The Door

Estimated read time: 17 minutes

      It took a long time for the old house in the overgrown forest to sell. It was pretty enough, but a fixer-upper, and that had always put people off. But someone brave had eventually seen it, seen what it could become, and took the plunge. Once the greenery was tamed and the walls and balconies repaired, it was beautiful. They had created something wonderful, something small, rustic and scenic, where people could get off the road and stay for a night or two without bedding down in their wagons or under trees. A 'motel', they'd called it, rather than 'inn', and that word alone drew people in.

     But it hadn't worked. The wrong partners, the wrong labourers; the wrong decisions. It was doomed from the start. Mismanaged. Dirty. Unstable. There were skeletons of all kinds where people couldn't see them. And it changed hands frequently; sometimes to those of someone bold, who could see what the first person had. But it never worked out. The house had always had bad energy; people always gave up and left. And it always drew unsavoury tenants. Or people who were hurting. Or people who were desperate and had nowhere else to go.

     Little Annie, daughter of one of its many owners, decided long ago that it was because of the Door. It only opened from one side, was visible from neither, and stood somewhere in the westmost room of the bottom floor. That door, she'd decided, was cursed. Bad things always got through. So did the cold, like a never-ending draft. A wintry cold - the kind that should've meant snow or ice outside, but lied. She hated that, always had; if it was cold, there should be snow. What was the point if you couldn't build snowmen or have snowball fights? Where was the fun? What was the point in anything if there wasn't any fun?

     That was the only reason she and her brother had investigated the door, but the fun had quickly run out, if it had even started. And, as long ago as that was, she still didn't really understand it. But she felt like she wasn't supposed to.

     So, she sought fun elsewhere, though the kind that came to this 'motel' wasn't the normal kind. Yule was nowhere to be seen. Nor Beltane, nor Lughnasadh, nor Samhain. But music was; people heading to festivals. So were games of chase, people running from or looking for other people, and treasure hunts - all kinds was stashed and hidden away in nooks and crannies. And there was a lot of wrestling, especially when doors were locked.

     So when the right kind of fun came around, Annie always liked to get involved, and dragged her big brother along in the process.

     Annie's voice strained as she reached to hang her length of string from an old nail near the ceiling. She didn't quite hook it, but that was okay. It stayed where it was anyway, just like the torn confetti she'd scattered through the air. They'd all stay exactly where she'd put them until they were taken down again. Everything in the old birthday box was like that; over-used but determined, happy to be a part of any celebration.

     "Is this all right?" Peter asked from across the room where he'd tied his length of the bunting. The question came with the usual bleak shadow in his voice. Every party always seemed to make him sad. "Pity", was all he'd say about it, and when Annie asked "what was", he just shook his head and told her not to worry. "It's not our problem."

     His glumness barely grazed her anymore. He was a barrel of fun otherwise. Everyone had their thing, and this was his.

     "Yes," she replied, peering backwards along the length of ribbons, "perfect!"

     "Why are we bothering?" He asked as he helped her down from the stack of boxes. "They won't see any of this."

     "Because," she replied simply, "it might help them if it goes wrong."

     He didn't reply beyond a grunt. For all his complaints, he always helped anyway.

     Annie stepped back and admired their work. Hands on her hips, she gave it a single, satisfied nod, then turned and repaid her brother with a hug. "I wish we had a cake, though."

     "I know, but there wouldn't be any point."

     The door latch moved again, silencing her protest, and the pair of them scrambled away to hide atop the wardrobe, even though Peter was almost as big. There, they watched the woman come back inside, beaming excitedly while another followed. Annie grinned as a smile spread across her face. "Funny sort of party, though," she whispered to her brother. "Just two people..."

     "Normal for this place."

     She squeezed his hand and grinned, wriggling happily beside him.

     "Decorating a room in an inn? Elisabeth, it's too much work for--"

     "Your birthday? I disagree." The first lady slipped into the other's arms and kissed her. "It might just be a quick stop-over, but it's worth it. Birthdays only come once a year!"

     "Yeah, every year."

