Old Dorothy wiped the tears streaming down her pale, wrinkled cheeks, her hands fluttering in the air as she mumbled incoherently. She seemed like a babbling child, leaving the village men scratching their heads and the gathered women straining to understand her.
From dawn, mad with grief, Dorothy had run through the village, rapping on windows and weeping. All her life, she had been mute, and simple-minded besides—so the villagers kept their distance, though they never mistreated her. Unsure what had happened, they sent for Edward, the drunkard and jester, the only one who ever visited her cottage, helping with chores in exchange for supper and a bottle of cheap gin.
At last, he arrived—rumpled, still groggy from the night before—and pushed through the crowd. The old woman rushed to him, choking on sobs, waving her hands wildly. Only he could understand her. When she fell silent, Edward’s face darkened. He pulled off his cap and glared at the waiting villagers.
“Well? Out with it!” someone called.
“Little Alice is gone!” he said, speaking of Dorothy’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? When?” gasped the women.
“She says her own mother took her in the night,” Edward muttered, uneasy.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men lit pipes nervously.
“Can the dead truly steal a child?” one villager scoffed.
Everyone knew Alice’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the marshes three months before. Like her mother, she’d been mute from birth. She’d gone with the women to pick berries and never returned. No one knew how it happened—she’d strayed, gotten lost, sunk into the bog without a voice to cry for help. So little Alice was left an orphan, a burden on old Dorothy. Had there been a father, someone might have answered for her, but Grace had taken the secret of Alice’s birth to her grave. Some whispered: wasn’t Edward the father? He was young, unwed—always visiting the cottage.
But he swore it wasn’t so.
Dorothy wailed again, her hands dancing frantically.
“What’s she saying now?” the women whispered.
Edward’s voice was grim. “She says Grace came to the cottage every night. Dorothy burned candles, carved crosses over the doors and windows to ward off evil. But Grace wouldn’t relent—knocking, peering in, whispering for her child. Last night, she stood by the window in the moonlight, pale as mist, her lips moving, calling Alice. Dorothy tried to shoo the girl away, but the moment she turned her back, Alice tugged aside the curtain. Whether by trick or chance, the old woman dozed off—and when she woke, the child was gone. The dead had lured her away.” Edward wiped sweat from his brow. “We must search.”
The men clenched their teeth and scattered—some for rifles, others for hounds. Even Edward, forgoing his usual morning drink, hurried home to prepare.
Soon, they split into groups. They scoured the village, then the churchyard—nothing. The woods remained, and after that, the cursed marshes where Grace had drowned. After a smoke, they set out.
At the forest’s edge, they found tiny footprints. The hounds barked wildly, plunging into the thicket. For hours, they zigzagged, exhausting their masters—as if led in circles by unseen hands.
Dusk settled when the dogs, panting and whining, collapsed—and the men with them. The younger ones pressed on into the marsh.
Hope dwindled with each step.
Edward moved carefully, wary of the mire. So focused was he that he didn’t notice he’d strayed from the others. But he knew these bogs well and pressed onward.
“Where are you, Alice?” he rasped, squinting into the gloom.
A harsh cry cut the air. A raven, black as coal, perched on a pine branch, its sharp eyes tracking him.
“Caw! Caw!” it cried, as if in warning.
His heart clenched. Something in that cry compelled him. Quickening his pace, he made for the tree.
There, curled at its roots, lay the girl.
“Alice,” he whispered, afraid to startle her.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze.
“Alive!” he gasped, shrugging off his coat to wrap around her.
“How’d you end up here?” he croaked, not expecting an answer—like her mother and grandmother, she’d been mute.
“Came with Mum,” she said.
He stiffened. “What?”
“She’s the bog-wife now,” Alice said calmly. “Wanted to take me to her new home, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who?”
“Grandfather. Very old, but strong. We call him the Green Man. He scolded her—‘A mother mustn’t steal her own child.’ He said I’m meant for the living. That I’ll do good—for people, for the forest, even for him.” She paused. “Then he blew on my lips, and the words just came. He told me everything, and now I know all sorts of things!”
“Like what?” Edward swallowed.
“Like how trees talk and herbs whisper. And that you’re my father.”
He froze, lowered her gently, and knelt. “The Green Man told you that?”
She nodded and threw her thin arms around his neck. He hesitated, then hugged her back.
“Could it be true?” he wondered, heart pounding. There had been that one night with Grace—but after, she’d avoided him. Then she’d left the village, returned with a child.
“People weren’t wrong,” he realized. “She does look like me.”
Alice stepped back, opened her hand. A red berry lay on her palm.
“Eat it,” she said. “The Green Man’s orders.”
He did, grimacing. “Sour.”
“You’ll never drink again,” she declared, tugging him toward home.
He smirked—how could he live without gin? But he should’ve believed her.
The craving left him. He straightened out, raised his daughter right, and she fulfilled her calling—became a wise woman, healing folk and beasts alike. She wandered the woods and marshes, gathering herbs, always returning unharmed.
As if someone watched over her.
