second she was Valerie.
I stopped, my heart lunging out of my chest. She’d stolen Valerie’s face.
But I blinked and my vision cleared, I saw that I had been wrong.
This was just an old woman, watching me patiently as I swayed in confusion.
I had not realized until then how my memories of Valerie had blurred with time, her features softened only into “old woman.” I could not remember what she truly looked like, only the feeling of being with her, of being thoughtless of fear and uncertainty.
The realization made me feel so terribly alone.
“Then, you’d better pick up the pace.” And the old woman carried on.
I turned around; I’d had enough of these forest games.
The hallway of waiting doors weighed on my mind and my body was depleted.
But I looked down at my empty hands and realized again that the old woman still had my bundle of willow sticks.
With a groan of frustration, I turned and tried to catch up.
The kettle on the woman’s belt swung as she wound a path through the thickest parts of the forest. The tops of the fir trees swayed and the light fell as it did all other places and we walked for a long time.
The way got rougher and the pain in my ribs began stealing my breath again.
She must have noticed, for she called over her shoulder, “We’re almost there,” and then disappeared through a low cluster of boulders still patchy with ice and snow.
I was sweating even in the cold as I gingerly picked my way. Just through the boulders, in a small snowy grove deep in the valley, a little hut appeared.