     "Ugh, Rosemary--"

     "I'm kidding!" Rosemary kissed her again. "I love it." Then she let her go, closed the door, and began dividing bread, cheese and dried meat while Elisabeth lit candles from the fireplace. "I thought we'd stop at Rangeroak tomorrow - there's a huge field of white pumpkins I thought you'd like to see."

     'White pumpkins?' Annie mouthed to her brother, but he could only shrug.

     They watched the pair and waited for the party to start, but instead they both just sat down with their dinner and talked together beside the fire. So they waited. And they waited. And waited. Once it had gone black outside, boredom finally lured Annie to sleep. A clatter and screaming laugh in a room nearby jolted her back.

     Peter's hand rested softly on her shoulder before she could fall, and she found the two women right where she'd left them, bundled in a blanket and looking towards the window. It was a long few minutes before the tension left their shoulders.

     "This place is a shame," Rosemary murmured as she settled back against the other. "Maybe we should buy it, do it up. Do it justice. All it takes is the right pair of hands."

     "We have enough on our plate," Elisabeth replied, placing her hand gently on Rosemary's belly. "Can't be taking on anything else right now. Ooh, speaking of which..." She disentangled herself from the blanket and headed for the door. "I have something for you."

     "A gift? Elisabeth, we can't afford that!"

     "Oh hush, it's your birthday. And besides," a rush of cold air flooded in as she opened the door, sending Rosemary deeper into the wool, "it didn't cost me anything."

     "Oh. Then I'm not sure I want it."

     She rolled her eyes, took her coat and stepped out into the dark. "Gods save us if this baby has your sense of humour."

     "Then it will have a very happy life," Rosemary grinned while the latch clicked shut, then rose and left for the wash room.

     And Annie, with a weary puff, finally clambered down from the top of the wardrobe.

     "This," she sighed, straightening her dress and putting her little fists on her hips, "is unbelievably boring. These adults are the most useless at parties." She turned and peered up towards her bleary-eyed brother. "Come down, let's lea--"

     "Who are you?"

     Annie's voice caught with a squeak in her throat as the pair of them snapped wide-eyed towards the wash room, where Rosemary stood in a panic in the doorway, staring back at Annie.

     "And what are you doing in here?!"

     Annie blinked slowly. "You..." Then she cleared her throat, straightened, and turned to face her directly. "I'm helping."

     "Helping?" She stared on. "With what? And how did you get in?!"

     "Through the door..."

     "When?!"

     "A while ago..."

     The woman moved into the room, looking warily from her, to the door, then the rest of the room. "I didn't...see you before..."

     "Of course you didn't. Because I was hiding." She pointed towards the top of the wardrobe. "Up there."

     She followed her finger. "How could you get up there?"

     "I climbed on the boxes."

     "...What boxes?"

     "Well they're not here..."

     "Not here? All of a sudden?" Her eyes sank back down and stared at her for a long while, thought moving rapidly across her face. But she didn't seem to land on anything she was happy with.

     Annie waited, hands held politely behind her back, but she clearly wasn't going to continue. "You look worried."

     "And you look pale. Are you all right?"

     "Oh," the giggle bubbled out, brushing a peculiar smile over the woman's lips, "I'm fine, thank you very much for asking."

     Then her dark eyebrows narrowed. "But?"

     "...Weeeell..." She sucked air in between her teeth. "I'm a bit...stuck."

     "Sssstuck?"

     "Mhm. We both are."

     "Both?"

     Peter then obediently stepped forwards. The woman flinched back in surprise. It seemed she hadn't spotted him yet, waiting behind the wardrobe.

     "Oh," she sighed, collecting herself. "Well," then she turned and moved towards the door. She'd barely touched the handle when Annie giggled again.

     "Not stuck in this room!"

     "Annie--"

     "Stuck in this place."

     "This place?" She asked. "You mean the building? You're not allowed out? Are your parents the owners?"

     "Weeeell--"

     "Annie," Peter said firmly, "stop."

     "Annie," the woman said carefully, judging the charge in the young man's stare, "is that your name?"

     "Yep! And this is Peter, my big brother. We go everywhere together!"

     The same smile flickered back across her face, and her hand moved to her tummy. "That's nice."

     "It is, isn't it?" Annie beamed. "I annoy him, but he likes me really. And when I got stuck here, he came after me!"

