by Michael Earp
“What are you talking about?”
Wyll touches Simeon’s other wrist and raises his hand till the sickle is at eye level. The stone is spinning slowly in the air still. “Look.” Wyll guides the blade back and forth by moving Simeon’s hand. One end of the stone is narrowed out, elongated. It points in a constant direction, even as the sickle moves, and it rotates on its invisible axis. “We both were told to seek the witch when we touched it. I think the stone is guiding us.”
Simeon tests the stone by rotating the sickle in all directions. Wyll is right: no matter which way it spins, the stone remains pointing in the same direction. A new determination rises in him. He stands straighter and says, “Let’s go, then.”
The sun is low. It breaks through the trees in elongated shards. Sunset is upon them. Just as Simeon is starting to think they won’t complete the journey in time to help Elzabe, something of a path appears between the trees. Little more than a goat track at first, it gradually becomes clearer. Nothing constructed, simply worn in over time, gently twisting around trees and bushes. It is such a relief compared to struggling over and around undergrowth.
The path leads them, mimicking the stone’s direction.
“This is promising,” Wyll says. “So different to what we’ve been through.”
Simeon doesn’t respond. His determination has redoubled since finding the path. He forges onwards. The trees are too thick to see what lies ahead.
A curve in the path reveals a clearing. At first glance, Simeon thinks they’ve come across a massive boulder with trees growing around it, then he sees an ornate doorway carved into the stone. It’s not one boulder at all, but large slabs of rock placed between trees so the trunks grew around them, accepting the rock, holding it firmly in place.
They are looking at a house unlike any other. They have found the witch. The two boys stop on the edge of the clearing and Simeon notices that Wyll’s breathing is as laboured as his own.
Not a moment passes before a figure emerges from the doorway. Tall and earthy, their long, dark hair falls straight to their hips. Simeon didn’t know what he was expecting, but this is not someone to fear, he’s sure of that immediately. To be awed, perhaps, to respect. His apprehension dissolves.
The witch speaks. “I’m so rarely surprised by visitors.” They look up to the canopy and Simeon follows with his eyes. “And on such an evening as this.”
There is a gap in the leaf-ceiling, made by the clearing in which they stand. Through it, they can see the moon in the early half-dark, a thin crescent ready to catch the constellations above it were they to fall.
Wyll finds his voice first. “I thought–”
A warm chuckle comes from the person before them – very much human, not some otherworldly mystery. “You thought I could see the future? Oh no, there is a limit to my power, as there is to yours.”
Simeon’s resolve strengthens. “What power have we got?”
“We all have a dominion within us. It’s a matter of discovering it and owning it. I won’t say that’s easy, but it’s a simple truth.” Slender fingers curl and come to rest on their angular jaw. “How did you find your way?”
Simeon takes a step into the clearing, raising his arm. “This stone told us to seek you, and then was our guide.”
A smile blooms like a flower on the witch’s face. “These little sneaks have a mind of their own at times.” In a smooth movement, they stride forwards and extend their hand. When they are a few feet away, the stone leaves the sickle and flies to their grasp. They close their eyes and listen to something Simeon cannot hear before sliding the stone into the pocket of their cloak.
“We need your help.”
“I can see you must, Simeon. Otherwise you would not have visited me uninvited.”
“But the stone–”
“Being told to seek me is not the same as being invited.”
Wyll is suddenly by Simeon’s side. Simeon takes his hand. “People visit you?” Wyll asks.
Another chuckle. “Oh, Wyll. I am strong-willed and private, not a hermit.”
Simeon feels the myth that has been built around the witch is not entirely true. “How do you know our names?”
“There are only eighty-six people in our little village. Wait, eighty-seven counting Ruth and Drew’s new bab. I’m sure you know most everyone’s name.”
Simeon doesn’t miss the way this strange outpost is included as part of the village. “We don’t know your name.”
