**Alice.**
Old Edna wiped tears from her pale, wrinkled cheeks, her hands fluttering like a restless child’s. The men scratched their heads, and the women muttered amongst themselves, straining to understand the distraught old woman.
Since dawn, mad with grief, Edna had scurried through the village, banging on windows and weeping. She had always been mute, simple-minded—not quite of this world—so the villagers kept their distance, though they never mistreated her. Unsure what had happened, they sent for Freddie, the drunkard and jester, the only one who ever set foot in Edna’s cottage—helping with chores in exchange for supper and a bottle of cheap gin.
Finally, he stumbled over, still groggy from the night before, pushing through the crowd. Edna lunged at him, choking on sobs, arms flailing wildly. Only Freddie could make sense of her. When she finally fell silent, his face darkened. He removed his cap and stared at the gathered villagers.
“Well, out with it!” someone shouted.
“Alice is gone!” he said, speaking of Edna’s seven-year-old granddaughter.
“Gone? When?” the women gasped.
“She says her own mother came and took her in the night,” Freddie mumbled, uneasy.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The women crossed themselves; the men nervously lit cigarettes.
“But how can a dead woman steal a child?” one villager scoffed.
Everyone knew Alice’s mother, Grace, had drowned in the marsh three months prior. Like Edna, she had been mute from birth. She’d gone berry-picking with the other women, and somehow—no one knew how—she’d strayed, sinking into the bog without a voice to call for help. And so Alice was left an orphan, a burden for frail Edna. No father to speak of—Grace had taken that secret to her grave. Whispers had circulated—maybe Freddie was the father. Young, unmarried, always in that house. But he’d always denied it. Nothing happened, he swore.
Edna wailed again, hands trembling.
“What’s she saying now?” the women pressed.
Freddie hesitated. “She says Grace has been coming to the cottage every night. Edna’s been burning candles, scorching crosses above the doors and windows—warding off evil. But Grace wouldn’t be denied. She banged on the door, peered through windows, whispering for her daughter. Last night, she stood beneath the window, pale in the moonlight, lips moving, calling Alice. Edna shooed the girl away, but the moment she turned her back, Alice tugged the curtain aside. Maybe a trick of the light, maybe exhaustion—but in the dead of night, Edna dozed off, and when she woke, Alice was gone. The dead woman tricked her, lured her away!” Freddie wiped sweat from his brow. “We’ve got to search.”
The men gritted their teeth and scattered—some for guns, others for dogs. Freddie, too, stifling his hangover, hurried home to gather supplies.
Soon, search parties fanned out—first the village, then the churchyard. Nothing. Next, the woods, then the cursed marsh where Grace had drowned. They smoked, steeled themselves, and set off.
At the forest’s edge, they found tiny bare footprints. The dogs barked madly, darting into the thicket. For hours they zigzagged, tiring their masters, as if led on a wild chase. Dusk settled when the hounds collapsed, panting. The younger men pressed on, wading into the bog.
Hope dwindled by the minute.
Freddie stepped carefully, wary of sinking. So focused was he that he didn’t notice he’d strayed from the others. But he knew these marshes—he trudged forward.
“Where are you, Alice?” he rasped, squinting into the gloom.
A harsh cry echoed. A massive raven perched on a pine branch, beady eyes fixed on him.
“Caw! Caw!”
Freddie’s pulse quickened. Something in that cry pulled him. He quickened his pace toward the tree.
There, curled at its roots on soft moss, lay the girl.
“Alice?” he whispered, afraid to startle her.
She opened her eyes and regarded him calmly.
“You’re alive!” Relief flooded him. He stripped off his shirt, wrapping her in it. “How’d you get here?” He didn’t expect an answer—like her mother and grandmother, she had never spoken.
“Mum brought me,” she replied.
Freddie stiffened. “Blimey.” He lifted her, hurrying from the bog. “Go on, love. Say something else.”
“Mum’s the bog demon’s wife now. She wanted to take me to her new home, but he wouldn’t let her.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Grandad. Very old, but strong and wise. We call him the Green Man. He scolded her, said, ‘You don’t drag the living down with you.’ It’s not my place in the marsh. I’ve still got use in this world—for people, for the forest, even for him. Then he blew on me, and my lips burned, and suddenly I could speak. He told me everything—now I know all sorts of things!”
“Like what?” Freddie swallowed.
“Like how trees talk and herbs whisper. And that you’re my dad.”
Freddie froze. Slowly, he set her down, kneeling to meet her freckled face. “He told you that too?”
She nodded, throwing her arms around his neck. He hesitated, then hugged her back.
*Could she really be mine?*
There’d been that one night with Grace—afterward, she’d avoided him, as if it never happened. Then she vanished, returning months later with a child.
*Guess the gossips were right. She does look like me.*
Alice stepped back, opening her palm. A single red berry lay there.
“Eat it,” she said. “The Green Man said so.”
Freddie obliged, grimacing. “Sour.”
“Now you’ll stop drinking,” she declared, tugging him homeward.
He smirked. *As if I could quit the bottle.* He didn’t believe her—but he should’ve.
He did quit. Cleaned up his act. Raised his daughter right.
And she fulfilled the prophecy—became a healer, tending to folk and beasts alike. She wandered the woods and marshes, gathering herbs, always returning unharmed.
As if something—or someone—watched over her.