     Then a frown pushed aside the woman's smile, but before her next question could leap from her lips, a voice rose from outside. She sent the both of them a deliberate look. "Wait. Here." Then she turned, opened the door and stepped outside.

     Peter took Annie quickly by the shoulder. "What are you doing?" His voice was dangerously low.

     But his tone didn't touch her. "She," she snatched herself back, "could help us. She can see--"

     Rosemary came back inside, grabbed a set of keys from a table and tossed them down from the balcony. Then she returned to them. "You shouldn't be here."

     "I know," Peter replied witheringly, "but she doesn't listen. We're sorry, we'll leave."

     "No," she sighed, stopping him from steering her away with a gesture, "it's all right. Look, I'll take you to your parents. It's too late to be wandering around alo--"

     "We appreciate that," Annie replied carefully, slipping again from her brother's grip, "but maybe you can help us another way."

     "Oh? And how would that be?"

     Annie gave her a straight look. It stunned her for a moment. "Get us out."

     "Uh...n-no--well I can't - but I can inform the guard in the next village if that's what you need..."

     Annie's sudden giggle seemed to stall her again. "Oh, no, nothing like that! No, we just need you to open the door."

     "Annie!"

     The woman sighed and crouched down in front of her. "Look, I'm sorry, Annie, Peter, but I can't help you run away--"

     "We're not running away," she groaned, "we're trapped."

     "I don't see the difference."

     "Then I'll explain, it's very simple. It's not a door to outside. It's just a door, on the bottom floor, in the westmost room. You just need to open it."

     "...Just open a door?" She cocked a dark, sceptical eyebrow again. "And then what will you do?"

     "Be free."

     "Ignore her, Miss," Peter told her. "It's nonsense. Annie, we're stuck here, just leave her be."

     "If we're stuck here," she spun back to him, "then she can always just try. If it doesn't work, fine. But she needs to try."

     "What's on the other side of this door? It's not a back door to the forest, is it?"

     "No," she replied, returning to her, hands held politely behind her back, "it doesn't go outside. I said that."

     But the woman just looked at them with the same hook in her eyebrow. She seemed to be staring through them, because her eyes didn't follow as Annie stepped past her and walked through the door.

     "It won't take long, I promise. We'll show you the room. Then you can decide what to do - just, don't go through it yourself."

     "Annie--"

     "Peter, you have to come along. We can't miss our chance And I don't want to be without you..."

     He sighed heavily and followed while Rosemary hurried to block the door. She was too late.

     "Annie--Annie, Peter, wait--ugh." She cursed and followed them, snatching a candle and her coat from the peg.

     Rosemary wrapped herself tightly as she moved along the rickety balcony, shielding the candlelight while the wind tried to blow it out. Shadows danced maniacally across the walls. She called to her partner while she went, claiming to be speaking to the owner about something.

     "Take your time," Elisabeth called back, "I can't seem to find it..."

     "Why doesn't that surprise me?" She muttered with a smile. Then she descended the stairs after the children and stepped back inside.

     The corridor was dark and immediately so much colder, but the children were already out of sight, so she didn't spare it a thought, hurrying along instead. The candlelight reached them at last, standing outside an end room with the words 'no entry' hung on the door.

     Annie turned her a smile. "It's in here."

     "And you just need me to open it?"

     "Yes, please."

     She could feel her heart racing. Something was wrong. Even so, she opened the door. Somehow, it was even darker and colder beyond.

     She hesitated while the children rushed in. Something was seizing her, something with long fingers closing slowly around her throat. She'd felt fear like this only twice before in her life.

     She moved before it could overwhelm her, just as she wished she had before, and her meagre light spilled over everything. It was a tiny storage room, filled with crates, barrels and sacks. It smelled of oats and mould.

     She couldn't see a door, though.

     "See?" Peter sighed. "I told you. No point."

     But Annie didn't say a word. The shadow as hope left her eyes was enough.

     Rosemary smiled sadly, but just as she was about to reach for the girl's hand and lead them out, she heard the ring of a bell. Muffled.

     She frowned and looked closer at the wall. There was something on the other side... "The door's hidden?"

