by Amy Cross
Again, I wait.
I hear no hint of the woman, and I am starting to feel more and more convinced that she must have walked away. I am tempted to crane my neck and look down, to double-check that she is now still down there in the clearing at the base of the tree, but I tell myself that it would be wise to wait a little longer. I would not put it past her to be waiting for me, and at least now I perhaps retain some degree of advantage.
A few minutes later, the scratching sound briefly returns, but only for a few seconds before fading away again. This time, however, it seemed even closer.
Although I force myself to wait, I cannot help but hear the scratching every so often, and after an hour or so I start to wonder whether the woman might be slowly climbing up the side of the tree. I tell myself that this is simply not possible, yet at the same time I fear that she might be coming for me. It is ludicrous to think that she would still be down there at the base, simply standing in silence, and the scratching is slowly but surely coming higher and higher up the trunk. If she does intend to surprise me, I might be better off turning the tables and showing her that I am not simply some scared, wounded fool.
Plus, if I can cast her from the side of the tree, I might injure her. This would surely make my escape easier.
I wait a while longer, until the scratching is even closer, and now I am sure that she is climbing up. I have already formed a plan, and I know that I must simply take hold of her wrists and throw her back. Still, I hesitate for a few more minutes, letting her get even closer. I feel certain that she must be just inches away from the opening now, yet she seems to be holding back, as if she does not have the necessary courage to make her move. Either that, or she means to surprise me some other way.
I must be brave.
I must act.
Taking a deep breath, I twist myself around slightly, so as to better position myself, and then finally I lean out and reach down the side of the tree, meaning to grab the woman.
Yet she is not there.
The scratching sound continues, but I stare down the bare trunk and see that not only has she not been climbing up to me, but she is nowhere to be seen at all. I look around, but she is entirely absent, and there is no sign of her when I look toward the cottage.
I lean back, pulling myself into the tree once more.
Suddenly the wood beneath my feet shatters, and an arm reaches up, grabbing my leg.
“You must get out!” the woman screams, forcing herself up through the heart of the trunk and pushing me toward the opening. “You must not stay in here a moment longer!”
I try to steady myself, and I quickly grab hold of the opening's edge, but this witch is extremely forceful and she quickly pushes me out as she continues to climb up through the inside of the tree.
“Move!” she shouts, as if she is on the verge of panic. “Are you out of your mind? Whatever possessed you to enter the tree!”
“Wait!” I reply, scrambling to hold my grip. “You must -”
Before I can finish, she pushes again, and this time I tumble out of the tree and fall to the forest floor. Landing hard, I let out a cry as I roll onto my front, but suddenly I find I can no longer draw breath. I gasp desperately, but a sharp pain in my chest seems to be blocking my airway.
I try to crawl away, but suddenly I feel the woman grabbing my arms. Even as I struggle to breathe, she starts dragging me back toward her cottage.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I should have known you'd cause trouble,” she mutters darkly, as she drops the shard of broken bone into a bowl. “I should never have left you alone!”
I let out a gasp, still unable to breathe, but she quickly digs her fingers back into my wound. I cannot scream, so I simply tilt my head back and open my mouth in a silent rictus, as I feel the witch's fingers wriggling deeper and deeper in my chest like thick, determined worms.
“And now,” she continues, “I must...”
Suddenly I feel a snapping sensation. The pain is extreme, but at the same time I am suddenly able to breathe again. Taking vast gulps of air into my lungs, I roll onto my side and watch as the woman drops another fragment of bone into the bowl. There's blood all over her fingers, and she goes to wipe them on a rag. As she does so, she glances at me with a furious expression in her eyes.
“What were you thinking?” she sneers. “Do you have no instinct at all, no sense of the world around you? It is little wonder that I found you injured in the forest to begin with. You might be brave, but clearly you are also a fool!”
She turns and storms out of the room, leaving me still gasping for breath on the bed. After a moment I try to sit up, only to find that she has tied thick ropes around my ankles, binding me and keeping me in place. I pull hard, convinced that I shall be able to free myself, yet the knots are uncommonly tight. I never met a woman who could tie so well.
A couple of seconds later, she comes back in with a fresh bowl of water, which she sets on the table next to me.
“I am sorry,” she says through gritted teeth. “It's wrong of me to expect that you'd know better. I suppose I hoped that you might have a sense of these things, but evidently you are completely ignorant of the world around you.”
She reaches to the next table and picks up a collection of paper sheets. I immediately recognize them as the sketches I made during my sleepless nights at the army camp.
“Did you draw these?” she asks, unfolding some of the sheets.
“Those are not yours to touch!”
“You're a very fine artist,” she continues, holding one of the pictures up for me to see. “Are these good likenesses? Who were you drawing, anyway? Family members? People from back home?”
“I draw for my own benefit,” I sneer through gritted teeth. “Not for the amusement of others. When the horrors of war get too much, I need some way to retain my sanity.”
