elidyce: deepwaterwritingprompts: Text: "I’m a farmer,“ she insisted, a sk

elidyce: deepwaterwritingprompts: Text: "I’m a farmer,“ she insisted, a skeletal raven perched on her shoulder, “nothing more nothing less.“  They say that if you walk through the North Woods at twilight, all the way to the crossroads, a fifth road will appear.  They say the signpost grows a new arm, pointing to that road, but what is written on it is unreadable. They say that now and then someone foolish, or desperate, goes down that road. Many do not return. Those who do, come back changed.  I walked through the woods at twilight every night for a week. On the eighth day, when I reached the crossroads, a narrow path was there, leading off at an angle from the crossed dirt roads and winding through the trees. When I looked up at the signpost, a fifth arm had appeared, and the writing on it was not in any language I know. Beside the letters, however, I saw a stalk of wheat and a bird.  That was enough. I hefted the pack on my back, and set off down the path.  The path was narrow, but it was smooth enough to walk even as the light faded. When full darkness came, I lit my lantern, and continued walking. I walked until the moon was up, and then at last the trees thinned, and I stepped into a clearing.  There was a farm holding there, fields and buildings silvered by moonlight, and one open door with light streaming out of it, warm and welcoming. There seemed nothing else to do, so I walked over to it and knocked on the open door.  “Come in, wanderer, if you mean no harm.” The voice is serene, but there is a strange echoing quality to it.  I enter, slow and cautious. The inside of the house is all one room, in the old style, with stores hanging from thick beams, a big fireplace on one wall and a low box bed in one corner. A woman is sitting in a chair by the fire, knitting by the light of two candles stuck to the back of the chair. “Come in,” she says again, turning her head to look at me, her voice still echoing as if it comes from a deep well or an ancient tomb. “Come in, and get warm.”  There is nothing I could describe, about her appearance, to frighten anyone. She looked like any farmwife, solid and capable, hair coiled around her head in grey-streaked braids, her drab skirts tucked around her legs. And yet, when she looked at me, I quailed, and almost fled. There was something about her that was terrifying, a feeling of… not malice, but of power, held in reserve. If I had meant harm, I think that look would have struck me dead. As it was, it waited, to see what I would do. “I followed the path,” I blurted, trembling. “I saw it, in the twilight, and I… I came.”  “I see,” she said, still waiting patiently. “And why did you come, child?”  “Because… because…” The words rise up and choke me. There are so many reasons, so much boiling inside me… “Because I am cursed,” I say at last, my eyes filling with tears. “Because I bring ill-luck wherever I go. I thought… I thought whatever was down the path couldn’t be worse than what I left behind. Even if I died, it couldn’t be worse.” I remember the graves I’ve left behind me, of those I loved, of the hard words and threats, of children dragged away for fear of my curse touching them.  She rises, then, and comes to me, laying her hand lightly on my head. It is warm, and soft, like any hand, yet it is much, much heavier than any hand should be. She cocks her head, eyes distant, and then she smiles sadly. “It’s not a curse, child,” she says gently. “Just ill luck, and superstition, and cowards putting blame where it does not belong. Come and sit by the fire, and eat something.”  She gives me stew and a chunk of bread, and a cup of strong beer. When I am finished, she spreads a pallet before the fire and covers me in blankets of thick wool. I sleep well, for the first time in longer than I can remember.  Keep reading -- source link
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