     "Yes!" Light flashed back into the girl's eyes. "But it is here, you have to find it!"

     Peter said nothing from her side. She found him suddenly staring, watching the situation cautiously. That set a small, dubious fire in her heart.

     Rosemary set the candle down and began pressing along the wall. It didn't take long for footsteps to sound in the hallway behind them.

     "Hurry!" Annie whispered.

     She pressed harder, moving up and down, her fire flaring hotter.

     The footsteps outside grew louder.

     "They're going to stop you! You have to open the door!"

     She could hear Peter murmuring 'please find it, please find it, please find it' behind her.

     And the footsteps were still getting closer.

     She gritted her teeth. The bell was still ringing. This was the right wall. The door was hidden. She moved along.

     The footsteps were right on top of them when something finally shifted.

     The hidden door swung open, and the children ran in without a word.

     "Why is this door open?" A voice came from the hallway. "Hey! Who's there?"

     Rosemary cursed and rushed through, crashed into the children on the other side and pulled the door shut quickly behind her.

     "No!"

     The room flashes awake. A dull, grey light.

     Vast. Endless. A cathedral of pillars and broken white columns.

     A hum felt, not heard. Annie is crying. Peter is comforting her.

     Rosemary turns around. The door is gone. The wall is gone. It's just more. More.

     The fire in her heart flares again. It leaps again, and sinks like lead. "...Where are we?"

     But Annie is still crying, kneeling over something.

     Rosemary inches closer.

     Two skeletons lay on the floor.

     Her throat closes up. Something roots her feet. Her stomach twists in knots. "W-what is--" The words stick.

     Her eyes drag away. A paper lantern, unlit and full of holes, drifts by. A string of bunting hangs, hooked to nothing. Birthday decorations. All bleached grey.

     She spins around, lead feet striking hard ground but making only half a sound. "Where's the door? Annie?! Where is it?!"

     The girl looks back up from the skeleton. It's small, Rosemary notices, and wears the same yellow ribbon she does. Her voice is ragged with hiccups. "I told y-you...not t-to...step th-through..."

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2021 Kim Wedlock

Happy Halloween

 I've been busy with art lately, and here are my newest pieces, all for Halloween.