“Because you’ve never asked, darling.” They run a finger through their hair from fringe to tip, flicking it away at the end. “I’m Wren.”
Wren extends their hand and Wyll is quick to take it, a short shake in greeting. “Pleased to meet someone new.”
Simeon follows suit, still adjusting to this information.
“What has brought you here?” Wren asks.
“My sister, Elzabe. She has a fever that won’t break. We’re scared she won’t last much longer.”
“I’m sorry, I had not heard.”
There is a long pause as the two boys wait for Wren to speak again. Simeon’s patience is at tipping point – the journey here, and the day, has taken it out of him.
Eventually, Wren shifts on their feet, turns and peers into the stone dwelling behind them. Facing the boys again, they say, “I believe I can help you.”
Simeon’s exhale is absolute. Relief fills his body and he feels Wyll clasp his hand tighter. “Thank you.”
“But there is a price.”
Simeon thinks of the meagre rations in their bags that they have eaten part of already. “We have nothing to pay you.”
“I didn’t say that I needed payment. I said there was a price.”
Wyll stands taller. “What’s the difference?”
“To begin with, I cannot brew the mixture without feverfew and yarrow, of which I have run out. You will need to go and collect them for me. If you collect two ample bunches of each, the excess I will keep as my due.”
Each moment that passes weighs heavily in Simeon’s chest. “Where will we find them?”
“They grow on the foothills of the mountain.”
The boys’ eyes travel past the stone house further west to where the great mountain looms, hidden from their sight by the forest. Its great height is visible over the trees from Simeon’s house.
“We don’t have time for this!” Desperation is a needy beast.
Wyll separates his hand from Simeon’s and puts his arm across his shoulder. “We will have to try. There is no other way. You heard Wren, these herbs are needed.”
Wren, too, reaches a hand to Simeon’s shoulder. “Your sister will survive this night and see tomorrow. However, it is always best to be too early than too late.”
Simeon shrugs off the hands on him. “Then we leave now.” His eyes are hard with defiance as he gives a long look into Wren’s neutral face. He knows they cannot be blamed for this situation, but anger and fear are like a barbed rope, lashing about, looking for something to latch onto. He steps away and begins to circle the house in the direction of the mountain.
He hears Wyll speak to Wren behind him. “You said ‘to begin with’.” It gives Simeon pause yet he doesn’t turn, only slows for the response.
“The full cost is never known till all is told, yet upon my honour, I have clearly stated all I require.”
A full hour has passed by the time Simeon finally speaks. He didn’t respond to any of Wyll’s questions since they left Wren’s house and so Wyll fell silent, too. They follow a path that leads to the mountain, which occasionally shows its moonlit crown through the trees. Eventually the path gets lost among rocks, the trees become shorter and more gnarled. More of the soft light from the moon cuts through; even still it’s a struggle. Boulders quickly replace the rocks and the trees become bushes. They climb up and over, around and through the cracks and gaps.
They reach a small respite in the ascent.
“I didn’t think it would be this hard to pi
ck some flowers.”
Both are short of breath.
“Sim, listen to me. I know you won’t like this, but I think we need to sleep for a while.”
“We can’t stop.” Even as he says it, he knows Wyll has a point.
“We’ve been working since dawn and walking since late afternoon without so much as a break.”
There is a small patch of thick grass between the rocks ahead of them. Simeon watches Wyll walk to it and sit. Wyll takes the satchel off his shoulder and places it next to him. He pats the ground beside him and suddenly Simeon knows he must lie down. He stumbles over.
“Only a couple of hours. Promise me.”
“We’ll be on our way again before you know it.”
It’s not the promise that Simeon wanted, but his exhaustion is vicelike. They curl into each other, hidden from the breeze by the boulder behind them. The grass is surprisingly soft after such a hard day. The feeling of Wyll’s arm around his waist is a comfort Simeon cannot express right now, and neither of them find the strength to mutter goodnight before they fall asleep.
