The witch had a tidy campfire going when Tildy returned with the water. The boy, Marklin, if she had to use his name, sat on the ground nearby, slicing up vegetables for a stew. He looked up at her, noting she was half-soaked. “You fell in? That was dumb,” he said with a smirk that quickly faded when he saw her glowering response.

Tildy, still annoyed by the remaining water that prickled her skin, decided he had an idiot’s look about him, but then she noticed a few blue-tinged leaves she didn’t recognize on a cloth in his lap. Being the witch’s adopted daughter, she was curious. “What are those?” she asked, hanging one pot from a makeshift tripod that stood over the fire.

The boy looked up at her, continuing his slicing. “I was gathering ‘em when I saw you go into the woods. We call them stewva leaves. They’re good for cooking and the flavor helps fill you up when other food is hard to get. Makes you feel like you’ve had a full meal.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Ain’t no surprise,” he said, returning his attention to his work. “They don’t originate from here, do they? Supposedly, Elves brought ‘em from a woods in the north. They grow well enough in this glen, but only where they’re planted. We can’t get ‘em to live nowhere else.”

The witch came over to inspect a leaf. “Ahhh, I have not seen these in years. Estuvaleen, Elves call this. You are right, lad, they are nearly impossible to transplant. Well, we shall not need many today, so bundle up the others to keep their potency. I might even have you show me where they grow so I can pluck a leaf or two. They are best picked in summer, and Tildy and I have a long road ahead.”

At these words, the boy’s hopeful face turned toward the witch. Seeing only her back, he added the vegetables to the pot. Tildy thought he’d been on verge of asking something.

Soon they were eating a delicious vegetable stew made with dried meat and the boy’s stewva leaves, which added a superb savor to the meal. Even the witch complimented him for his contribution. Tildy enjoyed every mouthful, and the taste would stay on her mind for some days thereafter. Of course, those memories would be accompanied by nauseating images of the boy devouring his meal like a farmer’s chopper-snout.

The witch, watching the boy eat in mild amusement, waited patiently for him to finish. She wore her hood up to ward against the night air. When he tipped the bowl’s dregs into his mouth, she finally said, “Tell us of yourself, boy. What happened to Greywetherton?”

* * * * *

He wiped his dripping chin with a dirty shirtsleeve before replying in short, perfunctory bursts. “Marklin was the name me Mam gave me. Named after her brother. He’s a Queen’s Sheriff. Probably hoped I’d follow a similar path, though Pa thought otherwise.” He looked toward the village. “He’d be in a right state if he saw what happened to his pride and joy. Only the sail tower remains. You probably saw it. She’d be well-pleased. She hated it.”

Tildy had watched his face transform as he spoke of his parents. He had affection for his father and missed him, but when he mentioned his mother, his features had hardened like wet earth as it dried. He’d become indifferent, as though recounting someone else’s tale. She wondered what might cause such a change.

Marklin was saying, “Most folk liked it, though. The mill with its turning sails was a marvel that drew farmfolk from miles around. Did the Inn of the Stumbling Goat a fair trade. No more, I s‘pose.” He fell silent.

Tildy watched her mother giving the boy a respectful moment to compose himself before asking again, her voice gentle, “What happened here, lad?”

He shook his head. “Not much t’ tell. It happened on the darker side of midnight and so fast! Not even sure how the fires started. It’s been a dry spring. Pa said we’d all be tinder for a hungry flame if it didn’t rain soon.” He shrugged. “Rained hard enough two weeks ago and we still burned.”

“Did you see what attacked you?” Tildy interrupted.

“No,” the boy said with some hesitation. “I didn’t see much. The moon slept in the deep dark. All anyone could hear was screaming. I came back to Grey’therton later, but found,” he paused, looking into his bowl, “I found only smoking ruins.”

Tildy considered putting a consoling hand on his shoulder, but he hiccupped, belched, and wiped snot on his sleeve. Quieting an unkind voice in her head, she looked away, spotting a skeptical look on the witch’s face as she read something different than his words told her.

* * * * *

“Take cheer,” the witch said, using her “mother voice”, as Tildy called it. “Things are never as hopeless as they appear.”

He looked up with flinted eyes. “I’ve been out there for weeks, thinking some monster killed everyone in my village. Hain’t seen a single soul ‘til you came. If there is hope, where’s it been?”

Surprisingly, the witch left the rudeness unremarked and only nodded, as though he had confirmed something. “Hope comes in many forms, which I know you will someday recognize.”

“I doubt it. Mam always said you couldn’t trust no folk ‘cept the Grey’therton kind. Not anymore.”

