Kary English is a Hugo and Astounding finalist whose work has been published by Galaxy’s Edge, The Grantville Gazette, Wordfire Press, Writers of the Future, and Tor Nightfire.
***
Once upon a time in the spring of the world, a young man named Edwin set out to seek his fortune. Edwin’s coat was thin and threadbare, and his boots were more patches than leather. His purse held only a few small coins, but his back was strong and his heart was pure, so off he went into the wide world with a pack over one shoulder and his bow over the other. He walked for several days until the fields gave way to wilder lands, and the road dwindled to a dusty track. On the eve of the seventh day, he came across a cottage of wattle and daub nestled against the edge of a dark forest.
Night was falling. A chill wind out of the east sliced through Edwin’s coat like a scythe through wheat. His stomach rumbled, for he’d had nothing to eat or drink but water from a nearby stream. Warm firelight flickered through the cottage window, and when Edwin drew near, he could smell the cottager’s supper cooking inside. Barley stew, he thought, and bannocks baking on the hearth. If Edwin had heard even half the tales about enchanted forests and the misadventures of widow’s sons, he might have turned away from the cottage and slept on the cold ground instead.
But Edwin had heard none of the tales, so he pulled his ragged coat tighter around himself and tapped upon the door. When it opened, an old woman stood there, her hair white and her eyes clouded by age. The smell of food made Edwin feel faint. His mouth watered, and he clasped his hands together to hide their shaking. “Good eve to you, mother,” said Edwin, for it was the proper thing to say. “For a bite of your bread and a night by your fire, I’ll work all the ’morrow for you.”
The old woman leaned closer. Her rheumy eyes lingered on Edwin’s patched boots and threadbare coat. Finally, she spoke. “A good eve to ye, child. There be food and fire a’plenty if your hands show the truth of your words.”
Edwin unclasped his hands. With a touch light as autumn leaves, she drew her fingers over Edwin’s palms, feeling for the calluses formed by a life of good, honest work. Satisfied, she stood aside from the door and allowed Edwin to enter.
“These hands have known an axe, child. Rest here tonight, and on the morrow you’ll chop wood for me until sun-high.” If Edwin had heard even a quarter of the tales about bargains with strangers, he wouldn’t have entered the woman’s home nor eaten a single bite of her food. But he hadn’t, so he thanked the woman and stepped across the threshold, leaving his bow in a corner by the door.
The old woman led him to a stool by the fire. She placed a bowl of stew into his hands and gave him a warm bannock for a sop. When Edwin finished the bowl, she gave him another.
That night, Edwin slept with his belly full. In the morning, he picked up an axe and began his work. Sun-high came and went, but Edwin’s axe continued its arc. He had seen the old woman’s meager woodpile, and he knew she’d be cold when winter came. For three whole days he cut and stacked the wood, piling it neatly against the walls of the cottage so the woman would not have far to walk in winter’s snow.
Finally, when wood stacked higher than Edwin’s shoulders lined three walls of the little cottage, Edwin laid the axe aside and asked the old woman’s blessing.
“You’ve a strong back, child, and a good heart. You’ve done more than I asked, so I shall return your kindness.” The woman brought forth a fine pair of boots wrapped in oiled muslin to ward off the dust. “My husband was a peddler who walked many leagues in these boots. I see long journeys in your future, my son. Take them and wear them in his memory.”
The boots were sturdy and well-oiled, the leather thick but supple. Edwin drew them on, pleased that the fit was good.
“Now, my son, heed me well.” The old woman lowered her voice and took Edwin’s hand. She pulled him in close, so close that Edwin could see the green of the nearby forest reflected in her milky eyes.
“A sorceress lives in these woods,” she whispered. “You must stay to the edge of the forest where the sunlight still touches the ground. When the trees grow thick and the shadows grow dark, she walks the forest paths searching for unwary travelers. If she finds you, she will kill you, so keep to the light and stay far from the dark places.”
Edwin pulled his hand free, feeling quite unsettled. Then, remembering his manners, he thanked the old woman, who handed him the last of the bannocks wrapped in cloth and bid him farewell. If Edwin had heard even a single tale about the witch of the Felwood glade, he’d have turned around, walked straight home, and counted himself lucky all of his days.
But he hadn’t, so when he saw the blue sky above and dappled sunlight on the path ahead, he thought it a fine day for travel. Edwin shouldered his pack and bow, flexed his ankles in his new boots and set off into the forest.
