Into the Deep Wood

The two brothers had picked up their pace. The compass spun again - its needle trembling but pointing in one direction. She was near. They had to hurry because that would not be the case for long.

It was difficult to run with how much weight was strapped to each of their backs; besides the supplies they had brought into the wood, they each carried several trophies by this point. A couple of pelts of silver stags, a bundle of a watermerchants bones, and a jar of teeth previously belonging to a certain mole-like creature. Amongst those treasures were other, less significant trinkets and rare ingredients. The Deep Wood had held a treasure trove of offerings if one knew what to look for. And if one knew what to steer clear of.

“It’s daytime beyond the brush,” Marat said to Erlan, their breath strained and steps heavy. Just beyond the shadows cast by trees was a clearing, green and bathed in light. They caught their breath momentarily. Erlan had set his pack on the ground and rummaged through it. Whatever he was looking for had not been used anytime recently and was buried at the bottom. He produced a comb, and quickly ran it through his hair - the teeth of it getting stuck on the mattings and where the dirt and oil had clumped it together.

Marat had been doing the same. He pulled it back, fiddling with it until it was pulled tightly into a warrior’s braid. Next, he wiped his face clear of dirt and produced a pocket knife to clean under his fingernails.

“Play as the crows demand, brother,” Erlan said, rolling his long brow hairs in his fingers and smoothing them outward. He’d shed his leather tunic, and in its stead, he put on a cotton shirt - embroidered with a pattern of golden flowers.

Looking like a completely different man, Erlan had hidden his pack and trophies in a tangle of roots just beside the tree line. Only Marat’s belongings would come with - worse comes to worst, they could escape with at least one.

As they stepped through the trees, they’d stopped - waiting for the house on the hill to open its heavy door. Out came an old woman, hunched, her hair long and wild - her face almost indistinguishable from this far - although they knew that up close it would not be a sight to hold close to heart.

“Grandmother, good day to you!” Marat called out, holding his left hand to his mouth to help his voice carry, his right across his chest - and he and his brother bowed.

“Good day to you, young man!” She called back, her voice sweet and frail, as if she’d summoned all her strength to answer him and now was spent. “What brings you here - were it be feast or bed or drink?”

“Grandmother, we wish only to rest for the night.” Erlan answered, “We are so weary from the road.”

They waited. Both knew that to cross the boundary into the Glade without the old woman’s permission would overcome them with deep sleep - one from which they might never wake. This dance they did was not the first of its kind and wouldn’t be the last. Each time she liked to play the game, each time they would entertain. To not would be a costlier endeavor.

“Come, come! Come in, and hurry as to not to chill an old woman’s bones!”

They stepped forward and onto the soft grass. It was such even ground, so easy on their tired feet. Were they not on their way, they could have lay down in it for a brief respite. Immediately overcome with calm, they heard the sparrows playing in the trees, their chirping jovial as they jumped branch to branch.

“Marat.” Erlan had said under his breath, careful that the Hag did not notice the movement of his lips.

Marat looked up. Behind the crone stood a young woman. She was looking down, her hands folded in front of her in a clasp. Her shoulders were stooped, her cheeks looked colorless and sunken, and only dark circles decorated her face.

One could say they’d seen a bit in their relatively short lives. Nothing surprised the brothers anymore. But here they were, both astounded to see the girl atop the hill.

“Do not speak, brother, not this near the hut,” Marat muttered, his voice betraying his bewilderment.

As they got closer, Val did not meet their gaze. Her insides screamed - she was torn between hoping that these strangers might help her - and wanting to warn them to leave while they could. She did not look up when they reached the top of the hill or bowed again to the Hag. The old woman’s whole self was radiating cheer. She moved just ever so much slower, feining the struggle of her age.

“Inside, young men, a feast they’ll have to greet them in my home!” She waved her arm, inviting them to come inside. Once they had stepped over the threshold, she turned to Val, her whole demeanor changing instantly.

“Stupid girl! Stupid girl stands with her lazy hands - go cook, prepare a lavish meal for our friends!” She pushed past Val into the house, slamming the door behind her. Val took off to the garden. She’d need to pick three times the vegetables, three times the meats from the cellar on the side of the hut - three times the milk to serve. And she had one-third the time, though she was sure she would get a beating either way.

Marat and Erlan sat on opposite sides of the table, the Hag hovering beside them. She had the air about her of a fussing matriarch, though they knew that the dishes she had moved around were empty, and the pot she stirred only full of water.

“What should I call you, my young guests? What names did your father give you?” Her mouth parted in a smile, but she could not hide her eagerness.

“Marak.” Marat had said.

“Erden,” Erlan confirmed.

Her smile disappeared, and her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction for only a moment before her demeanor returned to the fussy old grandmother she so cleverly portrayed.

The girl walked in, her arms full of produce, holding a bucket of water and a satchel of what they imagined were meats. She still had not looked up at them and scurried to the stove as if trying to blend into the walls.

