The person’s appearance was so wild and unkempt, Tildy kept her distance – the witch would want her to be cautious, after all. Yet she followed, hoping for answers. The stranger stopped to listen, greasy tresses swaying languidly as she turned. Tildy gasped. Despite the black grime that covered the woman’s face, there was no mistaking her adoptive mother, even at a distance!

When those familiar eyes looked right through her, she understood. Another vision. Despite that, the witch’s appearance shocked her. She hurried closer, her curiosity piqued. Surrounding the stained face, the witch’s crusted hair was longer and more tangled than Tildy had seen it, though the bright pearl bead hung there as it ever had. Her clothes were crudely patched and stitched, but other small tears remained unrepaired. She clicked her rings together, the sharp talons of her uncut fingernails scraping against one another. Satisfied she wasn’t followed, the witch continued on her way.

Tildy could tell they were near the borders to the Forest of Eddlweld, not far from Dappledown. It must be late summer, she thought, noting the colors of the grasses.

The witch moved northwards, crouched as though stalking something. No, someone. Ahead in the shadows of the forest edge, a tall figure moved quickly, though with less care. It did not realize she followed.

As the man emerged into daylight, Tildy caught her breath a second time. A much younger Fietha stood there, looking up and down the tree line. His hair and beard bore no signs of grey, and he wore a brown traveling cloak she didn’t recognize. He turned east toward the old road.

It took her a moment to locate the witch, who had moved beneath the trees, silently keeping pace with him along a parallel path. Tildy ran to catch up, spying a glint of jagged metal in her hand. A dagger? She didn’t understand. Fietha and the witch had been friends her entire life. He brought supplies, regularly dined with them. What could he possibly have done to warrant an attack, especially from her adoptive mother, whom Tildy had never seen wielding a weapon?

* * * * *

She knew where they were headed, although she couldn’t believe it. How many times would she be led to Caraban Losh? Despite this being a vision, she swore she could smell the tildenethia within the shadow of the mighty beech. Wait, if this was summer…

To her left, she saw the ruins of broken carts and wagons in the tall grass. Here and there, smoldering smoke floated lazily in the air. She realized this was the aftermath of the attack on the caravan, when she presumed she’d lost her family. Would she see them or was it already too late? She quickened her pace.

Before she could answer the question, Fietha paused, having heard something. He cocked his head, but decided it was nothing and continued. The witch finally had to emerge from the trees lest she lose him. Tildy stayed close, eager and fearful. They stopped in the same place: a baby cried hoarsely in the tildenethia under the beech.

The witch hurried over and stared down. Tildy recognized the look. She was playing out a decision, the kind where she considered every outcome and the paths that led to each. To her surprise, her mother took almost no time to decide. Sheathing her dagger with a sigh, she reached into the plants, struggling for a moment as she shifted the guard’s body. As she lifted the squalling baby, the noise stopped.

For the first time, Tildy found herself staring into her own face. My original face. Though her skin was the same deep olive, curly black hair covered her head, and her eyes were a green more brilliant than she’d seen in any mirror. The baby crinkled her nose and rubbed a finger against her cheek. Mesmerized, Tildy found herself imitating the gestures, even smiling as her infant self did.

The witch was nearly unrecognizable in her joy. She rummaged in a pouch before placing a small sweetleaf into the baby’s mouth, receiving a soft coo in reply. Both Tildys beheld the witch; each wearing smiles of delight.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

* * * * *

Tildy jumped, but the witch simply turned to face Fietha, speaking in a voice rough from disuse. “You did hear her. I thought that cold, even for one such as you.”

“I thought it better if you found the little grufeling; otherwise, I’d be viewed as desperate thief who’d found a convenient hostage,” he added with a dramatic flair as he stepped out from the trees. “Especially when my judge is the ‘night witch of the black garden’.” The way he recited the appellation suggested he didn’t put much stock in whatever reputation was associated with it.

Tildy was confused. ‘Black garden’? And what kind of notoriety did she have? Hadn’t she always been caring, a helper of the sick and poor? But Tildy had witnessed her hunting Fietha, presumably to kill him.

