Fearful, but only admitting that she needed warmth and comfort, Tildy quickly swam to shore where Marklin waited. And beside him, the witch. He looked impressed, but she most certainly did not. Both were pale as old parchment, blankets held loosely in their arms.

“That thing was giant,” Marklin said, staring past Tildy at the spot where the Sarsenith sank.

 “You shall find that using the word ‘giant’ is inappropriate once you have seen one,” the witch snapped.

“Giants are real?” he asked, helping Tildy out of the water.

“Yes, and many other fantastic peoples.” When Tildy finally stood before her, the witch said in a voice strangled with rage, “What in the sphere of Malthreare were you thinking?” Her words crashed down like a wave. “It could have broken your leg with a single grasp. Or dragged you beneath the surface!” Her eyes blazed beneath the tangle of her flyaway hair.

Tildy only stood there, avoiding her mother’s gaze while water bristled her skin as it dripped and pooled at her feet. Hadn’t she just saved their lives? Hadn’t she taken on the Sarsenith single-handedly when all the others had fallen? Wasn’t the monster sinking within a bottomless lake? And where had the witch been while this happened? Off on another meditative walkabout or somewhat.

Unfortunately, like cold tentacles from the deep, the fear of the creature’s last words clung to her, and she could only manage a feeble response. “He told me the lake was bottomless?” she said, pointing at Marklin.

“Well, that’s what folk say ‘round these parts,” he mumbled.

The witch looked at him so sharply he took a step backwards. “I have already given him an earful. Do not change the subject, young lady. Do better.”

Tildy remembered the people who had fallen to the creature. “Oh, the others! They’re not all dead, are they?” she finished in a timid voice.

“None are dead,” said the witch, her voice retaining its bite. “But until we knew whether you would be, those lucky fools had to wait for my care.”

Tildy didn’t know how to respond. She hadn’t expected such a scolding! Marklin must have had similar thoughts, for his eyes imitated those of a cornered rabbit. She looked at her adoptive mother with a pleading expression, receiving only an intense glare in return. Without warning, the witch embraced her within arms of surprising strength.

Tildy returned the hug, breathing a sigh of relief. Of course, her mother had been scared – angry, too – but mostly scared.

Remembering the blanket she held, the witch released Tildy to drape it over her dripping shoulders. She held her at arms’ length, scanned her face as though to memorize the details, and nodded. She turned and stomped up the hill without another word.

* * * * *

Tildy became aware of Marklin offering something in his outstretched arm. It wasn’t the blanket. “I picked these up for you,” he said.

“Oh,” she said in some surprise, accepting her belt and sling.

“That was an amazing throw.”

He spoke as one making polite conversation before moving to a serious topic. It took a heartbeat to understand: her wings. She’d accidentally flown when she’d slung the stone. He’d made so many comments about disliking creatures who were different, and the Sarsenith had proven his prejudice founded. She expected some rebuke or other unkind word. Too exhausted in mind and body from the attack, Tildy didn’t have the energy to fight another adversary. She absently donned her belt before pulling the blanket tighter as she stared at her feet. Whatever he had to say, she would let it wash over her without argument and, she suspected, their friendship would end.

“You can fly.”

Tildy closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to forget the incident and warm herself by a fire.

Marklin’s response was simple, and it filled her heart. “Brilliant.” She looked up to see his marveling face. The tension broke, and she grinned back, fears assuaged. He also appeared relieved. He draped his blanket over her shoulders, and for once, seemed content in silence.

“Cheers.” She bowed her head to hide tears of gratitude.

He stood before her again. “I suppose you keep it secret, hey? Because of her?” he said, indicating the distant witch. Tildy shrugged. He stepped closer and leaned in until he could look up into her lowered face. “I can keep it secret too, how ‘bout that?”

Tildy stared into his blue, oh so blue, eyes and nodded. “Thank you.” Her words sounded distant, as though someone else had spoken them.

The witch called to them, breaking their enchantment.

* * * * *

Walking together, Marklin described the battle with exaggerated motions and more words than she had read in her last book. She was grateful for his reaction yet distracted by thoughts that kept returning to the Sarsenith’s words. No! She would not consider them until she had to.

They found the group attending their wounded and saw that the witch was correct. Tildy was glad no one had died, though she’d been certain at least one person had been crushed. As the witch bound a man’s wrist, she chastised him. “I told you to distract the Sarsenith, not fight it. Do you have any idea how lucky you were, Ospin?”

