The winds make me weary, as if everything all at once would be turned up and taken. The children love it, the leaves circling and tickling their small faces. Fall has certainly arrived in full. This chair is perfect, warmth from the hearth and the smell of a simmering stew, the sounds of my boys playing in the hills and the most beautiful view of the waving hills from the open window, this chair is perfect. The door swings open abruptly,
“Ma’am, I do believe I found this wild animal outside.” The sounds of squeaky, out-of-breath laughter erode any sense of seriousness from Lent, standing in the doorway holding my dear Ozzie by the ankle and waving him around like a rodent meant for the fire.
“Well, I do say that cannot be,” I begin walking to my boys, “there’s no wild animals ‘round these parts.” Morley runs in past his father and leaps into the rocking chair, giggling with each step. Lent follows him, gently placing Oz onto his brother in the cushioned seat.
Dinner is quiet, the stew is warm and filling though the portions keep getting smaller, Morley whines about wanting more for only a moment when Lent puts the rest of his stew in his son’s bowl, watching him eat happily. I swirl my spoon with the vegetables and pinch my eyes willing there to be more when I reopen them. There isn’t, there never is.
We ready the bed, placing another blanket atop the other. “How’s harvest looking?” Lent pauses, his hands gripping the half-thrown blankets, he stares me up and down, “not well,” he mumbles, resuming to get into the comfort of the old bed, “barely enough to eat, let alone sell.” His eyes focus on the candle at my side. I blow it out, surrounding us in darkness.
“We’ll manage. That’s why we came here right?” I move into my spot next to him, pulling the bedding to my neck.
“We’ll manage,” he agrees, “it’s only been a few months, things could always change.”
Lent is gone when I wake, he always is. The morning sun beams through the window, reflecting through bits of frost along the perimeter. I dress myself and the boys, tying an extra cover to their collars, the thicker fabric falling to their hands. With a basket and the children in tow, we make the walk into town. Most of the people here have not been kind since we arrived, no welcoming neighbours or groups to attend, just queer looks and cold shoulders.
The trees are beautiful this time of year before the cold sets in and nature leaves with a goodbye kiss of warm colours. The wavy dirt path turns into a stable brick and stone, the small city center with carts cluttering the pathway and big stone homes overlooking the entirety. Giselle stands in the thick of it all, carrying her basket and ever so gracefully laying a hand on her stomach. The moment she spots us, her hand waves in the air, her eager smile reaching her ears. Oz takes off and tugs at Giselle’s dress until she picks him up and twirls around cradling him to her chest.
“I have been waiting for so long,” ever dramatically waving her arms around, the weaved basket nearly connecting with the head of an older man trying to make his way to a nearby vendor. She doesn’t seem to take any notice of him. I offer a shrug in response, nodding to the children. Arm in arm and small hands clinging to my dress we lazily manoeuvre from cart to cart. Each purchase lightens my purse until only a few coins remain.
“I heard there was a new delivery today,” Giselle tugs at my arm, bringing my attention back to the only redeeming part of the city, the library. The quaint and cozy red-brick building, with its doors always open. After passing through the threshold, the children run off to the corner of blocks and toys. The elderly lady pushing a cart of books watches the boys play for a moment before
heading down an aisle, returning books here and there. A few ladies wander around the room, speaking quietly to each other. We leave our baskets on the desk to be returned to with our choice of reading.
I take my time to flip through as many books as I can, choosing any that seem the slightest bit interesting and piling them in my arms. The smell of the ink and old paper infests my senses, the thrill of stories coming to life in every handheld tome. I find Giselle across the store, reading a book on herbs and their medicinal properties. Together we return to our belongings, gathering the children from the toys on our way. Two women are standing at our baskets, removing items and laughing together.
“She’s a whore, I would bet those children are bastards and the husband hasn’t a clue,” the taller of the two lets out a shrill laugh.
“A whore? I didn’t know a hag could be a whore, why her husband must be blind,” they cackle. I stop in my tracks, my grip on my books faltering. I want to say something, I open my mouth to confront the two but only a whisper makes it out. Giselle watches me, any trace of a smile wiped off her face. Eventually, they leave, taking an apple each with them. A frail hand resting on my shoulder pulls me from my trance,
“Those girls wouldn’t know a hag from their hair,” her quiet voice mutters. She pushes her cart further into the aisle, pulling a book from the shelf. “Try this one, you’ll know what a hag is then,” she pushes the book into my arms. I gently whisper an acknowledgement and rush to take the basket and leave, Giselle and the boys following. I walk, staring at the green leather-bound book, covered with an ornate swirling tree bare of any leaves, and a small door at the base of the tree. Giselle pulls the book from my hands,
“You know this story is true right?” I scoff,
“I highly doubt that, it’s a mere children’s story.” I take the book back, resting it with the others.
“Maybe it’s because you didn’t grow up here, but the hag of the hills is most certainly not fictional.” She gives me a smug look, “Just read the book, then you’ll believe me.” I nod, there are certainly no hags where I’m from.
We come to where the stone pathway meets the dirt trail to home, we say our goodbyes and Giselle waves as we head down the path.