He continued in his casual manner. “Smelled her stinky bundle first, I should say, despite the tildenethia. She’s likely been here two days.”

“Three,” corrected the witch, her eyes struggling with a desire to admire the baby. “You can tell from the smell of death that cleaves to this place.”

“Mmmm,” he replied, nodding. “I caught that on the breeze before I left the trees back there. I went closer because I thought it might distract you from your quarry.”

“Nothing could do that.”

Fietha was smiling. “Never say never,” he said, looking at Tildy in the witch’s arms.

A single inhuman scream erupted from the highgrass somewhere behind them. Fietha and the witch whirled around. Tildy saw concern on both faces.

* * * * *

“I think that was a horse,” Fietha whispered, his head craning around as he searched for the animal. “Blast this grass.” He looked at the witch, his eyebrow cocked, though he restrained his usual smile. “It might be less than three days. That would be a long time for a horse to languish without dying.”

“Perhaps,” the witch said grimly. She moved to investigate but remembered the baby she carried. When a more gruesome sound carried across the air, Tildy was grateful she had stopped. A quiet slurping sound, with regular hissing noises, could be heard somewhere in the pale grass.

“We should go,” Fietha said, putting a hand on the witch’s arm. “We don’t want to face whatever that is. Night is falling quickly and too soon.”

“I know what that is,” the witch said in her raspy voice, not moving as he tugged her arm. Her face showed disgust as the sound continued. “Or what it pretends to be. Things are less than they appear in these days of war. I fear nothing, even if it does reappear from a bygone age.”

“I have no doubts,” he replied, releasing her. With two nimble steps, he blocked her way, and Tildy wondered whether he might be trying to intimidate the shorter woman. The witch must have had a similar thought, for the whites of her eyes shone brightly within her grubby face, making her look wilder than ever. Unperturbed, Fietha’s own face was kind as he looked only at the baby Tildy. “You’ve seen the carrion fowl circling overhead. Something terrible happened here. It’s likely that more than one fabled monstrosity hides out in the grass. Yet there is certainly only one of her.” Before the witch could protest, he placed a gentle hand on the bundle and said, “We both have a new priority at this moment. We must get the babe to safety, but we cannot go far without making too much noise.”

With a last look toward the grasslands, the witch nodded and followed him under the branches of the beech into shadows so deep Tildy could barely see them. The witch took something from a pouch and placed it in the baby’s mouth. In a voice as quiet as duck down, she said, “They could stumble upon us, even if they have not tasted us on the wind.”

“Let us hope the reek of death blinds them to all other prey,” Fietha replied as he sat on the ground. He spread his cloak for the witch, but she ignored the gesture and sat on his other side. Tildy could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “It matters not. Nothing bad shall happen to me today. I found my luckstone.”

“Our business is not concluded,” the witch reminded him with no small amount of malice.

“And yet for now, I live,” he replied with that casual air they knew so well. “That’s a fair end to the first half of the year.”

Happy birthday, Tildy thought, staring down at her infant self. Found on Midden Day. They’d planned to calculate a truer birth date for her, once they had a better sense of her age, but it had never happened. Besides, she’d always like the auspiciousness of Midden Day. Even so, she wondered about her true birthday from time to time.

* * * * *

The moon, a few days past the full, had traveled across the sky before either spoke again. “I believe it is gone,” the witch said, standing up.

“Good,” Fietha replied. He stood and lit a torch, illuminating the trio. Tildy saw her infant self had fallen asleep. “We have some things to do.”

“Among them, a sharp conversation about your thievery.” Her words were curt, but they had lost their anger.

His face sagged. No hint of smile or charm remained. “You understand why I stole it, don’t you?” He offered her a small pouch.

She didn’t take it but met his eyes with her own. The torchlight danced upon her face. “It is obvious since the herb serves one foul purpose.”

Tildy hadn’t seen Fietha sad before. His eyes had forgotten their normal twinkle. “She’s dying. I had to try, and you were my final hope.”

“You might have told me this at the market, instead of concocting that elaborate deception.”