He wiped his bald pate with a handkerchief, looking contrite. Beside him, the tall man, the one who’d warned Tildy and Marklin, stood defiant. A cloth sling held his arm. He retorted, his tiny eyes contracting while his prominent nostrils flared, “Lucky? Bah. That thing pulled its punches.” The smaller man looked at him in wonder.

“How does a rock pull its punches?” Marklin asked Tildy. She giggled.

“Of all the poppycock rubbish,” the witch replied. “Look at your arm, Harchen.”

“You might know much of healing plants, herb-witch,” the man said, swelling as he flexed his muscles. He pointed toward the lake with his good arm. “Take it from a veteran on the War of the Lost Royals. It wore us down and picked us off, one by one, like apples on the tree. Yet it ever only clouted us and never moved for the kill.”

By his clothes, Tildy had thought him only a farmer like her mother’s friend, Dess. A pang of guilt for him and Fietha passed through her stomach. Could he be right? If the monster didn’t kill, why did it attack?

“You might be right, though you would be just as right if you had done as I said! And at a cheaper cost,” the witch added, poking his arm. The man grimaced, not giving her the satisfaction of any other response.

Regardless, the witch was done with him. Tildy followed her gaze toward some people preparing a campsite on the hill. She was certain the Sarsenith lay defeated within Wel Mallyne, yet she felt uneasy remaining so close to the lake, despite her desire for a warming fire. She wasn’t alone in her concern.

“Stop that,” the witch said as she approached two men laying down kindling. “We shall not camp here, so near the site of the creature’s demise. This place has an unwholesome sense. Can you not feel it? We need to return to the Whitway and continue north, perhaps out of the Higrassten lands.” Uncertain or fearful, the others stopped their work, nevertheless, and prepared the wounded for the journey.

* * * * *

Harchen remained where he was, watching Tildy dry her long hair. “There is a lesson to be learned here, children. And it were young miss who taught it. Always be mindful of your surroundings. It can save your life.”

Marklin nodded fervently, though Tildy disliked being referred to as “children”. She told herself she didn’t give a blacksmith’s pin about his advice, though she thought her opinion of the man might be discolored by his argument with her mother.

As the witch came back down the hill to them, Harchen mumbled something about getting people moving. Ospin lingered, his eyes roaming as though literally looking for the words he wanted to speak. She prompted him, instead of waiting: “Out with it.”

Ospin frowned but spoke his mind. “We’re headed back North. We’d been pursuing a trail South—”

“And encountered the Sarsenith on its return journey.”

“You think it’s headed to some den or burrow? Where?”

“I dare not guess,” the witch replied, though Tildy thought she wasn’t being entirely truthful. “You should get your people moving.” Dismissed, the man hurried off, though he looked at her over his shoulder as he went.

“That includes us,” she said to Tildy and Marklin. To him, she added, “We shall need our packs from the campsite. Be a help to an old woman and retrieve them. It is not far and should be safe enough, but do not dawdle, boy.”

Marklin nodded, pleased to be of help. “You plan to travel with them?”

“Yes. We will camp with them tonight. Let us not forget what other dangers might lurk along our way.”

* * * * *

As he ran off, the witch waded into a patch of knee-high grasses, her eyes tracing a path through them.

Tildy said, “We don’t need their protection. I think we’re perfectly capable of defending ourselves.” She felt confident and energized after the Sarsenith’s defeat, but perhaps, if she was honest, also from Marklin’s acceptance of her secret.

As she had many times in Tildy’s life, the witch wore the look of one who’d anticipated the arrival of some long-expected dread. “Oh, it is not for our protection; it is for theirs. We are far from alone on this road. Something slithers near.”

Tildy stepped up to the grass, but if there were some clue to be found, she couldn’t discern it.

“Fortunately, and perhaps otherwise,” the witch mused, “we are lucky that our only lead is not sinking in that lake.”

Tildy went rigid. The idea that they might need the creature to find their friends hadn’t occurred to her! With wide eyes, she found the witch gauging her reaction.

Satisfied, the witch nodded. “Learn the lesson, but do not be over harsh with yourself. It is unlikely the creature would have spoken words of assistance.” She left the patch of grass and cocked an ear to listen. She frowned at the silence.

Not long after, Marklin returned. Based on the witch’s surprise, he’d been quicker than she expected, though his red face and heavy breathing suggested he’d pushed himself. He gave Tildy an incredulous look as he hefted over her heavy backpack. As she privately changed clothes behind a boulder, she wondered if he was scared or eager to please. She decided it could be both, and he could also be brave. She found herself blushing as she finished dressing.