“I admire that,” she replies, carefully setting the paper down. “I can imagine how that might help. Perhaps even -”
Suddenly I lunge at her, grabbing her arms and pulling her closer. I mean to force her into submission, but she quickly pulls one of her hands free and grabs the bowl, pouring hot water against my face. I cry out, and this is all the chance she needs. Pulling away from my grip, she throws the bowl aside in a fit of anger, and then she grabs a knife from one of the other tables and steps back toward me.
I reach out to stop her, but she pushes my hand aside and places the knife's blade against my neck.
I wait for her to make her move, yet now she simply stares at me, as if she's lost in thought.
“If you mean to kill me,” I tell her finally, determined to show no fear, “then you should best do it while you have the chance.”
Still she stares, before taking a step back.
“You have no idea what you've done,” she says, her voice still trembling with anger. “How long were you hiding in the tree?”
“Does it matter?”
“A great deal.”
“I was not hiding,” I continue, spitting the word out with the contempt it deserves. “My name is Stephen Fleming and I -”
“Spare me your pride,” she snaps, interrupting me. “I don't care about your name. How long were you cowering out there like a miserable wretch?”
“Cowering?” I try to climb off the bed, only for the ropes around my legs to once again pull tight. “You should watch your tongue, woman, or I shall find some way to silence you!”
“And how are you going to do that?” she asks. “Look at you! You're sick, you're tied down, and you most likely have an infection after dragging yourself through the mud. In all honesty, it's extremely unlikely that you'll live much longer.”
I open my mouth to argue with her, before realizing that there is no point. She's the worst kind of fool, filled with a sense of self-importance, and I doubt anything I say could make her see sense. My father always warned me that opinionated women need to be shown the error of their ways, and I fully intend to deal with this witch
just as soon as I have my strength back, my chest is a little healed, and I can find a way to untie the ropes around my ankles.
“Did it call to you?” she asks cautiously, and now there's a trace of fear in her voice.
“Did what call to me?”
“Did it speak?”
“Did what speak? I was alone out there!”
She doesn't reply. Instead, she simply watches me for a moment.
“Clearly not,” she mutters finally. “You would know. You would ask me what it was.”
I watch as she heads to a nearby table. She sets the knife down and takes a moment to examine a larger, serrated blade.
“Chanciechaunie will not let this stand,” she whispers.
“What did you say?”
“Why did I have to bring you here?” she continues with a sigh. “I could have left you there to die. I just wanted to help you, I thought that perhaps for once I could do something good.”
“You wish to do good?” I reply. “Is that why you're keeping me prisoner in your home, and torturing me?”
“I have not tortured you!” she snaps. “I have never tortured anyone, but if I were minded to do so, I dare say I would be rather inventive!”
“And what of the other poor souls you've had here?” I ask, turning and looking at the jars that line the room. “Did your treatment of them not involve any pain?”
“They were already dead when I brought them here.”
“And how did that happen?”
“I found them.”
“You found them?” I ask incredulously. “Even in this time of war, I find it difficult to believe that a lonely woman out here in the forest would just happen to chance upon so many corpses.”
“It's complicated. Chanciechaunie is...”
Her voice trails off.
“And why are you out here, anyway?” I continue, hoping to learn more about her and perhaps find a weakness I can exploit. “What was the name of the town you mentioned? Malmarbor? Did they cast you out for witchcraft?”
“I am not a witch.”
“But if you -”
“I am not a witch!” she shouts suddenly, filled with anger as she steps toward me. Still holding the serrated saw in her trembling hand, she seems poised to use it against me, but after a moment she steps back. “Do not say such things,” she continues. “I am no witch. If you had seen a witch, or any such creature, you would never make such a joke. Clearly you are a simple, common man who has only ever seen simple and common things!”
“Then what are you?” I ask.
“I am merely...” She pauses, before glancing at the window, as if she is looking toward the knotted tree that stands close to the cottage. “I can not explain,” she continues finally, “nor am I minded to do so. I have been here so long, I almost cannot remember how I came to become such a wretched servant. Yet I know full well that I would not wish this life on any other, and that it is best if I am left alone. The people of Malmarbor know not to disturb me. They have learned the hard way that this forest is to be avoided.”
I wait for her to continue, but she seems lost in thought.
“Why?” I ask finally.
“If I told you, you would think I am mad.”
“I already think you are mad.”
She glances at me. “By your standards, perhaps. But by the standards of what happens out here in the forest...”
“What happens out here?”
“Chanciechaunie will not tolerate your arrival. Sooner or later, he will decide to deal with you.”
“Chanciechaunie is a man?” I reply. “What kind of a name is that?”
“I cannot save you from him,” she continues. “I thought at first that I might protect you, but after you went out there and climbed the trunk... Now he will know all about you, now he will pick up your scent. This place is his home, really, not mine. I merely occupy the spaces between the walls while he is...” She pauses. “Even if you try to run, he will stop you. Perhaps he will even seek to use you, and to replace me, but that horror would be unending. You would be better off if...”
