In Fallen Woods

by R N Merle

  Darklin took several deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves. For a moment she went back to examining the bottles, moving purposefully in case Gressyl was secretly watching. She could hardly manage her curiosity to look inside the box. Whatever lay inside it must have extreme importance. What did Gressyl have to hide from her? Darklin knew that Gressyl lived her life only to torment others, the tools she used to do so were on the shelves before her. If what was inside was anything to do with magic, surely it would be housed amongst the other potents? Darklin couldn’t wait any longer to find out.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Gressyl’s eyes were firmly closed, a frown of concentration corrugating her brow. Darklin’s heart thumped against her ribs. She picked up the box and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a small orb shaped jar with a large cork stopper, nestled carefully in a bedding of straw. Within the jar was a small brown ball of what looked like shrivelled lark’s tongues. Darklin turned the bottle over, then lifted it away from the straw. She tipped it up, and the strange brown ball rolled toward the stopper end. On the underside of the cork, Darklin noticed a scrawl of writing. She twisted and turned the bottle to read the words, but every time she did so, the thick glass distorted the letters. Finally she turned the jar completely upside down. The words on the cork read ‘Uther’s Knot’.

  Darklin did not stop to wonder at her luck, she grabbed a clean jar from a lower shelf, tugged opened the orb shaped jar and took out a good pinch. As she was about to put the jar back in the wooden box, she noticed something else was in there, something shiny, hidden amongst the stalks of straw. With feverish curiosity, Darklin hastily cleared the straw away. A gold ring with a large emerald stone, cut in a perfect circle, glinted in the corner of the box. For a fleeting moment Darklin was mesmerised by it, and fought the impulse to try it on her finger.

  A rustling sound broke her fixation. Darklin sensed movement in the corner of her eye and froze. The crow hopped from the rafters and landed on the highest shelf. It scrabbled toward Darklin, its thin claws scratching against the surface of the wood. Darklin willed it to go away, straining every muscle in her head as if to command it with her mind, but it kept coming closer until it too could see inside the box. Just as Darklin was about to close the lid, the crow made a sudden lunge for the ring, and forced its beak in the space that was yet to close. Darklin pushed it away with her arm. The bird flapped its wings, noisily hitting the stone wall beside it and lunged again. Darklin fought it off, hissing at it under her breath. It was bound to knock something off and attract Gressyl’s attention, if it hadn’t already.

  Darklin’s fingers trembled as she replaced the lid, and scrambled to put the box back. The bird pecked at her hands as she did so, but Darklin would not be put off, and quickly pushed the box into the hole, and slotted the stone back into the wall. The crow clawed at the stone, but it did not have sufficient strength to draw it out. Seemingly resigned, it hopped back up to the rafters, shaking dust from its feathers as it went.

  Darklin could hardly feel her legs as she got down from the chair, every part of her felt weak and giddy. She stashed the Uther’s knot with the other potents she had hoarded, and went to sit at the table. As she waited for her nerves to calm, she pondered over the emerald ring. Why did Gressyl have it? She had heard her say so many times, that items of jewellery were meaningless embellishments worn by people to show off their wealth. Darklin wondered if it was magical, perhaps that was why Gressyl had kept it, though if that were the case, why did she not wear it herself? It was possible that Gressyl had stolen it from one of the houses in Fallenoak, but she normally disposed of what she acquired by burying it in the woods, or tossing it in the river. It was strange that she should keep a ring, strange that she should keep it alongside the jar of Uther’s Knot. As Darklin thought about it, she pictured the handwriting on the cork; it was not Gressyl’s. Perhaps neither of the items rightfully belonged to her. Darklin wondered what it all meant, why Uther’s Knot had to be kept so carefully hidden, and from whom?

  The emerald ring soon became forgotten, as the following night was time for Darklin to prepare the potion. If she was able to brew the potion successfully, she wondered if it would mean that she would be able to cast the curse successfully too. She hoped brewing the potion would at least give her an indication of how much strength and power she would need to perform the curse.