The house is cold when we arrive, the warm coals have died out while we were gone. I send the boys to their room to play. I hover at the hearth, poking at the coals hoping for a spark. Gently placing some tinder over the coals and striking flint onto the dry branches, the fire catches and roars to life, warming the room. The bright afternoon sun melts away ideas of winter, keeping the ground from freezing for another day. I trade my overcoat for a sheer wrap around my shoulders and begin preparations for dinner with whatever is left in the basket.
I remove the books, a small book on types of local flora for Lent, some pictures of mythical beasts for the children, and a tome of local history for myself. I grab the last book and the green leather-bound book has fallen to the bottom of the tanned basket and rests alone. I stare at the book, the crackling of the fire the only sound I can hear. I reach for the book, resting it atop the others. I sit in my chair, my perfect chair and open the green book with the leafless tree on the cover.
The door opens, shining the setting sun into my eyes. Lent looks at me oddly, his head tilted to the side,
“I’ve been standing here trying to get your attention for ten minutes,” I stare at him, that can’t be, I just sat down. He must see the confusion on my face, “what are you reading?” he asks, gently pulling the green leather-bound book from my hands.
“I don’t think it has a title,” he studies the cover,
“Must be a pretty good book, you were entranced. What’s it about?” Lent hands the book back to me, crouching to meet my eyes. I look at the book, and run my fingers along the edge, tracing the tree.
“I don’t know.”
Dinner is another quiet affair, even the children don’t say much. I wait for Lent in bed, the heavy blankets renouncing any discomfort from the day. Lent makes it into bed, bringing his arm around me and placing a gentle kiss on my head
A gentle green glow outlines a grand tree at the lowest part of the coulees. A figure walks from the tree, beckoning me closer. A cold wind knocks me back, stinging my eyes. My eyes pinched closed. On my knees the wind comes to an end, and the cold sets in. I open my eyes to see the snow, the cold barrier between me and the tree. The figure retreats into the tree.
The children take turns rolling down the hill, running back up, and rolling down again. “Did you enjoy the book?” Giselle prompts, nudging my knee with hers. I wrack my brain, I know I read the book, twice. Though I have no recollection of the story.
“I don’t think much of it, a tale for children.” I run my finger around my wedding ring, letting the metal pull on the skin. Giselle huffs. “I think I’m dreaming about it though,” Giselle gives me a disbelieving look.
“A book for children is giving you nightmares?” I wave my hand and laugh. “I’ll take that as you believing in the hag of the hills,” Giselle hums triumphantly, crossing her arms.
The children sleep soundly, I can hear their breathing from my chair. I stare out the window, dusk creeping across the coulees, waiting for Lent. The picture frame view of the running hills with the last bits of sun reaching for whatever it can grasp onto before the night takes over.
All remaining light is gone when I awake, still in my chair. My neck is stiff, I stand to stretch. Linking my hands together and letting my body stand and bend, fall and pull. I slowly walk to bed, resting my feet lightly on the creaking floor. I rest my hand on the doorknob, a shiver runs up my back, the chill of the night coming in through the gap in the wall. I retreat to the window, pulling the latch and slowly bringing the frosty glass down. I gaze out for a moment. A glow catches my attention, in the distance a soft green glow comes from the valley. I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the glow, letting it draw me in.
I wake as the front door closes, Lent is off. I slowly make my way out of bed and open the door facing my chair.
“Mama?” a soft voice asks. Morley sits before the hearth, a soft warmth coming from the coals. He looks up at me, Oz sleeps next to him. I kneel with them, pulling Morley onto my lap. I run my hand across Oz, his face is hot. I shake his shoulder, and he rolls onto his back, letting out a small wheeze.
I read the book again, Morley and Oz in my bed. I read the book out to them. Each time I look up the sun is in a different place. Lent opens the door slowly, gently entering and taking a seat on the bed. He moves Oz’s hair and kisses his head. I put the book down, tuck in the boys, and take
Lent by the hand out of the room. The sun is covered by dark grey clouds, with large round snowflakes drifting to the ground. Lent wraps his arms around me.
Lent sleeps on the chair, a blanket wrapped around him. The night is pure darkness. I stand at the window, staring at the softest green glow coming from the valley. I tenderly remove the blanket from Lent, wrapping myself tightly. Lent stirs when I open the door, I blow him a kiss.
The cold bites at my skin, and my hair blows in the wind. I set off, the snow on the ground is slick and the frigid weather pushes me back at every stride. I fight and crawl up the hills, my fingers red and bruised. I fall and slide down the slopes, the cold snow caked into my clothes and blanket. The sun begins rising, the glow in the distance fading with every minute. Atop the peak of the hill, I can finally see it, in the basin. The leafless tree, surrounded by a fading green glow. I rush down, my foot losing its step and I slide and roll down the slope.
Slowly, painfully, I pull myself up. The tree is bigger than any I’ve seen, the trunk alone is bigger than my home. It stands impossibly tall, the branches swirl and intertwine within itself, and a door in the middle. On my knees, I stare in awe. I try to stand but a cracking pain in my hip brings me down. I crawl, dragging myself to the impossible tree. My hand reaches for the door, and I pull myself against it, knocking with as much force as I can muster, the cold, sleepless night taking its toll.
