I have just enough strength to crawl into the woman’s bed before my eyes are closing and the dark allure of sleep is pulling me under like the strong hands of the Nokken only hours earlier. This time I don’t fight back.
When I come to the old hag is dabbing my forehead with a damp rag. My eyes dart around the room as memories flood through me.
“I was wondering when you would awaken,” the old hag says, her gravelly voice echoing in the small space. “You’ve been poisoned recently, dearie.”
I try to nod but instead I’m met with a stabbing ache in my head. “Yes, it was deadly nightshade,” I manage to croak through chapped lips. “They said I would be in a weakened state for a while.”
“You shouldn’t be traveling, dearie,” the old hag cautions, “it’s too dangerous.”
“I have to,” I protest as tears sting my eyes. “I need to find the castle.”
“What castle dearie?” The old hag asks, rubbing my hair soothingly.
“The castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon,” I explain slowly. “I need to find the prince that lives there with his stepmother; the one that’s supposed to marry the princess with the nose three feet long.”
“How did you come to know about him?” The old hag sounds stunned, then something dawns on her, “or maybe you’re the lassie who was supposed to have him?”
“I am,” I whisper, feeling empty and ashamed.
“It is you, isn’t it,” the old hag says, confirming something in her mind. She smiles down at me regretfully, “All I know about the Prince is that he lives in the crimson castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon. Nobody knows the way, but still once you’re better you may have the loan of my mule so you can ride to my next neighbor. Maybe she’ll be able to tell you. When you get there, just give the mule a flick under the left ear and beg him to be off for home.”
“Thank you.” I smile gratefully.
The old hag insists I stay another night to gather back more of my strength. She brews me a potion to restore the energy the deadly nightshade robbed me of and puts me back to bed.
The next morning I begin to feel like my old self and the old hag helps me pack my dry belongings back into my pack. She even gives me a small store of food and a wooden jug of water for my journey. She feeds me a steaming bowl of porridge and leads me to the stable she keeps her mule in.
I’m saddling the mule with a thick blanket and the animal hide saddle when the old hag emerges from her house tossing a gold apple back and forth between her two gnarled hands. She watches me saddle up her animal then tosses me the gold apple.
“What’s this?” I ask as I examine the solid gold piece of fruit.
“Tis a gift for you, dearie,” the old hag smiles slowly, her rotting teeth emerging between her lips. “Perhaps a time will come you will need it for something. I have no use for it.”
“Thank you,” I reply, touched by her kindness. “Really, thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Tis no matter dearie,” the old hag replies. “I hope you find your prince.”
I mount the mule and wave goodbye, urging the sturdy animal to lead me to the old hag’s nearest neighbor. I can only hope whoever the old hag’s neighbor is can tell me the way to the castle.
Chapter Thirteen
The mule carries me onward, knowing where he’s going without my direction, not that I’d know where to send him. The old hag’s cottage is soon just a memory around the bend as the mule carefully picks his way around the narrow road around the mountain.
I avoid looking over the side of the road after an accidental glance at the three hundred foot drop off the cliff side flips my stomach inside out. I picture myself careening over the edge, the heart-stopping fall, and the bone pickers flying over my broken body diving closer to rip bloodied flesh from bone.
From our height on the mountain side, the winds whip around us wildly, howling like the torturous cries of men lost over the side of the cliff. I hug my pack closer to my body, increasing my hold on the mule’s mane. If the animal notices my fear it doesn’t show. Breathing becomes easier as we descend the mountain side but I don’t relax my grip until the path begins to widen out.
It takes the mule until midafternoon to carry me to the flat plains at the base of the mountain. When we reach the plains I dismount and lead the mule by his guide rope so I can force feeling back into my tingling feet.