With each step he took, the trees grew larger and closer together. Their branches met overhead, and the very air took on a greenish tinge as more and more leaves blocked the sun. Birds shrilled above him, insects chirred, and black squirrels chased one another up and down the tree trunks. The forest smelled of moss and green wood, of cool earth and old leaves. Though the light had dimmed, the path was still clear. Edwin knew he had many hours of walking ahead of him so he forged ahead, cheered by the thought of fresh bannocks for supper.
He had gone just far enough to be hungry again when the sound of distant weeping reached his ears. Edwin looked around him. No one was nearby, and the sound was so faint that he was scarcely sure he’d heard it. Dusk was still hours away, so Edwin kept walking. With each step he took, the weeping grew louder and more piteous until Edwin felt his heart would break.
A winding trail branched off into the forest in the direction of the sound. Though Edwin remembered the old woman’s words, his heart was moved, and he could not continue without knowing who could make so sad a sound. He turned away from the main path and followed the fainter trail.
Trees overshadowed the path, becoming deeper and closer together until no light reached the forest floor. The sound of the weeping was all around him. He peered into the shadows and saw nothing but trees and more trees, their trunks blending into one another in the dim light. Edwin closed his eyes. He listened as carefully as he could, turning this way and that, trying to find the source of the sound. Finally, he opened them again.
The sound was coming from his left, deep in the forest. Edwin looked down at his feet. A jumble of fallen leaves and broken sticks covered the ground, and the faint trail he’d been following could hardly be called a trail at all. If he left it, he would have to pick his way over ground where no foot had fallen for more than a hundred years.
Edwin held his breath. He took a step off the path, then another. He looked over his shoulder, and there was the path fading into the darkness beyond. He took hold of his courage and continued threading his way between trees, and over boulders and fallen logs. Just when the forest seemed its darkest, Edwin came upon a young woman weeping before a beautiful gilt mirror. Dark hair cascaded down her back. She wore a gown of forest green and sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree. She might have been lovely, but Edwin could not tell because her head was bowed and she wept into her hands.
The mirror, however, was more beautiful than Edwin had ever seen. It stood taller than a man and wider than Edwin’s shoulders. The glass was spotted with age, but the surface still reflected the darkness of the trees against the coming night. The frame around the mirror had been ornately carved with a tumble of vines, flowers, birds, and beasts. Edwin felt that he could stare at it for days and still not see everything there was to be found in the frame.
He pulled his eyes away and regarded the maiden. “My lady,” he said. “Why do you weep? Tell me, that I may help you.”
The young woman lifted her head. Her green eyes were red and swollen with tears, and her cheeks and hands were wet. “Oh, sir,” she said, “If you but look into the mirror you will see why I cry. My love lays dying, and I cannot help him.”
Edwin took a closer look at the mirror. Yes, he could see it now. A young man lay in the shadows, half hidden by leaf litter. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, and his chest heaved when he tried to draw breath. He wore a brocaded doublet of russet and gold over cream-colored sleeves. His hose were of the finest cream-colored wool, and boots of pale, golden leather covered his calves and his feet. Sandy brown hair fell over his eyes, and his skin was the color of gray ash.
Edwin reached out a hand and placed it against the mirror’s surface. The glass felt cold, smooth and quite solid. He looked from the mirror back to the crying maiden.
“Kind traveler,” said she. “We were drinking from the stream when the witch of the forest laid a terrible curse upon us. My love she has cast into the mirror, while I sit here, chained to its feet.” At this, the young woman lifted her skirts to show a dainty ankle encircled by a black iron shackle connected to a chain that curved snake-like through the leaves until it ended at the mirror’s feet.
“The witch has said that only death can free us. Please, traveler, I beg you to help us. Find a way to release my love from this accursed mirror.” With that, the maid bowed her head and began to sob again.
Edwin looked back at the dying prince and made his choice. He opened his pack and took out the bannocks he had been saving for his supper. “Here,” he said to the maid. “Eat this and have hope. I do not know how long it will take, but I give you my word that I will not leave this forest until I have found a way to free you.”
“Oh, good sir,” she said. “Truly your heart is kind.” She drew a silver locket from around her neck and held it out to Edwin. She opened it to reveal two tiny paintings of herself and the fallen prince. The name Amaranthe was engraved on one side, and Rurik on the other. “Please take this as a token of my thanks. If my love and I should perish before you return, give it to my father that he may swear vengeance on this vile witch.”