This time, the witch did not let his discourtesy pass. Her eyes flashed as a shadow crossed her face. “I shall forgive your grief but make no mistake: there are worthier peoples across Malthreare. Wondrous ones, magical and pure, fierce, loyal, and brave. And there are some with thoughts as dark as the worst Humans, or fouler.” She stood over him, the dancing flame casting strange shadows upon her hooded face. “There will come a time when you need to trust others, even against your kind. You might even find that you have trusted them without recognizing their true forms. Such is the way when one’s wits are a few days’ march behind their mouth.” As was her way, she let a silence hang in the air between them, allowing him to consider her words.

He regretted his anger, though he cast dubious eyes on Tildy.

She silently commended him for saying nothing in further argument, having learned the lesson faster than she had. Feeling a sense of kinship, she wanted to bring him hope and comfort, things the witch didn’t always appreciate. “We do not think the creature is killing the people it attacks. Do not lose hope.” To her surprise, Marklin’s face showed disbelief, not appreciation. She looked to her adoptive mother, who merely shook her head with a pitying look toward him. Tildy didn’t understand either reaction, but she was too tired to coax words from them if they weren’t going to be forthcoming. She sighed and rested her chin in her hands.

The witch nodded curtly to close the conversation before returning to the fire and adding wood. “Now then, we have an early start tomorrow, Tildeneth. Our road soon turns north, and we will need our strength for the growing hills,” she said before addressing Marklin. “But you, young master of the wood, can stay up as late as you like. Please tend the fire, if you do.”

* * * * *

Tildy watched Marklin carefully. He appeared deep in thought, but finally said, “You’re continuing up the Whitway. You think the monster knows the roads.”

“Yes,” the witch said, her face expressionless. And deliberately so, Tildy thought.

“I know it well.” He looked from her to the witch and back. “It runs several miles east to curve ‘round White Forest before bending back west an’ turning north. But there’s a shortcut to the Whitway not far from here.”

The witch raised a questioning eyebrow. “Shortcut?”

“Yes, though you wouldn’t have heard about it, would you? You not being from around these parts,” he added. “Folks in Grey’therton followed it when they visited the Downs, a-way north of here. Saved us many hours, Pa always said. ‘A coin measured in the soles of feet.’”

Tildy saw that he’d convinced her adoptive mother, and rather easily. “It is decided,” the witch said with a sharp nod. “You shall lead us through your shortcut.”

Marklin smiled, but it seemed half-hearted to Tildy. He didn’t want to be left behind, so he was providing what little help he could. She continued watching him as they cleaned up dinner and prepared for bed. His features fell with the setting sun.

* * * * *

She returned to the stream for her bedtime rituals and when she walked back, she saw the witch and Marklin standing away from the camp, their backs to her. Thinking they were finding the Elvish leaves, she sat in the long grass to listen. She didn’t want to interrupt.

Her mother held her open lantern, which slowly filled with glowing flies. He held a flaming branch aloft and pointed toward the ground. “Here’s the spot where the best ones grow.”

The witch knelt, nodding her agreement. When she stood, she held a few of the estuvaleen leaves. She said quietly, “You have been very brave, lad. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Practically a grown man.”

“Don’t feel like one. I don’t know what t’do,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve nowhere to go and even you are leaving me.”

“Shh, let the night come. Let the sleep come. Things will be brighter in the morning.”

In the gloom, Tildy heard a sniff. “Promise?”

“By my heart, I promise,” the witch said, giving him a reassuring pat. Tildy had found comfort in those words countless times in her life, but for the first time it occurred to her that the witch was simply forestalling any discussion until the morning. Still, her mother’s kindness pleased her. Not wanting to be thought eavesdropping, which she considered a kind of betrayal, she waited until they returned to the campfire before rejoining them.

After saying her good-nights and climbing into her bedroll, she lay awake for some time, the ghostly monolith above them making her uneasy. She spent the time considering Marklin’s fate. Certainly, it would be crueler to bring him on an adventure that became more dangerous with every step. Surely, a merchant or other traveler would pass through Greywetherton soon. Of course, her mother would find a way to help him survive a little longer. Before sleep took her, she knew he was better off without them. Yes, much better off.

* * * * *

Following a restful night, they continued their journey the next morning, though not as early as the tutting witch had hoped. Marklin led them beneath the bleached birches of White Forest, looking back frequently in the direction of his ruined village. It reminded Tildy of her own departure from Dappledown. He had more reason for grief, though this did not quell the pangs of her heart. She missed her home more than she’d expected. Meanwhile, her adoptive mother loved hidden forest paths and was too distracted to notice the longing of either of them.

