Elderly Edith wiped the tears streaming down her pale, wrinkled cheeks, her hands fluttering like a restless bird. She mumbled incoherently, her words as tangled as brambles, leaving the villagers scratching their heads in confusion. The women gathered around her, straining to make sense of the old woman’s distress.
Since dawn, Edith had been running through the village like a woman possessed, banging on windows and sobbing. She’d always been mute—simple-minded, too—so the locals kept their distance, though they never mistreated her. When no one could understand her panic, they sent for William, the town drunk and jester, the only one who ever set foot in her cottage—usually in exchange for supper and a bottle of cheap gin.
He arrived, still bleary-eyed from the night before, pushing through the crowd. Edith lunged at him, wailing and flailing her hands—only he could decipher her wordless pleas. When she finally fell silent, William’s face darkened. He tugged off his cap and stared at the gathered villagers.
“Out with it, then!” someone shouted.
“Emily’s gone,” he said, speaking of Edith’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“What d’you mean, gone? When?” the women gasped.
“Says her mum came for her last night,” William muttered, uneasy.
A murmur swept through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men lit cigarettes with shaky hands.
“How can a dead woman steal a child?” someone scoffed.
Everyone knew Emily’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the marshes three months back. Like her grandmother, she’d been mute since birth—gone berry-picking with the other women and wandered too far. The bog took her before anyone noticed. No one heard her cries, if she’d made any at all. Left little Emily an orphan, a burden too heavy for old Edith to bear alone. No father to speak of—Grace had carried that secret to her grave. Folk whispered it might’ve been William’s doing, but he always denied it.
Edith wailed again, hands clawing the air.
“What’s she saying now?” the women pressed.
William swallowed hard. “Says Grace’s been coming to the cottage every night. Edith’s been burning candles, carving crosses above the doors and windows—trying to keep evil away. But Grace wouldn’t stop. Knocking at the door, peering through the windows, whispering for her girl. Last night, she stood under the window, pale as moonlight, lips moving—luring Emily out.”
He wiped sweat from his brow. “Edith kept shooing the girl back, but the second she turned away, Emily’d sneak another peek. Must’ve dozed off—next thing she knew, the girl was gone. Grace tricked her, led her away. We’ve got to search!”
The men scattered—some for their rifles, others for their dogs. Even William, fighting off his hangover, stumbled home to grab his coat.
They combed the village, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next was the woods, then the cursed marshes where Grace had drowned. A quick smoke for courage, and they set off.
At the forest’s edge, they found small barefoot prints. The dogs caught the scent and bolted into the trees, zigzagging wildly, as if something was leading them astray. By dusk, the hounds collapsed, panting, their owners no better off. The younger men pressed on into the marshes.
William trod carefully, scanning the murk. “Where are you, Emily?” he rasped.
A harsh caw split the air. A massive raven perched on a pine branch, gleaming eyes fixed on him.
His pulse spiked. Something in its cry pulled him toward the tree.
There, curled at its roots, was Emily.
“Emily!” he whispered, afraid to startle her.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Alive!” he gasped, yanking off his shirt to wrap around her. “How’d you get here?” he croaked, not expecting an answer—she’d been mute like the rest.
“Came with Mum,” she said.
He nearly dropped her.
“Blimey!” He lifted her, hurrying from the bog. “Say something else, quick!”
“Mum’s wife to the marsh king now. Wanted to take me, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Grandfather. The old one—strong and wise. You call him the Green Man. He scolded Mum. ‘No right to steal the living,’ he said. I’ve still got purpose.” She touched her lips. “He breathed on me. Now I know everything.”
“Like what?” William’s throat tightened.
“Like trees talk, and herbs whisper. And—you’re my dad.”
He froze. Gently setting her down, he knelt. “He told you that, did he?”
She nodded, wrapping thin arms around his neck.
He hugged her back, heart racing. *Could it be true?* That one night with Grace—she’d avoided him after, then vanished. Came back with a child.
Emily stepped back, opening her palm—a single crimson berry.
“Eat it. Grandfather said so.”
He did. “Sour,” he grimaced.
“No more drink for you,” she declared, tugging him home.
William smirked. As if he’d quit the bottle that easy.
But he did. Straightened up, raised his girl right.
And Emily kept her promise. Became a healer—tended folk and beasts alike, gathering herbs in the woods and marshes, always returning unharmed.
As if something—or someone—watched over her.
