Wild didn’t miss it. She had taken her longest strides to reach the other side of town where the small house sat beneath the hill. It was late afternoon when she spied the house, sitting under the tall beech tree, waiting for her it seemed.
Wild shifted once more, attempting not only to shed the last vestiges of her faerie nature — it would not do for superstitious humans to be greeted by a young walking tree — but also to appear more masculine, to better gain their trust. Wild rapped on the door of the little house, and waited. After a moment, a man answered. He was a sweaty man, swaying from one foot to the other. Drunk, or eager to get drunk again soon.
“The hell do you want?” he barked at Wild. This must be the husband, she thought.
“Mr. Cleary, “ said Wild, “I was sent to you by the good mayor. He believes, as do I, that I can help you and your… wife.” She tried not to flinch saying the last word.
The man squinted his eyes as if trying to peer at Wild more closely.
“We already have a priest here.” That would be a minor obstacle, but an obstacle nonetheless. Wild inclined her head.
“This is good. I, however, am not a priest. I am a purveyor of tonics and medicines.”
“Yer a witch then?” The man took a slight step back from Wild.
“If you like,” she answered. “But I can help in any case.”
He looked her up and down once more, considering. “Medicines, ye say?”
She tried to smile at him, but this was not a man to be smiled at. “Indeed.”
He hesitated, then nodded sharply once, and stepped aside, allowing Wild to pass him into the small house. He was more willing than she had expected. She did not know if that meant she should be more worried.
The room she found herself in acted as a sitting room, dining room, and kitchen all in one. There was a hearth set in the middle of the far wall. They hadn’t filled the house with anything beyond necessity; it felt dead. Wild could see a door to the right of the hearth that must lead to the bedroom.
Seated at the table by the hearth was an older man. His shoulders were hunched, his head in his hands — Red’s father. He did not look up when Wild stepped into the room.
Wild looked back at the husband. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and by the movement of his jaw was gnashing his teeth. Like a wolf cornered, Wild thought.
“Show her to me,” Wild said.
The husband silently gestured towards the door near the hearth. Wild, doing her best to smile and look sure, nodded and approached the door. She knocked, and heard the voice of an elderly man call for her to enter.
The bedroom was small, with a small bed in the middle. Red, Wild’s beloved Red, lay in this bed, unmoving save for her shallow breaths. She was pale, no longer glowing like the moon. Wild’s heart ached so very painfully at the sight. Red was ill, she knew, and needed to get Red back to the woods, and heal her, safe there in Wild’s long arms. Wild forced herself to look away after a moment, and up at the priest who stood by the bed, clutching a crucifix, and frowning at Wild.
“Quis es?” Who are you? He said. Wild supposed he used Latin in case she was indeed a witch or demon. She smiled at him, both friendly and threatening.
“I am here to help,” she said. “I know much about medicines and cures. I know cures against the powers of the woods. Do you?” She quirked a brow at the priest.
The priest looked most uncomfortable. When he did not move or say anything else, Wild took the chance and knelt beside Red’s bed. Red’s head and face felt too warm and too cold to Wild’s gentle touch. But she felt Red’s sharp intake of breath at the feel of her hand. Wild’s heart leapt. Red was still there, she was not lost. But she needed to get out, and that would require communication.
Not far from the bed, the roots of the tall beech tree were peaking through the wooden slats of the floor. Wild could use them, but not with the priest there.
Wild stood and faced the priest. She remembered little about this man later, except that he looked unsubtly afraid. She smiled her widest smile at him, letting the dark and sharp-edged energy of the forest into her eyes. The priest took a step back, almost visibly shaking. He then uttered the word she had heard so often before.
“Malefica!” Witch.
She widened her smile at the priest. “Yes, I am. And if you do not leave immediately, you, too, will go to Hell.”
The priest — to Wild’s immense relief — ran out of the room. She did not know if he remained in the house. She knelt back down, this time touching her hands to the creeping roots of the beech tree. Hoping beyond hope that the tree would do as she asked, Please help me, she pleaded to the giant, sending her thoughts, almost her very being into the roots. This woman is a child of the forest. Please help me to help her. Wild waited a few, panic-filled moments before the roots rose and became pliant in her hands. The tree would help.
