Seven Years for Seven Berries

[Kristin]

It's also a tentative title. Please let me know if it doesn't work. I'm planning on sending this out to magazines this week, so don't be afraid to be brutal in your critiques. And I know, it's long (so I have to post it in parts), so a big huge thank you - and a cyber cookie - to anyone who reads it!

Emalind dozed with her nose in the dirt. Her spine pressed against hard wood, molding to the curved surface. Her knees were forced against her chin in the cramped space. She shifted uncomfortably, but settled again without fully waking. After all, it didn't matter to her whether it was morning or night; she hadn't known, for an immeasurable amount of time, whether the sun or the moon was in the sky.
Then something crashed against her face, and an unfamiliar voice shattered the thick silence. “But I didn't--” The thing which had jerked her out of her sleep continued to pound against her head, and the voice kept shouting. Emalind thought it sounded like a man, a very panicked and disoriented one, several feet above her head on the ground, so whatever was hitting her must be--
“Get your foot off my neck!” she croaked. The voice quieted immediately, but the pressure didn't ease from her throat.
“Is someone else here?” the intruder finally asked, in a wary tone.
Emalind pushed at his ankle, freeing her neck so she could speak more clearly. “Do you think the tree is talking to you? Now get off me!” With difficulty, she managed to sit up.
There was a scrambling of movement, a scraping of clothes against wood, and something else struck her in the face. It could have been a knee or an elbow. She pushed it away irritably. “Where are we?” he asked, closer to her ear now.
Emalind swallowed nervously. It was the first voice she had heard, besides her own, in so long. “We're inside the tree.”
“What? What are we doing in a tree?”
She smiled wryly, knowing that he wouldn't be able to see her expression. “Well, I am sitting here, with half as much space as I had a few minutes ago. What did you do to anger the witch?”
“The--wait.” She could hear his bewilderment. “I can't take this in all at once. What witch?”
“Who were you shouting at when you first arrived?”
“A very angry old woman who rudely claimed this forest as her own.” He shifted again, his legs pushing her against the rough wall. “What harm is it to pick a simple berry to fill an empty belly? There were plenty all around, but she ran out of the trees as soon as I'd plucked the first one, screamed at me, and the next thing I knew--”
Emalind nodded, knowing exactly what he was saying. “That did it. You picked a berry. Apparently you, like me, either didn't believe the stories, or you aren't from these parts.”
“You're right on both counts. I'm not from here, and I probably would not have believed the stories--if I had heard them. What stories are those?”
“Only one, really: what I'd thought was a fairytale meant to scare young children into behaving. The witch in the hills above the oak forest doesn't like trespassers. Nobody ever goes into the hills, not even the adults. But I never believed the story was true.”
He chuckled. “So you obviously went into the hills.”
“Obviously. I was looking for berries, but there had been a freeze unusual for the season, and there wasn't a single ripe berry to be found.” Emalind cleared her throat, not used to talking so much. “Then I reached the bend in the path where the ground starts to rise, and saw berry bushes positively bursting with fruit far up the hill. I left the trail, thinking there would be no harm as long as I kept it in sight.”
“And you picked a berry,” he supplied.
“I picked and ate seven; they were so delicious, the best I've ever eaten. It was like someone had nourished the bushes with magic instead of water, which I realize now was probably the truth.” She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to remember the flavor and texture of the last food she'd eaten. “But then she appeared. Seven years for seven berries, she told me, and then there was darkness . . . how long it has been, but I have no way of knowing. It's like a single, unending night.”
He groaned. “Get out and see the countryside, my father says. A fortnight or so in the real world and I'll return a different person, according to him. The fresh air will be good for me. Well, there's not much fresh air in here!”
“And your father will miss you when you're gone longer than a few weeks,” Emalind said with a bitter laugh.
“I won't stand for that!” The stranger scuffed his feet in the dirt angrily. “The witch said to me essentially the same thing she told you: a single year for a single berry. But I didn't eat it. That's what I was trying to tell her just before she sent me here. I had dropped it as soon as she appeared; she startled me.”