It’s the dawn that wakes them. The east-facing slope of the mountain catches the sun while the forest is still a dark blanket beneath them. When the light hits Simeon’s face, he doesn’t remember right away where he is or why the sun is strong. All he knows is that his body aches with a stiffness that is constricting and painful. He is also very cold, save for where his body is pressed up against Wyll’s. He leans into the warmth and hears a small waking moan from behind him.
Then their purpose comes back to him and he sits up. His disbelief at the time that has slipped away is overwhelming.
“Why did you let us sleep for so long?” His voice is almost a shout and a small echo of it curls around the mountain’s base.
“How was I supposed to–” Wyll stops mid-sentence. He stares out at the forest and Simeon follows his gaze.
The land stretches out away from them. A quilt that is dark green in a thick stretch of trees before it breaks into patches of yellow fields and lighter greens. A silkworm river crawls beyond the tiny clump of buildings they can make out as the village centre.
“We climbed higher than I thought,” Wyll says.
“We haven’t passed it, have we?”
“Sim, stop for a moment and soak in the world.”
“That’s easy for you to say, it’s not your sister on her deathbed.”
Wyll opens his mouth to respond then closes it in defeat. Images flash in Simeon’s mind of the number of times Wyll has given in when they have disagreed. What is more important now than his sister? All Wyll wants to talk about is things going on elsewhere. The view – the world – can wait. “We need to find those plants.”
“At least eat something first,” Wyll says, and quickly adds, “while we walk.” They stand, Wyll takes a few steps and gasps.
“What?”
“Look at what’s growing just on the other side of this boulder!”
Simeon hurries to join Wyll. There’s a large clump of yarrow, its small, white flowers in tiny bouquets. As Simeon uses his sickle to hack at the bush, he feels a welling in him and he fights back tears.
“Sim, Elzabe will be okay. Wren will help.”
Wyll’s voice is like a balm for Simeon’s anxiety. It’s always been that way. They might disagree occasionally, and Wyll is always daydreaming of elsewhere, but that’s endearing, even if Simeon has been content in his life. He has his family, he has Wyll and he has tasks that need getting on with.
Tasks that now solely include finding the feverfew and saving his sister.
With Wyll’s hand on his shoulder and two large bunches of yarrow in his arms, he walks away from the stump of the plant.
Further around the mountain, where a field of grass has levelled out into a kind of plateau, they find more plants.
“What’s this?” Simeon asks, grasping one.
“It’s hyssop. No good.”
“I think we should try down there.”
From where they stand near the top of a twenty-foot drop, they can see another field that is so covered with a variety of plants that it has crowded out the grass completely. There is no clear path to get there.
After looking around thoroughly, Simeon says, “We’re going to have to climb down.”
“That’s what I was thinking. It looks tricky.”
Simeon sits on the ledge, sets down the yarrow. He takes a stray stem of the plant and ties it together tightly. With skilled hands he makes one large sheaf, secures it, extends his hand and drops it over the edge of the cliff.
Wyll is on his feet in a start. “Why did you do that?”
“It’ll be hard enough to climb with both hands, and we have to go down there anyway.”
Simeon ties the bag strap around the handle of his sickle, puts it over his shoulder and twists on the ledge to start his climb. The blade swings and taps his leg gently. It’s unwise to travel this way, but a short climb should be safe enough. The cliff is smoother than he’d hoped, and his feet slip slightly. He holds on to the cliff edge until he finds his balance.
“Be careful.” Wyll’s voice is strained. “You’ll be no help to anyone a broken mess.”
Simeon doesn’t respond. He breathes deep and starts his descent.
He soon finds his rhythm, toes searching for a hold before easing weight onto them, hands reaching for cracks and gripping tightly. He’s halfway down when Wyll starts climbing too. The ground is getting closer, his hope swells. In his confidence, Simeon misplaces his foot, transfers weight to it too soon, and slips. He feels his fingers leave the rock and is overtaken by the sensation of falling.