Marat’s eyes followed her, his expression blank, but his brother saw him studying her clothes, shoes, and gait. She was not as young as he originally thought - her stature first led him to believe she was but a child. But this was a woman of perhaps thirty, one that stirred pity.

The Hag saw this and immediately turned to the girl. “So slow, you’d have these young men starve!” she stepped toward the girl to hit her but seemed to remember her company and stopped. “Feed their mouths and feed their thoughts, baked bread - soup and then some hops!”

She’d produced a small cask from behind the stove and pushed it toward them. She’d opened it, offering each a mug. Whatever was in it smelled foul and rancid.

“Only if you would have the first sip - Grandmother. We could not allow our host to go thirsty!” Erlan said, his eyes lingering on the girl as well.

The Hag had flashed irritation for the second time but then good-heartedly produced a metal mug and poured. She drank deep, and they waited for the mug to slam the table before they as much as took a sip.

Val had cooked up all she knew. While the three conversed, she rushed around, doing her best not to be seen or heard. The one time she’d looked up, she met the older man’s eyes and quickly dropped her own. His skin was less weathered than the men his age from where she came. His beard was trimmed and neat. He was no farmer but not a man of studies like her father had been.

Where had they come from? Was this another trick the Hag had thought to give her hope just then to dash it to the ground? She listened to the conversation at the table, but it did not differ from what the Hag would ramble about alone. The men answered her politely and vaguely. They would redirect whatever she asked, never giving much hint as to who they were or where they were from. She sensed the Hag grow tired.

When she served the food, she stepped to the side; to the corner where she waited out the Hag’s meals on nights when she was not allowed dinner. The Hag noticed one of the men looking at that with curiosity and quickly went to course correct.

“Where are your manners, you simple girl!? Sit here on the bench and have your dinner. Grow strong, grow portly as a woman should - you’re but a bird with your frail bones!”

Once the food was gone and spoons had clanked down on the table, the Hag had turned to a different tune.

“You play a game, serpents in the grasses.” She told them, “Fed and it is my drink you drink, now what is it you seek? I smell you creepy crawlies on my heels.”

“We came to trade, Grandmother,” Marat said.

Val sat on the cot that had been hers, seemingly forgotten now by the Hag. The old woman threw her hands up as the men offered her a trade - suspicion of them dropped, and she was visibly intrigued.

“Bits and bobbles, trinkets and tricks!” She sang, excitedly disappearing to the corner of the room, which was not lit by the light of the candles or the stove. Val knew that there was nothing in that corner, only cobwebs. But the Hag returned carrying sacks and satchels, a small chest beneath her arm. She dropped what she had carried and sat atop it.

“What have you there for me inside your bag?”

Marat nodded to Erlan, who stood and grabbed his pack from behind his chair. This scene was so bizarre in a place where everything was bizarre. The girl watched with curiosity but did not dare to draw attention to herself.

“First, let us see what you have to offer, and we will make the offering to you,” Marat said, making it clear this was not up for debate. The man was brave. Erlan and he knew how the Hag’s tricks had gone, and they had been in the woods too long to reach this point. This was the last leg of the journey and the most valuable. But she would play games and keep them running in circles for months if allowed.

Her face soured, “As you will.”

She then produced a flute out of a bag.

“Sings sings, so sweet. Keeps them a-follow on their feet. They cannot stop. They cannot leave.”

Marat and Erlan exchanged looks, nodding and taking a small satchel of emeralds out of the pack. Erlan offered it, and she snatched them quickly - the gems disappearing somewhere in her raggy clothes.

Next, she produced a long feather, red and yellow in color - almost golden sheen to it in the light. Marat saw Erlan’s eyes light up in recognition.

“Far she flew, and far she fell - plucked like chicken - thrown in the well!” She sang, noting the younger man’s interest. “Prized possession, I cannot sell.”

They’d traded one of the silver stag’s pelts for the firestarter feather. Marat was not happy to part with it. It had taken them months to procure the two they had - but he had known that the feather might mean life or death in harsh conditions. There were things they could sell in the city and things that would make their lives and jobs a lot easier. Erlan had owned a firestarter feather once; they had to be plucked from the tail of a phoenix - and all of those were dead now. Had been for centuries. If one had died in the Hag’s well, it would have happened far before either one of them was born.

They’d gone back and forth on many more items. Some were haggled, and some of the brothers outright refused. When they would reject her offering, she’d seethe, insulted that her precious possessions had not stirred envy or excitement.

This dance went on through most of the night. In her greed, the Hag had forgotten any pretense she had previously kept up when it wrapped up. She whispered over her things and examined her new treasures.

The two brothers stood and thanked her for her hospitality - a gesture she did not even hear in her obsession with her worldly goods. They’d started for the door. Erlan was already outside when Marat stopped in the doorway.

“What do you want for the girl?”