Emalind shrugged. “If you picked it, it counts. She's very protective of her property.”
“It doesn't matter. I'm not staying in this tree for a year. Didn't she tell you something else?”
“What do you mean?” Emalind asked, confused.
“Before she sealed you in the tree, did she add, 'unless you find your own way free?'”
Emalind thought of the words the witch had said in her spell, trying to remember them all. “Yes . . . seven years for seven berries . . . unless you find your way free. But the way she said it, it was like she was mocking me. I don't expect she ever meant for me to be able to free myself.”
“Haven't you tried?”
“What do you think? Of course I have! I've ripped my fingernails off trying to dig my way out of here. But the network of hard roots a few inches under the ground are as good as the bars of any prison.” As if to prove her point, Emalind drove her fingertips into the dirt, wincing as the hard earth bit into the raw wounds.
“I may have a way. . . .” the man said thoughtfully, then, “My name is Reed. I'm from the Rock Clan in the north.”
“I'm Emalind, of Oak Village.”
Reed drew in his breath sharply. “Emalind? You're Emalind?”
“Yes,” she answered, intrigued. “You've heard my name before?”
“I was just in your village. In the inn, they ask all travelers and newcomers if anyone has seen you. You've been gone for six years--” Reed sounded excited, but Emalind cut him off.
“Six years? So I have only one left--and then I'll be free. But who asks for me?”
“The innkeepers. There is a small painting of you as a child, displayed above the mantle. They show it to the visitors, asking if anyone has seen a young woman who resembles that little girl.”
Emalind blinked suddenly stinging eyes, and rubbed them with the back of her hand. “That painting used to be on my mother's dressing table. The innkeepers are my parents. Please, tell me about them. Are they well?”
“As well as they can be, without you.” Reed's voice was soft. “Your mother is sweet, but her eyes are dark, haunted. She never smiles. Your father is rather gruff, and doesn't trust any newcomers; but he is compelled to ask anyway.”
“My father was never like that. He welcomed everyone. He must think someone harmed me. In a year, just one more year and they'll know--”
Reed scuffled on the ground again, shifting position. In the cramped space, Emalind found herself pinned against the tree, with his back against her chest. “It will be sooner than that. I'll take you back to them.” She heard a scraping noise, something solid grinding against the bark.
“What are you doing?” she grunted, pushing against Reed for more room.
He moved over a few inches, allowing her to breathe again. “I have something better than fingernails: a knife! My own father gave this to me--it was elven-forged, and belonged to my grandfather's father. I'll carve our way out of this hollow tree.” His words came in a rush, and the scraping intensified.
Emalind's eyes widened in fear. She groped in the blackness until she found his arm, and pulled it away from the wall. “I've been in here six years, and it hasn't driven me mad--but you arrived only moments ago and already you're raving! Do you have any idea what the witch will do to us if you cut up her tree to get us out?”
Reed laughed. “No, no--she said it herself: Unless you find your way free. She's challenged me! The old hag can't do anything if I free us, because it came from her own mouth.”
“But--”
“Think of it, Emalind: your family, your home. The sunlight, and being able to stand up and stretch out your arms. Walking in the open meadows near the forest . . . It's springtime now. Do you remember what flowers smell like?” He dropped his voice, the warmth of his breath whispering past her ear like a long-forgotten summer breeze.
“I don't remember what anything smells like. Nothing but the musty inside of this stupid tree.” Emalind sat back, listening as the scraping of Reed's blade resumed. “But I don't trust her.”
He didn't answer, but whittled away at the bark, so she pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes to keep the sawdust out. She had long dreamed of the company of another person, but it was usually one of her family or someone else she knew and missed, and always outside the tree--at the inn, or the home of a friend. She never would have wished for a strange man trapped inside her own prison, robbing her of more than half of the space which for six years had belonged only to her. And now this man was going to get them both cursed even worse, or trapped forever, by defying the witch's punishment. But what could she do to stop him? He was the one with the knife.