“Sim!” Wyll shouts from above him.
A flash of Wren’s voice comes to mind: there is a price. Fear seizes Simeon so completely all he can think is, I’ve failed.
He reaches out to try to catch himself, slams his hand against the rock. It feels like he is falling for a very long time. Maybe he has misjudged the height of the cliff.
His feet hit the ground and his ankle rolls beneath him. His cry of pain is cut short as he collapses, hard.
“Sim! Are you all right?” Wyll is climbing down faster now.
There’s no answer. Just the scrambling of Wyll’s feet and hands on the rock face.
Then, in a delirium of pain-soaked relief, Simeon begins to laugh. His hand has come to rest on the handle of his sickle and he knows instantly how much worse things could have turned out. The blade curves harmlessly away from him and points to a plant that, from his low-lying position, he can tell is feverfew. He laughs louder.
Wyll is almost at the bottom of the cliff. When he is close enough, he jumps the remainder and comes right to Simeon’s side. “What are you laughing at?”
It takes a moment for Simeon to get words out around his laughter. “Look what I landed in.” He calms down enough to see Wyll’s face change from concern to wonder. There is more than enough feverfew around them than they could carry.
“But are you all right?” Wyll asks with a grin and wrinkled brow.
“It’s no more than a sprain, and now we can go back to Wren.”
Simeon unties the sickle and hands it to Wyll. While Wyll gathers the herb, Simeon nurses his foot, which smarts fiercely. He shuffles over and collects the sheaf of yarrow and uses the cliff to help himself stand.
“Go easy,” Wyll warns. He walks to the edge of the meadow. “It looks like there’s a much easier path back from here. If only we hadn’t travelled up the mountain at night we may have seen it.”
He joins Simeon and places an arm across his shoulder, supporting Simeon as they start to hobble.
It is a struggle to navigate some of the rocks and boulders; their raised hopes spur them on. The shrubs start again, then the stunted trees. Before long they see the small path in the distance and they cheer together.
“I can’t wait for this to be over,” Simeon says. His foot is hurting less. He hasn’t released his grip on Wyll. “I can’t wait
to be home.”
“I’m sure you can’t.”
“I’d be happy if we never left home again.”
Simeon is expecting a laugh but is met with a, “Hmmm.” There’s a weight in that noise that throws his mood.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“It’s hard to put into words.”
Simeon tries to make light of what feels too heavy between them. “You’ve always got the words for everything.”
Wyll tightens his grip around Simeon’s waist. “It’s hard to put into words around you.”
This makes Simeon stop walking and the two come apart, their hands trailing over the other’s body until they slip into air. Wyll doesn’t turn around immediately.
“What do you mean?”
“I never know how to tell you things.”
“You tell me things all the time. Look at me.”
Wyll spins; his face looks as if he is the one with the injured ankle. “You’re so content in your life here,” he says. “You have what you want, and you don’t feel the need to look for more.”
There is a falling feeling in Simeon’s stomach not unlike when he slipped from the cliff. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all.” There is a long exhale. “But it’s not me.”
“What’s not you?”
“I don’t want to live in this village forever. I don’t want to be stuck doing farm work, and only knowing the same eighty-six people my whole life.”
Simeon’s confusion is crushing. “Eighty-eight, counting Wren and the baby.”
“Exactly!” It’s as if once he starts speaking, Wyll can’t stop. “I want more than this. I want to go places, further than Standville. I want to see cities and oceans. I want to meet new people.”
This cuts through the white noise in Simeon’s head. His voice is small when he finally speaks: “Aren’t I enough for you?”
Wyll shakes his head slowly. “It’s not about one person being enough. It’s that we’re eighteen! How am I supposed to know that this is all I want for the rest of my life? I’ve only ever been with you, Sim, I don’t know anything else.”
“What about Pa and Ma? Or Marilee and Tess? They’ve all been together since they were fifteen or sixteen. They’re happy.”