Embrace The Curse

Lun'ul

Evigskord


As always, you can support my writing and illustrations through Patreon ♥

Not After Midnight

Estimated read time: 8 minutes

     The cackle of children was the only sound to break the chill, autumn night. No breeze stirred but what was whipped up when they jumped or ran, and the fog shied back from the gusts of their breath. Nothing and no one roamed the roads they followed, nor the fields they crossed. There was only the village far ahead of them, and the troupers' caravan far behind.
     Yet they peered into bushes, high up into trees, and around behind notice posts anyway, searching for anything older human eyes might not be able to see.
     They always turned up empty.
     But they walked on, undiscouraged, until the road passed over a river running thick with the recent rains, where there was still certainly enough room beneath the bridge for a troll to hide. But it must have been out hunting for other nosy children that night, because it was nowhere at all to be seen. Again.
     The constant lack of any kind of sighting was beginning to grate. Why call it 'The Troll Bridge' if there was no troll?
     But, when a deep, mournful creak rolled through the air like the snore of some huge, sluggish beast, all six of the children came to a secretly hopeful stop and peered up along the river.
     The old mill stood out along the waterside, a dark silhouette, glowing in the fog while the full moon hung behind it. It was a deathly sight, forbidding; the place itself was like a phantom.
     The creak groaned again as they stared.
     The youngest boy slid up closer to the others, his eyes just as wide as the moon as he peered up over the top of the bridge wall. "W-why does it make that noise?"
     "The storyteller might know," an older girl replied, her own eyes far narrower. "We could go back to the caravan and ask him."
     "We don't need to ask him."
     Her sceptical gaze flicked towards another boy, who regarded the scene with confidence.
     "And why not?"
     "Because," he turned her a smug grin, "I know what it is."
     Other various degrees of doubt tumbled onto him.
     "It's the ghost of a troubadour, who broke his neck when he was trying to get away out the window when the miller caught him with his daughter. And now his ghost is stuck in there, tuning his screechy strings, getting ready to serenade her so she'll fall in love with him and run away from her stupid father."
     All eyes turned back out across the river - except for one boy, who adamantly shook his head. "Yer wrong and stupid, Tam. It weren't no troubledor, it were a witch. She cast 'er spells and tried to take the whole village as slaves, but they caught 'er before she could finish, and tied 'er to the water wheel, and she starved and drowned. It's true, me da' told me!"
     "And this time, you're wrong and stupid, Rhys."
     Rhys's cheeks flushed bright red even as he scowled towards the oldest girl. They burned brighter as he watched her lean against the drystone. "I bet you don't know what it is, Mandy. Yer stupider than I am."
     Mandy fired him a scowl of her own. "I do know, actually. It's just the wheel creaking. It's old and makes lots of noise, especially when the river's this high. Some nights it spins faster and gets louder. And some nights it spins even faster, until it's screaming into the moon, spun by the ghosts of the river's drowned dead."
     The children all fell silent and watched the distant wheel turn slowly in the darkness.
     Then a black mass of crows suddenly erupted from a tree a short ways up the river, and all the children jumped and squeaked.
     A long moment later, when their hearts had stopped hammering and the youngest had stopped crying, the final girl spoke up, her voice careful, considered, and her eyes as sober as stone. "You're all half-right," she said, immediately drawing their attention. "There was a witch, and murder, and the dead turn the wheel.
     "The millers owed a witch for lifting a sickness off of them, but they couldn't afford to repay her. They wouldn't admit that, though, so they saved what they could, setting aside a little of their earnings every week, and the witch was patient. It was all fine - until the village found out about it. They thought that, because they were alive by the witch's magic, they were still under her spell, and she was using them to poison the grain and kill or enslave the entire village. So the village killed them before they could."
     "How awful!" The youngest boy gasped, and the girl simply nodded her head.
     "But they were good, honest people, so even in death they're still trying to repay the witch and feed the village that murdered them. That's what the creak is."
     "That's so sad," Mandy sniffed. "Should we go and talk to them? Tell them to stop?"
     "Many have tried. Everyone who has have fallen ill with the same sickness the witch cured them of."
     "Oh... Then can't the witch just help them pass on?"
     The girl shook her head, her eyes glassy and burdened as she watched the wheel turn. "She can't. And she feels guilty, so her ghost haunts the mill, protecting them while they work. No one who goes in there ever survives..."
     Silence closed in around them as though the night itself had swelled, and suddenly the lone, woeful creak didn't seem so frightening anymore.
     Tam was the first to stir, drawing his eyes to the sky. The rest stared at him in outrage when he dared to break the stillness with a whisper. "I have to go. It's nearly midnight and my mum will flip her lid if I'm any later."
     "Ours too," the youngest girl said, taking the youngest boy's hand.
     "I'll walk back with you," Mandy declared, at which Rhys immediately decided to follow. Soon, all six children were walking back along the road, steeped in their thoughts, until they reached the boundary of their village.
     "Not going in, Rin?" Tam frowned as the girl with burdened eyes took a bucket from beside her front door and started back towards the fields.
     "No, I promised my dad I'd milk the cow for the morning time."
     "Oh, okay. G'night."
     "'Night."
     Rin left the village behind her and dashed out to find her family's meagre cattle, sleeping in the fields. She slowed as she neared, and looked back around through the darkness.
     No one was following her.
     She knelt beside one of them and pulled the knife from her boot, hushing and soothing the startled creature as she let the blood from its neck. Once the bucket was a quarter-filled, she smeared mud over the wound, whispered another apology, then ran off towards the river.

