Dawn was barely a promise on the horizon when Tildy awoke the next morning. She found that her determination hadn’t faded with the shadows of the night, and that somehow made her feel better. And worse. Trying not to think about it too much, she changed clothes, and then scurried around her room collecting things she’d need for her journey, the flames of numerous candles dancing in her wake. She would skip her chores, of course, and be gone before the witch realized what had happened. She would figure out the rest on the road. Getting out undetected was key.

She knew there were many comforts she could go without: a warm bath, fresh honey and cream with her breakfast, and reading her books were chief amongst these sacrifices. She’d have no lazy days plinking stone-bugs with her sling. Oh, and flying around the witch’s garden, of course! But those things would all be waiting for her if she returned—when she returned, she quickly amended. There could be no doubt of that, or she might never cross the cottage’s threshold.

Tildy held up two different outfits, determining which to include. One was a practical pale tan dress, like wheat chaff, with clever stitching to accommodate her sudden weight changes. The other, an equally practical mahogany tunic, like an acorn, but better for cool nights. Both were older and patched, and she daren’t risk ruining her newer clothing.

She looked up and groaned as the witch opened the door. Of course, her adoptive mother knew her thoughts. She always did. Tildy’s mind raced to create a rational explanation for the pack and bed covered with traveling gear, but she knew it was hopeless.

The witch bore a resolute expression that suggested she was doing something against her better judgment. To Tildy’s surprise, she wore a travelling cloak and carried a buzzing lampyrid lantern. “Pack them both,” she said in greeting. “We shall be after the creature for some weeks, and you will be glad for the clothing change. As will I,” she added wrinkling her nose.

Tildy gawped, finding herself blinking stupidly as her mind processed the words. They were going on the road. Together!

“Waiting there like a stranded fish will not get you packed,” the witch said, as though chastising her procrastination on a trip long expected.

When Tildy finally found her voice, she asked, “What changed your mind? I didn’t, I mean, I wouldn’t have expected you to follow a road to vengeance.”

“Vengeance? Such a hollow pursuit.” The witch shook her head. “My dear girl, you know that is not my way of things.” Tildy responded with a confused nod. “Besides,” the witch added, an eager glow in her eyes, “this is a rescue mission.”

* * * * *

“A what?” Thoroughly befuddled and certain she had misheard, Tildy’s mind raced as she thought up impossibilities that might soothe her injured heart.

“Demensen and Fietha. They were not there.”

“But the wreckage, the blood?”

“I am certain the blood is not theirs. I believe it all belonged to that poor cart horse.”

She was providing more information than Tildy’s foggy brain could handle in the early morning. She sat on her bed, dresses in hand. “Biscuit?”

The witch continued, ignoring Tildy’s discomfiture. “Now, I am certain you have many questions, but we need to get on the Eastwen Road. There will be time enough to talk as we walk. Until then, I would like you to consider the most crucial question: Why were they taken?” she asked, a keen look in her eyes.

One resentful thought pushed its way through the clutter in Tildy’s mind: “You could have told me last night.”

“If you had not been sulking and feigning sleep, you would have heard this sooner,” the witch said, though not unkindly.

Embarrassment warmed Tildy’s cheeks. It didn’t matter. They were going after the creature. She threw the dresses at her pack and ran to give the witch a tight hug.

“Well, I, yes,” began the witch, expressing some of her usual discomfort with affection, “we could not let this stand. You reminded me that we do more good trying to save someone than leaving them to an unknown Fate. So, we will hope, but hope darkly.”

Holding Tildy at arm’s length, she said, “You had a similar idea, though I wonder if you knew my mind or thought to go without me?” When Tildy looked shamefacedly at her feet, the witch added, “It does not matter. We leave for Harsdale with the sunrise. It is a good omen.” With a warm smile and a shake of her head, she left the room.

* * * * *

Tildy stared after her for a moment, wondering whether there was something buried within her mother’s words. Sadness or concern. Maybe both. A hailstorm of emotions pelted around inside her head, but they cleared as she finished packing. She was thrilled to finally be taking an adventure, a real adventure upon the road. Yet her heart ached for Fietha. And of course, the old crofter Dess. She didn’t want to think about their peril at the hands of a monster that both thrilled and horrified her.

“Do not forget underclothings,” the witch called from downstairs. “Pack plenty of those.”

Tildy shrugged. After picking up, stowing, removing, and replacing many items, she finally settled on a few key things.

She donned a leather jerkin over her dress and fastened the brass clasps. Delicate, twisting ivy stitches held this garment together and it would provide some warmth and protection. Over that, her favorite black-forest travelling cloak to guard against the elements of the wild. She patted the trinket pockets, in which she would store handy items. She tied the thick green laces of her tallest and sturdiest boots, made of dark herbaloe leather, which hardened over time without losing flexibility.

The two dresses and the appropriate underclothings went in next, though why the witch had stressed their importance, she didn’t know. Then, some woolen tights and mismatched socks (did she have no complete pairs?). Within the clothes, she decided to place the small silver brush for her hair, a birthday gift. Tildy kept her hair short, but liked the feel of a good brushing, especially after days without a bath, of which there would be many.