Allowing the mule to stop and drink from a small stream created from a cascading waterfall on the mountain side, I judge the length of the grassy plains that stretch out in front of us toward the horizon. Knobby inselbergs dot the plains, creating large obstacles to pass on our journey through. With the sheer number of purple, gray, and navy colored rocks, the inselbergs are impossible to avoid and the possibility that there could be unseen rivers or streams hidden behind the tall grasses gives me pause. The sun is already beginning to slope down into the horizon and it could take hours to cross the obstacle course plains.
“What should I do, boy?” I nuzzle the mule’s mane searching for comfort. The mule snorts as he too seems to realize the challenge before us. I sigh, “We’ll camp here for the night, alright boy?”
The mule nods his head in agreement as I set my pack on the ground and wade into the plains to gather armfuls of long reedy grasses I can weave into a blanket to sleep under. I sit down beside the stream and begin weaving the strong grasses together by hand as if they were the sheep’s wool Mother uses to weave clothing for our family on her massive loom. By the time I finish the sun is gone and I need to gather wood to start a fire but there’s not a single tree in sight.
“I guess it’s just you and me in the dark, boy,” I tell the mule, his outline just barely visible in the quickening dark. His answering snort tells me he’s still beside me standing beside the stream.
I blindly dig through the bag of food the old hag presented me with and rip a crust of bread from a day old loaf. The bread tastes like dust in my mouth but it’s the best I have for now and I have to make what’s in the bag last, so I eat every bite. In the middle of winter, our family often struggled to have enough food stored until the spring thaw and the beginning of the raiding season so I learned from a young age not to waste even a morsel of food. The old hag didn’t have to give me anything; her giving me some of her own meager storage of food was an unexpected kindness.
I pull the grass blanket over myself and lay down on the ground, the grasses flattened by my body adding a layer of protection from the hard ground. I fall asleep to the sound of the mule’s soft breathing.
I awaken in the early morning being pelted by a stinging rain. The mule dances a little when I try to mount him, unhappy to be traveling in the rain but we have no choice. I want to try to reach the old hag’s neighbor’s home by tonight.
Gathering the reins I urge the mule into a trot and guide him through the plains. There are wide gaps between the inselbergs so avoiding them is easier than I expected. In the middle of the plains, three short rivers break up the monotonous path of grasses like three long fingers dragging through the grass. Brightly colored fish with membranous wings jump out of the rivers and catch buzzing insects with their mouths. I shiver as I glance into the eyes of one of the fish; it looks like the eyes of a human staring back at me calculatingly. Frightened by the fish, the mule picks up the pace into a canter, taking us away from the riverbed as quickly as possible.
Mice and shrews dart in between the grasses as the mule finally relaxes enough to slow down his pace. “Good boy,” I rub his neck soothingly, “it’s alright, you did a good job.”
The morning blends into afternoon as we reach the edge of the plains. The plains merge into a swampy marshland. Large islands of dead yellow grass cover the ground between spiderweb-like tracks of shallow water.
Without any encouragement from me, the mule leaps onto the first lily pad type island of grass, stepping from one piece of land to another with renewed vigor. It’s as if he’s reme
mbered where we’re going and wants to get there as quickly as possible.
Delicate white and pink cranes pause to watch us canter by, annoyed by the interruption to their feeding grounds. The marsh stretches on as far as my eyes can see but the mule races on as if he knows that we’re nearing our destination.
The sun comes out and shines down on my back by the time we reach the end of the marshland and come upon another old hag leaning against another large crag. The woman looks up from the golden carding comb and bundle of wool she’s working through as the mule walks right up to her and nudges her foot with his nose.
“Hello, Barley,” the old woman rubs the mule’s head before looking up at me. Her wide brown eyes, devoid of eyelids, rake over me as her long yellow-brown teeth protrude over her lower lip. She’s not as wrinkly or thin as the last old hag but her hands are just as gnarled and her fingernails could easily pass as a weapon. “Who might you be dearie?” The old woman finally asks. “You’re riding my sister Sage’s mule. Why has she sent you?”