The northward road, which Marklin called the ‘Whitway’, had been paved centuries ago with broad white slabs of stone. Greyed from age and weather, it ran through the hills like a pale ribbon as far as they could see. Stepping from the trees, however, they saw that it bore the familiar cracks and craters. The witch gave no indication of surprise, but Tildy and Marklin shared a look.

* * * * *

Some hours later, they stopped for lunch, but the witch excused herself while they ate on a shaded log cushioned with moss.

After some minutes of silence, he blurted out, his words running together upon a single breath. “What are you two doing out here? Don’t you understand how dangerous it is? You saw what happened to my village. That thing roams out here somewhere.” He looked around, as if expecting to see the monster lurking nearby.

“That’s the exact reason we’re out here.” Marklin’s incredulous face suggested he thought she was crazy, but he had the sense to not put thought into words. Her eyes darted away, and she looked southwest, picturing the Forest of Eddlweld. “It fought with someone, but they got away, having abducted friends of ours. Someone who’s been in my life since I was a little girl and a man the witch had known for far longer.” She told Marklin their story. Well, most of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she finished. She knew he meant it.

“Thank you.” Tildy sighed. “Her friend came to us for help, and we refused. Well, she refused, and I didn’t try to convince her otherwise. Not really.”

“Well, what were you gonna do? You’re a girl—I mean, she’s an old wo—,” Marklin paused, his fretful face clearly indicating that the wrong words kept coming out. In frustration, he picked up some small rocks and tossed them at a patch of dead flowers. “Well, you get what I mean. Neither of you are knights. She must’ve known better,” he finished, still unhappy with his words.

Anger flared up in Tildy. “No, clearly she didn’t. Two of our friends are gone. Dead or alive, we have no idea! Maybe we could have prevented it. And that’s something I live with until we’re certain.” She paused, a terrible thought coming to mind. “Or maybe forever.”

“But if you’d gone together with them, mightn’t you have been taken, too?” Tildy said nothing, his words posing the same question she’d been asking herself. He added, “I mean, if you’d all been captured, there’d be no one coming after any of you, would there?”

She knew he meant it kindly, though the words stung. He had a point: who would discover they were taken? Who would have the courage to even visit Dappledown, much less look for them? Fietha was their only regular visitor, and he was missing. All she managed to respond was: “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” though she knew this was both untrue and unfair.

They sat in long silence. Marklin wore a bewildered expression that she thought made him look stupid. He was barely older than she. How did he think he knew better?

He turned his head this way and another, perhaps searching for a way to restart the conversation. Finally, he said, “Don’t you find it odd, always calling her ‘the witch’?”

* * * * *

“No?” It had honestly never occurred to her. She cocked her head as she considered it. “I suppose some people consider it a bad word, believing the untrue tales. But the witch says, ‘Labels make people lazy because they think a single word tells them everything they need to know.’”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you call her ‘mother’.”

The insight of his question surprised her, considering how dim he sometimes acted. “I call her that all the time.”

“In your tale of the attack, you always made some reference to being adopted.”

“Because I am.”

“Well, either she’s your mother or she’s not.”

Tildy read something more than curiosity on his face. “Wait, are you mad at me?”

“Do you have any notion of what I’d give to see my father again?” he asked, his features taut. “And every day I see you together and you don’t even appreciate how lucky you are.”

“No, I do,” she began, taken aback. “Marklin, you’ll see your parents again, I promise.” He turned away and did not respond.

As Tildy stared at the back of his head, an old memory came to her, unbidden. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, she shared it. “She found me when I was a year old, but one of the first things I remember was sitting on her lap while she read to me. I was two. I watched her lips moving, fascinated by the words they created. I guess I wanted to feel them make sounds, so I touched her face, my fingers tingling with anticipation. I said ‘Mama?’ It was my first word and I’m not sure where it came from. I don’t think I even knew what a mother was.”

She paused and turned to stare into the forest. “Such a sadness crossed her face. It wasn’t tears of joy. To this day, all these years later, I remember that look.” She wiped away a tear of her own. “I didn’t talk for a year after that. I started reading. I listened wherever we went. People always called her ‘the witch’. So, when I started talking again, I called her that, too. It was as much a name as anything else a person might call her, though some had darker words.” She frowned at the memory.

They faced each other. Sympathy matured his boyish face. Her eyes met his and she said, “I’d never shared that before.”