* * * * *

Finally, they were ready to depart and Tildy counted thirteen people to accompany them northwards on the Whitway. Daylight faded, bringing the temperature down. A cold, whispering wind chased their heels. Trees swayed and scritched and creaked. In these desolate lands of Higrassten, Tildy noted that something else had changed with the setting sun: a rising sense of expectation and dread. Although the villagers didn’t discuss this, their body language clearly indicated they felt it. Most conversation stopped and they bunched together as they walked, like a herd of herbaloes that drew close for protection against a stalking predator.

She pulled her cloak tight to ward against the chill, wondering which end of the hunt they were on. They’d set out to find a monster and snatchers of folk, and though she’d defeated the Sarsenith, their other adversaries remained free. Whether they were ahead in ambush or chasing behind, she feared to think. The witch certainly didn’t help. She frequently reminded the group that other things roamed the wilds.

Marklin interrupted her thoughts. “I know I said it already, but that throw with your sling! And leading it into the lake! Who’d’ve thought of such a mad plan?” She could hear the admiration in his voice and knew he hadn’t let the dour mood of the lands affect him.

Tildy shook her head, having responded to this before. “I had to get the creature away from the others, but I didn’t have a real strategy. I sort of made it up on the fly,” she added with an embarrassed grin.

“‘On the fly’, she says.” Marklin exclaimed with a laugh. Tildy’s eyes grew in fear, and he slapped a hand to his mouth. They looked around, but no one had reacted. “Sorry,” he whispered. Somewhat unnerved, they found their desire for conversation had fled with the last of the daylight.

* * * * *

The witch held her buzzing lantern aloft while others lit torches. After another hour, and much grumbling, they found a location that met her approval: a small knoll, a bare bump that shielded them from the road and taller hills. The wounded were tended while others unloaded gear and started a cooking fire. Feeling the need to be useful, Tildy took the witch’s red satchel and visited the wounded, dispensing poultices, herbs, and other such aids as she could. In this way she learned the names of many of the villagers, including Ospin, the small bald man with a laugh much bigger than himself. She even adjusted Harchen’s sling to make it more comfortable, receiving a grunt of thanks, though he wouldn’t look at her.

Her ministrations completed, she returned the satchel to the witch, where she finally asked the question she’d nearly forgotten. “How did you find these people? I mean, what in the world were they doing out here?”

“They are survivors of Dethelwain, tracking the creature, of course. Fools,” she muttered, shelling wild peapods into a leather bowl that folded into another of her pouches when not in use. The campfire roared to life as dried brush was piled high upon it. “Trampling around like some great herd of warpallahs, making a reveler’s ruckus that travelled for miles. I thought they were our quarry.”

Marklin took a handful of peas and sat on a stump beside Tildy. “That was one of the destroyed villages,” he said, popping some into his mouth.

“Right,” she agreed, though it was a detail she’d forgotten. She waited for him to start chewing and said, “Those peas taste like dung until cooked.”

Marklin choked and used a finger to scrape the bits from his tongue. He glared at her innocent expression. She noted he didn’t say anything to the witch, who’d also let him eat them. Always the teacher with her lessons.

As though reading her thoughts, the witch raised her head and gestured with a slender pod. “She was a slower learner with those peas.”

Tildy saw her mother’s fond smile fade a moment before the familiar roiling rushed up from her stomach. Tildy pitched forward and vomited onto a bare batch of ground. Surprised, Marklin tipped backward off his stump, peas flying everywhere. On her hands and knees, she let the saliva drool from her mouth as her mother held back her hair. Vaguely, she remembered it had been a long time since she’d had hair long enough to be a bother.

After a few moments, she flopped onto her back, grateful to miss the pile of sick. Her mother wiped her mouth and chin before pressing a dried leaf into her hand. “The rotten pumpkin?” Tildy groaned.

“Peffelin leaf.”

“Same thing,” she grumbled as she placed the leaf on her tongue. The horrid taste returned, but her stomach calmed a few moments after she swallowed it. Her tongue scraped along her teeth, laboring to clean away the remnants.

“Now,” said the witch, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get some food into you, no matter how much you want to protest.”