“I have come to ask you if you know the way to the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon,” I explain as I dismount the mule and flick its’ ear the way the old hag instructed. It heads off for home without a backward glance. “The last – I mean Sage – couldn’t help me but she suggested I come here and see if you could tell me the way.”
The old woman shakes her head, repeating the words of her sister, “no dearie, I don’t know anything about the castle except that it lies east of the sun and west of the moon, but that much you already know.”
I sigh in frustration, my confidence slipping down a notch. The old woman clucks her tongue to get my attention. “I can, however, offer you shelter for the night and the loan of my horse so that you may reach my next neighbor – maybe she’ll tell you all about it.”
“I would be really appreciative,” I reply, brightening slightly. The old woman doesn’t ask why I want to go to the castle and for that I’m grateful.
“Good,” the old woman nods approvingly. “Come along dearie, you look tired from your journey. I know it’s a treacherous ride down the mountain from Sage’s house. You may call me Saffron, by the way.”
“I’m Helga, but everyone calls me Hel,” I introduce myself as I follow Saffron down the craggy wall of stone into a house nearly identical to the one Sage lives in on the mountainside. Saffron notices the limp in my step and asks, “What’s wrong with your feet dearie?”
I glance down at my sore feet and ruined boots and grimace, “I had to walk for days before I reached your sister’s cabin. My boots were wearing thin before I began my journey and they finally fell apart along the way. My feet are covered in blisters.”
“You should have said something,” Saffron insists, “come, sit, sit.”
She urges me onto a wobbly wooden chair before yanking the torn boots off of my feet to inspect the damage. The bottoms of my stockings ripped away the second day into my journey and my feet are darkened from the road. Saffron has to wash my feet before she can assess the extent of my injuries. The soapy water stings as Saffron cleans my feet.
The sight of the clean, open wounds on my feet sickens me and I turn my head away. Saffron coos sympathetically, “You must have endured so much pain you no longer felt the blisters and cuts opening up. Luckily for you, I have just the ingredients to prepare a salve to fix these wounds. There’s no saving those boots though.”
I wince, “those are the only shoes I own.”
Saffron pats my knee, “don’t worry dearie, we’ll think of something.”
Saffron gets to her feet to gather herbs from the bundles drying in the small window carved into the stone. She hums as she fills a cauldron with water and places it on the hook inside the hearth. Once a thin line of steam begins to rise from the cauldron, Saffron begins tossing herbs into the mixture. She loses herself in the process as I stare at the remains of my boots lying in tatters on the stone floor. How am I going to reach Dyre if my feet are covered in blisters and my boots are ruined?
The salve Saffron is concocting pops and bubbles inside the cauldron, distracting me from my thoughts as a plume of purple smoke rises from the pot. Seeing my shock, Saffron winks, “and a dash of magic to speed up the process.”
I laugh nervously as Saffron spoons the thick salve into a glass jar, “as long as it fixes my feet I don’t care what you put in it.”
Saffron grins, “It will. We just have to wait for it to cool. We don’t want to burn your feet on top of everything else wrong with them.”
It doesn’t take long for the salve to cool to a useable temperature, and it feels soothingly cool as Saffron rubs it over my feet. A faint minty scent hits my nostrils explaining the cooling sensation.
“I’ll put another layer on in the morning and put the rest of the jar into your bag in case you need it again during your travels,” Saffron explains as she wraps clean cloths around my feet. “Now let’s get some food into you so you can rest.”
“That sounds good,” I nod. My stomach gurgles loudly in agreement and Saffron and I both laugh.
The smell of eggs and sausage frying pulls me from the depths of sleep. I lift my head from the makeshift cot Saffron made up for me so I could sleep near the hearth for warmth. Saffron is standing over the cooking pot by the hearth, stirring the sausage in a pan. Near the narrow doorway to Saffron’s home, a sturdy new pair of boots sits next to my waiting pack. I look at the boots then look at Saffron’s back questioningly but Saffron merely turns and winks before turning back to her cooking. I stand to ask if she needs any help and instead look down at my feet in wonderment. They look and feel as good as new. I walk around the space of Saffron’s home to test my weight on my feet and don’t feel a slight twinge of pain.