Edwin took the locket, then carefully snapped it closed. “I require no payment,” he said, shaking his head. “So I will return this when I have found a way to free you.” Edwin put the chain over his head. The locket nestled itself into his shirt where it laid like ice over his heart. Taking it did not feel right, but perhaps it held some clue that might help him break the spell.
“One more question, my lady. You said you were drinking from a stream. Please point the way so that I may follow it back to the path.”
The young woman pointed into the darkness. Edwin thought he had come in a different way, but night had nearly fallen, and the forest looked the same in every direction.
Edwin took a few steps, then looked back at the young woman. She pointed again, nodding earnestly as if to hasten him. With a deep breath, Edwin set off into the dark forest. In five steps, he could barely see the young woman or the mirror. In ten more steps, he could no longer hear them, either. True night had come, and the forest took him. Roots tangled his feet with every step. Brambles scratched his arms and plucked at his clothing while stray limbs clawed his face.
After hours of struggle, he came to a halt, defeated by the stubbornness of the forest. “There is no use,” he muttered. “I must sleep here and find my way in the morning.” He reached into his pack and found nothing but a meager handful of crumbs and an empty water flask. Tired and hungry, Edwin put his back against a tree, laid his head on his pack and settled himself to sleep.
Above him, a gust of wind rippled through the trees. First the leaves rustled in the treetops. Then branches began to thrash to and fro. A moment later, even the mightiest trunks groaned and swayed under the onslaught. Edwin’s hair whipped across his eyes, and wind-driven leaves slashed at his face. Lightning flashed overhead. Thunder shook the ground.
Edwin cowered. Blinded by the lightning, he threw up a hand to shield his eyes. When he could see again, a woman stood before him. Hair blacker than night fell to her waist. The wind lifted her tresses and made them wave like snakes. She wore a simple gown of green velvet, with a tooled leather belt and boots of polished black. Her eyes were green as poison, and when she looked at Edwin, he could see his death in her eyes. The witch of the forest had come.
“My, my,” she said. “You seem to have become tangled in my forest. How unfortunate for you.”
Edwin knew he was foxed, but perhaps the witch was not as dangerous as the old woman said. Edwin climbed to his feet and bowed to her.
“My lady of the green kirtle,” he said, “I am Edwin, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Truly the tales have not done you justice.” Edwin, of course, had heard none of the tales, but he hoped his flattery might please her.
“You have a smooth tongue for a trespasser,” the witch said.
“Alas, my lady, there is but one path through this forest, so if I wish to get to the other side, I am bound to take it. I entreat your permission to cross.”
The witch eyed him speculatively. “Perhaps an arrangement can be made. I have a task I would like you to perform. If you are successful, I will grant you safe passage through my forest.”
“And if I fail?”
“If you fail, your life is forfeit.”
Edwin did not like the sound of the bargain. Would he end up chained next to the weeping maiden and her dying lover, or did the witch have something worse in mind? Edwin had no wish to find out.
“What is this task you would ask of me?”
“For a year and a day, you will search this forest,” the witch said. “When you have found the most inconstant heart that dwells within, bring it to me. Do this, and I will free you from the enchantment of this place and allow you to depart. If you do it quickly and well, I may even reward you. If you fail, your life is mine. Do you agree?”
Edwin swallowed hard, but having no other choice he said, “I agree.”
The witch gave him a tight nod, then reached out her hand. Her palm held a smooth, black stone with a depression the size of a thumbprint in the center. “Take this,” she said. “When you have the heart, a single drop of blood dripped onto this stone will bring you to me.”
The witch tipped her hand and the stone plummeted toward the ground. Edwin lunged to catch it.
When he looked up again the witch was gone.
*
Edwin woke with his back against a tree, a crick in his neck, and the black stone clenched in one fist. The forest around him showed no sign of the great wind the night before, and if not for the stone, Edwin might have thought he dreamed it.
Edwin pushed himself to his feet. In the quiet of the morning, he smelled a stream nearby. He followed the scent until he heard water rippling. He drank heartily, then filled his flask. There was nothing to eat, and Edwin had long ago spent all of his arrows. It wasn’t the first time he had nibbled moss or the inner bark of twigs to survive.
