The Long Stairs

Day Three

They called her Buttercup.

That wasn't her real name of course. She was a medicinal forager at the keep. All of the girls foraging in the forest surrounding the stronghold bore the same agnomen. This particular buttercup was new to Folly, having arrived only just after the new year. Being a forager wasn't the best job, but it was better than being a rat-catcher. She thought she'd be able to live decent enough as long as the expeditions were ongoing—at least another six months.

She wasn't stick-thin like a few of the other women around, nor did she want to be. Most men didn't want to jab their cocks in some skeleton with skin. She was soft and plump. Ripe. The best way to be. As for her features, twenty-odd years toiling in sun did her no favors. Pangs of envy would often wash over her when she looked at the lucky bitches—the ones with their long lashes, perfect lips and delicate faces. She absently ran a hand through her dishwater blond hair.

Buttercups never went out alone. That would be foolish for just about anyone on the borderlands. Even the smallest of copses could be dangerous. Things lurked here that wanted to kill without pause or remorse. Yet here she was, all by herself.

Now where was that goddamn animal?

The women working the woods traveled in packs of three, along with a dozen or so sheep. They were well-tended to by the villeins, who acted like shepherds guarding a flock. Still, every once in a while, a dumb beast would wander and get lost. She'd given chase, but couldn't find the stupid thing. Now she was just as lost, as she tried in vain to find her way back into the fold.

The sun started to set, throwing its fierce light across the sky. Looking up, she cursed. Her feet ached from the search, and her stomach was grumbling. Hope you get eaten. Better it than her. Still, she couldn't let it go and she continued calling out for it, while batting branches. She'd gone deep into the forest, much farther than she'd ever been before.

She spent the night in the woods--exposed to the elements, without the proper gear and no way to light a fire to keep herself warm. The following morning broke gray and cold: a wet, windy cold, the worst kind. The tangle of hemlock and maple and elm was so dense the forest held its own humidity.

Buttercup knew the woods were wild and unpeopled. Staying alive and finding her way back to the keep would be difficult, if not impossible. Her knowledge of medicinal herbs was extensive, and this included knowing what forest plants and fungi were edible, as well as the ones that would kill her. Yet, she saw none of the former and too many of the latter.

She took small comfort in knowing she wouldn't starve to death. The layer of fat she'd picked up over the winter hadn't dwindled much at all, so she could last a while without food. Other things in the woods would get her before she ever wasted away.

I wonder if anyone will ever find me? Probably not, she decided. It would take a miracle just to stumble across her remains. And what would be left of her to find? A threadbare dress, just like the others wore? I'd be nothing more than bleached bones and matted hair.

She shivered at the thought and pressed on.

Here and there, as if strewn by stone giants, were gigantic boulders. This made navigation even more treacherous than the trees. There was no hint of a trail. Mosquitoes, and green, biting flies swarmed. She was reduced to slogging in a figure-eight pattern around the moss-covered rocks.

She wandered for an hour before stumbling into a clearing that was unseen until only a few steps away. It was situated on a slight rise that allowed enough breeze to keep the flying insects at bay, but did nothing to weaken the cold breeze. Overhead, numerous tree branches linked to form a trellis-like canopy, masking the place in perpetual shade. But she found the clearing no peaceful respite. It couldn't have been used for much – there were no stumps to mark the work of woodcutters.