  She found a hawthorn tree not far from the water pool. The almost full moon gleamed overhead, gilding the gentle ripples of the black water with stripes of silver. Darklin hoped the uninterrupted moonlight would make her potion strong. Under the hawthorn, Darklin’s shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. She reached up and carefully snapped a twig from the lowest bough. The ground at the base of the tree showed no signs of spring growth, and Darklin dug the twig deep into the soil, making clear furrows in the smooth earth.

  She surveyed the mark she had made in the soil, the lines were straight and the circle very near perfect; the letter ‘v’ slashed neatly in the centre. She placed a clay pot over the ‘v’, and took out a copy she had made of the spell. She attentively placed each potent, in the order it had been listed into the pot, and ticked it off her list with a scrap of charcoal, until the pinch of Uther’s knot rested on top of the other potents. She triple checked the words of the curse, then let the piece of paper float to the ground.

  Darklin stood back, pulled her hair away from her face, straightened her clothes, and removed her wand from her pocket. She took some more deep breaths, trying to quiet her racing heart, and slow the spin of her thoughts, summoning a state of powerful concentration. I will do this, she told herself, it will work. She raised her wand and began to chant.

  At first, the spell began as it normally did. The smoke seeped from the end of Darklin’s wand, and curled around the clay vessel. As Darklin repeated the spell for the second time, in a strong, controlled voice, a gust of wind blew over the pool. The gust circled around the hawthorn tree and grew stronger, seeming to come in all directions at once, tugging and snatching at Darklin’s cloak, and lifting her long black hair into the wind.

  Darklin chanted louder, and the stream of her grey magic broadened and lifted the clay pot from the ground. The pot tipped and undulated as it balanced precariously on top of the funnel of smoke. The sound of thunder crashed in the heavens, and black clouds rolled across the moon.

  Behind her closed eyelids, Darklin could sense flashes of lightening blazing in the darkness. She was unnerved by the spell’s power, but kept on chanting, her will intensifying equally with the violence of the storm. A barrage of hail pelted down through the leaves, crashing through the surface of the pool with a roaring turbulence. Darklin could no longer hear her own voice. She screamed the last words of the spell into the storm, and they became a part of the thunder, part of the shrieking wind, rising to a deafening crescendo.

  Darklin’s magic tore into the earth, and she fell to the ground. The storm vanished. The echoes of the wind faded with unnatural quickness, and the surface of the pool became instantly still. When Darklin came to, she was aware that she had lost consciousness, but did not know for how long. She felt like every spark of her energy had been ripped away with the magic, and her bones turned soft and spongy. A searing pain filled her head as she tried to sit up.

  The clay pot lay in the dead centre of the pentagram. Darklin needed to see what was inside it. She crawled into the circle. Within the pot, a thick crimson liquid bubbled with its own strange energy. Darklin sensed its unusual power and smiled.

  In the forgotten orchard, May had loaded the tree boughs with snowy blossom. Fallen petals rested in the tall grass, becoming scattered and torn, and quickly lost amongst the motion of wild flowers. Darklin lay in wait, hidden within the den of undergrowth surrounding the old cherry tree, which afforded her a full view of the orchard. It was a Sunday afternoon. There was only one night left before the witching moon, and at last it was time to act. Through her observations, Darklin had lear
ned that every Sunday, John came here by himself and spent a few hours trying to restore the fruit trees. If only her luck would hold, it would be the ideal opportunity.

  At first Darklin waited patiently, straining her ears for the sound of his arrival. A mixture of fear and excitement coursed through her veins, and it was almost impossible to lie as still and quiet as she needed to be. As the afternoon wore on, she grew nervously aware of time passing. She watched the orchard grass turn gold in the late afternoon, and fade to silver as the sun slowly declined. Evening began, and mist rose from the ground, making it harder to see beyond a few trees. A blackbird's full hearted song rang from the branches above, making it difficult to hear. Darklin crawled out from where she was hiding. She tried not to feel discouraged; not every circumstance would turn in her favour.