Edwin roamed the forest, never quite certain of his way, until days turned into weeks, and fortnights became seasons. No matter how hard he searched, or how far he wandered, he never found the maid, the mirror, or any other human being. In fact, most days he wandered for the sake of wandering in the hope that he might find a way out of the forest. His clothing grew ragged and filthy from sleeping on the ground, and his hair flopped in his eyes. His stomach was empty, and he knew that his frame looked lean and hungry. He’d stopped keeping track of the days several months ago though he knew that the time the witch had given him was near its end. He wondered what the witch would do to him, and whether his death would be quick.
It was during this aimless wandering that he went to a small stream for a drink. There he heard a soft cry. At first, he thought it was the weeping maid, but when the sound came again, he recognized it as the cry of an animal in pain. Edwin looked to his left. He saw nothing but trees and brambles, rocks and earth. The view to his right was more of the same. He looked up into the canopy, but a sea of limbs covered the sky allowing only the dimmest light to filter through. The forest was interminable. With two vows left unfulfilled, Edwin wondered if the most inconstant heart in the forest was his own.
Edwin sighed. His shoulders slumped, and he looked at the ground in defeat. A flicker of movement in the underbrush Edwin’s attention. He took two steps forward, knelt, and peered closer. He pulled aside a green fern frond, and there, tangled in brambles, lay a large hawk with an arrow through its breast and a struggling mouse pinioned in its talons. Though blood had stained its feathers, the hawk’s back and wings were a deep russet red. Its head was the color of fresh cream and its pale breast was striped with ermine. A moment later, the hawk’s beak opened, and its tongue moved as it drew a labored breath. The bird was still alive.
Edwin searched his pack and pockets for a strip of cloth. When he did not find one, he took off his coat and tore a sleeve from his shirt where the fabric was cleanest. He draped the first strip over the hawk’s eyes and used another to bind the talons. Even wounded, the bird could still give him a terrible scratch. The motion jostled the mouse, who protested with a squeak.
Edwin felt around for a stick. When he found one of the proper size, he pinched the mouse by the scruff and used the stick to ease the hawk’s talons open.
“Lucky mouse,” said Edwin, placing the creature on the ground. “Be well with you, and seek better cover next time.”
To Edwin’s great surprise the mouse did not run away. Instead, it stood up tall on its little hind legs and bowed low.
“Oh, kind traveler,” said the mouse. “You have freed me, and for that I will grant you a boon. This hawk bears the heart you seek. Kill the hawk, cut out its heart, and take it to the sorceress. The arrow that pierces the hawk is a magic arrow that will never miss its target. Keep the arrow as my gift and my thanks.”
Edwin stared at the mouse, wondering how it knew of his pact with the witch. “You are most welcome, mouse, but if luck is with me, I shall save two lives today. Run free and return to your little mouse friends before the hawk misses its prize.”
The mouse scurried away, and Edwin returned his attention to the hawk. “You, my friend, are less lucky,” he told the bird. “I’m sorry for stealing your supper, for I fear we shall both go hungry tonight.” Unwinding the brambles was a slow and arduous task that cost Edwin much pricking of his fingers. Finally, just before the hawk was free, Edwin used more of his shirt to bind the hawk’s wings to its body, immobilizing the arrow. Then he nestled the bird in the crook of his elbow to examine the injury.
At first he thought the arrow had pierced the hawk’s breast, but now he could see that it struck the wing instead. Edwin probed the injury with his fingers. The arrow had missed the bone and travelled straight through the flesh. If luck favored him, he might be able to remove the arrow and nurse the hawk back to health. The bird might even fly again one day.
Edwin dribbled a few drops of water over the bird’s beak. When its mouth opened, Edwin dribbled a bit more.
“This will hurt, my friend, so I’ll go as quickly as I can. And perhaps you’re lucky after all, though I can’t fathom who would hunt birds with a bodkin arrow.” Edwin took a final look at the wound, assessing the angle. Meant for piercing armor, the head of the arrow was narrower than the shaft. Edwin poured a little of his water over the arrow to lubricate the head, then he braced the wing, gave a sharp tug, and pulled the arrow free.
Edwin poured more water over the wound and used the last of his shirt sleeve to bind it. The hawk gave a hoarse cry, so Edwin offered it more water.
“I am Rurik,” the hawk croaked.
“Rurik?” said Edwin. “The russet prince?”
The hawk gave a quick bob of its head. “Thank you for saving me, traveler, but now we must fly. Take me with you, for I can lead us out of here.”
