Old Ethel wiped the tears streaming down her pale, wrinkled cheeks. Every so often, she waved her hands and muttered under her breath, sounding like a babbling child. The men scratched their heads, while the women crowding around strained to understand the old woman.
From dawn, mad with grief, Ethel had run through the village, pounding on windows and wailing. She had been mute since birth and seemed simple-minded to some, which was why the villagers kept their distance—though they never mistreated her. Unsure what had happened, they sent for Fred. A drunkard and joker, he was 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 arrived—still rumpled and groggy from the night before—shouldering his way through the crowd. The old woman rushed to him, weeping and waving her arms wildly. Only he could understand her. When she finished, Fred’s face darkened. He took off his cap and stared at the waiting villagers.
“Well? Out with it!” someone called.
“Megan’s gone!” he said, speaking of Ethel’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? When?” gasped the women.
“Says her mum came for her in the night,” Fred muttered fearfully.
A murmur spread through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men lit cigarettes nervously.
“How can a dead woman steal a child?” one villager scoffed. Everyone knew Megan’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the fens three months before. Like Ethel, she’d been mute from birth. She’d gone berry-picking with the women, and tragedy struck. No one knew what happened—perhaps she strayed too far, got lost, and sank into the bog. With no voice to call for help, she perished. And so little Megan became an orphan, a heavy burden for old Ethel. If there’d been a father, someone might’ve answered for her. But Grace had taken the secret of Megan’s birth to her grave—not even telling her own mother. The villagers whispered: Could Fred be the father? He was young, unmarried—always in and out of the house.
But he swore it wasn’t so. Never happened!
Ethel wailed again and flailed her arms.
“What’s she saying?” the curious women pressed. “Fred?”
“She says Grace came to the cottage every night. Ethel burned candles, carved crosses above the doors and windows—warding off evil. But Grace wouldn’t stop, knocking, peering through the panes, softly calling for Megan. Last night, she stood in the moonlight, pale as death, whispering to lure the girl out. Ethel scolded Megan, shooed her from the window. But the moment she turned away, the girl peeked out again. Maybe a trick of the dark, or Ethel dozed off—but by dawn, Megan was gone. Lured away by the dead!” Fred wiped his sweaty brow. “We’ve got to search.”
The men gritted their teeth and scattered—some for guns, others for hounds. Even Fred, stifling his hangover, hurried home to join them.
Soon, the search parties fanned out. First the village, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next, the woods—and finally, the accursed fens where Grace had perished. After a smoke, they pressed on.
At the forest’s edge, they found bare footprints in the mud. The dogs bayed and plunged into the thicket, weaving erratically, tiring both beasts and men. As if they were being led in circles, deliberately misled.
Dusk settled when the hounds, panting and whimpering, collapsed. The men followed suit. Only the hardiest pushed on into the marshes.
Hope dwindled with each step.
Fred moved cautiously, wary of sinking. So focused was he that he didn’t notice straying from the group. Still, he knew these fens well and trudged onward.
“Where are you, Megan?” he rasped, squinting into the mire.
A harsh caw cut the air. A massive raven perched on a pine branch, black eyes glinting as it watched.
“Caw! Caw!”
Fred’s pulse quickened. Something in that cry drew him to the tree.
There, curled in the moss, lay the girl.
“Megan!” he whispered, not to frighten her.
She opened her eyes—calm, knowing.
“Alive!” he gasped, tugging off his coat to wrap her.
“How’d you get here?” he croaked, not expecting an answer. Like her mother and grandmother, she’d never spoken.
“Mum brought me,” she said.
Fred froze. “Miracles!” He lifted her, hurrying back.
“Say something else, lass.”
“She’s the fen-wife now. Wanted to take me, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who?”
“Grandfather. Old and mighty—the Green Man of the woods. He scolded her: ‘No mother should claim her living child.’ He said I’d do more good in the world. Then he blew on my lips, and words just… poured out. He told me everything—now I know it all.”
“What do you know?”
“Trees speak. Herbs whisper. And… you’re my dad.”
Fred staggered. Gently, he knelt, studying her freckled face. “The Green Man told you that?”
She nodded, wrapping thin arms around his neck.
Hesitantly, he hugged back. Could it be true? Years ago, he and Grace had one night together—but after, she avoided him. Then she left for her aunt’s, returning with a child.
“So the gossip was right,” he realized.
Megan stepped back, opening her palm. A red berry rested there.
“Eat it. He said you must.”
Fred obeyed. “Sour,” he grimaced.
“You’ll drink no more,” she declared, tugging him home.
He smirked. No ale? Impossible.
Yet he never touched another drop. He sobered up, claimed Megan as his own, raised her right.
And she fulfilled her fate—becoming a wise woman, a healer. She roamed the woods and fens, gathering herbs, always returning unscathed. As though something—or someone—watched over her.
Some say the old ways linger in quiet places. And those who listen may yet hear them whisper.