He stared for a moment, and then placed a hand on hers. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

Her heart fluttered, she but recoiled as the witch returned. “Well lad, you have done as we asked,” she said by way of greeting. “You showed us the shortcut to the Whitway.” Tildy thought she looked tired, though determined.

“Yes,” Marklin said, morose.

She remembered that he had been dreading this moment, and while she felt a reluctance of her own to leave him behind, it was for the best. He was safer without us, she thought, pushing down her guilt.

“I expect you’ve been to the Downs?” the witch said.

“Aye, and a bit north and east. My grandfather used to live th’other side of Derburrow.” Tildy raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she caught her mother’s eye. Where was she going with this?

“Good.” Matter-of-factly, the witch added, “Therefore, we require your services as guide.” Marklin’s head snapped up. Tildy saw her mother’s pursed lips, which indicated she was both unhappy and resolute in her decision. “In trade, you shall receive food and protection, though you will be expected to play some part in those, as well.” He looked incredulously at Tildy, his face eager for confirmation. She nodded, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

The witch walked up to him and said in a manner that reminded Tildy of the lecture she’d received some weeks ago. “Make no mistake, lad: ours is an unsafe road. We follow at the heels of deadly peril across a world far more dangerous than the one where you live.” She sighed, and in a gentler tone she said, “But my heart tells me it is a greater mistake to send you back to the woods of Greywetherton.”

Tildy saw he was not truly listening. To him, any hazard with them was better than living in the forest alone. The witch recognized this, too. “I need to hear you say you understand.”

The words had barely left the witch’s mouth when he replied, “I understand!”

The witch looked skeptical but nodded. “Good.”

Tildy was somewhat surprised, though she supposed the decision made sense. The witch’s side was safer than many places in the world and this offered him a fighting chance, even if their paths crossed the creature’s.

“A final word. There is danger in giving one’s name to strangers, so you will leave yours behind. You shall be Billious, also of Wayfahren.”

Giving them a broad grin, Marklin got up with a new bounce in his step, reminding her of a happy pup as he gathered his sparse belongings. Then he set off without them. “Onward, good Billious! To glory for Wayfahren!”

“Tildeneth,” the witch said, “I want to talk to you about the boy.” They followed Marklin at a distance. His curiosity drove him along a zigzag path, as though every bit of nature was a new experience.

* * * * *

“What about him?”

Her adoptive mother squinched the right side of her face like she did when considering something delicate. Like Tildy, this usually resulted in simply blurting it out. “Boys want to do one thing, you know.”

Warmth spread across her cheeks like wildfire. Even her ears burned. “I, uh, Fietha already told me about that. Kissing and stuff, I mean.”

She was surprised to see the witch’s face turning a similar crimson. “He what?”

“I mean, I asked at my thirteenth birthday last year. About a boy I liked.”

“What boy?” She closed her eyes, silently asking for patience before looking at her again. “No, never mind. Listen. That is not what I meant. Though I do believe we shall talk about that later!” She shook her head, clearing her thoughts like a dog shakes out waterlogged ears. “Listen, youths are idiots when it comes to impressing someone they fancy. Their heads get all sorts of notions. Probably the storybooks they read,” she said with an eye on Tildy. She continued, determined to say her piece. “Some want to be knights, fighting to prove themselves worthy of marriage and titles and lands. It makes them do reckless things.”

Tildy stared, mind reeling. What in the world was she talking about? And like a smack to the head, she understood. She laughed. “You think he’s going to fight for my honor?”

The witch looked unhappy. “I have seen many young people rushing to battle for honor or some chivalrous reward. Only some returned, and none were the same, regardless of the prize.”

Tildy couldn’t believe her ears. “Isn’t that worry premature? He met me yesterday.” With some difficulty, she kept her eyes from rolling.

As if to illustrate the witch’s concerns, Marklin leapt from the brush near them, brandishing a staff he’d made from the stout limb of a young tree. “There you are. Look what I found! I need to whittle away the nubs, but then,” he swung it about while making swish sounds. “Take that! Ha!” He walked ahead of them, swiping and striking imaginary foes.

Tildy clamped her lips and crossed her arms. She should be used to people doing a thing the witch predicted, but it still annoyed her.

* * * * *

The witch wiggled her fingers and clicked her rings, thinking. “I believe he has been in the wild longer than he claims. Millers are generally among the better providers for their families, even in a village as poor as his. This boy is too gaunt, and there is a stronger hunger that compels his actions.” Click, click, click. “Having heard last night, though you had the decency to pretend you were not lurking in the grass, you already begin to understand some of the fear that lies upon him. He is eager to prove himself, a most dangerous desire. I have no doubt he would leap blindly into danger to protect us. And while he has not said it, he yearns to revenge himself upon our quarry. I have seen it in his eyes and read it within his words.”

