Into the Deep Wood

“Now I truly know you to be crazy.”

They stood on the very edge of the forest, their horses nervously stepping from foot to foot. The Witch scanned over the woods with a thoughtful expression that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

“You led us out of the Deep Wood once.” She said finally. “Why are you afraid now?”

“You don’t understand.” He shook his head. “I can attempt to leave, I cannot attempt to enter. There are signs that lead to the thinning of the forest. That, and a little bit of luck. We do not seek a way out now - we seek a way in. No pathfinder in their right mind would do so. And many, many have tried.”

She thought of the piles of calcified human bone surrounding the hut in the Glade.

“Why can hunters?”

“Because they do not seek anything inside, just to be inside.”

“I can get us through…” She said it so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

Both urged their horses forward, crossing the threshold.

At first, it had been easy. The trees were not so thick there, and a lot of the snow had already melted. The horses walked slow, carefully navigating the protruding roots and hidden spots of uneven ground. But, as they progressed further, the trunks became thicker, and the branches lower - they scraped across the riders and the animals, leaving thin spots of broken skin. The roots would trip the horses almost as if on purpose. Both of them could not shake the feeling that there had always been something just beyond sight in the shrubbery.

Twice, the horses stopped and refused to go ahead. It took a lot of begging and pulling of the reins to get even a step forward from them. Another time they reared at something in the bushes, and only by pure luck had Ivan been able to reach and pull the Witch off the beasts’ back before she could fall off.

When they made camp in the night, the fire would not burn well - the damp ground and lack of firewood were apparent and concerning. She recalled fondly of the last firestarter feather she sold in town before she ever left, thinking that she would never truly need it again.

They heard the noises all around them when darkness crept in. The weak flames outlined the shrubs, the shadows within them seeming to conceal long, sharp claws. When the Witch went to relieve herself, she saw several sets of tracks of various sizes. She followed them and to her dismay they simply circled their camp.

“I’ll take first watch.” Ivan’s eyes kept scanning the trees. He did not know if it was his eyes that betrayed him or if he kept seeing movement between the trunks - and shadows melting into their tree bark when his eyes stopped on them.

The Witch knelt at her pack. She brought out several vials of oil. The first, she opened - and recoiled. Its smell was pungent and unpleasant, like that of grasses rotting in the sun.

“Spoiled.” She sighed.

It was only on the third that the smell had not been incredibly offensive. She brought it to him and taking his wrists in her hands she smeared the oil over them, dabbing it also behind his ears.

“I think they’ll eat me without being seasoned, not that I do not appreciate it.” He observed. “What is it?”

“Yarrow.” She put it on her own wrists and closed her eyes, inhaling the smell. For a moment, she looked, and felt, very far away. He did not know why, but it had given him a slightly tight feeling in his gut. After a minute she spoke again. “It is a plant that wards off evil. It makes it difficult for them to smell us from afar. Though, if they get close enough it will not stop them.”

“Good to know.” He smelled his wrist again, hesitant to rely on something so simple.

The Witch tried to get comfortable, but the ground was uneven and cold. He pulled at her bedroll and blankets, and brought her to set her head on his lap for warmth.

“Could I… see the journal?” He asked before she could drift off. She nodded, not raising her head. He reached for her bag and pulled it out. When she fell asleep he began reading through its pages.

So much of it had been so well written and thoroughly documented. So much of it had also been sloppy and vague - focused on rather unconventional methods of killing the creatures. These entries had been done in fairly abysmal handwriting.

Ate a Gagana, accidentally bit into the iron beak and chipped a tooth.

He read on.

Came across a Cuma in the Insipid Flatlands. Erlan uttered its name, was itchy for weeks and caught a cold. Used its bones in a cold compress, and tongue in soup, and it went away. Didn’t share with Erlan.

All-Father’s grace, but what a strange world existed in this book. Reading the name, he wondered if that had been the man the Witch had looked for. There were two here, with her writing appearing until three-fourths of the way through.

He turned the pages, only scanning them. He made a note to more thoroughly learn about these things when he had the time - and distance from their looming presence. It was as if a child reading a book of nightmarish monsters right before bed.

A word caught his eye on one of the pages. It was that same sloppy handwriting, but it had stood out clearly among the entries.

Val.

He paused, reading over the entry.

It’s tormenting Val at night, started when we arrived at the inn. Collapsing upon evening time - can’t stay awake. No hex, checked. Put wards around the door.

Next line.

Thrashes in her sleep, spent night at bedside. Calmed when I held her, cannot leave her alone anymore. Will never leave her alone again.

Next line, a list.

Henbane.

Purple Lavender.

Ephedra leaves.

Just common herbs and poisonous plants?

Took the henbane and lavender. Need to enter sleep but not die - three leaves of ephedra reserved. Kikimora will get greedy, no oceiric dagger - cannot bring a weapon within. Will need to wake up to stab.

Below it, almost as an afterthought, going well into the margins of the page was another note.