[Kristin]

Part 2. I'm not sure why the paragraphs and tabs aren't showing up. I have them in the actual document. Sorry about that.


And the last words he'd said had started to gnaw at her mind like her hunger ate at the inside of her stomach. He was so fresh from the outside, full of determination. He hadn't had days or weeks to accept his fate; like she had at first, he rebelled against his punishment, desperate for an escape. But unlike Emalind, Reed had more of a chance to make freedom a reality, with his sharp, elf-forged blade.
The rhythmic pattern of Reed's carving lulled her into a half doze, but after a time he sat back, breathing hard. He found one of Emalind's hands and sprinkled something into it: a pile of wood shavings. She let them filter slowly through her fingers. “Not bad for an hour or two, eh?” he said, pleased with himself. “Time for a rest. I'm half starved. What do you eat inside this tree?”
Emalind laughed sourly. “There is nothing to eat in here, of course--unless you want to chew on the wood dust your blade loosened.”
Reed was silent for several moments, then spoke slowly, his voice thick with confusion. “But--how are you still alive? Six years, with no food. . . .”
“It's part of the witch's spell,” she said. “You don't change when you are in here. If you came in here hungry, you will stay hungry for a year--or six--or until you escape, if your plan works. But you won't starve to death.” She listened for a moment, and smiled when she heard his stomach growl as if protesting her words. “How old are you?” she asked then.
His voice was subdued. “Eighteen.”
Emalind figured the numbers in her head, then laughed. “You were only twelve when I was imprisoned! I'm twenty-three in reality, but I imagine I'm still seventeen since nothing changes in the tree.”
“That's not possible. You can't stay seventeen for six years.”
“Look at this,” Emalind said, finding Reed's hand. “Well, you can't look, but--you know what I mean.” She placed her hair in his palm; she had braided it, carefully combing it out with her fingers every once in a while to try to keep it from tangling, but the strands were still matted and dusty. She sensed his confusion when he didn't speak, so she explained. “It's been the same length this entire time. My mother always complained that my hair grew faster than weeds, but it's been down to my waist and no longer, for six years. Still, I imagine I'll never get the knots out when I'm free. It will probably have to be cut off.” She shook her head sadly.
Reed ran his hand down the length of her hair from her neck to her hip, but stayed silent. “There is also this,” Emalind added, brushing his hand with her fingertips. “I told you I tore my fingernails off trying to dig my way out. I did that during my first days here, but they haven't grown back, have they?”
Reed prodded her fingers with his own, and she tried not to flinch away. “These wounds are still fresh!” he exclaimed, horror choking his voice.
“They don't heal, because you don't change when you're in here,” she finished quietly. She heard a scraping sound as Reed carefully sheathed his blade, but he didn't release her fingers with his other hand. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes.
“Well,” Reed finally said, laughing, “at least in here you don't have to worry about relieving yourself.” He shifted to try to make more room for her.
Emalind had just started to fall asleep again when Reed's subtle movement jolted her awake. She was used to sleeping most of the time, since there was nothing else to do; but sleeping, sitting up, with a newcomer inside her tree was another matter.
With his hand, Reed was tracing the curve of her jawline to her chin so softly she almost could have mistaken it for her own hair brushing her skin. “What are you doing?” she whispered, nervous.
“I'm trying to find out what you look like, since I can't see you,” he said. “Don't worry,” he added as she shied back, “I'm not planning anything untoward.”
Emalind sat as still as the tree surrounding them, while Reed ran his fingers over her lips, across the bridge of her nose, then up her cheek. He paused when he reached her eyelid, his fingers lingering on the skin just above her cheekbone. “What's this?” he asked.
“Oh,” Emalind laughed self-consciously. “A few times I cried, and rubbed my eyelids raw. I quickly learned not to cry anymore, after I found out they didn't get better.” Reed froze, the muscles in his arm tensing to hard knots. He jerked around, and Emalind soon heard the hollow scraping as his knife attacked the tree again.
“I'll soon have you out of this,” he growled. “And then see if that witch can stay my hand if I meet her again. It wouldn't be the first time this blade has tasted blood!”
“Reed, you wouldn't dare--you haven't killed anyone, have you?” Emalind shrank back against the trunk opposite him.