Tildy was unconvinced, and she shrugged. “That’s no surprise. Many in his situation would feel the same.” She kicked a piece of the broken road, not sure why the conversation made her unhappy.

The witch grasped Tildy’s arm, her eyes fierce. “We are going to find that creature, make no mistake. There might come a time when I must face the evil choice of saving only one of you. I believe you understand the terrible guilt we would both feel from that outcome.” As though to herself, she added, “Already have I regretted the wisdom of bringing you along.”

There it was. It hadn’t occurred to her that the decision had haunted the witch since they’d left. Tildy’s eyes darted that way and this, unable to hold her gaze. Unbidden, the near-miss in the storm returned to the forefront of her thoughts. She made a prediction of her own. “So, you’re going to unload us at some sanctuary along the way?”

“Tildeneth, I foresee a cruel end to our road. I do not want to bring him with us, though you might recall that my heart counseled otherwise. Ah me, wiser is the heart than head, though she speaks with a quieter voice.” She sighed, wearied by her thoughts. “No, I am not going to ‘unload’ you. You changed my mind on this matter, regardless of what it forebodes. You. That is why he comes with us. Always remember, Tildeneth, even if an old woman occasionally forgets: You do more good trying to save someone than leaving them to an unknown Fate.”

Tildy let the familiar words sink in before she responded. “I think it’s the right thing to do,” she said quietly.

“I will not have him doing something stupid to be brave or noble.”

“I won’t let him,” Tildy said with a smile as she touched her mother’s face. “I’ll kick him in the shins.”

The witch returned the gesture. “Well, you are particularly good at that. At least, you were at age two.” She smiled at an old memory. And then it was time to move on.

* * * * *

They walked together for some days, during which Marklin shared more Greywetherton stories, including its destruction and his life there. He’d grown more comfortable with them, and they with him, though at times he drifted into melancholy as the events from his home weighed upon him.

For her part, the witch was introspective, though she asked him the occasional probing question about the attack. She also missed no opportunity to push food into his hands, and already he looked the better for it. She regularly squashed his cheeks so his lips pooched out, saying with a nod, “Your face suits you.” From her own experience, Tildy knew it was as much a chance to make him smile as a comment on his health.

Tildy talked animatedly about growing up in Wayfahren – the usual lies – though she found it increasingly difficult to withhold some personal details. They were becoming closer, and her fabrications felt more like betrayals that could poison a blossoming friendship. However, his words reminded her of caution’s prudence: his anger at the creature had fostered a distrust of anything unusual, and she could only imagine the response her wings would receive.

A rustling in the woods startled Tildy from her thoughts. “I’ll protect you!” exclaimed Marklin, dashing ahead of them with his stout staff. He struck a fighting pose and swung his weapon before him.

* * * * *

Tildy giggled. His words had often suggested he was all that stood between their safety and the wild world that lay an inch beyond the edges of the road. But he was endearing in his enthusiasm.

“We have done fine without your sapling, boy,” the witch said, a bit testily to Tildy’s mind. She brushed past Marklin, pushing aside his staff as she did. He flinched and hit himself in the face. “If you used your ears and the space between them, you might have recognized our harmless visitor.” She quietly pushed a bush aside, and they peered into the woods. In the dusken shadows, a deer foraged, its hooves occasionally crunching dried leaves.

She released the branch and resumed their journey. “That,” she berated Marklin, “was foolish. Anything could have been in there, and these days, I do mean anything. Travelers bring tales of Orklins, Oggles, and other creatures, none of whom are daunted by boys with sticks.”

Tildy felt bad for him, though the witch’s warning about his youthful foolishness echoed in her ears. She didn’t have long to empathize because it was her turn. “And you,” the witch said to her, “need to help him remember such things. We are not damsels in distress any more than he is a knight in shining armor.

“Neither of you should need reminding of what we pursue, yet here we are.” Seeing their bowed heads, she softened her tone. “We all need to be careful from here on, lest our foolishness make some danger all the greater. And I include myself here: alone we could make fatal mistakes, but together, well, we might survive this quest.

“Now,” she said resuming their northward journey, “We need to find a spot to camp and eat. Who knows what adventure awaits us tomorrow.”

As Tildy and Marklin shared quizzical glances, she saw that he was starting to understand that the witch had a habit of casually suggesting things that became true.

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