Old Edith wiped the tears trickling down her pale, wrinkled cheeks, her hands fluttering like those of a babbling child. The men scratched their heads, while the gathered women strained to understand the old woman. Since dawn, driven mad by grief, Edith had run through the village, rapping on windows and weeping. Born mute and simple-minded, the villagers had always kept their distance, though they never mistreated her. Uncertain what had happened, they sent for Fred, the village drunk and jester—the only one who ever visited Edith’s cottage, helping with chores in exchange for supper and a bottle of cheap gin.
At last, he arrived, disheveled and still groggy from the night before, pushing through the crowd encircling Edith. The old woman rushed to him, wailing and choking on her tears, her hands waving wildly. Only Fred could make sense of her. When she finally fell silent, his face darkened. He removed his cap and glared at the waiting villagers.
“Well, out with it!” someone called from the throng.
“Little Alice is gone!” he announced, speaking of Edith’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? How? When?” gasped the women.
“She says the lass’s own mother took her in the night!” Fred muttered fearfully.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men lit their pipes with trembling hands.
“How can a dead woman steal a child?” one villager scoffed, disbelief thick in his voice.
Everyone knew that three months prior, the girl’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the fens. Like her mother, she had been mute from birth. She’d gone with the village women to gather berries in the marshes—then disaster struck. No one knew exactly how. She’d fallen behind, lost her way, and sunk into the mire. Unable to cry for help, she could only moan. And who could have heard her? So Alice was left an orphan, a heavy burden for old Edith. If only the father had been known, but Grace had taken that secret to her grave. She’d never even told her own mother his name.
Some whispered—was it Fred? After all, he was young, unmarried, and frequented the house.
But he always denied it. Nothing had happened, he swore!
Edith let out another anguished wail, hands flailing once more.
“What’s she saying now?” the curious women pressed. “Fred?”
“She says Grace’s been coming to the cottage every night. Edith’s been burning candles, scorching crosses above the doors and windows to ward off evil. But Grace wouldn’t leave—she pounded at the threshold, peered through the windows, whispering her daughter’s name. Last night, she stood beneath the window in the moonlight, pale as death, her lifeless eyes fixed, lips murmuring, beckoning Alice.”
The old woman had scolded, shooing the curious girl away. But the moment Edith turned her back, Alice would pull the curtain aside. Maybe it was delirium, maybe Edith just hadn’t noticed—but in the dead of night, she’d dozed off. Grace had tricked the innocent child and spirited her away.
Fred wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got to search!”
The men gritted their teeth and scattered—some for their guns, others for their hounds. Even Fred, forgoing his usual morning drink, hurried home to ready himself.
Soon, the search parties fanned out. First, they combed the village, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next was the forest, and then—God help them—the cursed fens where Grace had met her end. They paused to smoke, then pressed on.
At the forest’s edge, they found the prints of bare child’s feet. The hounds howled and plunged into the thicket. For hours, they zigzagged, wearing out their masters as though led astray on purpose.
Dusk settled over the treetops as the exhausted dogs collapsed, panting and whining. Their owners followed suit, though the younger men pressed on through the marsh.
Hope waned with every step.
Fred moved carefully, wary of the sinking mud. So focused was he that he didn’t realize he’d strayed from the others. Still, he knew these fens well, so he trudged onward.
“Where are you, Alice?” he croaked, scanning the mire.
A hundred yards off, a harsh caw split the air. A great black raven, perched on a pine branch, glared down at him with gleaming eyes.
“Caw! Caw!” it cried again, ominous as death.
Fred’s heart lurched. Something in that piercing call drew him. Quickening his pace, he headed for the tree.
There, curled on the moss at its roots, lay the girl.
“Alice!” he whispered, afraid to startle her.
She opened her eyes and studied him calmly.
“You’re alive!” he gasped, pulling off his shirt to wrap around her.
“How’d you get here?” he rasped, not expecting an answer—for like her mother and grandmother, she’d been mute.
“Came with Mum,” she said suddenly.
Fred recoiled. “Miracles!” He lifted her and turned back toward dry land. “Go on, lass—say something else!”
“Mum’s the wife of the fen-dweller now. She wanted to take me to her new home, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Fred frowned.
“Grandfather. Very old, but strong and wise. We call him the Púca. He scolded Mum. ‘It’s wrong to drag your own child to the grave,’ he said. My place isn’t in the mire. I’ve work to do—for people, for the forest, even for him.”
“Then he blew on me, and a hot wind touched my lips. The words just poured out. He told me everything, and now I know it all!”
“And what do you know?” Fred swallowed hard.
“That trees can talk and herbs whisper. And—” she blurted, “—you’re my dad, my own blood!”
Fred froze. Gently setting her down, he knelt, gazing at her freckled face.
“Did the old man tell you that too?”
“Aye!” She threw her thin arms around his neck.
Hesitant, he hugged her back.
*Could she truly be mine?*
There’d been that one night with Grace. Afterward, she’d avoided him, eyes downcast as if nothing happened. He’d tried to speak to her, but she’d shooed him away. Then she vanished—gone to her aunt’s in another village. She returned with a child.
*So the gossips were right. She does look like me.*
Alice stepped back, opening her hand to reveal a red berry.
“Eat it,” she said. “The Púca said you must.”
Fred obeyed, wincing at the sour tang.
“From now on, you’ll stop drinking,” she declared, tugging him homeward.
He smirked—how could he live without his gin? He didn’t believe her.
But he was wrong.
He quit drinking, straightened his life, raised his daughter right. And Alice fulfilled her fate. She became a wisewoman, healing folk and beasts alike, gathering herbs in forest and fen, always returning unscathed—as though some guardian watched over her in those wild places.