Once breakfast is ready Saffron and I sit across from each other at her small table, Saffron watching me eat and me trying to fill my stomach without looking like a pig stuffing myself.
“Will the terrain to your next neighbor’s home be as rough as it was to get here?” I ask, pushing away my plate.
Saffron shakes her head, “no, not nearly as bad, nor as far.”
I nod, laughing softly, “That is good to hear.”
“I suppose you should get going,” Saffron murmurs sadly as she glances out the window. “If you get started now, you should make it to my neighbor’s by nightfall.”
“Really?” I ask eagerly. “It’s that close?”
Saffron grins, “yes, it’s that close. Besides, my horse Rye is faster than Sage’s mule.”
“He was a sweetheart though,” I smile as I think of the affable mule.
I walk to the doorway to retrieve the new boots Saffron has set out for me. She insists on putting more salve on my feet and rewrapping them in thick stockings before I put the boots on. The boots feel like soft pillows have been wrapped around my feet and I sigh in blissful comfort.
“I’m glad you like them,” Saffron smiles affectionately. For the first time, I wonder what my Nona would have been like if I had gotten to know her. Would she be selfless and warm like Sage or Saffron?
All too soon it’s time to leave. I saddle and mount Saffron’s dapple gray stallion Rye and admire his beautiful black face and mane.
Saffron hands me my pack, “here you go, dearie. I put the jar of salve in your pack in case you need it and there’s something else,” Saffron pulls the gold carding comb from behind her back. “I want you to have this, Hel. I’m sure you could find a better use for it than I can. These old hands aren’t what they used to be and I can’t card wool the way I used to anymore.”
“Thank you for everything, Saffron,” I lean down to hug her as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me.
Saffron holds back tears of her own, “Rye knows where he’s going, he’ll take you straight to your destination. Just remember, when you get there just tap Rye under his right ear and beg him to return home.”
“I will,” I promise her.
“Perhaps we will meet aga
in someday, Hel,” Saffron says wistfully.
“I hope so,” I reply with nothing but warmth in my voice.
Saffron waves goodbye and I urge Rye to lead me where I need to go by applying a slight pressure with my knees.
Down the path from Saffron’s home the terrain switches to a somber looking forest. The trees, plant life, and short blades of grass feel subdued in shades of black and gray. A sense of melancholy surrounds me as Rye carries me through the forest. The path we travel on must be regularly used because the grassy path beneath Rye’s hooves is worn down and smooth. The forest is oddly silent; in fact, I was just now noticing how quiet this entire world was. The sounds of nature – of living things are absent altogether. There aren't any animals scuttling through the brush or birds cooing in the trees. It is as if my surroundings are holding their breath; waiting for someone or something.
A raven flies silently overhead and lands on a thick tree branch. I wonder if it’s Munin or Hugin watching over me like Father predicted. I can feel the bird’s sharp eyes following me as I pass under the tree it perches on.
Through breaks in the canopy of trees I catch glimpses of the sun’s position, the only true way of telling how much time is passing as the forest stretches out before me. It seems unusual that a forest can be as large as this one without a house or some other dwelling interrupting the monotony of the trees. The sound of water gushing not too far in the distance breaks the deafening silence and tells me there is a water source, but perhaps the forest is too far away from the nearest village. Now that I think about it, in all my days of traveling I have not encountered a single village or epicenter of trade and other than the Nokken, Sage, and Saffron I haven’t met any other people on the roads. Whatever this world is, it is mostly confined to unobstructed natural beauty. If not for the deadly beings I fear are lurking in the shadows, this world could be a peaceful place to live. And didn’t Dyre say that castle was located in relative isolation? That must be why nobody knows how to get there.
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