The Netherworlds: Curse of Fate (Book 1)

The Jinni and the Swamp Witch (part 2)

The swamp where the worlds meet is a very dangerous place. Under the muddy water's surface, lurk monsters that if dreamed of, could wake a demon from his deepest slumber. Betwixt the shadows of drooping Spanish moss and twisting vines, live the nastiest of all malicious and vicious pixies.

But she was safe inside her little house on stilts. She had hung herbs over doorways and anointed the thresholds with oils for protection, but that wasn't the only reason she was safe. There was something about her new friend that made the swamp things skittish.

Before, the pixies might have come up to her window and made faces at her and her nurses. But the nurses were gone, her baby too, and now the pixies and sprites peeped in for only a second before slithering away.

The pixies now weren't even touching the sweetcakes she left out on her front steps as an offering to them. They were shunning her because of her new visitor. There was something about him they didn't like.

Her new friend couldn't stay with her long if she was going to make the swamp her home. The spirits might have been leaving the offerings alone out of fear, but if it went on for too long they would leave her offerings untouched as a sign of rejection. Her new friend's ominous pall would have them both shunned, and being shunned from the place she had been shunned to was more than she could bear to think about.

But her new friend was kind and helpful. He helped around the house, and gave her plenty of space. She did the same for him. It was as if they both were ghosts, habitually moving around the house, sliding unnoticed past each other, lost inside their own memories.

Every now and again, she would stop to cry, and he would become quiet with whatever work he was doing. He would never say a word. He would just check on her with his eyes, and if hers ever met his, he'd give her a sympathetic smile. But she never spoke about her tears, and she was happy he didn't ask.

Then at night, he would try not to sleep. He'd fumble and fidget throughout the night, trying to stay awake. At times, she would think about saying something, but when he did fall asleep, sitting in the chair by the fire, it didn't take but a few short minutes for nightmares to set upon him. Sometimes he'd thrash and wake himself up. It always took him a few moments to regain a sense of where he was.

She'd give him a sympathetic smile, and he would gesture for her to go back to sleep.

One morning when he was collecting wood for the fire, she made herself busy with her herbs and her oils, and when he returned, she presented a small dark jar to him.

"For your nightmares," she said, while he was stacking the small logs and sticks by the fireplace.

He eyed the jar and stood, holding out his hand. She placed it in his palm.

He asked in an unhuman voice, "Do I drink it?"

She shook her head, raised her hands to her temples, and demonstrated where to anoint himself with it. He mirrored her circular movements as she moved her fingers to the soft flesh behind her ears, then her wrists, then her forehead.

"Thank- I mean, I appreciate it." The customs of this world did not abide by the words thank you and sorry, because people often do not mean those words when they say them.

He nodded and set the tincture on the fireplace mantle.

He also wanted to apologize for disturbing her sleep with his night terrors, but he went back to work, restacking the kindling before going out for more.

When he stepped out the door, he stopped on the porch. On a small china plate, which was the finest thing she owned, there still sat the two sweetcakes. She made them fresh every night as an offering to the swamp.