“Not myself. But my knife has known other masters, remember?” He chuckled darkly, then sighed. “You're right, anyway. If we see her before we leave the hills, I would be wise to keep my blade sheathed. But I will hold her to her word: It is our right to escape, if we can.”
Emalind already knew better than to argue with Reed on this. She listened to him drive the point of his knife into the tree, over and over. After what was probably several hours, he leaned back in exhaustion, and she made as much room for him as she could. Soon, his deep breathing told her that he slept, and she sat in the cramped darkness, eyes closed, until sleep finally found her again.
“It's your turn,” he whispered after she woke up and tried to stretch the kinks out of her back.
“What?” Emalind's thoughts were jumbled, and she wasn't sure which had been dreams and which were real. She thought she'd dreamed of someone with her in the tree. . . . Her head rested against cloth, with something warm underneath--a shoulder. “Reed?”
“It's your turn to see what I look like.” He laughed, and lifted her hand to his face when she hesitated.
“Um--I have no idea.” She was still a little muddled from sleep, but very quickly waking up. His face was right in front of hers; she could feel his breath on her forehead. There was no room in the tree to back up. Shakily, she moved her fingers across his features, lightly at first, then with more courage as she started to realize how starved she had been for the presence of another person. She clamped both hands onto the sides of his face, holding on in case he was a cruel spell of the witch's, and would evaporate at any second.
Reed laughed and cupped her face in his own hands. “It isn't as easy as you'd think. I would like to say you're as pretty as the picture of the girl in the inn. My fingers think so, at least.” Before she could answer, he leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. There was nowhere to go, so she wrapped her hands in his hair and returned the kiss.
After minutes, or hours--in the timeless dark it was impossible to tell--Reed finally pulled back. “Your lips taste like berries,” he murmured.
Emalind laughed, wiping her cheeks. “You have wood dust falling from your hair.”
Reed added to the dust over the next few hours, patiently chipping away at the thick trunk with his knife. Emalind soon grew brave enough to sing while he worked: nursery songs from her childhood, sad ballads she had learned from traveling bards who had stayed at the inn; even a few bawdy verses she'd heard, after sneaking out into the hall behind the inn's common room, to listen when her parents thought she'd long been asleep. These made Reed roar with laughter. Emalind had to clap her hands to her ears, since the tight space magnified every sound.
“You sing like an elf,” he said, finally taking a break from his carving. “You've had years to practice, of course.”
Emalind shrugged, knowing she was blushing. “Singing kept me from losing my mind . . . and also my voice. Have you met any elves?”
“Many. There's a large band of them who live in the pine forests near my village. There are tales that some of them intermixed with the Rock Clan, generations ago; so I have a bit of elven blood. You can tell by the tips of my ears, which are slightly more pointed than those of other humans.” He placed her hands on his ears so she could feel for herself.
“I'd love to meet an elf someday,” Emalind said, entranced.
“You will. After we get out of here--and you see your family first--I'll take you to meet my family. You can sing for the elves!” Emalind's smile was interrupted by his lips on hers again; after their embrace, he stroked her hair until she drifted into sleep.
While she slept, her dreams were punctuated by the steady, comforting sound of metal grating against wood. Reed's enthusiasm was starting to spread to her. The scraping had become the sound of freedom.
Emalind awoke when the noise abruptly stopped, opening her eyes to be confronted by a piercing, white-hot lance that stabbed at her face. Screaming, she covered her head to protect herself from her attacker. The witch has caught us trying to escape! she thought frantically. Or Reed has gone mad and is stabbing me!
Strong hands caught her arms and held her still, while Reed's worried voice cut over her screams. “No, no--I'm so sorry; I should have known. It's been so long since you've seen light. Close your eyes, and open them very gradually.”
“It's not the witch?” Emalind cried. “My eyes haven't been gouged out?”
“No, Emalind,” Reed said, laughing and kissing her eyelids. “It's just sunlight. I've finally broken through the tree's wall. It must have taken a day and a night, at least. The trunk is thick, about the width of my palm.”