*

     The ghostly fog had dispersed. The mill stood now as just another black, crumbling shape in the night.
     Rin crept towards its old, wooden door, knocked three times, then once with her foot, then twice more with her knuckles, and entered.
     Moonlight seeped in from the cracks in the derelict ceiling, dust drifted like snow in the beams, and mice darted between her footsteps. The rattle of the bucket's handle was the only sound to be noticed, but she could hear the rasp in the shadows if she listened for it.
     She stopped beside the grind stone just as a sharp and ragged sound broke through the innate silence. Then the rasping grew. The floating motes of dust undulated on the air.
     And a face appeared from the darkness.
     A face with sinking, misaligned eye sockets, a split bottom jaw cocked to the left, and a skull that was larger on one side than the other; a head set upon a long neck above bony shoulders, one disproportionately smaller, that mantled a broken rib cage, several of which were split outwards.
     There was nothing else beneath it.
     It peered down at Rin, and Rin smiled back.
     "I'm sorry I'm late," she said, extending the bucket, and watched the long, broken, bony hand reach out to take it. Then hesitate, as it always did. It gave in when she rattled it.
     "You don't need to keep coming here," the wraith told her in a distant, shattered voice. "It's not safe. And I'm happy alone."
     "Of course you are."
     "Mmph."
     She watched the wraith vanish, then reappear on the far side of the mill, floating as if it sat in a chair. She followed after him. "Sure you don't want to pass on?"
     The wraith nodded. "I'm content here for now, thank you."
     "I'll always ask."
     "I know. But not after midnight."
     "Never after midnight." She sat down beside him and waited patiently for that single stroke of the dark, when he would recount another of his lost and ancient memories.

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2021 Kim Wedlock

The Harvest Watch

Estimated read time: 13 minutes

     It wasn't that long ago when the wild things still wandered; when the forests were still dark places and village walls meant only tentative safety. When there were no reliable hearthfires, no filling meals every night, no guarantee of survival through the winter - none of the luxuries we have now in our rug-strewn, stone-built homes.

     It wasn't that long ago, and yet, for that basic uncertainty, things were done so very differently.

     Before the leaves fell - before they even turned - the final harvest of the year would take place. From the beginning of August to the end of September, villages would be out cutting and gathering their grains, laying them out to dry and storing them through the winter - some to eat, most to sell. Whatever was needed. And then, when the coldest months came, the oldest or sickest animals would be slaughtered. But that meat would never go far enough. Grains were staple. Crucial. Populations relied on those more than anything else.

     But even without the risk of stampedes or smoking-house fires, a grain harvest was never a straight-forward thing. Aside from the back-breaking work, there were also the threats of rot and pests. One ill-timed autumn rain could plunge whole provinces into famine. And so the old deities were beseeched and offerings left to the wild itself, to appease the witches and the vengeful spirits that dwelled within against attack, abduction, cursing the grain or directing the scavengers.

     And it wasn't that long ago that the deities may have answered.

     The girl turned her father a wide-eyed look through the dappled forest light, and again she watched the strange pride in his smile as he nodded his head towards the tree stump.
     For some reason, of all the children in the village, she'd been the one chosen to carry out some kind of important duty. She'd been taught a poem, shown how to arrange wheat husks, and that morning had her golden hair pulled and braided with summer flowers and her dress painted with berries. Then she'd been brought out here, so deep into the forest she couldn't see the fields behind them. That was strange, after having been told for eight years not to stray anywhere near the trees, but being here now was...exciting. And scary. So scary and so exciting that she couldn't keep her knees still. And only partly because of all the villagers' eyes on her.
     With a deep breath, she looked ahead and took the last two steps towards the tree stump, stole a glance up at the twisted woody giant looming close behind it, then followed her gaze as it dragged back to the bundle in her hands. The first head of grain, cut by her father that morning, a privilege for his daughter having been chosen. Leaving this on the altar and speaking the old poem was supposed to make the forest happy and keep them safe while they worked in the fields outside. But that, she'd decided, didn't make any sense. Why grain and not a loaf of bread? And would bread or grain really make the forest happy?
     Probably not. There wouldn't be enough. The forest was big. And once the grain was gone, it was gone, and the happiness would be gone with it. It wouldn't last anywhere near long enough to cut the crops. It had taken a year last time, as far as she could remember. Certainly not the two months her mother kept saying it was.
     But the grown ups wouldn't listen. So she'd taken matters into her own hands.
     While the adults watched, she reached out and laid the head of grain on the tree stump just as she'd been taught to, perfectly in the centre of the few rings and carved shapes she could see through the lichen. Then she stepped back and carefully recited the words:

"The first head cut,

we bring to appease,

and carry our

hearts bare in our pleas.

Contain this time

your huntress shadows,

and spare our young

the depths of barrows."