  She shuffled her carefully made plans in her head, and started walking. Since John had not come, she would have to draw him out into the woods. It was not a problem, she had planned exactly what to do in this scenario. Turning in the direction of Shadows End, she began to make her way quietly through the trees. She neared a clump of hazel at the outskirts of the orchard and suddenly every movement of her body stilled.

  Her breath caught as he appeared in front of her. It was like a haunted vision of the first time she had seen him. Veiled through the mist, he seemed ethereal, ghostly. Where he stood, with soft clouds of blossom surrounding him, his white shirt was barely distinguishable from the bloom. His golden hair, the pink flush of his cheeks, now had only echoes of colour. Even the gaudy dandelions that had danced at his feet had turned to seed, becoming fragile grey ghost flowers waiting to depart on the next tremble of air.

  He swung his axe at a birch sapling, causing it’s silvery leaves to quiver and fall. The impact of his movement prompted the branches of the adjoining fruit trees to shake and shiver, and shower delicate petals onto the ground. For a moment John was lost to white mist and blossom.

  Darklin inhaled sharply. She shook her head to dispel the dreaminess that had momentarily taken hold of her; the poisonous effect of his beauty, she reminded herself. She brought her plans to the forefront of her mind, calculating the exact time to strike.

  She watched him work for a while, and waited until he began to gather all the cuttings into a one large pile at the far corner of the orchard. Darklin noted that he moved slowly, as if he were tired. She glanced at the ground, her heart speeding. Only a few branches were left to gather. One more load and he would be gone.

  She heard John making his way back through the trees, but to Darklin’s surprise, John did not come straight back for the branches, but walked further into the orchard. Darklin trailed after him, conscious of the whisper of her cloak hem brushing against the high grass. He stopped in the circle of five apple trees and lay down in its centre, resting the back of his head on his arms, and closed his eyes. Darklin crept near to where he lay. The urge to be still and just watch him was powerful, dangerous. The very reason why she needed to be rid of him. She fingered a vial of potion she had in her pocket, and forced herself to look away.

  Darklin knew she must seize her chance. She took the potion from her pocket, and pulled out the cork stopper. On the tips of her toes, she silently stepped around the outside of the ring of trees, steadily pouring the potion onto the ground as she went, until she had made a complete circle of spilled liquid. When she returned to the apple tree she had started from, she drained the last of the potion into its roots. She checked to see if John had sensed her presence. He lay quietly; his eyes still closed. Out of her pocket, Darklin drew Gressyl’s silver dagger. She tested the sharpness of the blade with her fingertip, then as quietly as she was able, scratched a ‘V’ symbol into the bark of the tree.

  Darklin took a deep breath, and took out her wand. She squeezed her eyes shut, and murmured the words of the chant lowly to herself.

  ‘Branches lengthen and combine

  Tangle, twist and entwine

  Weave into a wooden prison

  Grow savage thorns from trunk and limb

  With no escape for one within.’

  She peeped out the corner of her eye. The grey smoke from her wand was mingling with the mist, twisting in and around the apple tree boughs. The leaves and blossom began to twitch, as though they had been disturbed by a passing breeze, then the branches started moving. At first they only lengthened, as if they were growing at an accelerated pace, but gradually they started to twist and plait together. The extended branches formed a roof over where John lay, and the roots of the trees broke through the surface of the ground, and knitted with the lower branches, until a thick wall had been built between each tree in the circle.

  For a while, John did not seem to notice. But once the cage had finished forming, long and lethal thorns, almost the exact shape and size of the dagger in Darklin’s hand, groaned out of the woven wood, and his eyes flashed open. Every deadly thorn pointed inwards towards him.