[Kristin]

Part 3


Emalind cracked one eye open. After several minutes of squinting and forcing her eyes open a fraction at a time, she was finally able to see the edges of the hole Reed had carved, the first thing she had seen in six years. She couldn't look at the shaft of light directly, but gazed at the coin-sized patch the light revealed on Reed's face. She caught glimpses of pale skin, hair and eyes as dark as the midnight sky, and full, smiling lips.
He guided her face into the light in turn, being careful to keep her eyes away from the narrow beam. “Yes, I think I've found the girl the innkeepers are missing,” he joked. “She is a beautiful sight, after so long in darkness.”
By dusk, Reed had widened the hole to the size of his hand, then he moved aside so Emalind could look outside. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in delight as she beheld the giant oak trees on the hill, the bushes, full with dark red berries, and squirrels leaping from branch to branch. She breathed deeply, drinking in the myriad scents of the forest. Finally, when her eyes ached and her legs cramped from kneeling by the hole, she sat back. “I can smell the cooking fires from the village,” she said, tears rolling down her face.
Reed reached out to brush her hair away from her face. “Your hair is brown, not as pale as it was in your portrait.”
“Some of it might be dirt.” Emalind shrugged. “But it did change color a bit as I got older. I'm not surprised to see that you have dark hair and pale skin, though. I've met a few travelers from the Rock Clan when they come through the village. Their coloring doesn't vary.”
“No, so you can imagine how strange you will look to my people, since we rarely get visitors.” Reed settled against the trunk. Emalind curled up next to him; he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and they both looked out the tiny window of night sky.
All through the next day, Reed worked feverishly to widen the hole in the tree. They spoke in whispers, trying to make as little sound as possible so as not to alert the witch. Emalind kept her eyes averted, still unable to see well in direct sunlight. She looked at her hands instead, at the scratches along her fingers, and half moon-shaped patches where her nails used to be. They shone with bright red blood that had only partially clotted. She was fascinated by the sight of her unhealed wounds, because red was a color other than black, something she could see.
Before the sun had lost too much of its late-afternoon brightness, Reed finally sheathed his knife and gently shook Emalind out of a doze. “I think I can get my shoulders through,” he whispered. “Let's go, and get safely on the path before nightfall.”
Emalind stared at the hole without moving. Beyond the opening, the forest was silent and still like a painting. Only the scents drifting in, and the birds' chirping songs told her it was real.
“Shall I go first, to be sure all is safe?” Reed asked, a hint of urgency in his voice. “Then I will pull you out after.”
Emalind's eyes darted from Reed to the hole, and back. He nodded and started to poke his head out. “No--no, don't leave me in here alone!” Emalind yelped.
“Shhh!” Reed hissed, his finger to his lips. “Alright, you climb out first and I'll follow.” He started to push her to the opening, but she pulled back. Her breathing came fast and shallow; she glanced wildly around the trees, seeing things in every shadow. “I'll go first,” Reed said through gritted teeth, “but I'll hold your hand. I won't let go.”
Her throat constricted in panic, Emalind could only nod. Reed stuck his free arm and then his head out of the hole, wriggling and twisting until finally his wide shoulders were through. She clenched his hand with both her own, squeezing his wrist until fresh drops of blood oozed out of her fingertips onto his skin. He climbed out of the hole, then turned and pulled her through in a single, swift movement, setting her down on the soft forest floor.
Free. She was free. A cool, late spring breeze whistled through the branches. She leaned into it rapturously. Reed loosened his hold on her arms, and her knees gave way under her.
“Sorry! Sorry, my mistake, you haven't even stood up in six years. You'll need help walking.” He pulled her back to her feet, holding her up with one arm around her shoulders. They started down the slope of the hill toward the path below, which glittered in the last of the sun's light.
A sudden, sharp crack reverberated through the oaks behind them, sending the birds flying off in a cacophony of screeches. Reed wheeled around, dragging Emalind with him. They stared at the hollow tree they'd just left: It had closed up, not even the hint of a hole showing on its bumpy bark. The forest settled into an uneasy silence, but the echo of the tree's healing still sounded in Emalind's ears.
“Let's go, now,” she whispered. “Let's go, let's go.” Reed gulped and nodded, turning her back around to the path. Then he froze in his tracks, clenching his arm around her painfully.
A dark-cloaked figure stood directly in front of them, blocking their view of the trail below. It was hunched, yet still towered a foot over Reed. It lowered its head to glare at them with baleful eyes, shaking ropes of matted gray hair peppered with dried oak leaves.
“One year for one berry,” it whispered in a voice like the scraping of branches in the wind, pointing a yellow-clawed hand at Reed. It switched its stare to Emalind. “And your seven are not yet up.”
“Unless we find our way free,” Reed quoted. “You are bound by your oath; you must let us go. And Emalind has suffered enough for seven small berries.”
“Six have been paid for; there are two left, one for each of you,” the witch hissed, jerking her gnarled hand. The berries still in Emalind's stomach suddenly burned, like a fire eating her insides. She cried out in pain and tried to twist out of Reed's grasp.
Reed tightened his hold on her, pulling her close. “No! We freed ourselves, as you said in your spell!” he cried, his voice tight with desperation.
“You freed yourself alone, but merely helped the girl,” the witch said to Reed, “so if you both wish to leave, you must offer me something else in payment.” She lowered her hand, and her cracked lips parted in a sneer. The fire gone, Emalind collapsed into Reed's arms, shaking.
“What can I give you?” he asked warily.
“That which is most precious to you.” Her eyes flicked hungrily from Reed to Emalind.
“No!” He tried to shove Emalind behind him while still keeping her on her feet. “Anything else!”
She laughed softly. “What else do you, a poor traveler, have in your possession which would pay for the taste of my magic that you stole?”
Reed took several deep breaths. “There is this.” He pulled out his knife, almost concealing the shaking of his hand.
“Don't . . . don't,” Emalind moaned, almost imperceptibly.
“I'm not,” he whispered, then said aloud to the witch, “It's an elven blade from the north, passed down three generations. It's priceless.”
“Priceless, eh? Like my magic?” The witch eyed the blade greedily. “Do you think this a fair trade?”
“It's--a different sort of magic, but yes,” Reed said.
“Ah.” She seemed to consider for a moment, then held out her hand. The knife jerked out of Reed's grasp, arcing over to the witch, who caught it by the blade. “Your most precious possession in return for one berry. The seventh berry's debt now is also paid.” She flicked her hand out; the knife whistled through the air, embedding itself to the hilt in Emalind's side.
“You are free to go.” The witch cackled, and vanished in a swirl of dead leaves.
Reed jumped back in shock, losing his hold on Emalind. She slumped to the forest floor, blood slowly spreading over her beige dress, like berry juice. She grabbed the knife's handle and pulled feebly, but Reed dropped next to her, pushing her hand away.
“Let it be; it's keeping the rest of your blood inside. Don't fight me, even if it hurts.” He lifted her and sprinted down the hill to the trail. Emalind bit her cheeks to distract herself from the searing pain in her side, and concentrated on Reed's pale face, the flecks of wood dust still on his cheeks. He stared straight ahead as he ran. “I can see the roof of the inn now,” he panted after a few minutes. “Stay awake, Emalind. Please.”
She tried, but the brightness of his face, like the full moon, hurt her eyes; his midnight hair blended with the darkening sky, the dust glittering like the evening stars. . . . After a moment she saw nothing but black, and could no longer feel the white-hot intrusion of the knife under her ribs.