Her sleeping roll was always strapped to the underside of the pack, so she wouldn’t need to find that. It was also made of wool and daedaluff, which allowed it to be compacted tightly. Lightweight, it offered enough padding for a comfortable night’s sleep on any ground. She smiled as she remembered the time she’d found a nibblegnaw hiding in it, but recalling the bug’s nasty bite, she unrolled the bedding to thoroughly inspect it.

She buckled a traveling belt around her waist, another gift from the witch. It bore several pouches, one which held a small sling and another, the stones she would fling. Tildy discovered long ago that the witch intended the target practice to keep idle hands busy, not to train her in defense. Both had been realized. A waterskin also hung there. Another pouch stored a tinder box, flint, and steel for cooking fires, as well as the torches that waited in a side pocket of the pack. A sheathed garden knife filled the last space upon the belt.

From her ornate window desk, she retrieved a sundial, small telescope, and starglass that would surely be useful, despite their weight. Each had its own padded daedaluff wrapping to keep it safe.

In one of the trinket pockets of her cloak, she stowed a maroon luckstone, a gift from Fietha on her eighth birthday. He had told her, “I had this in my pocket on the best day of my life. I give it to you, hoping you will experience the same.” He had been so solemn, Tildy had recognized it wasn’t one of his jests. Consequently, she always brought it on trips, but as far as she knew, she hadn’t had the “best day of her life” yet. At least, she hoped she hadn’t.

The witch would take charge of provisions, as she usually did, but Tildy brought a few chewables of her own for the road: dried fruits, roots for energy, and sweetleaves for her tongue. She selected these from a Fairy–cabinet near her desk.

Satisfied, yet retaining the feeling of being both over- and under-packed, she left her room, grabbing the cedar walking stick with its carved Dragon’s end. She promptly turned around and put the pack on her bed. She walked to her bookcase to retrieve the small codex entitled Garbodem Bestiary and Herblexi Encompessa, an incredibly old book of herblore that had once belonged to the witch. Noting the cramped contents of her pack, she placed the telescope and sundial on her bed before stowing the books atop the starglass.

Somewhat off-balance from the weight of her pack, she made her way downstairs to meet an agitated witch tapping her foot. She turned to give her adoptive daughter a once-over and nodded approvingly. “Good, very good. You have never been sluggish when it comes to traveling! May our feet be equally swift, and may our home remain safe.” It sounded like a blessing on the cottage itself, which Tildy had not heard before.

As though in answer to their readiness, a beam of sunlight streamed through the front door’s small window, indicating the appointed departure time. The witch tossed a scrap of food to Ivy the newt, who sat on a bench, and opened the oddly-shaped door. Her bare feet stopped briefly on the threshold, and she called, “Not a word, any of you.” The Garden of Dappledown remained quiet. Even the nagweeds and the birds, Tildy noted. Satisfied, the witch nodded and stomped down the path. She led them over the fallen tree that crossed the stream and entered the eastern boundary of the forest.

Tildy paused on the bridge as a breeze drew together the flowing branches of the picket-willows before her. Her exit momentarily barred, as though Dappledown were giving her one last opportunity to remain in its sanctuary, she stood in deliberation. She breathed in the opulent fragrance. The tips of her boots lay buried in the deep moss that enveloped the tree before cascading into the water below. Not until this moment had she contemplated – really considered – what this journey would cost. Though they had frequently traveled together, she had not been away more than a few days and they were rarely beyond the sight of Eddlweld. Who would care for the Garden? Would they return to rotting fruits and wilted herbs? She thought even the crawling grumpus was sulking, but it was hard to tell with a plant so morose.

As she stared down into the noisy waters, she knew that she would miss her bed and her books and her longcat and the cozy library and the beauty of her home and so much more! With a last look that drank in as many details as the thirst of memory allows, Tildy left Dappledown as the picket-willows let her pass. The forest gateway closed behind her with the familiar rustle of leaves.

* * * * *

Later that morning, they emerged from the edge of the forest, which overlooked a broad, rolling dale of bright grass that stretched south of the Eastwen Road. Tildy smiled as the summer sun greeted them like an old friend. The witch stopped beneath a solitary windswept tree, the naked branches of which all pointed east like a signpost.

“Similar to a bellwether or other herald of things to come, the hawthorn tree has much to tell those who have the wit to listen, and there are few enough left of them, more be the pity.” Tildy wasn’t sure she meant the trees or the people who could interpret them. Probably the former. The witch pulled her eyes away from the rigid limbs and spoke to her. “Hawthorns, that some call Mae-trees, attracted peoples from around the realm, the wise and the foolish, pilgrims all, seeking to better understand the futures of their worlds. And following in the footsteps of those worthier seekers of truth, we find ourselves beneath one with a tale of its own. Can you read it?”