I open my eyes in a warm bed. The cold, wet clothes off my body and hanging over a small fire to dry,
“I don’t usually have visitors so early in the morning,” a rough voice says. Across the room in a corner sits a woman, old and worn. “Would you care for some tea?” she holds out a cup. I breathe
heavily, slowly moving my legs off the bed, and covering myself with a sheet. Carefully I walk to the seat across from her. She pours some steaming tea from a small ceramic pot.
“Are you the hag of the hills?” I ask wearily. She smiles, pushing the teacup in front of me, her hand small and rough with age.
“I prefer my name, but hag will do if it must,” she raises her head, revealing a long sagging neck, and fingers her stringy black hair away from covering her tanned, wrinkled skin.
“I didn’t know you had a name,” I look down at the tea, the flowered cup and the leaf carved into the bottom.
“Morri, my dear. Now do tell me, why is it that you’re visiting me at this hour?” she smiles, a mouth full of rotten yellow teeth. I try to answer, but my lips don’t open. “Let me guess,” She offers her open hands to me, watching me intently. I shakily place my hands in hers. She grips them forcefully, silently staring into my eyes. “You worry for your family,” she offers at last.
“Yes,” I whisper. She hums, tutting and tapping a finger on the back of my hand. “I heard you can help.” She releases my hands and sips her tea.
“I already heal you and now you want more?” My hip. I reach down and press on the joint, no pain, my fingers are not red nor bruised.
“Please,” I beg, “I’ll do anything,” Morri sips the rest of her tea.
“I’m here all my days, stuck in this chasm. I want a companion. In exchange for someone, I will be sure that what you love most is safe,”
“That’s it?” I ask, “Just a friend?” Morri nods slowly, mouthing along with my question. I nod, I can find a companion.
“Sip your tea my darling, sleep more then you head out tomorrow morning to your family, happy as ever.” I drink my tea, and walk back to the bed, allowing the pillow to cradle me, allowing sleep to take over.
I wake, dress in the warm clothes over the fire, and open the door of the tree, a fresh sheet of snow lays on the ground, and a single set of footprints moving away from the tree awaits me. The cold is less bothersome in the sunny morning, I take my time not to fall, just following the path back home. Lent greets me at the door, pulling me into a tight hug.
“Mama!” Morley calls out running into the doorway, hugging me at the knees. I pick him up and hold him tightly. On my chair sits my beautiful boy, happy and laughing, without a care in the world.
Giselle and I walk arm in arm, thick covers over our dresses and the cold wind tickling at our ankles. We walk from cart to cart, selections are slim, before finally arriving at the library. I fill my arms with the books I brought home and place them on the counter. I hover over the green leather-bound book; I still don’t know what you say. I hand the pile of books to the owner of the building, thanking her kindly for the recommendation.
I wave goodbye to Giselle, holding my basket in front of me. Moving quickly along the snow-packed trail home. Smoke from the chimney, light in the windows, and the sound of my boys all laughing together. I grab the doorknob and push. Nothing. I knock on the door, waiting for Lent to let me in. A young woman I do not recognize opens the door. I gaze in behind and see Lent with Oz and Morley chasing each other around my chair.
“Can I help you with something ma’am?” the young woman steps outside, closing the door behind her.
“Who are you?” I start, “Why are you in my home?” The girl chuckles and holds out her hand for me, I stare at her a moment before gingerly accepting her hand.
“Morrigan,” she says, shaking my hand slowly, looking at me closely, “you do remember me don’t you my dear?” I stand staring at her. A young woman with long black hair, holding my hand, wearing one of my dresses.
“What is this?” I ask, snatching my hand away
“Exactly what you agreed to,” she says slowly, giving each word its own breath, “a companion, a happy family,” she tilts her head to the side, and slowly takes the basket from my arms, I try to hold it, my fingers turn red and bruise along the bends. I finally let go. “Why don’t you go home.” Morrigan looks behind her, to a bright glow emanating from the valley bed. She nods slowly and steps back into my home, closing the door behind her.
I turn away from the glow towards the town, I take a step and fall. My hip bursts with lightning radiating into my chest. I turn and crawl to the glow. Slowly, pulling myself across the snow, the pain shoots higher and higher, into my shoulders and down my arms, stretching up my neck. A day passes, and the night freezes my bones. Unable to move I curl as tightly as I can manage, waiting for the sun to shine once more. Every movement cracks my bones, the snapping and popping ring in my ears. I cry out for help but no one comes, no one comes to the hills of the hag.
The door to the tree opens in my presence, I pull myself along into the room. Laying before the hearth, the heat soothing my broken body. I don’t know when I awake, perhaps days have
passed. I stand on weak legs, the pain lessened from the warmth. I move my hair from my face and look around. A quaint home, with everything one could need. In the corner I see her. Morri.
“Why?” I shout. Pointing at her, moving as quickly as I can on shaking legs until I reach her. Our hands collide. A mirror.
Me.
Morrigan.
The Hag of the Hills.