[Kristin]

Part 4


#
. . . The dirt underneath her was surprisingly soft, and she found she could stretch out without bumping into wooden walls. She smelled hot cider, but she shouldn't be able to smell anything but the musty inside of the tree. Confused, she turned over, and a sharp pain stabbed into her side.
“Ow!” Emalind yelped, and was startled by a gasp nearby. Someone grabbed her hand; her eyes flew open, and she stared into a pale face framed by black hair. Worried dark eyes gazed into her own.
“Ema--Emalind!” Reed cried, and covered her face in kisses. He leaped up from his chair and tripped over his own feet, falling to the wood floor with a thump. He scrambled across the room on all fours before regaining his footing, and yanked open the door. “Bren! Raynan! She's awake!”
Emalind stared around the room: her room, she recognized dimly. She lay on her bed, the patchwork blanket tucked up under her chin. A fire blazed in the small hearth across the room, an iron kettle steaming inside it and emitting a mouthwatering scent. The beige homespun curtains had been closed against the afternoon sun, so the room was bathed in a gentle twilight. Her room had changed as much in the past six years as she had; she could almost feel the desperate hope her parents had clung to, that somehow she would return home unscathed.
And she had. Almost. She looked at her hands; her fingertips had finally scabbed over. She poked her side experimentally. It ached even to breathe. “Bren? Raynan? My mother and father . . .” she tried to tell Reed, but he was already out in the hall. His yelling echoed through the inn, causing several tenants to poke their heads out of their doors curiously.
Soon more footsteps thundered up the hall, and people flooded into the room. Reed hopped in first, then stepped unobtrusively to the side of her bed, the grin on his face half a league long. Emalind recognized Dantsie, the village healer, and someone else who was probably an assistant; the healer bobbed her head up and down triumphantly and conversed with her aide in whispers by the foot of the bed.
But the people Emalind could not stop staring at were the two who came in last, drifting in almost timidly, as if this scene were an illusion that would be shattered if either of them dared to hope too much. Her father approached and sat in the rickety chair by the bed, twitching his wiry beard. Emalind noticed it was peppered with much more gray than she remembered. He reached out a calloused hand and placed it on Emalind's forehead. “That's a right proper boy you've got there, chipmunk,” he said, using her childhood nickname. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, blinking hard.
Her mother bumped into the bed, softly wailing into her apron, which she used to cover her entire face. Raynan stood and jerked his head toward the door. The visitors filed out, leaving only Bren, who collapsed into the chair her husband had just vacated, and shook with silent sobs.
“Ma,” Emalind said weakly. “Don't. I'm back, and not too much worse off.”
It was several minutes before Bren could control her breathing enough to speak. She gulped a few times, then started in a shaky voice. “He told us everything--your Reed. He took hours to brush the tangles from your hair, wouldn't let Dantsie near you with the clippers.” Emalind glanced to the side, noticing for the first time the waves of smooth, gold-brown tresses on her pillow. Her mother continued. “Didn't leave your side either, not even for food or drink. We had to bring everything in for him. Well, he did leave for the privy a few times, but other than that--”
Emalind tried not to laugh; it hurt. “Ma,” she said. “Do you know what?” When her mother shook her head, she continued. “The stories about a witch in the woods . . . they're true.” She snorted with more suppressed laughter, then flexed her side. “I seem to be at least partially healed up.”
“It was a while before we even knew if you would live,” her mother said, dabbing her puffy eyes with her apron. “Father was outside talking to the stableboy, and saw Reed come running out of the woods like a demon was at his heels. He recognized him right away as the lad from the Rocks, who stayed with us some days back. But then he saw who he was carrying, and that you--” she swallowed hard, “had his own knife sticking out of your side. Well, Father could have flayed him alive right then, but I'd run out myself to see what all the shouting was about. Took one look at his white face--you'd see right through him if the boy got any paler--and I knew he was just as frighted for you as we were, if not more. We all helped get you up to your bed, while the stableboy ran for the healer. Old Dantsie worked on you day and night, had to keep pushing Reed out of the way, the dear. Your father wanted to stir up all the men in the village, to march up to those hills with torches and--”