“Give me a moment.” The witch gave her a searching look but nodded before guiding a wide-eyed Marklin toward the fire. Tildy watched her rummaging in a pouch as she took an interest in the cooking pot. A witch’s pinch. Satisfied with the distraction, Tildy snuck away into the dark.

* * * * *

She wouldn’t go far. Just far enough. With the return of her illness and the battle’s excitement, she needed a quick flight to ease the tension in her muscles. She found a quiet cluster of twilight birch, released her wings, and soared amongst the pale trees that glowed by moonlight. She sighed as the wind cooled her skin and tousled her long hair, and she inhaled deeply. Finally satisfied, she alighted upon a fallen tree.

A warning prickled her neck. Smooth as water, she slid down into the grass, her keen ears trying to locate the cause for alarm. They only found the raucous laughter from the campsite, which reminded her how close the villagers were, and perhaps, a small voice between her ears suggested, how foolish she’d been.

The sensation vanished, yet still she waited, abiding the witch’s desire for vigilance. Detecting nothing, she returned to the campsite, where people were sharing fireside tales and dishing food. Seeing her, Ospin stood and raised a mug. “There she is! Let us have a proper cheer for the Sinker of Stones!” Tildy’s face warmed from more than the campfire. Marklin grinned, holding up his waterskin.

Others around the fire echoed the words, raising cups or bowls. Encouraged, Ospin said, “A cheer for the girl lighter than water and lighter than stone! If she were lighter than air, she could fly us all home!” The assembled group cheered and laughed, tipping back their drinks in her honor.

Although Tildy raised her own waterskin, she did not return the toast. His words were uncomfortably close to the truth, and she worried she might somehow confirm them. As people returned to their own conversations, she found the hunched shadow that was her adoptive mother and sat beside her, reading the unhappy language of her posture. The witch did not believe in coincidental words.

Harchen emerged from the darkness and sat across the bonfire from them, warming his hands. A woman next to him, Penya, said something that Tildy could not hear. They both regarded her across the flames, and while the woman smiled with a raised cup, the man drank from a flask and did not toast.

* * * * *

Ospin stopped beside the witch and offered her a steaming mug and spoon. To Tildy, he gave a bowl. She said, “I’m sorry about Dethelwain.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “We tell many hearthside tales of Spooks and Bogeybahs to chase thrills through our veins in deep winter nights. But they don’t convey the true terror of coming face to face with something like that Sarsenith. The storytellers never do the thing justice, do they?

“No, they do not,” the witch said, wrapping her hands around the mug.

By the fire, Marklin’s ears perked up, and he joined them. “Talking about our stone sinker?” he asked with a smirk.

Ospin laughed. “It’s not the best nickname, but it’s not a bad start. Here, I wanted to ask you something,” he motioned to the witch, his voice subdued. “We were certain the creature was solely responsible for the destruction across the countryside, though we’ve learnt no clue about what it does with the people. Not everyone agrees with me, but I think there are two parties at work.” He nodded to Tildy. “Young miss caught the hunter, but we need to find the gatherers and end this enterprise.”

“Yeah,” Marklin said with earnest eyes aglow in the firelight. “We wanted that, too.”

Tildy added, “And we’ll keep searching until we find every single person!” She’d wanted to raise her friend’s spirits, but only saw his face tighten as he mastered his feelings about his missing family.

“Hear hear,” agreed Ospin.

“I’ve said from the first the creature innit the only monster on th’ roads,” said Harchen walking up. He avoided eye contact with Tildy, opting to stare at the hair draped over her shoulder. There was something in his look she didn’t like. She shifted uncomfortably.

“They heard something similar from a man from Harsdale,” Marklin replied, indicating Tildy and the witch.

“Aye, one from there would’ve carried such a tale with him,” Ospin said.

Despite Harchen’s intense stare, Tildy laughed aloud, suddenly recalling something about the witch’s friend, Dess. The others started, to which she offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was thinking of something that old crofter said.” She paused, short of naming their home. Dappledown. How long had it been since she’d thought of it? She glanced at her mother and said with a smile, “He called you ‘Trollcharmer’.”

The witch waved at her words like they were flies. “We do not have time for such nonsense.”

“Come now!” said Ospin. “A bit of story would make a fine ending to a day such as we had. That, or ribald songs!” Several people laughed with him, and Tildy blushed as she recalled some of Fietha’s bawdy verses.  “I shall tell the tale,” the witch quickly said, an uncharacteristic color filling her cheeks. She surveyed the group and saw she had their rapt attention. Others walked up in interest.

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