Thank you, my dear friend, Wild said gratefully to the beech. Then, touching one end of a root to Red’s sweat-covered forehead, and another end of a root to her own, Wild sought to connect their thoughts.
My love, please, can you hear me? She thought desperately. Then she heard Red’s faint thought answer her back.
Yes, I hear ye. Where am I? What is happening? I remember coming back home through the storm, but little else.
Wild wondered for a moment how much she should tell Red. She found herself thinking of the truth anyway.
You did come back to the town from the forest through the storm. You’ve taken ill, and you are in serious danger. Not only from your illness, but from your home. She hesitated a moment. Your father and… husband are very afraid. They believe you are a changeling come back from the woods. They’ve even brought a priest to you.
Red remained still, but Wild could feel her thoughts scrambling in fear.
I cannot wake up again to my husband there, Red thought fearfully. They only know one way to settle this.
Wild knew it too. Humans always took the most drastic measures in the face of fear and panic, no matter how much they loved the one involved. Though Wild knew Red’s husband bore no real love in his heart. She could see it in his eyes. Wild was brought back by a thought from Red.
What do we do?
Wild thought only to herself then. They did not have much time, not before the priest would complain, and the husband would take matters into his own hands. If she could heal Red, well then she would still be stuck in this miserable house with that wretched man. But if she could change her…
My love, listen to me very carefully, as we don’t have much time. There is a way to take you out of here, but it may be tricky, dangerous. You would have to leave your human body behind, and be remade as one of the forest. No one would know; they would think you are dead.
Red’s thoughts were quiet then. Wild’s heart began to race again. What if Red was deciding not to go with her? What if she was already lost?
Let us do it. Red’s thoughts finally came to her, and Wild breathed a sigh of relief.
Good, very good, my love. I will have the beech tree take you, and hold you until I am able to get out of this house.
Wild could feel Red’s assent, and leaned over to kiss her sweat-damp forehead. She then put her hands on the beech’s roots once more.
My friend, my emerald beauty, please help us once again. Take the spirit of my love into your ancient arms. Hold her, until I can claim her.
Wild felt the roots of the tree shift, a nod to her, that yes, it would help. So, she placed the root back more firmly upon Red’s brow, and waited. The time seemed endless as she waited, but at last the beech withdrew, and, with her hand placed on its root, Wild could feel Red’s fiery spirit. At last, she was safe. But now, Wild had to get out of the house herself. And that would not be easy.
Wild rose from her place by the bed, and looked down once more at Red’s now lifeless body. It looked lost, forlorn, and broken. But her spirit was of the forest now, Wild knew. It would, she hoped, stay intact when Wild found her again.
Wild stepped out of the bedroom, and was met by three faces: the sour-faced priest, the sorrowful father, and the husband’s angry glower. She addressed them all.
“Mrs. Cleary is most seriously ill, and will no longer wake. A doctor must come and see her.” The lie was necessary to escape.
The husband rose, fists clenched. “Ye witch, what did ye do to her?!”
Wild looked at him, willing herself to remain calm. “I had no time to do anything, sir, before she fell into her coma.”
“Well then, did ye see anything? Is she a changeling?” She had been waiting for this question.
“It is too hard to tell, sir. Even her humanity is too ill for anything else to show at this time. She needs a doctor.” Wild repeated herself, emphasizing the need of the situation. “I will now take my leave of you, if you no longer require my assistance.”
As she turned to go, the husband shouted at her. “What if she wakes up and is a changeling? What on earth are we meant to do then?!”
Wild stopped, and turned once more. “You have a priest. I am sure he is holy enough to tend to your wife.” The husband, raging, strode forward then, intending to strike Wild. Wild struck him first — an action she was not sure she regretted after — and he fell back. The father and the priest scrambled to help him up. Wild had already gone.
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