“No!” Emalind cried, trying to sit up and gasping in pain. The door creaked open, and Reed's face poked in. Bren waved him off.
She pushed her daughter back onto the pillows. “It's nothing to worry about. Reed talked him out of it, told him what she was capable of. But said that if you died, he'd lead the men up to the witch's hill himself and set all the bushes and oaks ablaze before the crone could blink.”
“He's not going to do it now, isn't he? Not Reed or Father?”
“Don't be silly, dear. You'll be right again soon, and the best thing is just to stay out of those hills, like everyone has always done--everyone except for you!”
“Nobody has to ever warn me about that again,” Emalind groaned. “How long was I asleep?”
“Six days. You turned for the better this very morning. You must be ravenous--you haven't eaten in that long.”
“It's been far longer than that, Ma. Or hasn't Reed told you?”
Bren shifted uncomfortably. “I'll get anything you want,” she said, avoiding the question. “Just name it, love.”
Emalind shrugged. “Whatever is in the kitchen will be
fine; as long as it isn't berries!”
The next morning's sun sent golden streams through the gap in the curtains. Emalind stood in front of them, nervously peeking out the window. There was a knock at the door. Reed entered, smiling brightly and carrying a tray laden with two bowls of porridge and fruit--no berries. Emalind snapped the curtains closed and limped back to the bed.
He set the tray on the bedside table, then drew her close to run his lips along her jawline from her ear to her chin. She smiled, but gently pushed him away to look him in the eyes. “Reed, I'm ready to leave.”
He knit his brows together in concern. “Leave?”
“I have nightmares of the witch--that she'll come for me if she learns I've survived.”
Reed shook his head. “Emalind, we can't leave yet.”
“We must. . . .”
“You can barely walk from here to the hall. And what of your parents? Their daughter has just returned. Don't do this to them.”
“I've spoken to Mother about it already. She isn't happy, but . . . she understands.” Emalind stared at Reed, pleading with her eyes.
“I don't think you are in danger of the witch returning,” he said. “I'm--not entirely sure that she intended to kill you.”
“How can you think that? You know what she did to me, and how Dantsie almost couldn't save me--”
“Yes, but we also know she could have killed either of us as easily as crooking her finger. She wanted only payment--and she got it. You paid a terrible price for getting out a year early; and I suffered more than a year's worth during the six days that your life balanced on the edge.”
Emalind shook her head in disgust. “All for a bunch of silly, stupid, useless berries!”
“Who knows what use she has for them?” Reed shrugged. “It could be the berries, or the entire forest itself, that hold the secret of her magic. She keeps to herself when no one disturbs her woods. I'm beginning to understand that those who wield magic follow strange rules. I should have learned that much from living near the elves.”
“Still, I want to leave. I feel that the dreams will stop when I'm no longer near the hills. And I can't even look in the direction of my window without being afraid. Even the safe oak woods of my childhood seem menacing to me now.” She set her jaw stubbornly, daring him with her eyes to refuse.
He sighed. “Very well, we will leave, but not a day sooner than you can walk without effort.”
“Get me a cart, and I will ride.”
“A cart will not travel well in the northern lands.” He smiled indulgently. “And you will still need to be strong in order to ride a horse.”
Emalind crossed her arms and sulked. “Fine, but not a day later.”
Reed laughed. “You are outnumbered, dearest. Your mother, father, myself, and the formidable Dantsie, all of us are intent on your complete healing--”
“My father has never told you of my legendary tantrums, has he?” It was Emalind's turn to laugh.

[Kristin]

Part 5 and finally the end!