Tildy had known the question was coming, for this was a favorite teaching technique of her adoptive mother. However, that didn’t mean she was any better prepared to answer it. She studied the tree, though she saw nothing to indicate anything unusual, much less any sign that portents were hidden amongst its tangled branches. As she walked beneath its limbs, she had the sense that the tree observed her, perhaps even judged her worthiness. Unable to shake the feeling, she looked closer, scrutinizing it in return. Her eyes traced stem and bough, making their way down the trunk itself, until she spied hoary roots uncovered by the scouring winds. She understood. “The daylight moss. It’s hiding in the shadows of the roots, as though spring were just beginning, not a week behind us.” She looked at the witch. “It’s late, similar to the plants in Dappledown.”

“Yes, very good! Very good indeed, Tildeneth. You begin to understand the language of the hawthorn. It may serve you well at some future point, though I doubt this tree will tell you when. Heh.” She chuckled at her joke.

Tildy found herself surprised that the witch did not treat this discovery of the slowed growth with more concern. “You already knew plants outside the Forest of Eddlweld were affected.”

“Yes. As far back as Healing Day, I saw affected herbs near our market table in Wayfahren.”

Tildy considered this admission as she chewed on something else. She wasn’t convinced the tree had communicated in some mystical way. “This only means the same phenomenon is in effect here, like in the Forest of Eddlweld. There’s nothing magical about the tree itself,” she insisted.

“Oh Tildeneth, how long have you lived with me? Must I remind you that Life itself is magic, with little daily miracles people take for granted because – unlike Elves and other Fay – they no longer find them worthy of song or tale?” She placed both hands on Tildy’s shoulders, her face shining like one who has made a marvelous discovery. “Just because we understand the miracle, that does not make it a less wondrous thing. When you close your eyes and ears, you close your heart, the true source of understanding and wisdom. Look again but beware the thorns.”

* * * * *

Tildy looked back at the branches, her eyes widening as she saw the bark of one bough rippling and writhing. As she moved closer, she saw it teeming with black ants. They circumnavigated the branch in a corkscrew pattern, circling the thorns as they fled the tree. As they fought each other, tiny bodies occasionally dropped away into space. When they finally reached the end of the branch, the wind caught them, and they disappeared into nothingness. She turned back to the witch, who wore a contemplative look. “What does it mean?”

“For something to interfere with Life’s magic in my garden, but also in the wider world – that is an unfathomable power. And unless I am very much mistaken,” Tildy had lived with her long enough to appreciate how rare that was, “our missing friends are tied up in that knot.”

Her face wore a serious expression Tildy had never seen. “Listen carefully, Tildeneth. I shall be clear from the start. We do not know where they are or whether they are alive.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

“That they were captured, but what has happened since, I cannot tell.” Tildy hung her head, but her adoptive mother said kindly, “Being unsure we can save someone does not mean we do not try. Keep your courage up!”

The words heartened Tildy, but only a little. “You are very wise.”

“If I am, it is only because I lived so very long as someone who was unwise.” Her eyes searched the eastward lands. “We are at the edge of your world, headed further than you have traveled. Choices will be different on this lonely road. You might feel safe, but do not become complacent. Some rumor you have heard about dark prowlers in these lands: Orklins and Oggles, Trolls, and Gobbledohs. Maybe worse. It is a dangerous land, where these wild things are.”

Tildy shuddered at the names of unseen terrors from a dozen books and a hundred nightmares. She looked down and saw a chipmouse staring up with bulging cheeks. Its comical face nearly made her laugh and the fear’s spell was broken. “How could I not feel safe with you at my side, mother?” she asked cheerfully, but the witch did not smile.

“There may be times where I am not at your side, or the threat is greater than either of us. When I am near and we stand in peril’s shadow, you must follow my words without question. If I am gone, you are to flee in the face of danger. Trust your instincts. Return to Dappledown, where I have ensured you will always be safe. If I do not return, seek Alyss in Wayfahren. She has instruction.”

“The beggar woman?” Tildy had believed there was some unspoken enmity between the women. The directive was beyond odd.

The witch stared hard into her face, as though reading her thoughts. “I know you understand, but I need you to say it.”

Tildy was taken aback by the urgency in these words, and the witch’s piercing eyes made her uncomfortable. Not on any trip had her mother given such warning, and they had walked dangerous roads, hadn’t they? But her trust was absolute, and she would not be sent back to Dappledown before their adventure began. “I understand.”

“Very good. And I give you permission to fly from danger if you can do so safely.” Seeing Tildy’s blossoming smile, she repeated firmly, “From danger, Tildeneth. Not into it.”

Tildy assumed a particularly sober expression and nodded her assent. But as soon as the witch turned to descend onto the dale, Tildy’s face split into a grin. She lifted a foot to follow and all the hairs on her neck rose in alarm. She suddenly felt the weight and danger of the witch’s warnings. A ripple of fear flowed beneath her skin.

“While the first step requires more courage,” the witch called over her shoulder, “it is the second where freedom lies.”

Tildy swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward. She followed the witch into the wilds.

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