     She stole a peek behind her. All eyes were closed.

     She bent quickly and set her straw-stuffed doll down at the foot of the stump, and was upright again before anyone noticed. "Tall trees; fields fallow; may we all thrive as one."

     There was a murmur of approval behind her while the rest of the village stirred, and as her father's hand came to rest proudly on her shoulder, she erased her mischievous smile, stood tall, then turned and led the gathering away. As their footsteps moved from twigs to grass, the forest fell silent behind them.
     And the twisted tree looming over the stump twitched.

     Two flecks of green glowed softly like fireflies in hollow sockets, barely breaking the dappled darkness, and a head of twigs, woven into a horned bear skull, creaked high on its neck among the boughs. The silent, glowing stare followed the fleshy creatures closely. And only once stillness embraced the dark again did the tangled trunk follow.
     With barely a rustle through the sticks and roots, the misshapen trunk split, and two latticed, lichen-marked legs stepped over the altar in a single stride. Three steps the kvistdjur took, a guardian grown of twigs and roots, before it stopped frozen again and turned back to the stump. For a long while, it stared at the head of grain resting on top.
     The warning had been made. The humans were moving.
     And the kvistdjur would stand guard against them.
     Turning on its wooden heel, it began its march to the edge of the shadows to take up its vigil against the creatures loose in their golden fields, until a squirrel bounced onto its leafy antlers from a branch above. Again it froze, obligingly this time, and glowing eyes followed it down to its shoulder, along its arm, down its leg and across to the altar. And there it noticed, as the squirrel stopped and sniffed tentatively at the foot, a small human of equal size sitting among the roots.
     Its horned head twitched.
     As fast and graceful as a mantis, the kvistdjur flickered to its knees beside it. But while the squirrel sprang up to the grain, the kvistdjur realised its mistake. It was no living human, but a thing in human cladding and stuffed with dry grass.
     Slowly, the kvistdjur peered closer. The cladding was frayed, the straw was rotting, and the nut that resembled its head was cracked and scarred. The thing didn't move as it was prodded with a woody talon.
     For another long moment, it watched and waited, but still nothing happened. So, while the squirrel began stealing apart the grain, chittering at its approaching kin, the kvistdjur dismissed it, rose without a sound, and marched at last to its vigil.

     For days, the kvistdjur roamed the woods, watching the humans and their scythes butcher the golden fields. They were dangerous with these weapons; they cut too clean, too quick, too greedily. Saplings and squirrels would be no match. Too much could fall too fast, and if they were left unchallenged, the humans would do it again the next year, and the year after that, and more of them would join with each swarm.
     And that morning, in the dying light of a half-moon, they had wandered the closest yet.
     The kvistdjur stared from the shadows, firefly eyes aglow with every flash of steel, woody talons twitching, as long and sharp as scythes themselves. Their voices were too clear. It could feel them in the ground, see them fluttering through the leaves, disturbing every edge of life until those animals who were able finally moved away for sleep or safety. Before too long, the wilds would grow wistfully empty.
     Glinting movement towards the eastern edge suddenly snatched its malicious stare, and it dashed ahead while the glowing heart in its chest tightened and flared through the weave of its ribs. A tall, skinny one was moving slowly towards the trees.
     Wrapped in shadow, the kvistdjur stopped nearby and controlled the flare of its heart.
     Nearer, the creature wandered.
     Nearer.
     Nearer.
     The kvistdjur's talons stretched and flexed, its leg twitched impatiently. But before it could flicker forwards, the figure stopped and sat down in the shade.
     The kvistdjur remained as watchful, rigid and motionless as the trees.
     For several long minutes, the skinny one held its burning attention without once turning at the heat of those eyes. Then it rose again and moved back into the fields, oblivious to the danger.
     Slowly, the woven guardian creaked and settled in the shift of dappled light, until another voice stirred the leaves nearby, one higher and more vibrant than the rest.
     Again, its stare flicked onto its target: a small human, fairer and more golden than the rest. But this small one didn't cut, instead it gathered what the others had reaped and bundled it up in arms too small for the job, yet a job it did with glee.
     This one, the kvistdjur watched for a long while.

