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Old Woman in the Woods

Ignorance breeds fear.

By Deanne AdamsPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
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I saw the woman's cat before I saw her, so I knew I’d found the right place. A small, greyish thing that animal was, with glass-green eyes, matted fur and half its right ear missing. Whenever Mother or any of the other women spotted it hanging around the village, they would whistle a few stones past its ears to send it running. Some of the older boys once tried to catch it and put it in the well, but without success, only bitten hands and clawed faces.

“It’s her spy,” we children used to whisper to each other. “...The woman in the woods.”

I burst into the woodland clearing. The animal sat unmoving on the woman's doorstep. It knew me; I know it did. I was the one who had thrown dried horse dung at it last summer. It smiled and narrowed its eyes. I’ve never forgotten those clever eyes, not even after all these years.

We watched each other for quiet seconds. It grinned at me; I looked sideways at it through my tangled hair and I twisted at the fabric of my skirts. I was still breathing hard from my run. I had to knock at that door. In the end, I forced myself to take a step. The tip of the cat’s tail spasmed; its spine stiffened and a tuneless warning wrenched free from the cat's throat.

I made to take a second step. The eyes rounded and the smile became a wildcat’s snarl. I, not it, was the trespasser this time. I replaced my foot where it had been. Despite the importance of my errand, I longed to turn and run.

I think I might have left right then, had not the cat twisted around and disappeared inside the stone house. Moments later, she made an appearance at her doorway. She stood no taller than I, although I was no better grown than was usual for a woodsman’s daughter of eleven summers.

The sinking midsummer sun showed me the steel of her frowzy hair and the patches and frays of her clothing. Most of all, it showed me the steadiness of her gaze. There was no surprise in her face at finding an agitated child standing in her yard.

I could only stare. She vanished back into the gloom of her little house and reappeared moments later, wearing a shabby grey shawl around her shoulders. She carried a wickerwork basket. A cloth covered its contents; I did not want to know what she kept in there.

Setting the door on the latch behind her, she set off across the clearing for the path to the village. Despite her age and small stature, she moved at a terrific pace. I had to break into a run to stay on her heels.

Just as the light was failing, we came out from the trees into the open grassland of the village. I began to direct her to my own parents’ cottage.

“I know, girl. I know,” I thought I heard a hint of kindness in her tone. I may have been mistaken, of course, but I don’t believe so. She strode towards my home, the only one from which lights were burning into the night. Without knocking, she lifted the latch and stepped straight into our kitchen.

Father still sat before the dying fire. I would need to light a candle for him: the younger children had gone to bed, but our day was not over yet. At our entrance, he looked up. His hair was disordered and his impotence looked blankly from behind his eyes. The woman went upstairs without a word or a nod in his direction.

I fetched a candle from our stock in the dresser and looked to Father for permission to light it. He gave no acknowledgement, not even of my presence, so I made my own decision. Soon the greasy stink of pig-tallow filled the room. It felt foolish to stand without a purpose, and yet wrong to sit before the fire with Father. Should I go to bed? I wondered.

Precious few sounds drifted down the staircase; they murmured down from the side of the upper floor which was Father’s and Mother’s. The muffled rising questions and their soft responses were less dreadful to hear than the visceral groans of earlier, but I shuddered to imagine their meaning.

I crept up the stairs. First I listened through the crack in the door on my right. I heard the deep, slow breathing of the others. Turning away, I tried to keep silent as I stepped onto the final stair up to the other bedchamber.

The door was ajar and I peeked through. Mother lay sprawled on the sheets, bloodied and sweat-soaked. Her eyes were open and staring. I met her rigid gaze and held my breath. Slowly her eyes recognised my face in the gloom and they flickered. I exhaled.

A small noise from the corner caught my attention. The old woman was cradling some bloodied rags and rubbing something in them vigorously. And from the rags came a cat-like cry. I came into the room and a woman, one of our neighbours, left the bedside and came to me. Instead of pushing me out, she stroked my hair once and then bid me help her make Mother comfortable. Heavy, quick male steps sounded on the staircase.

An hour later, I sat at Mother's window while she slept, and I watched the woman leave. The new brother I was cradling stirred and cried. She turned just once and looked up. Her clever, glass-green eyes smiled.

fantasy
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About the Creator

Deanne Adams

I love stories. Stories which make me laugh, cry, wince or get angry. Stories which make me care. Most of all, I love helping others tell stories that captivate. Reach me at bestbookyoucan.com or follow me on Facebook.

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