I wait for her to finish the sentence.
“If what?”
She pauses, before coming over to me. The saw is still in her hand, and finally she sets it down, taking instead a knife which she then sets on the bed next to my hand.
“Perhaps there is still one thing I can do for you,” she whispers.
“And what is that?”
She steps back, leaving me with the knife. “Kill yourself,” she says calmly. “I did not have the strength when I was in your position, but you insist you are a man of courage so... Kill yourself. I shall leave the room for a short while, I have some more chores to do. While I am gone, kill yourself. I will return later and deal with your body.”
Turning, she heads to the door.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” I call after her. “I will not kill myself! I am no coward!”
“The cowardly choice would be to live,” she replies, glancing back at me. “Trust me. I know what awaits you if you cling to life in this place. Be brave and kill yourself. Just... Be dead when I return.”
With that, she pulls the door shut, leaving me sitting alone on the bed with the knife just a few inches from my left hand.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The fall from the tree injured my ankle, so I have to limp as I make my way through the house and over to the front door. Having cut myself free from the ropes that held me to the bed, I still have the knife in my hand. Stopping and leaning in the doorway, I see that the woman is washing some clothes in a wooden barrel.
She works for a moment longer, before glancing at me.
“As you can see,” I tell her, “I did not take the coward's way out.”
She pauses, before looking back down at the wet clothes she is in the process of washing.
“For I am not a coward,” I continue. “My name is Stephen Fleming and I am brave.”
“You seem very keen to make that point,” she mutters. “Tell me, why do you fear being called a coward? Has somebody accused you of desertion in the past?”
“My brothers are -”
I catch myself just in time.
“Heroes?” she asks, with a faint smile. “Is that it? Your brothers are heroes, and you are merely a soldier? And thus you -”
“Don't pretend to know me,” I say firmly. “I simply know that I must return to my unit and rejoin the fight. Then I shall show them all that I am not a coward.”
“Perhaps,” she replies. “Or perhaps you shall not find the war again.”
Limping toward her, I look over at the large tree. Now that I am no longer panicked, I see that the tree is quite different to all the others around it. Whereas the forest is filled with tall, then pines that reach up without leaves toward the gray sky, the larger tree is much wider and thicker, as if it has been cut down the middle at some point and has then slowly begun to heal the wound. There are no leaves on the branches, but the trunk appears scarred, and I can only imagine that some great damage has been inflicted upon the tree at some point in the past.
“What do you hear?” the woman asks.
I turn to her. “The sound of you washing those clothes.”
“And nothing else?”
“Do you have a name?”
She pauses. “Anna.”
“And do you live here alone?”
“Not always.”
“So you have a family?”
“Not anymore.”
“Apart from the tree.”
I wait for her to smile, but she simply continues her work.
“And this Chanciechaunie person,” I add. “You mentioned him, but you said nothing more. Who is he, and where is he at the moment?”
“You'll meet him soon.”
“Is he your husband?”
At this, finally, she allows herself to laugh.
“I cannot deny that something here seems most strange,” I continue. “A lone woman, livi
ng by herself in a cottage several miles outside the nearest town, seemingly communing with a twisted and ugly tree while she awaits the return of a man who is neither her husband nor a member of her family... It sounds more like something from a child's fairy-tale.”
“And yet it is not,” she replies, holding up the shirt that she has been scrubbing. “I wish it were, but everything that happens here is very real. Even if it might at times seem unlikely. Trust me, I was once like you, and I once struggled to understand.”
Stepping past her, while keeping the knife in my hand, I head toward the tree before stopping again. For a moment, I can't help but marvel at the way the twisted branches have in some places knotted together. This tree is clearly older than the others, and it's noticeable that all the other trees are a fair distance away. At some point in the past, someone must have created this small clearing, perhaps while preparing to build this ugly little cottage. Quite why they left the most hideous tree standing, however, is a mystery.
“Don't get too close to it,” Anna say after a moment.
“Why not?”
“Do I have to explain everything? Trust me.”
“Let me guess. Your friend Chanciechaunie is very protective of his favorite tree, and he'll hurt me if he thinks I might cause it some harm?”
“You'd be surprised.”
“And when is he due back, anyway?”
I wait for a reply, but she simply continues to scrub another shirt.
“Or doesn't he exist?” I continue. “If I were a woman living all alone out here, I imagine I would tell others that there's a man who might show up at any moment. That's a smart move, really. Otherwise, you might find yourself receiving some unwanted attention. After all, you're not unpleasant on the eye.”
“Chanciechaunie is real,” she replies calmly. “You'll find out soon enough.”
“Will I?”
She nods.
“Does that mean he is on his way back here right now?” I ask.
“You are a fool.”
“Well, I have a knife,” I point out. “A knife that you gave me, I might add. And anyway, I'm not going to stick around here much longer. I intend to go to this Malmarbor place and get my bearings, and then I shall find my unit.”