Wild had been untouched by the storm, having spent the dark morning wandering under the densest of the trees’ canopies. She could hear the thunder though, rumbling in the distance, threatening. Uneasy.
Wild would go to town that day, when the storm had cleared. She had to. She could not wait for the next full moon to know that Red was safe.
So, when the sky was clear and bright, she stepped out of the woods, shrinking her stature, taking on more human traits, her hair now the light green-brown of the Summer oak. She made the long journey over the hill.
Wild arrived in town by mid-afternoon. The streets, normally busy with people bustling to and fro, one shop to another, bore a still, almost oppressive, atmosphere. The people who were out and about moved quietly, carefully, as if afraid to stir some invisible, sleeping force.
Wild also moved carefully, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Those that did catch a glimpse of her scowled but hurried quickly away.
Wild didn’t know where Red lived in the town, but knew who would. The mayor of Oaken Vale. While he often sought Wild’s counsel during her occasional visits to the town, she now needed his. Thankfully, no one was about when she went to knock on the mayor’s door. After a few moments of rustling and shuffling from inside the house, the mayor opened the door. He looked immediately relieved when he saw Wild standing there.
“My good woman! Please come in!” Wild thanked him quietly as he ushered her into his small home. The mayor, who used to be the best metalsmith in the village, had adorned his home with various works and pieces he had made over the years. There were axes of many sorts on all of the walls. An ornate woodworker’s knife held the place of honor over the mantlepiece — Wild knew from his stories, this was the pride of his work. The mayor worked with the earth, knew how to temper it to work with him. He understood the ways of the wilds as much as Red.
“Please, sit down,” the mayor invited. Wild did not sit down, but waited to speak until the mayor himself was seated in an old armchair.
“I came here with a question, but perhaps that can be answered by another,” Wild began. “What is going on in the town? It is too quiet.”
The mayor nodded, a look of sadness and concern gracing his wrinkled features. “Everyone has been afraid since the Cleary woman came home last night.” Red. Wild clenched her gnarled fists, but bade the mayor to continue.
“What has happened to her?”
The mayor hesitated a moment before he answered. “She came home over the hill and through that terrible storm. It is no wonder that she should be ill now.”
The mayor paused, but Wild urged him on. “But?”
He sighed. “The Cleary woman’s husband is a drunk and a layabout. He’s also been one for superstition. He’s convinced — “ the mayor rubbed his hands nervously — “that his wife has come home a changeling.”
A changeling. Wild knew of this human superstition with regards to the faeries. It was wholly untrue. The faeries, while secluded and secretive, were not cruel or unkind. Red was no changeling. But that her husband thought her so put her in real danger.
Wild was pacing at this point, thinking of what she could do to save her fire-haired love.
“Where do the Clearys live?” Wild asked.
The mayor rose, his brows raised in hope. “So you do think you could help them?”
Wild had no idea. She would need a way to spirit Red away back into the woods — a careful, most cautious way that the humans would not look twice at. Still, she nodded to the mayor. “Yes, I think I can.”
The mayor then grasped Wild’s hand and shook it eagerly. “Oh thank you, thank you! You’ve no idea what this means to the town.”
Wild had a very firm idea of what it would mean to the town, but she made no comment. The mayor continued. “The Clearys live in a small, thatched house under a beech tree, just at the base of the hill. You can’t miss it.”
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