     Another puff of alarm went up ahead as the trees bent out of the kvistdjur's way, and the hunting one ran and stumbled on through the roots, firing back another haphazard arrow that whistled through the guardian's woven body. But it already had distance; the bow gave it reach. The kvistdjur couldn't chase it all the way out, and it was already too far from its post. It had little choice but to leave the hunting one to another. It was far from the only guardian in these woods.

     As fast as a bird, it turned and surged back through the forest, flickering between the trunks towards the edge of the trees where again it stopped, stared, and twitched at every flash of the scythes and every careless movement. But this time its eyes were searching, and as the small human walked by again, struggling with the bundles of grain, red-faced and glistening in the sunlight, the kvistdjur's attention settled.

     An entire moon had passed since the warning was left on the stump; that night, the sky was black and empty, and where the humans had retreated inside, light glowed through the holes in their nests.
     The kvistdjur watched them blaze.
     For all its vigilance over twenty-eight passes of the sun, nothing yet had forced its hand. But it was only a matter of time. And there was more than one attack front to watch.
     Finally, the lights went out, and one hour later, the kvistdjur turned and stalked away through the woods in search of hunters, traps and trespassers.
     It listened carefully to every sound that bounced across the trees, distinguishing between the wilds and invasive footsteps. As empty as the woods now were, humans would still try their luck, as with the reaping of the golden fields came the reaping of deer, boar and grouse. Their captives were never enough; they would kill yet more while keeping their own alive. The patrol had to be made.
     Finally, something snapped nearby.
     In a heartbeat, the kvistdjur spun and made towards it at speed. Leaves parted, branches moved aside, and owls hooted directions. But the kvistdjur was already there. It leapt, it landed, and it caged the human in its limbs. A sharp squeak was all that stopped its talons from striking.
     Bright firefly eyes stared down into the huge reflective orbs of the small, golden-headed human, whose body remained as still as stone in its grasp. Neither moved, neither made a sound. A long, warm breath of wind danced between them, stirring leaves and golden strands.
     It must have carried something with it; the small human suddenly scrambled backwards, struggled to its feet, and ran away without a sound.
     The kvistdjur watched it flee in silence. Then its stare sank back to the ground where it had lain. Another tiny, straw-stuffed human lay strewn in the dirt. One with tiny twigs tied to its acorn head, and two green, mossy smudges for eyes.
     Talons closed around it, then it rose back to its feet and stalked off after the small creature. It broke into another rapid run when the squeak rose again nearby, morphed into a shriek, and was answered by the snarl and bark of wolves.
     The kvistdjur burst in behind them, roared bitterly from its wooden throat, and sent the wolves fleeing.
     And again, it and the human stared at one another for another long moment. But though the creature was guarded, this time it didn't run. Instead, it dared a step closer.
     The kvistdjur twitched backwards, then sharply raised its talons.
     The small human hesitated, but its stare never broke. And it took another step.
     The kvistdjur hissed nervously.
     The human froze. The pair of them stared. Then the human's mouth moved, but no squeak came out. Several wolf howls nearby stopped whatever sound it was about to make, and it turned and ran off again.

     The kvistdjur watched the creature throughout the harvest, and the creature stared back into the woods from time to time. But they didn't step near one another. Then, after another black night and another new moon, nothing but one single stalk of grain was left standing in the flat, golden fields. The kvistdjur watched as all humans gathered around it, and the smallest of them, the fairest, its golden head dressed again in flowers and cladding coloured with berries, stepped forwards with a scythe and felled it.
     The kvistdjur straightened. The sign was made, the ritual done. Its vigil here was over.
     Duty fell from its shoulders as it turned its head to the breeze, and looked off back into the woods just as a shard of orange drifted down beside it. Its talons rose gently to its leafy antlers even as it peered up at the yellowing trees.
     It was time to move on. The Drowse was on its way, and the kvistdjur's final task was approaching.
     Turning its back to the human fields, it opened its other hand, dropped the two grass-stuffed figures to the dirt, and stalked off into the woods. These wilds were safe from this harvest.
     It didn't notice the small human looking its way with a smile.

 

This story is not to be copied or reproduced without my written permission. Copyright © 2021 Kim Wedlock