“If you’re Rurik, then the witch must be—?”
“Amaranthe,” croaked the hawk. “Our parents wished us to wed, but I loved another.”
Before Edwin could do anything else, a great wind rose up in the forest. Dark clouds stole the light away and turned noon into night. The wind kicked up leaves and twigs and drove them in stinging clouds through the air. Tree boughs whipped to and fro. Edwin knew there could be only one reason for the sudden storm. The witch was angry.
“Alas, we are undone,” said the hawk. “The witch comes.”
“Not if we go to her first,” said Edwin. He’d grown tired of the witch’s games. Edwin grabbed up the arrow, strung his bow, and slung it over his shoulder. He secured the wounded hawk in what was left of his shirt, then he took the black stone from his pocket, dipped his finger in Rurik’s blood, and dabbed it onto the stone.
A sudden wrenching motion tore the ground from beneath Edwin’s feet. After a moment of blackness, he stood in a room in a stone castle. The witch stood there, too, with an altar of polished basalt between them. Edwin placed the black stone upon it.
“Have you fulfilled my task, young traveler?” the witch asked.
“Indeed I have, my lady.” Edwin freed the hawk from his shirt and placed it gently on the floor.
“Good,” said the witch. “Kill the bird, place its heart on the altar, and be done with it.” Her green eyes glittered in anticipation of the deed.
“No, my lady, I will not. His life was not our bargain. You are Amaranthe, and thrice I have aided you. As the old woman, I cut and stacked wood for three days and three nights, well in excess of what you asked because I would not see you cold come winter. As the young maid, I swore to free your prince from the mirror, which I have now done. And lastly, as the mouse, I freed you from the hawk’s talons. I will aid you again, this time by giving you your life. In return, you will allow me to depart in peace, and Rurik as well.”
“My life?” said Amaranthe, laughing. “How is that yours to give? Thrice I have repaid you. For your labor, I fed you and gave you boots that will never wear out. As the maid, I gave you a silver locket worth more than a year’s lodging. And as the mouse, I gave you an arrow that always strikes its target. Now, I will hold you to our bargain. Kill the red prince. Place his heart on the altar, and you are free to go. Spare him, and your own life is forfeit.”
Edwin took the bow from his shoulder and aimed the arrow at the witch’s heart.
“My lady, this hawk, as I am sure you know, is a young prince under a hideous curse, one of your own devising. You bade me bring you the most inconstant heart in the forest, and I have done so, for that heart is your own. You laid a curse in vengeance, and you sought my aid with guile and false pretense. Even so, I will give you the blood of the inconstant heart if you demand it. Say the word, and I will let fly.”
Edwin locked eyes with Amaranthe. A furious wind howled about the castle, and Amaranthe raised her hand.
Edwin released the bowstring.
The arrow buried itself in Amaranthe’s shoulder, exactly where Edwin had aimed it. Her heartcry filled the room with fury. The black stone shattered, and when it did, Rurik sprawled on the floor in human form. Edwin snatched the dagger from Rurik’s belt. In three steps, he closed on Amaranthe. He pinned her to the wall by her wounded shoulder with one hand. The other held the point of the dagger against her stomach just below her breastbone. He angled it upward, toward her heart.
“There is kindness in you, Amaranthe. I have seen it, so I will offer you a bargain. Release me from my vow, or I will place your heart on the altar to fulfill it. Do you agree?”
Amaranthe’s breath caught. Her body went limp under Edwin’s hands. “I agree,” she whispered.
The basalt altar cracked in twain. Edwin lowered his dagger and yanked the arrow from Amaranthe’s shoulder. Then he took the locket from his neck and dropped it beside her.
“I promised to return the locket,” he said, “but the arrow is mine, in payment for the mouse’s life. I liked you best as the old woman. She was free of the bitterness that consumes you. Go back to her cottage and live your life in sunlight.”
Amaranthe pressed the sleeve of her velvet gown against the wound in her shoulder. She looked long at Edwin before she spoke.
“My final gift to you, Edwin Woodcutter, is a proper name. I name you Edwin Sureshot, and if you ever cross the boundaries of my forest again, things will not go so well for you. Now get out, and take the hawk-prince with you.”
Edwin helped Rurik to his feet, then down the castle stairs into the sunlight. The sky was blue overhead, and sunlight dappled the forest path.
It was, Edwin thought, a fine day for travel.
Copyright © 2023 by Kary English.