#
Emalind was glad it was overcast; bright light still bothered her eyes. She sat on her chestnut mare, while Reed tightened the saddlebags. He finished, and reached up a hand to press it against the spot under her ribs where the scar still burned an angry red. It twinged, but wasn't too bad.
“Are you sure you feel ready?” he asked for the tenth time, smoothing her dress.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. I can walk up and down the stairs now without help. I'm healing faster than even Dantsie expected.” She reached down to hug Bren again, who clung to her daughter with one hand and her tear-soaked apron with the other. “We'll visit soon, Ma,” she assured her. “The Rock Clan is only a fortnight's walk away, and faster on horses.”
“You are always welcome in our village, as you know,” Reed told them.
“We'll make the trip up soon,” Raynan said gruffly, rubbing his face. “Just to make sure she's not running off into the pines somewhere.”
Reed laughed. “If she does, the elves will keep her from harm--in the unlikely chance I let her out of my sight.”
Emalind swiveled in the saddle to wave to her family, and caught a glimpse of the giant oaks' branches poking over the top of the inn, swaying in the breeze. She shuddered and hurriedly turned to face forward. Reed urged the horse into a gentle walk, and they left Oak Village.
As time passed, Emalind often did roam deep into the northern pine forests, but only accompanied by Reed or the elves; she did indeed have many chances to sing with them. When she and Reed visited her village, they always took a room with a window facing the north. She rarely looked in the direction of the oaks, and never ventured any farther south than the edge of the stables at the side of the inn.
The day came when Reed passed the elven blade to their own son, and told the boy the story of how it had almost killed his mother. Frequently, after kissing Emalind, Reed would remark that her lips tasted like berries, though she never ate them. And just as often, Emalind would brush away the wood dust that mysteriously appeared in Reed's hair and on his cheeks.

[Apathy's_Child]

This is good - it's well-written, and uses folklore and fairytale elements simply, which is much more effective IMO than trying to create a whole other world with hosts and hosts of magical beings, and losing your focus in a sea of self-important attempts at epic writing.

I have two criticisms, since you've indicated that you're open to them. Firstly, I thought that the romance took off far too quickly - he's in the tree and next thing you know, they're kissing. Personally, I think it would work better in terms of relationship development if you did one of two things - either extend the time they were trapped in the tree, and add some further means of connection between the two - OR, perhaps you were going for the idea that she's seizing on him, since he's the first person she's spoken with in years. This can work, but I think you'd need to add some subtle undertones which make it clearer.

Also, her leaving out of fear of the witch left me feeling that the whole thing was slightly unresolved. Since you're working within the basic frame of mythology, in which the monster is defeated (either slain, or rendered harmless), I felt that it's missing something without this or some other form of resolution. Maybe you're going for a darker undertone to the ending, in which the primal savagery of the witch wins (they only "won" on her terms, a semi-hollow victory). The eternal taste of berries and recurring wood dust give a sense of this, but I think it needs some slight developing - to give a crude example, maybe E will have nightmares, or be too afraid to walk right up to a tree, for the rest of her life.

I liked it though, as the fact that I read the whole thing should make clear. I don't often bother with entire stories on here, as they tend to become tedious after two paragraphs, but this was good. It would make a great fairy tale for children.

[Kristin]

I so appreciate your advice, AC! *big cyber cookie to you* My daughter has told me as well that the romance takes off too quickly. I tried to fix it but am still at a loss, since I don't usually write *short* stories, and haven't delved into romance yet either. I just finished a 125,000-word novel with about one page of hinted-at romance in the entire book. The second book gets romantic, so I knew I had to practice getting mushy on paper.

I think you're right about that though, so I'll have to try to work it out in the next couple of days. I'm itching to get back to rewriting my book, so I want to get this story out of the way. LOL

The witch's basic makeup is that she won't hurt anyone as long as they don't mess with HER stuff - so in a way the witch did win, since she got her payment even if it wasn't the way she'd originally planned it. Emalind was afraid for the rest of her life to go near the woods near her home, so far as being perfectly happy to relocate to Reed's village. Is that something that I should somehow clarify more, or was it some other part of the ending that you think needs to be fixed?

Originally Posted by Apathy's_Child

...which is much more effective IMO than trying to create a whole other world with hosts and hosts of magical beings, and losing your focus in a sea of self-important attempts at epic writing.

I know what you mean. I've been reading Eragon for some time (only having time to read a few pages a day), and I'm getting to the point where I feel like he's trying to cram so much history, rules, made-up language, and other stuff into his story that it now seems like an overinflated "epic" novel. Maybe I'm wrong, but it feels tedious to me now. I was trying to avoid that when I was writing my book, but I'm not a good judge of my own writing.

[Apathy's_Child]

I don't know, maybe make her leaving more about being with Reed than fleeing? I kind of got the sense she was running away from the witch above all, which left me just a little unsatisfied. Still, not all advice has to be taken if you're happy with it. It's your story, and many works of literature would be immeasurably poorer if the authors had listened to their editors.

I know what you mean about Eragon. The only reason it got so big was because a kid wrote it - impressive, perhaps, but not enough to make it interesting if you're over the age of 9. I thought it sucked and only got through about 40 pages.

[eats cookie]