Witch of the Wood

Chapter 1

Let me tell you a story. Many years ago, there was a strange little girl who lived alone in the woods with her mother. She had a father, but they had never met and the little girl did not think they ever would in the future. But the girl's mother always told her with proud, twinkling eyes how much she looked just like him, that she had his wild dark hair and arched brows and red mouth. The child spent her days in solitude with books and stories. Yet she always wondered what lay beyond the forest.

The day she set foot in that world was the day she became legend. Or perhaps the day she made others legends was more appropriate.

My mother and I lived in a small hut in the woods. We always had. I could remember nothing else. It was this quaint little forest of lush green scattered with bursts of color, the gatherings of wildflowers. They were always these small fragile things that I would pick in bulk in my arms for Mother. There would often be a trail of fallen flowers or petals that marked my journey home.

The trees, thick and strong with age, formed a canopy that kept us cool in the warmer months. Though there were occasional patches of light in which to bask. Mother liked to do that while she watched me pick berries. There were little gurgling streams and tranquil ponds everywhere. Anyone, if they ever happened to venture here, would never lack for water if they found themselves lost. Those streams never turned brackish, the water was ever clear and clean and was covered only by a thin, breakable layer of ice in winter.

Then there was the smells. The loamy earthen scent of the ground that filled your nose with every step. The flowers were sweet and pleasant enough, but their perfume was mild and faded all too quickly. But the berries and honeycombs were sweeter anyway. And you could actually eat them.

It was a peaceful little place. Besides Mother and myself, the forest's only inhabitants were animals. I suppose some would have called it the closest thing to paradise.

But as many tales go, all that changed on a dark and stormy night.

I was but seven when he came. I had just finished taking a bath and Mother was helping me dry my hair. It was as thick and curled as sheep's wool and would take hours to dry. My mouth was pressed into a thin line as thunder rumbled outside and rain pounded against our thatched roof.

"It's just a storm, little owl," my mother crooned as she knelt in front of me. "It's outside and you are in here in your snug little nest."

Just as the words left her mouth, thunder boomed as the hut was filled with a flash of light. Terrified, I leapt into her arms and buried my face into her shoulder. She patted my back to calm me.

The smell of flour and meadowsweet filled my nose. Her homespun gown and worn shawl felt rough against my skin. The calluses on her hands caught once or twice on my sleeping gown.

"There, there, sweetheart, it will be over in the morning," she murmured soothingly.

I said nothing, simply clung to her and whined like a frightened puppy.

It was then that we heard the banging on the door. Mother and I pulled away, then looked at each other, eyes wide. We were alone in this forest. We always had been.

There were three rhythmic knocks. Then a pause. Then three more. Animals did not do that.

Mother's cornflower blue eyes warily glanced from me to the door. She licked her lips and threw a quilt over my shoulders.