Old Eleanor, her cheeks lined with the pale, gnawed creases of age, dabbed away the tears that traced down her weatherworn face. Occasionally she flailed her arms and mumbled incoherently, like a babbling infant. Men who saw her scratched their heads, while the women gathered round strained to understand the old crone.
From the break of dawn, driven mad by grief, Eleanor roamed the hamlet, pounding at shutters and weeping. She had been mute from birth, and her mind seemed not of this world. The villagers kept their distance, though none bore her any ill will. Not knowing what had befallen her, they sent for Frederick, a drunkard and merrymaker, the only one who knew the old woman’s cottage and often helped with choresin exchange for a stew and a bottle of gin.
At last he shuffled in, still ragged and not yet sober from the night before, squeezing past the crowd that surrounded Eleanor. The old lady lunged at him, wailing and snapping her fingers, her hands waving wildly. Only he could grasp her meaning. When she finally fell silent, Frederick’s face grew as dark as a storm cloud. He tipped his cap and stared at the waiting folk.
Come now, tell us! someone shouted from the throng.
My granddaughter, Ethel, has vanished! he announced, referring to Eleanors sevenyearold girl.
How did she vanish? When? the women gasped.
She says her own mother carried her off in the night! the trembling man managed to croak.
A murmur rose among the crowd. Women crossed themselves; the men lit cigarettes nervously.
Surely a dead woman cannot snatch a child, a villager muttered, disbelief plain in his voice.
All remembered that three months earlier the child’s mother, Mabel, had drowned in the marsh. Like her mother, Mabel had been mute since birth. She had gone with other women to gather berries from the fen, and there tragedy struck. No one knew how she lost her way, fell into the mire, and could not call for aidonly a silent moan escaped her lips. Thus Ethel was left an orphan, a heavy burden for old Eleanor. No father was spoken of; some whispered that perhaps a certain young bachelor, Tom Fiddler Harrow, might have been the sire. He was known to the village, but he always denied any involvement. Theres nothing to it! he would say.
Eleanor wailed again, her hands flailing.
What is she saying? the curious women whispered. Frederick?
She tells how each night the dead mother would come to the house. Eleanor would light candles, draw crosses over doors and windows, trying to ward off the foul spirit. Yet Mabel would linger at the thresholds, peer through the panes, and softly call her child. One moonlit night she stood beneath the window, pale and lifelesseyed, her lips whispering, luring Ethel. The old woman, angry, drove the curious girl away. Yet as soon as she turned, the specter slipped the curtain aside and, unseen, led the child away in the deep of night, deceiving the innocent. Frederick wiped the sweat from his brow and added, We must search!
The men gritted their teeth, splitting off with rifles and hounds.
Even Frederick, still feeling the aftertaste of drink, hurried home to gather his gear for the hunt. Soon the men formed parties. First they combed the cottages, then the churchyardno trace there. Their next course was the woods, and after that the cursed marsh where Mabel had met her end. After a brief smoke break they set off.
At the edge of the forest they found fresh, barefoot footprints of a child. The dogs barked, lunging into the thicket. For a long time the hounds ran aimlessly, as if led by an unseen hand, tiring their masters. The evening twilight settled among the treetops when the hunting dogs, panting and whimpering, collapsed, and with them fell their owners. The younger, spryer men pressed on toward the mire.
Hope dwindled with every passing minute. Frederick stepped cautiously, fearing the soggy ground, and in his focus lost sight of his companions. He knew the marsh well, having crossed it in his youth, and pressed ahead.
Where are you, Ethel? he croaked, peering into the gloom.
A hundred metres away a harsh caw split the air. A massive black raven perched on a pine branch, its eyes glittering. Caw! Caw! it croaked ominously.
Fredericks heart thumped; the ravens eerie call drew him forward. He hurried to the tree.
At the base, amid soft moss, a small figure curled into a ball. He whispered, Ethel! fearing to frighten her.
The girl opened her eyes and stared at him. Alive! he breathed, relief flooding him. He tore off his shirt and wrapped it around the trembling child.
How did you come here? Frederick asked, bewildered.
Like her mother and grandmother, she was mute. Yet she lifted her head and spoke.
I came with Mother, she said suddenly.
Frederick stared, ears straining.
Miracles! he exclaimed, lifting her into his arms and hurrying away from the marsh.
Girl, say something more! he urged.
My mother became the bride of a swamp spirit and wanted to take me to his new home, but he would not let her. She paused. Who would not let her?
The old one, she answered, eyes bright. Grandfather. Very old, but strong and wise. We call him the WoodLord. He scolded Mother, saying, No child of yours shall be ruined! He told me I must not stay in the mire. I shall live, bring benefit to men, to the forest, and to its keeper. Then a thin, warm breeze brushed my lips, and words poured out like a stream. Grandfather told me all, and now I know everything!
Frederick swallowed, throat dry. And what do you know?
That trees can speak, grasses whisper, she replied, a grin spreading. And you, sir, are my dear father! she added suddenly, her voice echoing in the night.
Frederick froze, then gently set her down. Kneeling, he gazed at her freckled face and asked, Did the WoodLord tell you that too?
Yes, she nodded, looping delicate arms around his neck. He embraced her hesitantly.
Could it truly be my child? he thought, breathless with sudden hope.
He recalled once, long ago, a night when he had found a similar girl and, after that, she had hidden her eyes as if nothing had happened. He had chased her away, and she later vanished, traveling to a distant village to live with an aunt, returning later with a child of her own. No wonder the folk have been chewing over tongues, he mused, the girl looks so much like me.
Ethel stepped back a pace, extended her hand, and opened her fist. In her palm lay a bright red berry.
Eat it, she said. Grandfather the WoodLord commands it!
Frederick obeyed, tasting the sharp fruit. Sour, he grimaced.
From this day forth you shall give up your drink, she declared, pulling him toward the path home.
A sly smile flickered across Fredericks face. Could he truly stay sober? He had doubted her words, but the taste lingered. He gave up his ale, steadied his mind, and took Ethel as his own, raising her as his daughter. She grew to be a wise woman of herbs, tending both people and beasts, curing ailments, never refusing aid. Often she roamed the woods and fens in search of healing plants and berries, always returning whole and unharmed, as if a guardian watched over her in those lands.