Fietha shrugged. “I didn’t have the money. And everyone knows there’s no negotiating with the night witch.” Tildy noted he said it differently this time. There was real fear there. She deemed this the true emotion that had been hidden beneath his earlier bravado. An awkward silence fell between them, and Tildy wanted to say something – shout something – to tell them of their future friendship. In her sleep, baby Tildy giggled, breaking the tension.

The witch smiled kindly. “Let’s see what we can do about your sick friend.”

“My sick wife.” He placed a hand on the witch’s shoulder and said, “I am grateful and forever in your debt, whatever the outcome.” She nodded.

Tildy stared. Fietha had never mentioned a wife, and then she understood why. She wept for her friend, even though the events of the vision had occurred twelve years ago. The witch said, “I can make no promise, but a person needs to help, even when things seem hopeless.”

“Perhaps my luckstone has a bit left for me.”

“If the Monarchs of Empyrelia have truly fallen, we could all use some of that.”

As the two walked toward deeper woods, Tildy heard her say, “Autumn begins today. The leaves will change soon.”

“Many things have already changed.”

“Mm.”

“Not to get ahead of ourselves, but it is unlikely the babe will be claimed.” Tildy recognized the playful tone he adopted. “As such, she will need a name. ‘Stinky Grufeling’ won’t do, even if I am already partial to it.”

“You are indeed getting ahead of yourself,” the witch said in even tones, though she could not keep her eyes off the baby.

Fietha noticed. With a smile that carried into his words, he said, “Might I suggest for one so beautiful and yet so pungent, a name reminiscent of the tildenethia where we found her?”

“Where I found her, after you passed her by.”

“Often has my wife told me to not bring home another woman’s baby.”

“Hmph,” replied the witch, but Tildy saw her features soften. Indeed, the detail of everything was growing hazy. The last thing she heard as they walked away was her adoptive mother’s voice, less gruff than before. “Tildeneth. Yes, I think that would suit her.” And everything faded to golden light.

* * * * *

Tildy woke to the caress of warm sunshine and found herself in the Dryad’s arms. The creature placed her in lush green grass as she blinked against the brightness of the morning sky. “Here, Priestess. Returned safe to mother-wyn in Hillsend lands.” The Dryad looked her over, nodded appreciatively, and said, “You bless me, but return to yourself. No need for tree-look. Better to keep power hidden or they collect you like Fay-kind.”

She saw that her skin had darkened nearly to match the Dryad’s deep mahogany bark. She touched her hair, coarse and wiry, though it had returned to her preferred short length. It said, “I suspected in the dark, but see here in the light. Chensary honors us by changing to enter the forest. Priestess is both wise and powerful.”

Bewildered, Tildy decided to let the Dryad think that her change was deliberate. It felt like the respectful thing to do. Hopefully, it would not think her rude if she didn’t immediately change back, a feat she rarely achieved deliberately. A familiar cry interrupted her thoughts and the Dryad melted back into the wooded shadows.

As she stood, the witch approached like a storm, her eyes dark and hair wild. If her adopted daughter’s appearance surprised her, she didn’t show it. “Tildeneth! Where have you been? I have been worried beyond death! Gone in the middle of the night! Taken or wandered off without care of what we thought!”

Marklin bustled up, looking relieved, but confused. “Why do you look half-tree?” he asked as he handed over her backpack. She nearly smiled as she caught his eye but decided the better of it with the witch in her face.

“Those who fell asleep on watch are not yet permitted to talk!” the witch snapped without taking her eyes from Tildy. With a deep intake of breath, the witch’s admonishment began. It went on and on, and Tildy let the tempest wash over her, knowing she’d earned every criticism, every remonstrance. She temporarily buried the excitement evoked by the vision to look appropriately contrite. But, oh, there was so much to consider: the witch’s guise, Fietha’s dying wife, and the monster in the grass that made sounds that she would not have recognized before today.

“Well?”

Tildy realized the storm had ended. Both Marklin and the witch stared expectantly at her. “I’m sorry?”

“You are not certain?”