Should you find this and I did not wake up, just know that the night had meant everything. You mean everything, and I would have gone thrice if it meant freeing you.

Ivan put the journal down. It was not this ‘Erlan.’. It was the man behind this haphazard handwriting. It was a man that had clearly greatly loved the Witch.

He continued down the page, it seemed that this was not when he had passed away - because an entry came after.

Found drekalac screaming in the latrines. Threw in a well, not buoyant.

This time, he closed it. He’d thought about the Witch all those months in the Glade. All the times after they left, her eyes glossed over, her body remaining but her soul living in the past. She’d held on for what - seven years she said? She would be holding on, perhaps, if he had not come along. Maybe, she was holding on still…

He brushed the hair out of her face and looked at her. He tried to imagine another man looking at her the same - and it felt stranger than reading the journal. He intended to let her sleep all night, despite only having agreed to one watch. She’d been so exhausted.

The tight feeling in his stomach worsened.

Val woke up from deep sleep, not entirely remembering where she was. The forest smell and the crackling of a dying fire had quickly reminded her, as well as something else…

She sat up and was greeted by Ivan’s smile.

“You could have slept longer. It’s not morning yet.” He said.

“Do you not hear that?” She jerked her head to the left, then right. The expression on his face changed immediately. “Someone is knocking…”

Ivan stilled, listening to the wood. Somewhere, a rhythmic, constant knock pulsed through the night.

Val jumped up. There was nothing in the Deep Wood that deserved to be ignored. Her mind raced through anything she might have read about knocking, thumps, anything…

Knock. Knock.

It sounded muffled, but it was definitely against wood.

“We have to go!” She gasped loudly, the page of the journal coming back so clearly to her.

Another knock, from another direction. It answered it. Suddenly, they were all around. Surrounded. The two spun, trying to see anything in the trees. Ivan drew his sword.

Val looked down at her gloved hands.

And so, you too, must eat me.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

And then, she saw it. The bark of a thick elm cracked, then fell away with sticky mucus remaining behind, as if a piece of shell from a hatching egg. Behind it pulsated fresh, raw skin. Another one, then another. Until a hole half the size of a man had opened to reveal red and veiny flesh. As if the remains of birth, it spilled out of the trunk, landing limply on the ground.

“What is that thing?!” Ivan stepped between it and Val, but she already heard another hatchling - and another, everywhere the knocks had come from. They separated from the bloody placenta and fell to the ground. Then, they began to get up.

“They’re Knockers…” She said quietly. He glanced back at her to gauge if she was joking. She was not. “We’re in their nesting site…”

“Fuck…” He went to slice at the nearest one as its body uncurled. The sword cut through easily with a subtle, moist sound.

This time, she did not give them her name. Her hand raised. She reached out. And she felt them.

All.

It was not just the creature at Ivan’s blade; it was not the hatchlings all around them. She felt it all. She felt the thread of every tree, the thread of every shrub, every stone. The Deep Wood breathed as one. It’d been all around, all whispering louder and louder until it was all she could hear. Her eyes darted back and forth and her chest heaved - the pressure in it building.

The noise was too much, too hectic, overwhelming. It throbbed in her ears. It closed in. She felt it tear through her in a searing fiery blaze. It was as if a fever overtook her in mere seconds, rising with every voice and every whisper.

Val screamed.

The muscles of her neck strained and sent a deep, sharp pain down her throat.

Then, it was dark.

As her vision returned, everything seemed bright. Far too bright for nighttime. She was disoriented, confused. Ivan’s voice sounded somewhere far, and then far too near.

“Valeria!”

She blinked, then squinted. It had been bright.

“Thank the All-Father…”

She felt something cold press to her lips. It was a water skin.

“Just drink.”

And so, she drank. He helped her sit up, and as if in a daze she looked all around.

They’d not moved. The firepit from the night before still stood with its cold, dark coals. But, the trees were gone. Everything was gone.

She stood with great effort as he held her by the arm.

Val’s eyes ran across the scene all around them. The trees had retreated, the branches thrown to the side as if shaped by years of heavy winds. Not even root or grass remained on the ground. There was only turned soil, mixed with a thin layer of overnight frost.

“I didn’t think you were going to wake up…” He sounded distressed and looked like he hadn’t slept all night. “You just laid there, cold. I tried to warm you, I put blankets all around.”

Unconsciously, she pushed him away. He looked at her with a slight hurt as she walked forward and toward the trees.

“What are you?” She whispered to them.

We are It.

“How do you feed?”

The oak… the tree…

The Deep Wood itself had been a Nothing-touched. The Hag had not shifted it - it itself had been alive. It moved. It spun the pattern of time.

“Let us through.” She said, so quietly that she thought only she heard.

No answer came. Instead, it was as if the wind had parted the trees, but not a single leaf had moved. A corridor of twisted vines, the rays of daylight breaking apart the shadows.

Ivan walked up behind her, his face pale.

“What have you done…”