  John shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a bad dream. He got to his feet, and searched desperately around him to find a break in the dense wood through which he could escape, but soon discovered he was completely enclosed. He looked down at the axe grasped in his whitened hand, and without hesitation, swung with full force at the wall of the cage. The blow succeeded in splintering the bound branches, but almost instantaneously, the wood he struck grew back and re-knitted itself together. His mouth dropped open in disbelief. He tried again, using more power; fiercely hacking into the wood without stopping. When at last he paused for breath, he saw his efforts had made no impact; the wooden cage appeared untouched.

  He dropped his axe, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. Slowly he reached toward one of the lethal thorns, and gingerly put his fingertip to it, as if assessing it’s danger. Darklin watched as he quickly withdrew his hand in pain, and felt an unpleasant shudder grip her body, almost like she had felt his pain for him. John went as close to the walls of the cage as he could, and peered through gaps in the entangled branches. He began to call out, but the sound did not travel further than cage walls, and his face became stricken, as his words echoed loudly back into his ears.

  Eventually he stopped looking for a way out, and sat down on the damp grass. His eyes warily searched, as if he expected someone to appear. Darklin watched him until near darkness, then returned reluctantly to Gressyl’s house, just before the last rays of sun were lost to the night. She went into her room, desperate for time to pass so that she could go back to watch over the cage, to ensure John would not escape or be rescued. When Gressyl knocked, she jumped to her feet, and rushed through her chores. She was about to leave the house, when Gressyl called out to her, ‘What have you planned for the apothecary? You should have prepared your next curse by now.’

  Darklin hovered by the doorway, scrabbling to think of what to say, but a lie would not readily come.

  ‘Answer me, girl. What have you been so preoccupied with?’

  A shape shifting spell for a boy who torments me to distraction. She couldn’t tell Gressyl that. Think!

  ‘I…I have not finished deciding yet.’ Darklin replied.

  ‘Come here.’ said Gressyl. ‘Tell me what you have planned.’

  Darklin crossed the room and knelt before Gressyl.

  ‘Well?’ Gressyl snapped.

  ‘To curse his children with…. hideous boils?’ Darklin replied limply.

  Gressyl sank slightly in her chair. ‘I have told you that a curse will not work inside a house that has been charmed. You don’t mean to tell me you have been wasting all your time thinking of this? You are either very stupid or plain bone idle. Either way, I see you have much to learn.’

  Gressyl commenced instructing Darklin about the correct choice of spell. To Darklin’s horror, Gressyl kept on talking. An hour passed, and then Gressyl tested Darklin by asking her the type of spell she would use, given a certain situation. As Darklin had been too distracted to listen or think clearly, her answers were not deemed good enough by G
ressyl, who then went on to instruct Darklin again. Darklin felt the hours drag, the time she needed vanish, until there was none left before dawn.

  She tried to calm herself. It was not likely he would be found; he was deep in the woods, his family would not search for him there, at least not at night. By the time dawn had arrived, Darklin could barely keep her eyes open. The spell to create the apple wood cage had taken its toll on her; she felt feeble and knew she needed rest. The hardest spell was yet to come, and she would need all her energy for it. She sank onto her bed, and fell into a dead sleep.

  Darklin woke with a start. She thought she had heard someone knocking, but she must have imagined it. She couldn’t have slept through the whole day, not when so much was at stake. She got to her feet and peered into the main room. Gressyl was staring at the floor, the same as usual. Darklin made her way slowly to the door, with her boots in her hand.

  ‘And where are you going?’ Gressyl’s voice slithered through the darkness.

  Darklin’s head snapped up. She gulped down a scream rising in her throat. Her eyes turned to the window. There was no grey tint. It was full dark. She had slept through the entire day. Darklin shook her head, pretending to be confused.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she muttered. She bent down to put on her boots and hide her face, as she fought for composure. With stiff legs she crossed the room to the inglenook, rigidly sticking to what she would do on any other night. As she dropped the meat into the pot, she peeked out the corner of her eye to see if Gressyl was watching her. Every now and again, Gressyl’s eyes flicked over to her, and then back to the fire. Darklin stirred the pot, the circular motion speeding in accordance with the thumping of her heart.