“No, of course, I am.” She hung her head, feeling true remorse. “I’m sorry. I followed a Fairy last night and—”

The witch’s sigh seemed to originate from down within her toes. “Oh Tildeneth, how many times have you read the tales of people who followed the Fairies Fay into the forest? And the Willowwacks, as these are called, do not suffer the triflings of fools.” She shook her head. “I expect there is more to your tale. Share it with us as we return to the Whitway. Perhaps you’ll even be back to yourself by then.”

“The villagers of Dethelwain are gone?”

“Yes, and with fewer words of thanks than they should, but such is often the way with those resentful of their need for assistance.”

“That big git Harchen was fit to chew his tongue,” Marklin added. “Guess he missed a last chance to give you an earful. Hinted that you’d done us a favor by leaving, too.”

“Aye,” said the witch, the memory overruling the need to chastise him again. “That is one who holds a grudge. We are better seeing the back of him. But let us hear what Tildeneth has to say of her night.”

* * * * *

As they walked, Tildy realized how far she’d traveled. Nothing looked familiar. Her companions listened quietly as she recounted meeting the Dryad, the protector who had called her ‘Priestess’. This stopped the witch in her tracks, and she looked hard at Tildy, who asked curiously, “What?”

Her adoptive mother shook her head. “An unusual description, to be sure.”

Tildy could read more upon her face than words conveyed. “You think there is something else.”

All expression disappeared from the witch’s face, as though she’d wiped a slate clean. “Hmmmm. Perhaps. In days such as this, who can know the intent in the words of the Fay?” She shook her head. “You should continue your tale.”

Tildy went on to describe the Eslavanaash, both the ones on the path and the one that chased the Fairy. She did not mention the vision of Fietha and her mother.

“What did you call them?” Marklin asked.

The witch answered first, her face no longer emotionless, her eyes wide with concern. “Slither-withers, Humans call them,” she said in a low voice. His anxious face told Tildy that he’d heard the same childhood tales. Her adoptive mother frowned and gazed at the distant treeline behind them. Seeing nothing, but looking more troubled, she led them into deeper highgrass. She said, “Perhaps a name too on the nose, and less elegant than the original Elvish, but I have always found that Human words convey a better insight to a creature’s nature.”

Tildy slapped her forehead. “We found a swept trail in Eddlweld. We thought they were hiding their tracks, but the marks actually were their tracks!”

“Indeed,” the witch said, as though she had deduced that long ago.

“The Dryad told me many were coming, like a disease to the forest.”

 “Their return is alarming enough, though it is not the first time such rumors have surfaced.” The witch shook her head. “For them to trespass in this particular forest, however, that is very troubling. Across these lands, fears springs from the ground like frog-fronds.” Before Tildy could question what made the place special, her adoptive mother asked, “Did you hear them say anything?”

Tildy thought for a moment. She’d had enough encounters with strange languages to understand when others were communicating, but she didn’t think the Slither-withers had done so. “No, they flicked out their tongues regularly, but they kept as quiet as possible.”

“They were tasting the air. Like smelling, but beyond acute. You have said several concerning things this morning, Tildeneth, but this should worry you. You’re a woman now,” she said, “and as such, bloodthirsty creatures that catch your scent will be able to pursue you, even in the dark.” Tildy shivered. Being chased was bad enough, but pursuers that could follow without seeing her was a chilling thought.

“What about me?” Marklin asked.

“You’re not a woman yet,” Tildy said, hoping to shake off her unease with a jest. It didn’t work.

Marklin’s face burned scarlet. “You know what I mean.”

As was often the case, the witch was oblivious to another’s discomfiture, and she bluntly said, “Nor are you yet a man, lad. But that is fortunate! They desire blood, but unlike most dark creatures, they have respect for the young.”

Tildy watched Marklin open and close his mouth several times, both intrigued and displeased by the witch’s words. “I’m older than her,” he grumbled.

She clapped his back. “But young or old, luck came to us from the forest. The cadullean trees are in bloom, which confuses scents and misdirects those with dark purpose.”

To herself, she quietly said, “Perhaps she provided some assistance after all.”

Before Tildy could ask who “she” was, they heard rustling in the highgrass far behind them. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard hissing carried on the wind.

“Run!” the witch said softly, and Tildy heard the fear in her voice.

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