Amara’s lips formed a tight line, a half attempt at a false smile. “Our mother is dying, sister. Deep and brooding seems the correct way to think.”
Fae moved toward her older sisters, her footsteps light like a spring cloud, her voice lighter still. “But you always come up with the best ideas when you stare at the full moon.”
Yes, that she did. But it was yet another reason to let her thoughts remain silent, like a river running under a vast mountain. Flowing, always flowing, but secret and unseen, certainly unheard. A secret she kept for herself.
A loud mewl sounded in the stillness of their thoughts and grabbed the girls’ attention. Shadow, their cat—as black as coal and bad dreams—stared in through the window from his usual spot on the flower box.
“Oh Shadow, Mother would kill you if she saw you sitting there squashing the Chrysanthemums,” Morganne said as she opened the window to let him in. But he rose and stared at her in the way only a cat can, refusing to enter and instead, Shadow turned away. He flicked his tail high over his back like a royal command, and graciously descended from the window box to the garden below. He trotted along the garden path like a king, stopping twice to look over his shoulder as the girls watched.
“We had better get our cloaks,” Amara said, smoothing her thick black curls in preparation for a journey. She turned to her eldest sister, wiping away a remaining tear she spied stuck on Morganne’s lower lashes. Amara, as dark as night, attempted a smile. “We need to follow Shadow.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Fae said like a rainbow in a summer shower—slightly hopeful, slightly sad.
“But the sun shan’t rise for hours,” Morganne began, the voice of reason that often comes with being the eldest. “We’ve not tended a fire for Mother, or prepared the broth...” She stopped when she noticed Amara gazing at the full moon again.
“I have a feeling, dear sisters,” Amara began, as grave as a forgotten cemetery. “That if we do not follow Shadow into the woods, we shall soon have no mother to tend.”
Yes, Amara always had her best ideas under the full moon, and neither Morganne nor Fae would ignore her. Fae had already donned her grey cloak, the hood all but covering her long, flowing locks of winter sunshine. She held her sisters’ belongings aloft.
“Onwards,” Fae said, with a lightness of a hopeful springtime breeze, and the three sisters stepped into the night.
Into The Woods
Shadow sauntered ahead, slipping between light and dark. He did not follow the well-beaten path meandering through the woods, and instead curled his way around trees and undergrowth. The three sisters followed, early morning dew from overgrown shrubs and branches dampening the hems of their cloaks.
“We should not wander far from the path,” Morganne said. Eldest. Voice of reason. Sensible.
“Shhh,” whispered Fae. Youngest. Voice of light and air. Inquisitive.
“We follow Shadow,” said Amara. Middle child. Voice older than time. Resolute.
Shards of the moon’s light penetrated the gloom, highlighting thorny brambles and night-time animals going about their business. It enabled the girls to see where they were going as they traipsed deeper into the woods than ever before.
“I’m only saying,” said Morganne, peeping over her shoulder thrice, ignoring the play of shadows casting dark shapes amongst the trees, “that we’ve all heard the rumors about this forest. I’m not one for superstition but something is wrong—strange wrong.”
Amara agreed, but continued regardless, despite a peculiar sense within her bones. It was not a chill, but a heaviness lingering in the spaces where her joints ended and blood flowed—and it pulsed now in double-time to a worrisome rhythm. Amara pushed it aside, along with a heavy branch blocking their way.
“Sister?” Fae questioned, her footsteps slowing.
“I know it’s dangerous, but we have but one chance to save Mother. No ordinary remedy has helped—the doctor has all but given up. We need to find a herb to help, and we need to find it tonight,” Amara said. She looked at the moon with a furrowed brow.
Fae nodded, her ocean-blue eyes searching into forgotten memories. “Yes, I remember reading about such a herb... Witch Hazel, a cure all for unnamed afflictions.”
Morganne gulped, knowing the Witch Hazel’s healing properties die with the waning moon. Tonight was their last chance. Tomorrow, the full moon would diminish, and with it the Witch Hazel’s power.
They clambered over rotten logs, their hems catching and tearing on thorns and brambles. About their feet, small forest creatures of the night scurried about their business in haste before the morning light. Owls hooted, rats squeaked, and somewhere, far in the distance, a lone wolf howled.
The three sisters stopped, as did the swishing of grass and shrubs around them. No animals flitted now.
Silence.
Stillness.
“The lone wolf’s cry,” Fae said, her voice a threatening summer storm, with eyes as wide as the low full moon. Fae’s heart thumped into the silence of the night.
“We must find the Witch Hazel and get back immediately,” Morganne agreed. “Not that I believe the superstitious nonsense about—”
Amara cut in, reciting the old tune the villagers taught their children as soon as they were old enough to understand the power of folktales and legends.
“When the lone wolf cries
Before the night dies
And the forest sings
Of night-time things
And the sun and moon meet in the sky
The time has come for you to—”
“Poppycock!” Morganne called, though a shiver ran from the base of her spine to the crown of her red-tipped curls. “It’s a childish tale to scare children into staying tucked up in their beds at night.” The quiver in her voice exposed the lie of confidence in her words, and she looked around, noticing the sun on the horizon, the moon not quite ready to dip. She bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.
“What do we do now?” asked Fae, timid.
Amara hugged her sisters both then spoke the truth. “I don’t know. Shadow has disappeared—that cat! Perhaps he has left us in the right place to discover the herb?”
They smiled then; perhaps Amara was right. Perhaps the cat could be trusted—difficult as it may be to trust a cat wholeheartedly—and they went about, rummaging around the dew-drenched ferns with their pale, cold hands.
The lone wolf called once more. The sun rose and cast its golden shards of light across the forest loam. The moon tipped its hat, meeting the sun in a perfect line above the horizon. A shiver spread through Amara’s bones, and her heart beat once more to the tune of ‘something is wrong.’
A branch snapped underfoot behind them.
Read the first Episode of the Magic and Mage series here!
Also by Angharad Thompson Rees
Free Short Story
The Siren’s Curse
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Young Adult
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Magic and Mage Series
Witch Hearts
Fire Heart
Dragon Heart
Raven Heart
Middle Grade Books
Magical Adventures & Pony Tales
The Making of a Knight
About the Author
Angharad Thompson Rees is an author and scriptwriter, writing across a broad spectrum of genres and age groups; from children’s and middle grade fantasy, to young adult gothic horror. She is an award winning spoken word poet and creator of whimsical illustrations and creative journals. Find out more at:
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www.angharadthompsonrees.com
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