Old Ethel wiped the tears trickling down her pale, wrinkled cheeks, flailing her arms and mumbling incoherently like a babbling infant. The village men scratched their heads while the gathered women strained to understand her.
From dawn, grief-stricken Ethel had run through the village, rapping on windows and weeping. She’d been mute her whole life, and simple-minded besides, which made the locals keep their distance—though they never mistreated her. Unsure what had happened, they sent for Freddie, the village drunk and jester, the only one who ever visited Ethel’s cottage, helping with chores in exchange for supper and a bottle of cheap gin.
At last, he stumbled in—still groggy from the night before—and pushed through the crowd. Ethel rushed at him, wailing and flapping her hands. Only Freddie could make sense of her. When she finished, his face darkened. He tugged off his cap and stared at the villagers.
“Well? Out with it!” someone shouted.
“Little Ellen’s gone missing!” he said, speaking of Ethel’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? Since when?” the women gasped.
“Says her mum came for her last night!” Freddie muttered, eyes wide.
A murmur swept through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men lit cigarettes with shaky hands.
“But how could a dead woman take a child?” someone scoffed.
Everyone knew Ellen’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the fen three months back. Like her grandmother, she’d been mute from birth. She’d gone berry-picking with the village women, then—well, tragedy struck. No one knew how. She’d fallen behind, wandered off, and sunk into the bog. Couldn’t even scream for help. Just muffled cries. And who’d have heard?
So Ellen was left an orphan, a heavy burden for old Ethel. No father to speak of—Grace had taken that secret to her grave, never even telling her own mother. Folks whispered: Maybe it’s Freddie’s? Young, unmarried, always in their house.
But he’d always denied it. “Never touched her!”
Ethel wailed again, hands fluttering wildly.
“What’s she saying now?” the women whispered. “Freddie?”
“She says Grace’s been coming to the cottage every night. Ethel’s been burning candles, scorching crosses over the doors and windows—warding off evil. But Grace wouldn’t leave. Pounded on the doors, peered through the windows, whispering for her girl. Last night, she stood under the window in the moonlight—pale as death, lifeless eyes, lips moving, calling Ellen. Ethel scolded her, shooed the girl away. But the second her back was turned, Ellen tugged the curtain aside. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe Ethel dozed off—but next thing she knew, Grace had lured the girl away. Fooled her, deceived her!” Freddie wiped sweat from his brow. “We’ve got to search!”
The men scattered—some for rifles, others for dogs. Even Freddie, forgoing his usual morning hair-of-the-dog, hurried home to gather gear.
Soon, search parties fanned out—first the village, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next, the woods, then the accursed fen where Grace had drowned. They paused for a smoke, then pressed on.
At the forest’s edge, they found tiny bare footprints. The hounds bayed and plunged into the thicket, leading the men in circles, as if someone—or something—was toying with them.
Dusk settled over the trees when the dogs, panting and whining, collapsed. The men weren’t far behind. The younger ones pressed on, scouring the fen.
Hope faded with the light.
Freddie picked his way carefully, wary of sinking. So focused, he didn’t notice he’d strayed from the others. But he knew these marshes well—so he trudged on.
“Where are you, Ellen?” he rasped, scanning the mire.
A harsh caw split the air. A massive raven perched on a pine branch, gleaming eyes fixed on him.
“Caw! Caw!”
Freddie’s heart lurched. Something in that cry pulled him toward the tree.
There, curled at its roots on a bed of moss, lay the girl.
“Ellen!” he whispered, not wanting to startle her.
She blinked up at him.
“You’re alive!” He yanked off his jacket, bundling her in it. “How’d you get here?” he croaked, not expecting an answer—she, like her mother and gran, had never spoken.
“Came with Mum,” she said.
Freddie froze.
“Blimey!” He scooped her up, hastening from the fen. “Go on, then—say summat else!”
“Mum’s married to the fen spirit now. Wanted to take me to her new home, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Grandad. Ancient, but strong and wise. You call him the Green Man. He scolded Mum. Said, ‘No good comes of stealing the living!’ No place for me in the fen. Said I’ve work to do—for folk, for the woods, even for him. Then he blew on me, and his breath burned my lips—and suddenly, I could talk! He told me everything. Now I know all sorts!”
“Know what, then?” Freddie swallowed.
“Like how trees chat and grasses whisper. And—you’re my dad,” she blurted.
Freddie nearly dropped her. Gently, he set her down, kneeling to study her freckled face.
“Old Green Man tell you that too?”
She nodded, flinging her skinny arms around his neck.
He hesitated, then hugged her back.
*Could she really be mine?*
There’d been that one night with Grace. After, she’d avoided him, eyes downcast, like nothing happened. He’d tried talking to her, but she’d shooed him off. Then she vanished—went to her aunt’s in the next village. Came back with a baby.
*Maybe the gossips were right. She does look like me.*
Ellen stepped back, opening her palm to reveal a red berry.
“Eat it,” she said. “Green Man’s orders.”
Freddie obeyed. “Sour,” he grimaced.
“You’ll never drink again,” she declared, tugging him homeward.
Freddie smirked. As if he’d give up the drink! He didn’t believe her—but he should’ve.
He quit. Cleared his head.
Raised his daughter right.
And Ellen? She kept her promise. Became a wise woman—tending to folk and beasts alike, healing ailments, never turning anyone away. She often wandered the woods and fens, gathering herbs and berries.
And always came back safe.
Almost as if someone—something—was watching over her.
