Old Edith dabbed at the tears streaming down her pale, wrinkled cheeks, her hands fluttering like a babbling child’s. The men scratched their heads, and the gathered women strained to decipher her muffled cries.
At dawn, mad with grief, Edith had run through the village, pounding on windows, wailing. She had been mute since birth, simple-minded too, so the villagers kept their distance—though never unkindly. Baffled, they sent for Edward, the local drunk and jester, the only one who ever visited her cottage, helping with chores for a hot meal and a bottle of gin.
At last, he arrived—rumpled, still reeking of last night’s drink—shouldering through the crowd. The old woman lunged at him, shivering with sobs, hands flying in frantic gestures. Only he understood her. When she fell silent, Edward’s face darkened. He tugged off his cap and glared at the waiting villagers.
“Out with it!” someone shouted.
“Little Alice is gone,” he muttered, speaking of Edith’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? Since when?” gasped the women.
“She says the girl’s mother came in the night and took her,” Edward whispered, uneasy.
The crowd gasped. Women crossed themselves; men fumbled for their pipes.
“How can the dead steal a child?” a villager scoffed.
Everyone knew Alice’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the fens three months back. Mute like her mother, she’d gone berry-picking with the women, gotten lost, and sank into the mire without a cry for help. Poor Alice was left an orphan, a burden on old Edith. No father to speak of—Grace had taken that secret to her grave. Some whispered Edward might be the girl’s sire—young, unmarried, always in their house—but he swore innocence.
Edith wailed again, waving her hands wildly.
“What’s she saying now?” the women pressed.
“Grace’s spirit came to the cottage every night,” Edward explained. “Edith burned candles, scorched crosses over the doors to keep the wicked away. But Grace wouldn’t relent—knocking, peering through windows, whispering for her daughter. Last night, she stood bathed in moonlight, pale as death, lips moving, calling Alice. Edith shooed the girl from the sill, but the moment her back was turned, Alice peeked again. Then—whether from mist or weariness—Edith dozed off. When she woke, Alice was gone, lured away by the dead.” Edward wiped his brow. “We must search.”
Grumbling, the men dispersed—some for guns, others for hounds. Even Edward, forgoing his usual morning drink, hurried home to prepare.
They combed the village first, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next came the woods, then the cursed fens where Grace had drowned. They lit their pipes and pressed on.
At the forest’s edge, they found small bare footprints. The dogs barked madly, plunging into the thicket, leading their masters in frantic circles as if taunting them. Twilight draped the treetops when the hounds collapsed, panting, and the men faltered. The younger ones pressed into the marshes.
Hope faded by the minute.
Edward stepped carefully, minding the bogs, not noticing he’d strayed from the others. Still, he knew these fens well, so he trudged on.
“Where are you, Alice?” he rasped, scanning the mire.
A harsh caw split the silence. A massive raven perched on a pine branch, gleaming eyes fixed on him. “Caw! Caw!” it cried again, and Edward’s heart lurched.
Drawn, he quickened his pace toward the tree. There, curled in the moss, lay the girl.
“Alice,” he whispered, afraid to startle her.
She opened her eyes.
“Alive!” He yanked off his coat and bundled her up. “How’d you wander here?” he croaked, expecting no reply—mute like her kin.
“Mother brought me,” she said suddenly.
He stiffened. “Miracles!” Scooping her into his arms, he hurried from the swamp. “Say more, lass!”
“Mum’s the wife of the fen-dweller now. She meant to take me home with her, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who?”
“Grandfather. Very old, but strong and wise. You folk call him the Bog King. He scolded Mum—’No good comes of stealing the living,’ he said. The fens aren’t my place. I’ll do much good yet—for folk, the woods, even him. Then he blew on my lips, and the words just… spilled out. He told me everything, and now I know it all.”
“What do you know?” Edward rasped.
“That trees can talk, and herbs whisper. And that you’re my father.”
He froze, then gently set her down, kneeling to study her freckled face. “The old man told you that too?”
She nodded, wrapping thin arms around his neck. Hesitant, he hugged back.
*Could she truly be mine?*
He and Grace *had* lain together once. Afterward, she avoided him—vanished for months, returning with a child.
*The gossips weren’t wrong. She does favor me.*
Alice pulled back, opening her palm to reveal a red berry. “Eat it,” she said. “The Bog King’s order.”
Edward obeyed, grimacing at the sourness.
“You’ll drink no more,” she declared, tugging him homeward.
He smirked—how could he forsake gin? But he did. Took stock of his life. Claimed his daughter, raised her well.
And she fulfilled the prophecy—became a wise woman, tending to folk and beasts alike. Gathering herbs in wood and fen, always returning unharmed.
As if something—or someone—watched over her.
